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jongleur noun (jon·gleur, zhōⁿ-ˈglər): an itinerant medieval entertainer proficient in juggling, acrobatics, music, and recitation 1 Akin to travelling minstrel, trouvère (North French), troubadour (Provincial French), minnesinger (German), skald (Scandinavian), bard (Irish), scops (Anglo-Saxon before Norman Conquest).
“jongleur.” Merriam-Webster.com. Accessed 19 May 2026. https://www.merriamwebster.com/dictionary/jongleur.
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3 Staff of the Jongleur Editors Managing Editor, Contest Manager, Contest Judge, Photo Editor, Art Editor: Eric Alai Anna Deshotels: Fiction Editor, Poetry Editor Layout and Front & Back Cover Design: Eric Alai Front cover art credit: Grace Mayon with “Enchanted” Back cover photo credit: Annalise Breaux Judges Fiction: Lillian Purdy, Matthew Stokes, Eric Alai Poetry: Spring Wester, Taylor Greenhouse, Eric Alai Photography: Shawn Rugby, Eric Alai Art: Jeremy Simmons, Eric Alai
The Jongleur is an annual publication of student work and is created for both the benefit of Louisiana State University at Alexandria and to project the voices of the students.
Jongleur Mulder Hall, Room # 370 Louisiana State University at Alexandria 8100 Highway 71 South Alexandria, LA 71302
Individual authors and artists retain copyright. © 2026
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Table of Contents Editor’s Note ..................................................................................................................................6 Acknowledgements ........................................................................................................................ 7
Fiction ....................................................................................................................... 8 1st place “OSHA Violations” by Tanek Mouser ............................................................................ 9 2nd place “Everything” by Joseph Kutch ...................................................................................... 12 3rd place “Revenant” by Anna Deshotels ...................................................................................... 16 Honorable Mention “The Living Flower” by Hanlin Riddle ......................................................... 20 “The Skin that Killed Me” Chanler Hankis ................................................................................... 21 “Gluttony” by Audrey Jordan… .................................................................................................... 24 “Grodder’s Flute” by Hanlin Riddle .............................................................................................. 26 “The Mage’s Flame” by Hanlin Riddle ......................................................................................... 30 “Insomnia” by Audrey Jordan… ................................................................................................... 32 “Nyctophobia” by Audrey Jordan… ............................................................................................. 34 “Past Unexamined Lifer” by Tori Ealam .................................................................................... 36 “In the Mountains” by Tanek Mouser ........................................................................................... 36 “A Space Between” by Tanek Mouser .......................................................................................... 38 “Rejection” by Alexis “Lexie” Brady ........................................................................................... 39 “Boys Go to Jupiter” by Conner Shows ........................................................................................ 41 “Runaway” by Breunshae Engram ................................................................................................ 43 “X-ray Zombies” by Kristina Kelm .............................................................................................. 45 “A House in Hell” by Judith Warren ............................................................................................ 45
Poetry ....................................................................................................................... 47 1st place “Adulthood” by Za’Maria Patrick… .............................................................................. 48 2nd place “Coffee for One” by Audrey Jordan… .......................................................................... 49 3rd place “She Speaks the Language of Flowers” by Tifani (Nina) Garner .................................. 49 Honorable Mention “The One You are Grieving” by Jasmine D. Roberts ................................... 50 Honorable Mention “Time Piece” by Bryce Mitchell ................................................................... 51 “Be Still in the Quiet” by Lizzie Norman ...................................................................................... 51 “Never Have I Grieved Until Now” by Jessica Mobbs .................................................................. 52 “Summertime” by Shiloh Kittles…………………………………………………………………….52 “Dollbaby” by Cari Thomas (aka, Cari Mims) ………/ ................................................................. 53 “Visiting My Four-Year-Old Self for the First Time” by Isabelle Bordelon................................ 54 “The Crows” by Quatiana Quarles ................................................................................................ 55 “Lazy Downtown Streets” by Kaleigh Stutson ............................................................................. 56 “Anger is a Privilege” by Heather Fernandez ............................................................................. 57 “Abomination Spaghetti” by Judith Warren .................................................................................. 57 “Works and Worth” by Tanek Mouser ......................................................................................... 58 “Growing Up” by Geonna Tipton ............................................................................................... 58
5 “Memento Mori” by Katie Knight ................................................................................................ 59
Photography ............................................................................................................ 61 1st place “Sierra Wave” by Sara R. Allen ..................................................................................... 62 2nd place “Fountain” by Mick Drew ............................................................................................ 63 3rd place “Yellow Wildflower” by Sara R. Allen......................................................................... 64 Honorable Mention “McGee Valley” by Sara R. Allen ............................................................... 64 Photos by Fouzia Nusrat .......................................................................................................... 65-66 Photos by Joseph Kutch ........................................................................................................... 67-68 Photos by Annalise Breaux… .................................................................................................. 69-72 Photos by Grace Mayon ................................................................................................................. 73 Photos by Sara R. Allen ........................................................................................................... 74-75 Photo by Antoinette Guidry… ....................................................................................................... 76 Photo by Alice Lee ......................................................................................................................... 77 Photos by Trinity Nicks and Brandon Bryan… ............................................................................. 78 Photo by Brandon Prater ............................................................................................................... 79 “Crossing Grant” by Reeghan Lacour ........................................................................................... 80 Photo by John Francis Jones and Maddison Johnson… ................................................................ 81 Photo by Tabitha Witzman ............................................................................................................ 82 Photos by Brynlee Fogleman ........................................................................................................ 83 Photos by Ryan Lemoine ............................................................................................................... 84
Art............................................................................................................................ 85 1st place “Intercession” by Jose Alberto Ontiveros...................................................................... 86 2nd place “Face Drawn in Charcoal” by Katherine Cannon ......................................................... 87 3rd place “Enchanted” by Grace Mayon ....................................................................................... 88 Honorable Mention “Native Sky” by Kylie Jo Graham ................................................................ 89 Honorable Mention “Chocolate and M&Ms” by Pasey Sharp ...................................................... 90 “Siblings” by Anna Deshotels ....................................................................................................... 91 “Baby Teeth” by Grace Mayon ..................................................................................................... 91 Portraits by Bella McBride ............................................................................................................ 92 “Gremlin” by Kelsey Franks ......................................................................................................... 93 “Jonglingit” by Emmaleigh Taylor ................................................................................................ 93 Paintings by Lacie Grossie ............................................................................................................. 94 Paintings by Kylie Jo Graham ................................................................................................. 95-96 Painting by Lexie Sharoian ............................................................................................................ 96 Sculptures by Pasey Sharp ............................................................................................................. 97 Paintings by Toriann Ealam .......................................................................................................... 98 “The 88 Club” by Mason Houghton .............................................................................................. 99 “Purple Tank” by Sahraya McFarlan ........................................................................................... 100
6 Editor’s Note In 2016, on my first day at the job here at LSUA, I walked into Mulder Hall, and Dr. Bernard Gallagher asked, sounding a little deflated, “Do you want this?” and showed a small stack of Jongleur submissions from the previous year. “Sure,” I said. He continued, “We didn’t have enough submissions last year, so we didn’t release an issue.” The lack of an issue was certainly not for lack of trying; it can be difficult getting timid students to submit for publication. At our next meeting, I asked him, “What about if we start a contest with prizes? I’ll make a goofy flyer and set up a Jongleur email group, so the students can submit.” “Sure,” Dr. Gallagher replied. It worked. In August of 2016, we began the “LSUA Art and Writing Contest.” Students sent poetry, fiction, and art submissions into the contest, and we released the 2016-17 issue in full color and full size (8.5 x 11) in “perfect” binding, a departure from the previous issues. A few years later, we added Photography as a fourth category. For telemetry, this year we had the most submitters and submissions so far: 74 students submitted 195 works! Moreover, we hardly promoted the contest, which is indicative of the contest, issue, and even the email address— jongleur@lsua.edu—becoming mainstays with LSUA students! The tradition of the Jongleur on the LSUA campus began in 1981 when a professor, along with a few students, released the first issue of the Jongleur for which we still have several copies; in fact, over the last ten years, I’ve slowly collected many of the back issues and have worked with LSU Archives to bring the collection up to date and speed, in attempt to defer to the journal’s significance and catalogue its presence, influence, and accomplishments. A bookshelf in my office where I house most of the back issues is dedicated to the journal and its history. The contest, journal, and now the newest kid on the Jongleur block, “Creative Day at LSUA,” which will be the annual awards ceremony each April, gives creative students on campus an outlet to create, submit, compete, present, and publish and furthermore, take part in a positive creative community. As a creative writer myself, I see myself in many of the LSUA students; I was once one of those eccentric kids who needed guidance and structure—encouragement—and I feel blessed to be able to be a part of this flagship initiative. One of my best days each year at the contest award ceremony, seeing the smiles on the faces of students approaching the lectern to retrieve their winning certificates. My future hopes and dreams are that all students at LSUA will always have the contest, journal, and ceremony there for them to explore their creativity and develop their talents and skills and meet others of like hearts and minds; additionally, I hope we begin other journals, such as digital music or film journals. With advances in technology, imagine what students could do. Kind regards, Eric Alai May 18, 2026
7 Acknowledgements The staff of the Jongleur would like to take this opportunity to thank all those who have supported and helped the contest and journal: Bernard Gallagher giving me this chance and for being the giant upon whom we all depend, to Brenda Ellington whose leadership guides us, to Linda Smith, the College of Liberal Arts’ Administrative Assistant who helps us all in all endeavors (nothing happens without her), to Daron Thaxton, although a finance and computer guy, has always backed and supported the journal, to the Lounge Lizards (Seth, Bernard, Mathew, Ling, Chris, Layne and Judy) for all their lunchtime salon fun, to Elizabeth Beard for her cool invisible airplane and unwavering support with anything new we have wanted to do, to everyone in the Department of English, History, and Humanities and College of Liberal Arts, to Bolton Library for helping us promote and archive the journal, to Kelly Pepper and the LSUA Foundation for believing in “Creative Day at LSUA,” lastly, a big thanks to student Anna Deshotels for stepping up to help with editing and formatting this issue (it is a bigger job than it seems!).
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Fiction Short Stories
9 OSHA Violations by Tanek Mouser 1st Place The radio towers all had massive bundles of high voltage wires that ran up to the set of antennas at the top. On this particular July day, Alfred had been sent to one of the remote relay towers up in the mountains to reinsulate a piece of wire that had been worn down terribly enough to have ground made direct contact with the steel of the tower’s body. In essence, the whole metal monster had become one large, electrified mess with the bare wire rubbing up against the tower and sending current through the whole of the thing. No one had died, yet, and nothing had gone wrong, so far. The tower was still functioning, if inefficiently. In fact, that’s what had authorized the repair in the first place. There was no reason to worry because there was a big fence to keep people out and the tower was so far away from the road, or so the company that owned and operated the tower supposed. But, when it had been revealed that the tower was now losing power and costing an additional hundred dollars per month to operate, then, well then, the repair had been authorized at lightning speed. So, Alfred was out there, in the ninety-degree heat, 1500 feet off the ground, swinging by a couple of lobster clips, a couple of little steel one-way clips that climbers used, at this very moment enjoying a sandwich. Lunch was a good time most days, but on this particular day, in this particular heat, Alfred just wanted to get done. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a shirt sleeve and took another bite of his sandwich. He took a glance over at a nearby hollow in the trees and patted himself on the back for having the foresight to have backed his work truck up deep in the shade of those trees and out of the overbearing sun. From up at his vantage point, and from the ground before he’d climbed up as well, Alfred could not even see the big old truck. To Alfred, for now, that was a good thing, if he couldn’t see his truck the sun couldn’t see it either. Finishing off his sandwich, Alfred started readying himself for work one more time but paused for a moment to take one last look out over the majestic mountains and woods that surrounded him. During this glance, Alfred was surprised to see a small pickup truck, from his view much the size of a matchbox car, winding its way over to the tower. Alfred wondered at this vehicle way out in the middle of nowhere and began to observe its approach. The truck wound its way up the little hill that the radio tower was placed on, disappearing and reappearing as it moved between thicker and thinner patches of trees, before it finally made it inside the gate near the tower and parked only a short way from the tower’s base. As Alfred watched, an even smaller figure than the truck, this one the size of an ant, jumped out of that vehicle and began to walk. Alfred was puzzled at this figures direction of movement as it began its movement, not towards the first ladder that gave access to the tower, as he had expected it might, but to the little concrete building only a few feet away from that ladder that housed the power switch for the tower. There was no reason to go to that shack, as Alfred was still on the tower and had not yet finished his repair. The only thing a person could do in that little building was to turn the tower on or off and the tower needed to stay off until Alfred was done as the grounding wires would electrify the entire tower, and anyone touching any part of the structure, with the immense voltage the radio tower required, would be fried. There should have been no way that anyone would turn the tower back on until Alfred told them it was ready and safe to be electrified again, unless someone hadn’t communicated something properly. But surely, the figure would have seen Alfred up there near the top of the tower, or seen his truck, but Alfred had parked his truck
10 out of the sun, and out of sight, and from the height he was at Alfred was completely unable to tell if the vague, tiny figure so far below had even turned his eyes towards Alfreds station on that steel behemoth. Alfred shouted out waving his arms. The figure did nothing. Alfred tried again. Again nothing. Alfred began to search on his person; he had the desperate idea of flinging something near that figure to get its attention. If that figure made it to the little concrete shack and threw the power to the tower on Alfred would be toast, or perhaps toasted in a more literal sense. Alfred searched his pockets and found the only thing remotely heavy enough to make it down below and not be blown off course by the winds that buffeted the tower constantly. Alfred found a large bolt, about the size of a kiwi and about the weight of a small hammer. He said a prayer and tossed the bolt toward the figure. Moments passed. Alfred held his breath. And the figure stopped. The figure halted and spun around, made a few obscure movements, and… started its way back toward the little concrete shack. Alfred was distraught, but had no time to waste, the figure had made it to the doorway of the shack. There was not much Alfred could do, the figure couldn’t hear him, and Alfred couldn’t reach it with a thrown object, not that he had anything he could throw at it now that he’d used that bolt. He had one last choice to make; would he fry to the voltage or make a desperate jump away from the tower. He had heard about people living through parachuting accidents, often falling from even greater heights than the height Alfred now found himself at on the tower, so there was a chance of living if he chose falling. The electricity, on the other hand, would kill him for sure. That made his choice. Alfred clung to the tower with one hand, and unclipped the lobster clips with the other, and prepared to fling himself from the tower. Alfred planned to try to land on his legs, he had heard somewhere that letting the legs impact the ground first when falling distributed the force of the meeting with the ground towards less vital parts of the body. Terror gripped him in those last seconds, and he found his hands frozen to the tower. He closed his eyes, steeled himself, and began a countdown 3… 2… 1…
Bradley was making a drive out to the great big radio tower in the middle of nowhere. The road to the tower was a winding one and the shade it afforded, broken occasionally as it was, was its only redeeming quality it possessed. Otherwise, the road was a rough one and the broken air-conditioning of the truck mixed with the sweltering heat outside made the drive unbearable for the plump figure of Bradley. As he drove on, Bradley routinely wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel he had looped over the back of his neck. Bradley’s lot in life was to do the grunt work no one else wanted to do. That was how he had come to be sent to the tower against his will in a company truck with no air conditioning and why he wanted to get his job done and get back to the nice, air-conditioned office as soon as possible. Bradley’s office was one of the small little regional ones that serviced the company’s network of equipment. Most days his job was to sit in an office waiting for the sparse service calls they received. On the occasion something malfunctioned and they did get a call Bradley, another member of his team, or several members together would make their way out to wherever the company believed the issue they were facing had originated and would assess the possible causes of said issue and recommend a course of action to the company leadership. Occasionally, Bradley’s team would be able to fix the issue. A little more often they would be able to provide a
11 Band-Aid solution that would allow things to function until someone could get there to provide a more permanent fix. Most often, Bradley and his crew would simply assess and recommend. With the towers, that third course of action was almost always the case. Bradley and his group did not work with high voltage and did not climb anything higher than a first-floor roof. So, Bradley expected a quick solution, a report when he got back, and for that to be the end of it. Bradley had arrived now, the truck had broken through the edge of the trees, passed the open gate, and been brought to a stop at the foot of the tower near the little concrete bunker Bradley knew would house the power switch for the tower. Bradley hopped down from the pickup truck, making a quick mental note of the open gate to report to company brass as a possible vandalism or trespassing concern, and began to make his way over to the little housing. He did not even bother to look up; there was no point. Bradley would get into the little housing glance at the wiring, check the power switch, and then leave, he would not and could not do any work on the tower, and he wouldn’t even know what to suggest if he saw something wrong. The first thing the company would need to do would be to call out someone skilled to climb and get a close look at the tower regardless of Bradley’s speculations; Bradley was not particularly skilled and hated heights and was utterly inept for anything on this call other than flipping a switch or witnessing and reporting a fire. As he trundled his way to the little concrete shack Bradley mused on what he might eat for lunch. The call for service had come in right before noon and he had been told to get this job done before he even considered lunch. That chastisement had stopped him from stopping for lunch but had done nothing to put a damper on his thoughts of fried chicken and hamburgers. And at that moment Bradley was engaged in a furious debate on the merits of a cheeseburger versus that of a ten-piece chicken nugget. Suddenly, he heard an earthy thud behind him. Bradley spun around and glancing down, nestled amongst the stubby grass mixed with old gravel at his feet he found a large bolt. The infrastructure of the company was old, but Bradley had never seen a bolt fall from one of the towers. He bent effortfully and picked the bolt up off the ground. He realized the bolt was large and heavy enough to have killed him if it had struck him in the head. Bradley had only narrowly been spared death by metal fastener. Now Bradley was concerned, so he looked up at the tower. The sun glared brightly in his eyes, and he shielded them with his hand. He could see about halfway from the bottom of the tower and then a little below halfway from the top; his hand blocked the space in between. Bradley noticed nothing suspiciously hanging or otherwise damaged that may have been the origin of the bolt, so he made a mental note to complain about his safety to someone important and continued his track towards the little concrete structure. Getting inside of the gloom of that little building from the glare of the summer sun he pulled out his cellphone and flicked on the flashlight. He took a look around and quickly discovered the power switch had been turned off. He reckoned that this switch may have been the culprit of their problem. Most likely, it had been turned off by some prankster. That line of thinking would explain the open gate as well. Bradley quickly made to turn the tower back on. He flipped the switch heard some electrical noise from the equipment around him and, satisfied with himself and harboring the faint hope of a raise for such an efficient solution and the value of the suggestion he would make to someone important to add some security to their towers, which he imagined would prevent something like this from happening again and give him the credit for the decreased number of service calls, he turned back to the door just in time to witness Albert, falling from the sky like a hailstone, bounce off the hood of the company truck.
12 Everything by Joseph Kutch 2nd Place He slept and he dreamed. The same dream. Always the same visions which haunted his dreams and often his waking hours. A world moving in silent slow motion amid the thunder of lightning and thunder of battle. Tom Pettegrew saw himself holding tightly onto the grass as the whirlwind of federal shells slashed the wood line where his company huddled into splinters. He thought of his mother tending to the farm alone but for brother John and the handful of slaves who had not run off. The war had already devoured his father, his brothers and uncles. Now, would it devour him too? Thoughts of Betty White filtered through his mind, hoping that she was still waiting for him as she had so tearfully promised and not to become a widow before they could say their “I do’s”. Three years was a long time for a young woman to wait. How much longer can this last he whispered to himself? For a simple farmer or foot soldier, minutes or hours had no meaning. Tom Pettigrew never owned a timepiece. There was never money to purchase one. The strange marking around the rim of the watches he had seen were what, he was told, were Roman numerals without knowing who those Romans were. To his great shame, he was totally unlettered. He rose and ate his breakfast meal before the sun and ended his day with its setting. When the sun was high and he was hungry, he ate again. Now he ate when, and if, he could. This battle started when the sun was just past high. He was snoozing under the shade of an old oak when the single cannon shot startled him into wakefulness. Then hell was unleashed on the countryside. Like every other man in his company, in his regiment, he was alone with his terror, helpless under the storm and screech of iron which was soundless and thankful for the slight depression in the ground. He wiped the tears from his powder grimes face hoping no one would notice. Silently, he prayed that his artillery, which he couldn’t distinguish from the enemy’s, was doing its job. When the time was right and Marse Robert gave the word, Tom Pettigrew swore again that he would rise and do his. “I’ll fight for Marse Robert till hell freezes over,” he had said out loud often, “then I’ll fight on the ice.” He said it less often now. He turned on his side and unbuttoned his fly to pass water. To his left was a battery of Napoleon smoothbore cannons firing at some target he couldn’t see through the billows of dirty white smoke. With his eyes stinging from the smoke, Tom watched the gun crew go through their welldrilled paces until a caisson erupted into an orange fireball behind them, sending both flaming wheels high over their heads. Then a Yankee shell slammed into the cannon. He watched impassively as the tube tumbled through the air and landed on the leg of one very unlucky gunner. His screams were silent as mates tried to lift the muzzle with their ramrods but the agony etched on his features was plain. “We all take our risks out here.”, he thought with no emotion. He had slept beside the dead, ate among them, and helped bury friends whose names he never wanted to know. This was no different. A change in the tempo of the fire gave him the courage to lift his head slightly. All he could see through the clouds of dirty white smoke was the flash of muzzles on the distant hill. “Where are our shells hitting?” he wondered. “Are they shooting too high? Just a little.”
13 Then, the fire of what he thought was a single battery began to falter and then go silent. Then another. “The Yanks are running out of ammunition” he whispered to himself. Silence slowly descended onto the battlefield. He grasped his rifle tighter, readying himself for the advance that must come. He saw men shouting and waving their arms up but the words he couldn’t hear. He didn’t need to. The steady tattoo of drums and the blare of bugles which were silent summoned him to duty. Yet none of the men moved until the sergeants ran up and started kicking and screaming silent curses at them. In the darkness, Tom Pettigrew saw the flickering lights. Lanterns? he wondered, or fireflies. “Must be fireflies.” The darkness closed around him again. In brilliant sunshine Tom Pettigrew stood shoulder to shoulder with the soldiers of the pitiful remains of his regiment as it waited in line of battle. He listened as the adjutant called the rollcall for men who had already stood their last rollcall. When his name was called, he answered. His dead colonel was helping General Garnett onto his coal black stallion, pleading with him to not make this charge on horseback. Everyone knew the general had been injured the day before and could barely walk but Richard Garnett would not be persuaded. He shook his head, looked down, smiled and patted the colonel on the shoulder. They took each other’s hand. Their colonel, with a sad, resigned countenance, stepped back and saluted. Richard Garnett had twice been called, wrongly, a coward. For men like him, honor meant more than life. “How?”, Tom Pettigrew though. “How could I not follow such a man?” His colonel drew his sword and brought the hilt to his face. The company commanders did likewise. “Men! Soldiers of the Army of Northern Virginia! Remember this day you fight for old Virginia. For your wives. For your children. For your sweethearts. For Virginia!” The men gave a lusty cheer followed by their Rebel yell. “Let us end this war this day! By columns of four! Forward! March!” As if in response, a panicking rabbit ran out of the brush, circled twice and ran back. “You go run, ole rabbit. If’en I were an ole rabbit, I’d run too.” A voice called out from the rear. Nervous laughter filtered up through the ranks as they marched forward. As far as Tom Pettigrew could see, the Army of Northern Virginia surged forward at a walk with parade ground precision, the blue Saint Andrew’s crosses with their white stars on a field of scarlet fluttering defiantly and in an eerie, otherworldly silence. He saw himself climbing the fence which nobody had thought to tear down. Ahead was the small clump of trees that he was told was their target when the enemy line on that hill exploded in flames and clouds of swirling smoke. Men fell all around him like wheat before the scythe. Rifles fell from dying hands. Gaps opened and men rushed forward to close them. When the man carrying their battle flag faltered, another sprinted forward to keep it from touching the ground. Bullets flew past his ears sounding like maddened hornets. Tom Pewttgrew aimed his rifle as best he could, tearing off the end of the paper cartridges with his teeth, trying to pour gunpowder down a bobbing muzzle. Then, in one brief moment the federal line exploded as triple slotted canister tore through the ranks. He watched as heads, arms and knapsacks hurled into the air. The last he saw of his
14 colonel was a severed arm grasping a bent sword. The blast spun him around and he recovered to realize he only grasped the shattered fragments of his rifle. General Garnett’s horse rushed past him, its empty saddle covered with blood. A blow like a fist to his chest knocked the wind out of him and hurled him backwards onto the ground. “I’m hit!” Tom Pettigrew ripped at his shirt seeking where, as the sun spun around in the sky above him. His eyes opened briefly to the night sky and closed. They opened again to an afternoon sun and the sound of thunder. “Was the battle still raging?”, he wondered as the first raindrops splashed his face. The sky opened and the deluge fell as if to wash away the violence done by man. When he had returned to a semblance of wakefulness on the ground, Tom Pettigrew thought he had heard a woman’s voice and felt the rustle of her skirts against his hand, but darkness closed down on him again. The voice said, “Doctor, this man is still alive.” He had though too, that he had feebly grasped at her skirts. “Can thou hear me”? “Am I in heaven,” Tom Pettigrew saw the face of an angel. “Thou hast many years for that.” “You are a Quaker?”. “I am,” she replied simply. Tom Pettigrew woke with a scream as he did most mornings, gasping for breath after a night of fitful sleep. As he did at their first meeting, he woke to a vision of angelic loveliness, ringed with a halo of golden locks. Vivid blue eyes smiled down on him. “Am I in heaven,” he would ask. “Thou hast many years for that,” she would reply. “You are a Quaker?” “I am,” she replied as always. That had become their morning ritual. “Here, eat.” As always, she spoon fed him the gruel and held his head to swallow the cup of tea she always brought. As always, she hummed a happy tune while she changed his bandages and wiped away the green pus which no longer seemed laudable. “Thou hast a visitor. Your brother John is here.” A young man of perhaps twelve walked in with an elderly black man who grasped his hat tightly in his hands. “John! What are you doing here?” “We got your letter. I’ve come to take you home, Tom. Tom Pettigrew remembered Nurse Cornelia writing a letter to his family. “John, I am a prisoner. I will not be coming home. “I am Nurse Cornelia.” She nodded. “I will leave you two alone to talk.” “No! John, I need to write a will. Go! Quickly! I need a lawyer. Go find a lawyer. John Pettigrew ran out into the streets and stopped the first well-dressed man he saw. Lawyers were always well-dressed. “Please, Sir. My brother needs a lawyer. Do you know where I can find one?” “Well, I am a lawyer. How can I help?” “My brother is in there.” Indicating the hospital with his finger. “He needs to write a will. I can pay.” He pushed a fist, clutching a handful of crumpled dollar bills. “This is everything I have.”
15 “Mr. Hay.” “Sir?” “I have been offered much over the years for my services as a lawyer but never everything. I will take your case, young man. Take me to your brother.” Nurse Cornelia jumped to her feet with a startled look on her face when John Petrtigrew walked back into the room. “Your brother tells me you need a will written.” “Yes, sur. You a lawyer?” “I am.” He took a seat. “What is your name?” “Tom. Tom Pettigrew.” “Thomas?” “No. Just Tom.” “Well, just Tom. What do you wish to leave and to whom?” “Our farm in Scott County, Virgina. To John, here. After mother passes on.” “Excuse me, M. … Sir? Shall I leave you to your alone to your work?” “No, Miss. I will need you to sign as a witness.” “We can do that. It is called usufruct. Use of the property until she remarries or dies. Do you know the legal description?” “No, sur. What is that?” “That is how we know which land we are talking about.” “It’s the old Pettigrew place. Every know it. And the slaves. That of the everything.” The lawyer looked up from his writing. “Well, I can put any slaves you legally hold.” Cornelia had brought in a newspaper with her. “Shall I read to you while he works?” John Pettigrew nodded. “What is in there?” “Well, the President gave a speech.” “What do that old ape have to say for his self?” A flash of anger crossed her eyes, but she said nothing. “No. Let John read it. He’s been to the third grade.” “Four score and seven years …”. He began with a hesitant voice. “Miss Cornelia. How long is a score?” “Twenty. Twenty years.” John Pettigrew nodded his head. … “twenty years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, con-see…” “Conceived.” “Conceived. Conceived in Liberty, and Dedi…” “Dedicated.” “Dedicated… Dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” John Pettigrew glanced over at Titus and his brow wrinkled. A thought lingered and was gone. He handed her the paper. “Miss Cornelia. Please. The words. I can’t. “As you wish.” She made a nervous glance at the lawyer, that nobody seemed to notice, while he continued to write.
16 “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives so that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate …. we cannot consecrate …. we cannot hallow …. this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far have so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us …. that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion …. that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain …. that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom …. and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” Tom Pettigrew turned his head. “Miss Cornelia. Is that all? “Yes. That is everything.” Tom Pettigrew looked back up into the ceiling lost in thought as if pondering some great question. “John.” “Yea, Tom.” “John, even now I never doubted the stand I took. I thought, no, I knew it was just. But no ape ever spoke such words. Good words. I only wish now that I might shake the hand of the man who spoke them.” A motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned his head and saw the hand extended out to him. With a great effort he twisted around and gazed up into the eyes, sad eyes, of the man sitting beside him. Their eyes met. With one last great effort Tom Pettigrew reached out and grasped that hand. Their eyes locked for one, brief moment, then his fluttered and closed. “Tom! No!” Nurse Cornelia gathered his face into her lap stroking his hair and drying his tears with her skirts. Her eyes remained dry. She had used up all of hers, it seemed, a long time ago. The lawyer gently pulled Tom Pettigrew’s hand from his and placed it on his chest. He rose and let out a long breath that sounded more like a sigh. “Everything.” Revenant by Anna Deshotels 3rd Place When I was young, and the world was new, my best friend was the heir to the throne. We played every day beneath towering castle arches, chasing each other below ceilings painted with the frescos of frolicking stags among flowering landscapes. Surrounded by beauty and security, my life was simple. There was no war to fight, no battle to be won, and I still believed that the world was good, and just. In the eyes of their father, the king, our closeness was a blessing. They would learn to rule, and at their side, I would always be. Friend, protector, counsellor, lover. Our bond,
17 unshakeable, and my faith in them, the same. For years upon years, we were at each other’s side. On the day the old king was buried, I stood stalwart next to the new monarch. Young adults now, my friend and I had been told this day would come. But as I watched their face, I knew that the preparation had not made this loss any easier, and I felt helpless. My purpose was to protect them; my entire life was spent training for it. And yet, I was confronted with the reality of knowing that I could not protect my friend from everything. As the casket of their father was carried beneath the earth, I could feel a resolution forming within myself. I didn’t care if there were things beyond my power to save them from. I was going to try. Thus we lived our lives, a ruler and their knight, and the years began to pass with greater speed. The old king had been kind and just, but his crown rested heavy on my lover’s brow. I saw it in the set of their shoulders. I felt it in the knots beneath their skin. The kingdom was suffering, they said. The people were too crowded. They were starving, running out of land to plow, to mine, to breathe. Riots made the streets unsafe to tread. One night, I slew an assassin that was intent on taking their life. For my country’s sake, I counselled my love thusly; expand. Annex the nations at our borders. Conquer their people. Make their land ours. So began the war. *** For thirteen years, I led the armies of my kingdom to battle, be it by land or sea. My hands grew calloused. The color faded from my hair. My body grew scarred. The softness of my youth grew into the hardness of a warrior, of a commander. And the battles that I fought, I won. For my beloved, it was worth it. The kingdom’s wealth grew, and grew, and grew… and they commanded me to take more. Eventually, I sent them a missive, the first ever that was not to celebrate a victory. Please, I wrote, I am weary. I miss my homeland. I miss you. For thirteen years, eight months, and four days, I have fought and fought and fought. Please. Let me come home. My greatest friend answered my plea with a single line. “Not yet.” *** We weren’t ready for the ferocity that we faced to the north. We didn’t expect a nation that would willingly sacrifice themselves to see our demise. Unable to protect my kin in arms, I witnessed them slaughtered in battle. Their blood soaked into the frozen earth, and I saw their bodies piled high in every direction. In my nightmares, I hear the guttural, crazed roars of the throng that swarmed from the forests, warriors wearing the bones of my fallen brothers and sisters, grinning like madmen, always, even in the face of my blade. In my terror, I mistake some of them as having antlers. When I stumbled, near-dead, into the throne room of my beloved, and fell to my knees before them, my eyes found the frescos and arched ceilings that had wreathed our childhood. The stags seemed different than I remembered. Angry, almost. Had they truly been playing, up there on the painted stone, when I was young? Or had they always been as they seemed now, vicious and bloodied? Finally, I saw my life partner’s face again, but it brought me no joy. Thirteen years of my suffering had brought peace, prosperity, and treasure upon treasure. It had been my idea to begin this fight, but they never allowed it to end. And now I knew why. For every scar I gained, for every soldier that died, the kingdom had received more spoils. The clothes worn in court were the very same clothes worn by those I had slain. On a golden throne, gilded by the blood of my kinsmen, my love and life sat before me. They did not rise. The first words spoken to me in
18 thirteen years, nine months, and six days, were: “You failed me.” *** Now, wintry trees stretch high above me, stark, black trunks vanishing into the night above my campfire. The air is bitterly cold, but my skin and flesh burn. The infection in my wounds flows wildly through my blood. I cannot feel the frost. You had your court physicians clean me up, but nothing more. Why spend your new wealth on trying to save a dying soldier? There are plenty of other soldiers to fight your battles. Besides, I was a failure. I failed you. That is what you said. After thirteen years of fighting your wars… Is it the infection that makes my heart sound deafening to my ears? Is it the knowledge that I am dying, alone, abandoned by my oldest friend, that causes the darkness to seem so thick? Is it my fever that makes the fire seem almost alive? No, something whispers. I jerk in surprise, looking into the forest, and see nothing. Only shadow. But still, I hear… A voice. A voice that murmurs to me from both the flames and the night. I see you, revenant. Your rage. Your pain. It calls to me, bright as a blaze. I have come to give you what you desire. I flinch away from the campfire, breathing hard, and my vision swims. Liquid forms dance in the shadows around my fire… dying stags… warriors wearing bones and skulls… antlers, freshly freed from their velvet, sharp and bloody… soil stained red with blood. The wound in my arm sears with pain, and I cry out, “Leave me, demon! Let me die in peace!” A pause. Almost thoughtful. Then, I can save you. My eyes open to see that the fire has dimmed to embers. They glow with the possibility of what they could become, if something only fed them. With every heartbeat, they seem to dim further. Dying, just as I am. You desire vengeance. Justice. I can give you the strength to take it. Against my will, my lips whisper, “How?” Give me your flesh, and I will give you my power. “I… no… this is wrong–” I pause, my heart thundering in my chest. Wrong? No. Sending me away for a needless war… keeping me from my homeland… abandoning me when I needed you! After everything I had done for you! You, my love, my life, my world– I hiss through my teeth, my eyes wild with fever and fury, “Tell me what to do!” Give me your flesh. Feed it to the fire. My fury will be yours. My eyes jerk to the sword at my side, its scabbard engraved with stags and flowers. With my left hand, I grab the hilt and yank the blade free, the blade that was forged in your name, to protect you. Sinking the steel into the earth, I use it as a crutch to rise to my knees… then I raise the sword high and, with a shaking grip, position it over my wounded arm. Yes!. Sacrifice your flesh. You will have your revenge, revenant. You will feast on it! “I…” My voice shakes, my vision fading in and out, and I realize that I must act quickly. “I will have… retribution. I will have justice!” With a guttural wail, I bring the blade down, sinking it into my flesh. It does not sever, and I think I may lose consciousness, but I raise the sword and bring it down again, and again,
19 and again, and finally, the ravaged arm falls to the ground. The arm that once held you, the arm that once carried my sword, the arm that was once held high in victory. My chest heaves from the effort and tears pour down my face. Suddenly, I sway. Do not fall! Throw it into the flames! My eyes find the fire, and it seems to dance, its wild fingers licking at the moonless sky. Even the stars are forsaking me, hiding from my sight. I fall forward, landing with my hand on my severed arm, and gather the very last of my strength, of my resolve. I think of the promises that you made me when we were young. I think of the words we once spoke to each other. I think of the way you cast me aside, refusing to even look at my face. I throw it all into the fire. The flames roar into the sky. Then the antlers begin to grow. They start as nubs that push their way through my skin, then they get thicker, sharper, blood vessels and bone sprouting from my scalp and branching, high into the sky. My heart pounds in my ears and my nose bleeds from agony, my screams filling the cold air. As the antlers reach their peak, hard flesh and bone now cocooned by thick, soft velvet, I gain a moment’s respite… The itching begins. Subtle, first. Then it becomes stinging, an infuriating, maddening sensation, enough that I lose all control of my limbs and myself. I swing my head back and forth like a tormented animal. My hand rips and claws at the flesh that clings to the newly-formed bone, then I crawl, hand and feet, to the rough trunk of a tree, using the bark and my nails to strip my antlers bare. The fever that had nearly overtaken me has vanished; there is only an intense, crazed need, a need to free myself from this accursed itch, to tear the velvet away so that I might drive these antlers into my enemy. *** When the sun rises, I am kneeling, head bent, before the ashes of the fire. My nails are caked with blood. Loose strings of flesh and velvet dangle from the antlers above my brow. They curve high above my head, as stark and white as a long-dead tree, as sharp as my monstrous fangs. The arm that I fed to the fire has been reduced to blackened bone and ash, and with it, my infection. My wounds are healed. My strength is returned, tenfold. And I hunger for what I was promised. You will have it, revenant. We will devour them all.
20 The Living Flower by Hanlin Riddle Honorable Mention One day, a flower sprung out of the ground. It stood on its roots like legs, moving its leaves around as if they were arms, and looked around with its flower head. The flower realized that it was alive. It looked at its cousins and siblings all still planted in the ground, growing and wanting nothing, feeling nothing. The flower felt that it was the only flower truly alive. And because of this, it was alone. The flower decided to leave. Stumbling through the vast field, the flower observed the rolling hills it had lived in all this time. It saw a clear, blue river flow through the landscape. It watched as rabbits hopped through the meadows and birds flapped their wings high in the deep, blue sky. Was this place always like this? The flower had never known such impossible beauty. As the sun rose high, it walked and walked. Could it walk forever? Did this vast, new world have an end? Eventually, the flower stumbled upon an entirely new place: a city. This place was much more crowded and busy than where the flower had begun. And the flower was amazed at the tall, stone structures that reached up to impossible heights and loud, roaring machines that raced among the paths paved between. But the most amazing discovery was the creatures that lived there: a race of tall creatures marching forth, back, left, right, all busy, all moving, all having a purpose. Man. The flower was amazed by these creatures. They knew that they were alive, and they lived. It longed to feel that way for itself. The flower decided that this place would be its new home, and it would live like this from now on. Observing a group of men marching by with briefcases in hand, the flower decided to follow. It needed a briefcase too, so the flower made do with a lone brick laying nearby. Picking up the brick, the flower marched along, falling in line behind the parade of busy men. Together they marched, until they entered a great skyscraper, reaching into the sky now beginning to fill with clouds. The flower waddled along, following the men up the elevator until they arrived at their destination: an office. Now what? The flower watched as each man separated, finding their own private box. It supposed it needed to find a spot of its own. Stumbling around the office, the flower finally found an empty cubicle. It observed the cluttered desk and the big, fancy computer. Enticed, the flower stumbled in. It dropped its brick by the wall and climbed into the chair. It was time to get to work. After working for a while, the flower began to feel a bit fatigued. How much longer are it and these men supposed to work for? Peeking over the wall, the flower saw everyone else still hard at work. It was glad to be able to contribute to such a meaningful experience. It sat back down. What luck for the flower to have finally found a place to truly live! But the work was much harder than expected. The flower looked at its leaves. They were once a vibrant green, but they were now beginning to turn yellow and shriveled. This worried the flower, but it must keep working, it decided.
21 Time passed. The flower worked. It had never felt such exhaustion. Surely, they would all be finished soon. The flower supposed that this feeling was just part of what it was like to be alive. It wondered if the other men would appreciate whatever it’s contributing. Finally, a man found his way into the cubicle. Oh! Is this man here to help me? the flower thought. The man walked up to the chair. It saw the flower lying there. He seemed shocked at first. Then, with almost no hesitation, the man grabbed the flower by the stem and effortlessly tossed it out of the cubicle. The flower landed in a garbage can. What happened? Was my work not good enough? Still weak from working, the flower slowly climbed out of the garbage can and onto a windowsill above. It looked among the people in the office. Everyone continued to work, even without the flower’s aid. From out of the cloudy sky, a bird then landed on the outside of the open window. The flower turned its head in surprise. Suddenly, the bird began to peck at the flower, pulling at its leaves. Panicked, the flower tried to escape. But, with its beak firmly latched onto the flower’s stem, the bird flew away. High above it all, the flower struggled to break free. Finally, it pulled itself from the clutches of the bird’s beak and fell down, down, down. The flower was lost. Lying on the ground, pathetic and hopeless, the flower tried to rise. But it could only manage to barely lift its flower head. As it did so, a single petal fell from the flower’s head. And it finally collapsed. The flower decided that it had failed at living. Perhaps it had done something wrong. Though no longer believing in any chance of survival, the flower suddenly felt something come up from under it, lifting it up: the hands of a human. It suddenly found its cold roots warm under a blanket of rich soil, where it felt nutrients slowly returning. It felt a light shower of water rinse its weak body clean. The sun began to peak from the clouds again, and sun rays danced down from the sky as they bathed the flower in warmth once again. Slowly, the flower felt its energy return and began to stand again. It looked around. It found itself planted once again, in a vibrant clay pot. All around the flower were other flowers just like it, planted in their own pots. Once again, the flower felt truly alive. Only then, it did not feel so lonely. The Skin That Killed Me by Chanler Hankis Schunk! I feel the serrated knife pass through my hand trying to bite into my eye, I let out a blood curdling scream, singeing past my bloodied teeth, only fueling my anger as Lucare presses the plunged knife harder towards me hoping to finish the task. The steel reverberating from the hilt to its point, Lucare presses his body over the knife one last time in hopes of succession for the blade’s thirsting anticipation. “Why…won’t…you…DIE” he strains, blood seeps from my wound onto the tones of red, black, and blue coloring the battle that has ensued across my face. Hey, so quick time out, you’re probably at a loss, wondering what is HAPPENING??? Let me take a step back and explain how we got here. This started about 12 hours ago when I (Nouver) came across this piece of emanating amphibian skin, and yes, before you think I’m
22 weird and call me gross, I’m already aware of how nasty it is but hear me out, when I came up to it in the park buried behind some dying bushes placed under a rock, it seemed almost like it was radiating and calling to me through a sensation in my chest. So, I took it home, the first thing that even possessed a sliver of personality and color in this morbid town, why would I not, what’s the worst that can happen? HAH, what luck that I had finding that out. In Pleasant Hill on the outskirts of Kansas City, you don’t see ANYTHING interesting except robberies and fent folders, and even after that, the disdaining grey covering the sky at all times could prevent even Bob Ross from saying anything pleasant about pleasant hill. After stumbling upon the strange skin artifact, I make my short voyage back around the block back towards home, to the Monster House replica (you know the reference I’m making) I confide all my thoughts in. As I approach the house, my Uncle John who is my “sole guardian” is laid out on the front lawn with a pair of shades and American flag speedo with a sea of empty beer cans around him with the grip of 1000 men holding his last nasty piss water beer, Busch Light, demonstrating his cripplingly low amount of modesty. He obnoxiously blasting his favorite Whitesnake album, drunkenly slurring along to the chorus of “Is This Love” face towards the sky, when he spots me walking up from the sidewalk, he starts to shout the chorus opening his arms towards me in hopes of me chiming in with him. “Isssss thisss looove that I’m feelinggg, isssss thissss the loooove that I beeeeeen ssssuuurffffin fooooor?” I audibly sigh, and yell back “It’s searching, not surfing Uncle John” as I start to pick up the empty vessels of intoxication around him and twist the volume knob down, so we aren’t hated more than we already are. “Come inside and stop thinking about Deborah, she already got a new man. Quit moping I gotta show you something I found” I say making my way towards the front door. “Damn kid thinks he knows all about my love life…” he mutters under his breath as he hastily stumbles into the domain we call our home. “So, what did ya wanna show me kid? Another rock you found in the park. Another dead rat you found by the sewers. Maybe a new lady? Oh, that has GOT to be-“I quickly cut him off before he keeps going and makes me want to put my head in the sand looking for ants. “No Uncle John. Check this crazy thing out I found at the park, I have never seen anything like it before.” I hand him the warbling piece of skin that almost yearned to tell us a secret, He disgustingly frowns as I place it into his hand, he squints his whole brow and nose at the skin, revealing his years of substance abuse and mistakes across his face. While analyzing this foreign object when suddenly, his eyes shoot open and his drunken haze has vanished as if it were never there and says “You really are a nasty kid man, this is just some snakeskin with some glitter on it. You’re gross, dude!” His drunken sway returns once more as he turns back making his slow venture to the stairs softly slurring the chorus once more. I sigh irritatingly loud, “Okay bruh, maybe it is just snakeskin” and make my trial behind Uncle John through the splinter infested stairs, screaming in agony with every pound of pressure we placed onto it. I make my way into my bedroom to see my familiar room, my black dresser with gold handles neatly winking at me, my bed not far across the room neatly flattened hiding any wrinkles that would dare make its appearance, and lastly my mirror, my silhouette slithering towards the mirror as I walk past the door frame, closing the door behind me and taking a look at myself in the mirror to rework the event of the finding of the skin in my head. I make eye contact with the boy in the mirror, long shaggy blonde hair dancing over my eyes and freckles, a leather jacket who has many moons of stories to tell, a Hatebreed shirt of his favorite album left only in tatters from the amount of times it has been worn, pants that only punks would wear for fashion,
23 and combat boots that would intimidate Santa. I stare at the skin I acquired wondering if it was something special or truly just glittery snakeskin, I sigh and throw it in the top shelf of my dresser and plop down on my bed feeling like my sense of adventure was slowly slipping away from me. I watch the ceiling in hopes it will fall on me as I get lost in deep thought, slumber begins to take my body and black ensues. Thump! A heavy foot to the face forces me awake and another follows to kickstart my adrenaline, “Where is it? Where is the artifact?” A man standing in my room bellows at me as he chases for a third strike, but I catch it and push the man away from me, “Dude, what the hell is your problem?” I look to see my room is in shambles like an avalanche had passed through with my bedroom window broken, “Why is my room destroyed? Who are you?” I confusingly holler as the pain in my face starts to slide into existence, making me wince and hold my face. “Like I already said, asshat, the artifact, where is it?!” blatantly ignoring my pleas as he bares his teeth at me spitting his venomous words back at me. “Asshat? You woke ME up by attacking ME? Plus, how can an ass have a-“ he strikes at me and knocks me into the wall letting the air I had in my lungs wiggle out in desperation, leaving me gasping as the man goes for an elbow over my head but I block it and kick him off of me. Staggering back to my feet, I breathlessly ask, “Okay, I will help you find this artifact, but first, tell me who you are, why you are attacking me, and what the artifact is?” Almost like a sudden voice of reason, he stops repositions himself and says, “I am Lucare, and you have my artifact that you will return to me right now, and what the artifact is, Is none of your damn business shitface!” His breath seethes, letting me finally look at his face, his eyes were sharp and yellow pointed, his skin looked so dry it could start a fire (Yeah, I’m not asking for his skincare routine), but he looked to be about my age of 18, young and clearly hotheaded with black hair shadowing over his identity. “Dude your insults are so bad, you must’ve raised under a rock. But okay, this artifact, what does it look like?” I say exaggeratedly as he is standing before me twitching and looking at the walls expecting the walls to tell the answer before me. “This dude has issues” I thought to myself before he blurts, “It radiates, bright and aesthetically, almost like it wants to tell you a story,” and as he said this my eyes burst open and I throw open the top drawer of my dresser to see the skin glowing brighter than it was before, and with Lucare coming behind me to inspect, and he let out a loud gasp, almost hiss like, “There it is,” he snatches the skin and makes a run for the window but I tackle him. “Wow now Barry Allen, where are you going?” he sneers at me and throws an elbow to my face, reminding me of all the pain that was already existent in my bloodied and bruised face. When out of the cracks in my eyes, I notice in the hallway two stiff legs and a crowd of blood around them. With my hands still clenched to Lucare’s back and him squirming to slither out of my arms, my blood grows cold as I see the shell of my Uncle John coughing with blood shooting out of his throat, the only form of movement he was showing, with his eyes taking his last breath. I look back at Lucare, he had a different expression this time, one of grief and regret. My ears start to ring, and I ball my fists together and start to wail on the back of his head as hard as I can letting out an almost inhumane scream putting everything I have into my fists. His body stops resisting and I throw one more slam down as I hear a Squelch beneath my fists and I stop realizing what I had done. I quickly leave the new corpse on the floor and stumble towards the idiot I called an uncle, who now lied lifelessly before me. I kneeled over and grabbed his hand into mine and put my head down starting to sob through my plumed face. “Quit yer bitching Nouver, I’m okay” the words shake my whole body as I look up and he smiles to
24 me, as if he was never hurt. “I-I thought you were d-dead uncle john,” my words tremble before me drying the tears streaming from the oceans welled in my eyes, as the reunion was about to get hallmark-like, I felt the urge to turn around, and suddenly Lucare is slowly climbing to his feet so I charge back into the arena and tackle with us both taking flight out of the window. We both hit the ground with a thud and Lucare finds me on the ground and proceeds to slither over me and mount me, pinning my arms to the ground as he hits me with two more strong strikes to my face, knocking me unconscious for a moment. I reopened my eyes to see him reaching for a knife he had at his side andAlright, one more time out, now that you know how we got here, everything else from the beginning will make sense. Anyways, back to it. Splert! The knife passes into my eye, and everything goes black. I could feel my body die, but as I laid there, I could feel my heart start to vibrate, my blood cells start to multiply, my blood vessels start to slither back to life, my body start to electrify under the tone of death trying to snatch me away. I could feel my breath returning, my fingers twitching, then, my eyes shoot open and everything looked…different, much more vibrant. I saw Lucare limping slowly away and knew what I had to do. I looked at my hand which was no longer missing a part, instead dry blood only resided. I felt all my senses hiss as I slowly came to my feet, feeling completely rejuvenated, I looked at Lucare and could hear his heart, hear everything in his body working as a meat machine and I lunged to him, my feet off the ground, I clenched my fingers in anticipation and… Ssss, my arm passes through his chest and his heart beats violently in my hand as he drops to his knees. A weak whimper leaves his temple as his eyes said goodbye to the sky, “The artifact… you know not of its power…it was supposed… to pick me… you fuggler…” Even in his last breath he can’t insult worth a damn, poor dude. One last breath escapes out of him, and he starts to turn shed his skin and turn grey, his heart slows in my palm, the wind hastily carrying him little by little to his final destination. My body completely focuses on the skin I can feel screaming at me in his pocket, blinding me with its beautiful glory. I reach into his pocket as the pocket ashes away and grab the skin, my hand touching it starts to burn, the skin starts to scorch me and become brighter, and I try to let go of the skin, and it starts to melt into my hand. I let out another scream but this time, I no longer recognize the sound of my voice, it rattles and does not sound like me, my body starts to swell, and as everything starts to become impossible, a beam comes down and a figure stands before me with a low vibrant booming voice, “Nouver, we have much to do.” I like at my hand that no longer feels pain, to see the skin has synthesized with my hand and I smile. Gluttony by Audrey Jordan In a lonely town, on a lonely farm, there lived a lonely man named Everett Hemming. He didn’t get out into town much; mainly, he tended to his animals; made sure they were big and well fed and ready to be slaughtered. Every third Wednesday, he brought a varying number of animals to the butcher, who might’ve been the only person in town that Everett had spoken to in the last eighteen or so years. He had no remorse for sending the animals to be butchered; in fact, he didn’t much care for them at all, but his least favorite animals were his pigs. He thought they were quite disgusting and repellent creatures. He saved them for last when it came feeding time, as he dreaded it the most. Every morning, he got up at five a.m. and did these things in this order:
25 first, he fed and milked the cows. Then he gathered the eggs from the chickens and fed them. Then he fed his sheep, and finally, the pigs. Then he fed them all again in the late afternoon. He typically fed the pigs a healthy mix of grains and proteins, but he’d also take them whatever gone-bad food and unseemly leftovers he had from previous days, as he found they’d eat anything, including, sometimes, each other. This was rare, as he never failed to feed them more than enough, but once or twice a year he’d come out to the pigpen to find the remains of one of the pigs, devoured by its siblings. Not only was the cannibalistic act offputting, but it reminded him why pigs were undoubtedly his least favorite animal to exist; he found them unnerving and downright creepy. One Sunday morning, the third Sunday of the month, as it was every morning, he fed and tended to the animals. When it was time to feed the pigs, he let out a hefty sigh and stepped into the pen. He lifted the bucket high enough so that they couldn’t get to it and tried not to step in anything offensive as he made his way to the trough and dumped the contents into it. He quickly got out of the way and left the pen as the squealing beasts pushed each other out of the way and competed to get to the food first, as if there wasn’t more than enough to go around. He hated how gluttonous pigs were, always gorging themselves on anything and everything that was placed in front of them. After he had fed them and was done with his morning chores, he made his way inside and showered. Usually, he read books to pass the time, but the day before, he’d finished the newest book he purchased, so he sat back in his recliner and found a show that was easy enough to follow along with, but not so interesting that one had to catch every second of it to get it. It just so happened to bore Everett enough that he fell asleep. When he awoke, it was a quarter past two, and he realized upon waking that he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten breakfast and he slept through lunch, so he grabbed some leftover pork chops from the fridge and put them in the microwave. That’s the one thing he wouldn’t feed the pigs: pork. He felt it was cruel; sure, they might eat each other every once in a while, but that was a conscious choice they made. He’d often wondered: if he fed a pig to its own siblings, would they know? Would they care? As he was hungrier than usual, he ate faster and consumed more than he thought he should, and as soon as he realized that, he stopped himself. He realized what he was reminding himself of: the pigs themselves. They always ate quickly and without hesitation, as he was. The thought that he could have anything in common with a pig ruined his appetite immediately and he threw the remaining pork into the trash. He felt, just for a moment, a slight connection with the animals he so despised. He was then hit with a wave of nausea. Gobbling down that pork–an animal that he raised and then had killed, then cooked and ate–it gave him a bad feeling. Something akin to remorse. As much as he looked down on them, eating something he raised felt wrong. He had eaten pork chops and bacon dozens of times, but this time felt different, and he wasn’t sure why. That night, as he was doing his second rounds of feeding, there was still some meat and slop in the trough from that morning; the remainder of what wasn’t eaten. He was surprised that there was anything at all in there, but nevertheless, he dumped the grains into the trough. However, he made a detrimental mistake. Because he was standing there, wondering why the pigs hadn’t finished their food like they usually do, he didn’t move out of the way fast enough. He turned around just in time to see six oversized pigs running towards him, and they were going to eat no matter what, whether he was in their way or not. He screamed, but didn’t even hear
26 himself over the squealing and snorting filling the air. He toppled over backwards into the trough, and the pigs didn’t hesitate to feast. Everett was ever-so-painfully aware of the fact that his limbs were being torn apart in every which direction. One of the larger pigs took a bite out of his face, and he saw his own flesh being consumed in front of him, but he couldn’t close his eyes. Amidst the squealing and screaming, Everett looked into the eyes of the largest pig as its snout encompassed his line of vision, and he didn’t break eye contact until his eyes were no longer in his head. With his limbs and half of his face gone, Everett’s last thought was of his earlier meal. He felt almost understanding, as if he deserved this. It was as if they were finally getting their revenge. Three days later, on the third Thursday of the month, the butcher pulled up to Everett’s house, talking on the phone as he got out of his truck. “Yeah, Mr. Hemming didn’t come by yesterday, so I’m there right now, gonna ask him– oh, no, I’m sure he’s fine…. Well, sure, I’ll tell him you said hello.” He hung up the phone and made his way to the front door. He knocked, called out: “Mr. Hemming! It’s Josh!” Knocked again, to no avail. He took note of the fact that his truck was parked in the driveway, and knocked once more before giving up. He called Everett’s phone, and when he didn’t get an answer, left a message saying he was here for the animals since Everett hadn’t come by. He almost turned to leave, but the sound of squealing pigs stopped him. He had noticed it when he first pulled up, but hadn’t given it any thought, but the longer he stood there, he realized that they were most likely upset for a reason. And if Everett wasn’t answering the door, maybe he wasn’t home and they were hungry. The butcher went back behind the house to the pigpen, the smell of rancid, rotten meat filling his nostrils. He got closer, ignoring the smell and peering inside the pen, and what he saw made him immediately turn and vomit. An assortment of teeth were scattered throughout the pen. In the corner, a leg with half the flesh eaten off, blood everywhere. And in the trough, half a human skull, polished clean. The butcher stumbled backwards, turning and running back to his truck, but before he got to it, he heard a loud click. He flinched, looked over his shoulder, and to his horror, he saw six giant pigs running at him at full speed. In the few seconds before they got to him, slaughtering him just as he would have slaughtered them, one phrase came to mind: An eye for an eye. Grodder’s Flute by Hanlin Riddle During a cold, lonely night, an old troll finally passed away in his sleep inside the old stump he lived in. His name was Grodder. When word had gotten out that old Grodder had passed, his cousins made their way to his home, as they decided they must plan some sort of funeral. Like him, they were trolls. Big, ugly things, with gnarled teeth, piggish noses and posture akin to that of a rotting tree trunk. There were three of them now waiting outside: Garnie, easily the biggest fellow of them all; Gertrude, the shorter but stocky cousin, known for her bright, blue eyes unlike the rest of her family; and Porter, who was now the oldest of them all, now that Grodder was gone. Not all of them had yet arrived, as one of their cousins was apparently running late. Finally, Gertrude grew impatient.
27 “You think he’d prioritize coming sooner. We’re only preparing his cousin’s funeral, after all…” She grumbled, looking around the woods for any sign of him arriving. “I’m going inside.” “And how d’you expect to get in?” Porter questioned as she waddled up to the stump’s front door. “Tim is the only one with a key.” Gertrude grabbed the handle and yanked on it hard. It didn’t budge. “Good thinking!” Porter remarked with sarcastic enthusiasm. “Pipe it, you.” While they bickered, Garnie, who had been sitting on the ground, boredly minding his own, finally decided to get up, slowly rising to his feet with a tired sigh. They finally turned to him when they heard him effortlessly snap the window’s shutters open, and they watched as he squeezed his enormous body through the window. Gertrude, caught by surprise, yelled at Garnie from outside. “Oh, you great swine, you! Don’t you have any respect?! Why, if Grodder were still here…” She trailed off as she and Porter caught the sound of someone coming through the woods. They turned around to see that Tim, their youngest and smallest cousin, had finally arrived. “I’m here! I’m here!” he hollered, his small, scrawny body emerging from the treeline. “You’re late,” Porter sighed. Tim scurried up to the door. Pulling out the key, he unlocked it, holding it open for his cousins to pass through. “Always the gentleman,” Gertrude commented sweetly as she and Porter passed through. Tim followed them in, letting the door close behind him. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up at home, and I lost track of time, and–” Tim cut himself off as his eyes scanned the right of the room. Against the right wall was Grodder’s bed, and in it lay poor, old Grodder himself. Standing next to the bed was Garnie, peering at the sight, the corners of his mouth pointing sharply down. Tim walked up to the bed. “Ah, Grodder…” He studied Grodder’s still image, with his eyes still open, his lips slightly parted, and his big nose pointing upwards. Grodder was not there any longer. “Poor, old Groddie,” Gertrude lamented, her voice beginning to choke up. “Oh, Tim, you meant a lot to him, you know. He always told me about how much he loved to play his flute for you when you’d visit.” “What I’d give to hear that flute now…” Tim wiped his eye. Garnie, apparently having enough, turned away and stumbled to the other side of the stump, looking away. Porter, who had been standing next to Gertrude, walked up next to Tim. Grabbing the blanket, Porter pulled it up over Grodder’s face. “Porter!” Gertrude fussed, stomping up to the bed, too. “What are you doing?! Don’t do that…” She grabbed at the top of the blanket. “Oh, silly me,” Porter bit back, “I wouldn’t want to smother him.” As Gertrude glared at him, the sarcasm began to fade from his tone. “I just… thought we should cover him.” “At least… leave his nose sticking out…” As the two of them discussed the most honorable way to cover Grodder’s face, Tim backed away into the center of the stump. As he did, he suddenly jumped in surprise when he heard the sound of Garnie riping the door of Grodder’s pantry open. Tim watched as Garnie
28 pulled an overwhelming fistful of acorns from the depths of the pantry and shoveled them into his mouth, caps and all. Meanwhile, Porter seemed to finally give in to his and Gertrude’s argument. Turning from the bed, Porter noticed Grodder’s old chair and plopped down in it, burying his pudgy chin in his right palm. “Don’t!” Gertrude fussed again. “Don’t sit there! You’ll ruin the wood of that nice chair. You’re sweaty, get up,” she commanded him, waving her sticky fingers at him. Always with the arguing, Tim thought to himself. I would’ve thought today would be different. “Just let me rest, Gertrude, For God’s sake!” Porter bit back. “I was gonna take the chair home with me, anyway.” “Excuse me. And who told you that chair was yours? I sit in that chair every time I come all the way out here. When was the last time you visited?” Garnie’s munching seemed to get louder. This was the typical family experience for Tim. It did not surprise him that things turned so quickly. He soon found himself silently wandering to the back corner of the stump, where he was just far enough from Gertrude and Porter's arguing without being too close to Garnie’s snacking. Grodder did not have much furniture. The chair was the only place to sit comfortably. There was the bed, but that was occupied. Instead, Tim leaned against the wall, near Grodder’s dresser. He hadn’t been there long, but he already wished he could go home. He missed Grodder dearly, however. As he stood alone, memories of Grodder playing his flute for Tim began to fill his mind. Tim suddenly began to wonder where Grodder might’ve left that old thing. Porter finally got up, giving in to Gertrude once more. “Fine. Keep it.” Tim watched as Porter stumbled across the room toward him and the dresser. “But I’m taking the dresser,” he demanded, smacking his big open hand on its worn surface. Gertrude was insulted. “You most certainly are not! That dresser matches perfectly with the chair. They count as one.” “Oh, no you don’t, you old bag! I was with Grodder the day he bought this dresser. I paid for half of it!” Tim suddenly heard Garnie grumble annoyedly, followed by more chewing. Tim was starting to have enough of it all. He finally piped up. “Shouldn’t we discuss these things later?” he mumbled to Porter, who did not respond, either having ignored him or not heard at all. Instead, Porter turned to the dresser, yanking open one of the drawers and peering inside. Suddenly, something caught Tim’s eye. Inside the drawer, he saw it: Grodder’s flute. Tim’s eyes lit up. There it is! Without thinking, Tim started to reach for it. “I’m taking the dresser,” Porter reiterated to Gertrude, slamming the drawer shut on Tim’s hand. Tim yanked his hand back, yelping in pain, but nobody seemed to notice. “And you’re not stopping me,” Porter finished. Gertrude marched up to the dresser. “Well, we’re going to go through the contents, too,” she decided, opening the drawer once again. Clutching his now swelling hand, Tim felt a nasty scowl slowly form on his face. Still paying no mind to him, his cousins began to rummage through the many things inside. “I’m taking this,” “I’m taking that,” the two of them debated, all while Garnie filled the home with the sound of aggressive chewing.
29 Without saying anything, Tim began to reach for the flute. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he was being sneaky about it. Right as his fingers wrapped around the shining metal, he pulled it out quickly and started tucking it away in his pocket. But Porter notices. “Hey! What’re you doing?” Gertrude also looked up from the drawer at Tim, who was caught with the flute tucked halfway in his pants. “What?” Tim finally spoke. “...Don’t I get something?” Almost immediately after he said that, Porter suddenly swiped the flute from him. “Hey!” Tim shouted as he felt a sudden wave of anger overtake him. “You ungrateful little punk,” he bit. “Me? Ungrateful? You’ve been arguing since we got here!” Porter observes the flute in his hands. “This item is far too valuable for the likes of you. We are your elders. We’ve done enough for you, haven’t we? You—“ On some sort of impulse, Tim suddenly lunged forward and grabbed the flute. He tried to pull it back from Porter, but Porter was strong and held on. “Porter!” Gertrude pleaded suddenly. The two of them continued to struggle. Tim felt a rare anger begin to come over him. Porter gave one final great tug and finally pulled the flute from Tim’s grasp. But as he did so, he fell backwards, and the flute flew out of his own hands and across the room. It landed by Garnie, who had just finished cleaning out the pantry. As he leaned back and gave out a great burp, he noticed the flute and grabbed it without a second thought, proceeding to pick his teeth with it. Tim and Porter glared at each other for a moment. Then they both darted across the room to Garnie. They began to wrestle with their giant cousin, both trying to reach the flute. But Garnie held it up high as he picked at his yellow molars, hardly paying any attention to his puny relatives. “Oh, I don’t believe this. I’ve had enough,” Gertrude decided as she stomped to the chair, yanking it up by the front leg and dragging it out with her through the front door. “Give it here, you gigantic idiot!” Porter screamed as he lunged up for the flute. Garnie simply pushed him back to the floor with his huge hand. Tim had finally lost his temper. Raising his foot, he smashed Garnie’s big toe into the floor. Garnie gave out a pitiful yelp and let go of the flute, which Tim caught midair. Tim stepped back from the two of them, clutching the flute close to his body with a grip so fierce his knuckles turned pale in color. Garnie looked down at him, growling angrily. Porter stared blankly in disbelief. Tim took a couple more steps back, looking back and forth between the door and Porter. He watched as Porter’s face bent into a nasty scowl. Porter finally raised his hand, gesturing to the door with bitter resignation. Tim scurried off. Porter raised his gaze up to meet Garnie, who was frowning down at him. “You got somethin’ to say?” he snapped. Garnie’s only response was a deep grumble. Garnie then swung his arms to his sides and picked himself up, knocking Porter to the floor in the process. He then went back to the window he had pried open and squeezed back out the way he came. Grumbling, Porter picked himself back up. He then stomped over to the dresser and hoisted the whole thing over his back. He marched out the door and back through the woods. The old troll’s cold body laid alone in its bed.
30
The Mage’s Flame by Hanlin Riddle She was a powerful mage. But she always craved more. The young mage was, of course, ecstatic when she discovered what she had. Many could only dream of being so special. Few could be lucky enough to possess such raw, unbridled ability. Magic. Shortly after her discovery, she, like all new mages, was to start training as soon as possible. It was not long before she was assigned to her mentor, an older mage who had spent her entire life studying the art of magic. As the sun rose and fell again and again, the mage went on training at her mentor’s cabin deep in the forest. Her mentor led her through the usual early tutorials. A levitation spell here, a dance of lights there. But it was all filler to the impatient mage. She craved real power above all. A certain day had come about on which the girl found herself alone on the cabin’s porch. That afternoon, her mentor was to return later than usual, as she was out harvesting cattails for her healing tea. Once she would return, it would be another training exercise of turning yellow daisies red. The day was cold and still. The world was still rooted in the deep, stiff earth of winter, and the dreary sky showed no faith in wiping away its dead overcast. The girl, restless from having waited for a good while, finally went inside. As expected, the frigid air inside the rustic cabin felt no different from the outside. Surely, her mentor wouldn’t mind if she were to light the fireplace. The mage looked around; there were bits of firewood already conveniently in place, even topped with dead leaves ready for easy kindling. She looked around and noticed a bit of flint and her mentor’s steel striker resting on the end table, next to her mentor’s book of magic. As she reached for it, her hand froze. An idea suddenly came to her mind. Fire was a very high-level and powerful spell. To be able to kindle a flame within one’s own bare hands was no easy work. One had to not just create the spark. One had to caress and raise the flame, caring for it as a mother raises her child. And one must be able to withstand the heat of what she creates. She had pressed her mentor about the spell many times before. But she was dismissed every single time. At the girl’s skill level, a spell of fire was none of her concern. Fire was too dangerous. Too destructive. Any idea of her advancement seemed to be quelled, devalued, and diminished at every opportunity. It infuriated the young mage. She knew she was more than capable of kindling a simple flame, and the idea of anyone thinking any less of her skills filled her with a hot rage. The girl blinked, and suddenly in her arms was her mentor’s spellbook. She was more familiar with the book than she was with herself. This massive encyclopedia covered all that was known about the art of spellcasting. Feeling the thick leather cover in her palms never failed to invigorate her as she flipped through the thin, worn pages of endless knowledge. She found the page quickly. Propping the book up on its nearby stand, she skimmed over the instructions for casting the spell. She felt a sudden thrill as she turned to the fireplace. Her eyes closed. She took a deep inhale and cleared her mind, allowing the magical essence to flow from deep within her soul into her earthly temple. Step 1: Strike your hands together to create a spark.
31
that.
The mage gathered her strength. Strike. She felt nothing. She tried again. Strike. Still nothing. Her first instinct was to be frustrated, but now was not the time for
She tried once more. Strike. Warmth began to fill her fingers. She had almost gotten it! Strike… Nothing. This process was simply the nature of fire. She knew she had to find exactly what it wanted from her for it to be summoned properly. One final time, strike. She feels it in her palm. A spark! Her heart fluttered. But there was more to do. Step 2: Blow into your palm and develop the spark into a flame. Quickly leaning her lips into her open palms, she blew a breath of air with steady force. As she did so, she began to feel warmth. She finally opened her eyes and looked in her palms. A flame sat within, gracing the dimly lit cabin with a soft light. Her gaze pierced the flame. The warm, orange glow flickered back in her dark, brown eyes. She had done it! And despite all opposition... She couldn’t believe how easy it was. She had never before successfully casted a spell of this complexity, and yet now she had done it in but a moment. She had always known that she was no ordinary spellcaster. But she was not done. Step 3: Caress the flame and help it grow. She began to slowly caress the flame in her hands, blowing lightly on it once when it seemed to weaken. The fire flickered as it began to brighten, the warmth tickling her palms. Before long, it started to grow in size, crackling with increasing intensity. Her little spell had become a true proof of her power. To the girl, fire always had a strange allure. For as long as she could remember, she was always enamored with the consuming nature of a flame. Before, when making fires without the aid of magic, she would love to observe how the flames ate and grew. And sometimes, a lone flame would decide to dance away from the wood along the ground, to somewhere it wasn’t intended to go. This sort of stray flame would especially peak her curiosity. What are you up to, little flame? she would wonder. And now, as she watched her own flame dance in the hands of its own conception, the same thought came to her mind. She smiled. The flame was still rather small, she decided. Concentrating, she took another deep breath. She continued wrapping her hands around the flame, caressing it. Caring for it. The flame began to leave its infancy as it put off more heat. She stared deep into the flame as it matured into a stronger, reddish hue. Now it was in full motion, she thought. But why stop here? Why simply start the kindling when she can light all of the wood in the fireplace? She grinned at the idea. Her hands were hot at this point, but she could handle the temperature. Her mentor always warned her that when casting spells, she must not endure too much pain if she could not handle it. But the master was always too cautious. She was wrong to hold the mage back, and this spell was proof. She would show her! The mage felt a familiar anger return. Her hands bathed the fire as her heart cried out for more, craving a power her mind could not understand and her form could not hold. She began to caress the ball of fire faster and faster until finally, it grew into a great rage of flames, burning
32 with a deep red hue of heated ire. Her hands burned now, and with her face so close to the fire, smoke began to find its way into her breath. She finally had enough. But the flames continued to grow. Though she no longer caressed the fire, it burned deeper, craved more. She fell to her knees, still lifting her arms and holding up the flames. She screamed in agony, having never known such impossible, scorching pain. But if she were to fall then… No. With every last ounce of merit left in her, she recalled the final part of the spell. Step 4: Release. She knew what she must do. Summoning her strength, she reared her arms back… and launched the flames toward the fireplace. The room exploded in a fury of fire. And for a moment, all she saw was darkness. She was strong, however, quickly regaining consciousness as her blurred vision slowly cleared. She found herself with her back against the hard floor. As she slowly sat up, the world seeming to be spinning around her, she witnessed the carnage of her power. Flames littered the inside of the cottage, eating away at the walls and old furniture. Smoke began to cumulate, engulfing the ceiling above. The mage finally looked down at herself. Her arms were engulfed in flames. She shrieked. Springing up from the floor, she darted to the wash basin in the corner of the room, dunking her arms into the water. In an instant, every flame in the cabin was extinguished. Now absent from the roars of her spell, the room fell silent. Smoke began to rise from the water, clouding the air around her. She coughed weakly as she slowly removed her arms from the basin. The girl looked at her pitiful arms, and her heart sank in horror. Her arms were charred to ash. What once kindled a great power had now been consumed by its own feat. Tears streamed down the mage’s face as the sound of her pitiful sobs echoed through the room. Insomnia by Audrey Jordan Carson thought his life was pretty normal. He went to class and work, and he had a new girlfriend: Jenny. He liked her a lot, and he thought things were going well. However, a month into their relationship, things started to go south. They didn’t have typical relationship problems; no fights or anything. In fact, to all their friends, they seemed like the perfect young couple. But four weeks or so in, Carson started to see a new side to Jenny that he–nor anybody–had seen before. She was sleeping over at his apartment. She had always struggled with insomnia, and Carson was used to her tossing and turning, but what he saw that night shook him. He woke up and opened his eyes to see Jenny sitting straight up in bed, staring straight ahead at the wall. “Jen? You okay?” He mumbled, half asleep and confused. She didn’t respond; just stared at the wall. He could see that her eyes were open in the dim lamp light that they always kept on, and he realized that she wasn’t blinking. “Jenny?” He sat up, putting a hand on her shoulder. She slowly looked at him, and he shivered. She was still looking at him, not blinking or saying anything. He asked her once again if she was okay, and still no response. He was shaken. He wondered suddenly if this was some sort of insomnia thing, like maybe she was sleeping with her eyes open. “Go back to sleep,
33 okay?” He said, and to his relief, she looked away and laid back down, facing away from him. He waited a moment before lying back down himself, slightly on edge. When he was more or less sure she was asleep, he rolled over facing the wall. He laid awake for a few minutes, thinking. He was tired though, and chalked it up to something insomnia-induced. He soon fell back asleep. The next morning, he had almost forgotten what had happened. He awoke to her getting dressed, and remembered that she had said she had class at eight o’clock. “Jenny?” He said. “You okay?” She turned to him. She looked… normal. Blinking. No weird look in her eyes. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” She asked, and she seemed genuinely confused. He guessed she had no recollection of the previous night. He decided he wasn’t going to bring it up; at least, not right then. “No reason. You going to class?” He tried to sound casual. He sat up in bed and took a sip of the half-full water bottle on the nightstand. “Yeah. I’ll see you later,” she said, and kissed him before grabbing her bag and leaving. Carson grabbed his phone and searched, “Can insomnia make you stare at the wall in the middle of the night?” The answer popped up: “Yes, insomnia can certainly make you stare at the wall, ceiling, or into space in the middle of the night. This behavior is a common manifestation of the frustration, mental alertness, or confusion that accompanies sleeplessness.” He figured that answer sufficed and shut off his phone, rolling back over in bed. He decided to sleep another hour or so before his class at nine-thirty. He hoped that wouldn’t happen again, because as explainable as it was, it did creep him out a bit. The next time Jenny slept over at Carson’s was the next Friday. He had all but forgotten about the events of that night and was looking forward to his girlfriend coming over. He had a movie picked out and dinner cooked when she got there at seven. The evening went fine, ending with her falling asleep on his shoulder on the couch halfway through the movie. He sat through the rest of the movie, then tried to gently wake her to get her to bed. When he shook her awake, her eyes popped open. “Watch out,” she said in a gravelly voice. He stopped and stared at her. “What?” “Watch out.” Then her eyes closed. He decided to leave her on the couch and went to bed, shaken once again. After another quick internet search, he found out that sleep-talking with one’s eyes open is actually common. It’s a thing called parasomnia, where the brain is partially asleep and partially awake. He tried to shake off the worry and go to bed, but he couldn’t help but lie awake wondering what her message meant. Watch out for what? Around three in the morning, Carson awoke, unable to breathe. His eyes flew open and he saw Jenny on top of him, hands around his throat. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. He did his best to get her off of him without hurting her. Finally, when he got her hands off of his throat, he exclaimed, “Jenny! Wake up!” Her eyes were wide open, unblinking and staring at him, but he thought she had to be asleep. He fought with her for what felt like forever as she clawed and scratched at him, her eyes never leaving his face. “Jenny!” He yelled. This is what seemed to do it. She blinked a couple of times, then looked down at her hands.
34 “Carson?” She said meekly. She looked at the scratches on his face and the bruises on his throat. “What happened?” “You need to go,” he said bluntly, voice rough. “Go home.” “What’s going on? What happened to you?” She seemed genuinely confused. “You. You happened. Y-you must have been sleep-walking and you attacked me,” he stammered, more angry now than frightened. “You need to go,” he repeated. “But–” Jenny started to put her hand on Carson’s arm but he grabbed it in midair. “No. Go. Get your things and get out,” he insisted firmly. Jenny was hurt and seemingly confused, but she did as he said. She gathered her things and walked back to her own apartment in the middle of the night. As soon as she was gone, Carson let out a breath. He decided he had to break up with her. He was disappointed, because he did really like her, but this could not continue to go on. He made a promise to himself to officially break it off with her the next day, but he was going to get some sleep first. As he laid back down though, he realized the stinging feeling he felt were the scratches on his face and arms, so he figured he ought to clean those and bandage them before going back to sleep. When he got to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, he examined the bruising on his throat. It wasn’t too bad, but it was pretty noticeable, so he decided to skip his classes the next day. The next afternoon, he met up with Jenny in the quad: a public place where he was sure she couldn’t hurt him or do anything crazy (he knew that that only happened in her sleep, but after the previous night, he didn’t want to take any chances). “Jenny…” he said and sighed. They were sitting at a table under a tree that was slowly dropping leaves. “I can’t do this.” “Do what?” She asked innocently. “What do you mean? What happened to your face?” He was flabbergasted. “You don’t remember? You–” he stopped, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna do this with you. You need to go to the doctor or something. You sleep-walk and sleep-talk and last night you attacked me. You scratched me and choked me. I really think you could’ve killed me, Jenny.” She looked shocked. “I did that?” “Yes! You–” He was frustrated. “I can’t be around you! I’m sorry, but it’s over.” Jenny sat there for a moment in silence, looking down at an ant on the table. Then she looked up and simply said, “Okay,” before getting up and walking away. He started to stop her, but thought better of it. He decided to just let her go. He exhaled in bittersweet relief. At least it was over. Over the next few weeks, things went back to normal for Carson. Classes, work, parties with his friends on the weekends. He didn’t really see Jenny around much. Then one night, he awoke from his sleep and screamed. Jenny was standing over him, staring, unblinking… a knife in her hand. “Watch out,” she said. It was the last thing he ever heard. Nyctophobia by Audrey Jordan I have never been particularly afraid of the dark. Let me just make that very clear. I’m not scared of heights, or spiders, or anything of the sort. I’ve never been a very fearful person. That is, until a few weeks ago. I was asleep in bed in complete darkness, the way I’ve slept all my life, when I was awoken by a strange noise. A quiet, almost inaudible knocking at my bedroom door. I was
35 confused and disoriented–my front door was locked and I lived alone, so how could someone be at my bedroom door?–but I couldn’t get up to open it. I found myself unable to move, or even open my eyes. I had had bouts of sleep paralysis before; it was nothing new. I usually just tried to go back to sleep when it happened, and then by the time I would awake again it would be over. But this time was different. The knocking was unrelenting, and seemed to be getting louder. Panic started to seize through me. Even if I could open my eyes, I couldn’t move to switch on the lamp. I didn’t know what to do. Then I realized with horror that there was nothing, literally nothing, I could do. So there I lay. I lay there for what felt like hours but was probably just a few minutes, listening. The second the sleep paralysis wore off and I could open my eyes and wiggle my fingers, the knocking immediately stopped. I quickly got out of bed and switched on the light, braced myself, and flung open the door. There was nobody there. The dim glow of his bedroom light leaked out into the hall but illuminated nothing but the paintings and clock on the wall. I took a quick look throughout the entire apartment, flipping on every light, but found nothing. The front door’s lock and deadbolt were even still intact. I stood in the living room for a moment, replaying in my mind what had just happened. I was utterly dumbfounded. I knew I couldn’t go back to sleep if I tried, so I decided to stay in the living room until sunrise. I sat on the couch in silence, on edge, for a while, before I was calmed down enough to switch on the TV and put on something to fill the silence. I put on a random show at a quiet enough volume that if something or someone started knocking again, I’d be sure to hear it. I thought that maybe I could catch it before it disappeared. I sat there for hours until the sun rose, and nothing happened. At around seven in the morning, I made myself a cup of coffee. The more I thought about it, the less real it felt. I started to think that maybe it was just a sleep paralysis-induced hallucination. I went about my day as usual, going to classes, going to work. I started to tell one of my coworkers about my experience, but stopped myself. I didn’t want to make myself sound crazy, and a hallucination like that would undoubtedly do so. When I went to bed that night, I left my bedside lamp on. I slept like a rock, and was relieved when I awoke the next morning to find that nothing had happened. I slept like that for the next few nights, until one night a couple of weeks ago, when I decided to do an experiment. I turned out the lamp and went to bed. To my surprise, I was able to fall asleep relatively quickly, but a few short hours later, I woke up. The knocking had returned, and so had the paralysis. This time, however, there was something else. In addition to the knocking, I heard–or, I thought I heard–whispering of some sort. I couldn’t make out any words, but it was safe to say I was even more frightened than the first time. I strained to listen, again unable to open my eyes, and the whispering crescendoed until it was deafeningly loud. I wanted to scream, but my mouth wouldn’t open. Finally, just as I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, my eyes snapped open and it all stopped. The next few nights, I slept with the lamp on and nothing happened. Last night, though, it stormed. The power went out at some point during the night, and I woke up to the now familiar knocking, but instead of whispering, someone was screaming–just shrieking at the top of their lungs. I waited it out, holding onto the thought that whatever was happening, it never actually entered my room, never directly harmed me. However, as the time passed, it didn’t seem to be stopping. I grew more and more scared as the screaming got louder, until…. I heard a clicking noise, and my bedroom door slowly squeaked open. I still couldn’t open my eyes, but I was painfully aware that whatever was screaming was getting closer and
36 closer to my bed. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe, as if my throat was closing, or rather, as if something or someone was pushing down on my chest. Finally, after a few debilitating moments of this, my eyes snapped open, the screaming came to a halt, and I could breathe again. I hyperventilated, wildly looking around in the dark, but before I could reach for the lamp, something whispered in my ear: Don’t turn on the light. Past Unexamined Lifer by Tori Ealam We’re born into this world with two parents, but my entire life I’ve only had one. The definition of a parent is the one who raises the child, that was my mother. My father on the other hand was someone who was not an active nor persistent participant in my life. What I knew of him was that he was an emotional drunk who didn’t mind handing out a beating when the time came that my mother felt she could not control me any longer. He died at the ripe age of 41, while I was freshly 19 ending my first semester of my freshman year of college. As rocky of a relationship as we had, I hadn’t known that I would miss him at all with the colossal dysfunction he brought to my life. He would fabricate a lot of his life with intent to gain my sympathy for his lack of attendance. He would deceive me when he fell ill to convince me he was dying. I dreaded each time my phone read “Father.” His dysfunction and addiction flowed through me as thick as the blood we shared. I was infuriated with his existence and was ready for him to dissipate. After his departure, I thought I was free from the shackles of his lovelessness. I scrounged the Earth for love of any kind and met a match for which I was ill-prepared. The depths of grief shot at me at every corner. Alcohol and sex turned strangers in the night to lovers on sight. Day in and day out I chose chaos. My mental health declined as my body permeated with toxicity, eviscerating every cell in my body. I had gone numb to the idea that my life would transform to something beautiful. I believe he had to die for me to truly be born. Shots fired, man down, but my spirit was shaken. As I returned to myself, I engaged in healthier routines that involved less pity but more tears. As oceans filled my apartments over the years, it became easier not to drown. I’d finally chosen not to let the world burn me at the stake before I had even sparked my own flames. I chose to live my life with the intention to get better and sought out therapy. I was given drugs to help with the pain of what my life became, what I had been through but they only shrank me more and that felt worse. It took me 8 years to expunge the filth in my life and is still an ongoing process. I refuse to live my life unexamined any longer. For I shall burst into flames at the hands of myself through healing and wisdom rather than rot in survival and misinformation. In the Mountains by Tanek Mouser Alex was enjoying the hike. So far, he had made pretty decent progress out into the woods. He’d hiked for close to five hours and had made it deep into the backcountry of the national forest he intended to spend the weekend in. The nature had been beautiful too. He had passed birds, squirrels, and nary a human on his trek, and hoped he wouldn’t encounter anyone anytime soon. Currently, his hike had taken him into the center of a deep rocky valley hidden beneath prodigious canopy cover and filled with large rocky hills and cliffs that formed their own
37 miniature valleys and ridges. A river had made its presence known too, first as a subtle roar amidst the shaded ridges, and then as a great flowing noisy thing to the left of the trail Alex now found himself wandering down. The river’s roar drowned out any other noise from the wood and its creatures, and Alex found his mind pleasantly drifting as he made his way up a steep incline flanked on either side by little jutting points much like miniature mountains standing as sentinels either side of the path. As Alex topped this rise, he could see that the trail split in two with the right path flanked either side by the foot of the rightmost mini-mountain and the river. With the left path making a sharp right angle to the left leading to a little rock jut that led to the mouth of a dark, covered, wooden bridge. Alex peered down that path along the bridge and found that the bridge path was lost in shadow soon after the entrance to the bridge. The bridge was an old looking wooden thing with a sharply angled roof and a well-worn look about it. Perring deep into that yawning portal, Alex could not see the other side. Yet, Alex reasoned, the way the hills and peaks in the area converged the darkness on the bridge was likely a trick of the light caused by Alex’s coming from the bright light that had characterized much of the trail up to that point to the gloomy hilltop shaded by peaks here. He thought to himself that there was a good chance the bridge let out into a narrow little opening between itself and the looming cliff above taking a sharp turn to the left or right meaning the light likely didn’t have an angle to intrude upon the gloom at the other side of the bridge. Alex considered for only a moment before both the curiosity as to whether or not his theory would prove correct, along with a general curiosity to wander down such an interesting path, won out and he made his way onto the little covered bridge and began moving along it feeling as he did a distinct slipperiness to the floor of the bridge. Alex posited that this slipperiness was caused by the worn wood being made wet with the moisture from the river below working its way up through the floorboards. Excepting the feeling of the floor, the first thing Alex noticed upon entering that looming maw of a bridgehead was the faint moist breeze that seemed to ebb and flow along the bridgeway, in and out, slowly, rhythmically. Alex considered this to make sense and added more evidence to reinforce his earlier supposition that the bridge let out near sheer rock face. It would be natural, he surmised, for the wind to push along the wall and be funneled straight through this bridge entrance and for the that wind to have picked up a good amount of moisture from the river that ran below. So, Alex continued on. He had expected his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom present on the bridge, and, yet he still strained in vain to see something beyond the opening at the other side of the bridge. It was as he made this slow groping walk into the darkness, that he noticed that he was beginning to have even more trouble seeing. The walls of the bridgeway that had once been gloomy if seeable were now nearly invisible to him. Realizing this peculiarity, he whipped around to face the opening he had come from, trying to discern if a cloud had passed before the sun or what other phenomenon may have been the cause of the deepening of the shadow present on the bridge. To Alex’s horror he saw the opening of the bridge he had only moments ago come through slowly narrowing as if the end of the bridge were one big sphincter or the aperture on a camera. A yelp of surprise escaped Alex’s lips, and he began to scramble towards the way he’d come his feet foundering on that slick floor. His shoes slid and he had to struggle to keep himself
38 upright as he went haltingly, lurchingly towards the exit. Over the moments of Alex’s struggle, the exit continued to narrow, and Alex began to detect what he thought was movement on the other end of the opening. But he could not be sure of this movement with his headlong scrambling and sliding and the slow narrowing of the opening. Could not be sure of, that was, until he began to have no chance of standing and started to slide inexorably towards that great darkness behind him. His vision bringing to him the horror of the edges of the sky above the nearby cliffs peeking into the upper edge of that ever-narrowing hole he had come through. In that instant, Alex realized that the bridge was rising up. It must have been like some great serpent breaking loose of the rocky cliffs edge and slowly curving up to the sky. Alex fought for purchase on the wooden walls that surrounded him but found only smooth joints with no sign of seams. So, he slowly began to slide backwards down that slippery floor, forced to watch as the aperture above slowly closed completely and finally and felt, as it shut completely, the scant friction that had been slowing his descent fail. With a sickening feeling in that pitch blackness, he felt the drop in his stomach and that mild lessening of the touch of the floor that told him he was falling. His fall was short, yet still farther than he would have imagined for that bridge. A squishy, fleshy, blobby mass was what arrested his fall. He found himself amongst tissue like billows, big moist masses of meat that enveloped him. He struggled to right himself and found that the fleshy masses pillowed and piled under his struggles and he could gain no purchase amongst them. After a short time at his fruitless struggles with the piles of viscera, Alex noticed a rumble amongst the fleshy mounds, and a strong pungent acidic scent came to his nostrils and burnt the hairs of his nose. Alex struggled harder panic rising within him, yet he struggled in vain, and it was not long before that acidic scent, a scent like bile and vomit, grew stronger and he began to feel rivulets of a liquid winding their way through the creases and piles of the flesh encompassing him; it was an even shorter time before what the exposed skin and flesh of Alex that came into contact with this liquid began to burn; an even shorter time than that before Alex began to scream in pain as he started the slow process of dissolving; a longer time before Alex could scream no more; a much longer time before he died, of inhaling the fumes of the acid; and a much, much longer time before that mimic of a hill with a covered bridge had fully digested him. Even longer, still, it was before the next man came to that split in the path. A Space Between by Tanek Mouser Snow fell on that college campus, a meeting place between so many lives, but for him and her the place where they met. As they stood outside, at the split in the path, the snow caught on her hair, and, occasionally, a gust of wind would catch at just the perfect angle and the scintillating snowflakes would curl and dance in drifts about her face which glowed like some beacon in the night under the mild streetlights. She had the aspect of the angelic in those moments, framed as she was by those drifts, glowing as she did before those lights. Everyone else had gone home and only they, those two less than lovers, had remained pushing on in their academic labor into the later hours of the evening and now the faint dawning of the darkness of night, at this moment, though, the work was done, at least for a while. Yet they lingered there in the center of learning speaking little. He wished to be near her always and she enjoyed but his company. Both received what little they could from the lingering,
39 her his speaking, and he, her nearness. There was a gulf between them in that, a mismatch of desires, it had always been more burdensome to him, more tortuous, but he had as silently as he could, if only to linger at the altar of her a while longer, to drink in her visage, to hear the music of her voice, to be enriched but her words and thoughts. Besides, they both found the snow pleasant, it cleaned everything, washed away the dirt, the brown, the death, left everything white and pristine and slowed the world. There was silence, save for the wind and the soft fall of new flakes adding to the old. He gazed at her, long dark hair, cheeks flushed and rosy from the cold, a contrast to the rest of her pale skin, an image that would etch into the deepest parts of his mind and mark his soul. He was agonized and blissful. He was contradicted within, happy to be there in that moment and distraught that it would not last forever, as moments can never. She was content and saddened. She wished he had never felt the way he did, that she had never been forced to play the part of unwilling tormentor, yet pleased to spend even a moment in his company. So, the silence continued, both of them surveying the peaceful landscape and occasionally glancing at each other, she in fondness and he with longing. He had told her long ago what would have taken his pain away, set his desires free, and she had refused. She had insisted his company was worth so many things to her, yet never could she give him that. Thus, the pearlescent pallor of the snow rained down, covering them in dustings they shook off and laughed about. Conversation flowed, stopped, flowed again, and stopped once more. They drank in each other’s beings her for his mind and he for all of her, internal world, external beauty. But the time could not go on forever, moments were but moments, even for them, so they split each by a different direction on that dual path, as the snow fell. For him, a realization had fallen, lives would sweep away and ends would begin sooner rather than later. He felt, and knew in that feeling, he would never see her again, save in passing or in the ether of our world. He began to turn, to make one final effort, to again pronounce a final feeling, to keep her and maintain her, but he thought better of it, and felt and knew that she would never be swayed. So, he kept on, and she never thought of her not seeing him until she was old and grey and there was only the question of “What if”? Rejection by Alexis “Lexie” Brady She wanted to leave—to just disappear off the face of the Earth with no traces left. Sometimes she felt like it would be so much easier to just curl into a little ball of emotions, pretending that she did not exist. Oh, the happiness she would feel if she could just disappear for one day, or an hour even. She felt like maybe if she could just get that little break that things would be so much easier. She was an absolute mess, broken and all. She had been broken piece by piece by the people around her. They each shattered that piece they broke off one by one, leaving her in absolute and utter shambles. She never knew how to be happy without the help of someone else. She did not believe that she would ever be happy on her own, and maybe she was right. It always took someone that she believed to care about her to be there for her to be happy. The gal had known happiness and how it felt to be cared about, but she always knew the pain of abandonment, heartbreak, and sadness… She had always known rejection. Rejection from everyone around her, whether it be her friends, family, or even the people she had once cared the most about had rejected her and chosen someone better. She felt as if maybe everyone really was just that much better than she; that maybe she did not deserve to
40 be any good at anything. The gal hated everything about herself. She hated her body down to her thighs, her teeth, hair, even her eyes. She hated everything all the way down to that freckle on the left side of her head. She hated her mind the most. Her brain would make all of these concoctions of hatred and anger towards other people, which she aimed at herself so as to not have hurtful thoughts about anyone else. She truly did love those that loved her, it was just hard to love people when she did not love herself. How are people supposed to learn to love themselves whenever they hate everything about their body and their mind? She tried so hard each and every single day of her life to learn to love herself, or least tolerate herself. She tried to focus on everyone else in her life, to make them happy, so that way she would never have the time of day to consider herself. She was fully aware that if she were to give herself the time to do so, that it would result in more hatred towards herself. She believed that if she felt this way about herself, then how was anyone else to love her? Wouldn’t they just toss her to the side, too? Ah, there it was. Rejection. Always back to rejection. Most of the things she seemed to have trouble coping with typically went back to the roots of rejection in her life. When a person — specifically a child — gets rejected in so many ways by so many different people, it causes trauma and the pain that comes with it. It seemed that each and every time she had tried to love someone, whether they be blood related or not, they had left for someone different. It started with one person, that person having come back to help her heal in the end. That didn’t change all of the hurt though. Even the ones that came back had still hurt her deeply. She would cry to herself in her room almost every single night since she was around the age of eight years old. Different people would come and go within her life after that, each one taking a piece of her when they left. None had hurt her as much as him though. He never left physically. He had however left emotionally, draining the girl of all the energy she could muster up that day. After all, he was supposed to love her. He was one of the few that she believed she could depend on no matter what happened. That changed though, as she got older. The older she grew, they would argue and fight. He became full of hate and anger directed at the wrong people while she grew full of resent and fight. She got to a point where all she could do was begin to fight back as her attempts at staying quiet only worsened the anger. Eventually, she was gone. She left, but she had not escaped all of those emotions from him nor herself. The crying got worse, as did the thoughts in her head. Medicine could only do so much, she would think to herself. It was so very hard to do it all alone, but when she tried to go to people all it would do was stress them out. And the one she went to did not need anymore stress as they had enough to deal with on a daily basis. The gal had a few friends that certainly helped her to not hate herself as much, but there was still her mind. Her mind loved to remind her of her fear of rejection. She was constantly terrified that everyone would eventually leave her just like they did. After all, the people she thought could not leave her? They left despite her silly childhood beliefs. That grown gal was still just that scared little girl on the inside, never fully being able to heal herself.
41 Boys Go to Jupiter by Conner Shows April 13, 2006 (6 years old): “You write funny.” “Nuh uh.” “Yes huh. You write stupid!” “I don’t write stupid!” Mrs. Rushing yells at me and tells me to move my clip to yellow. We don’t use that word. This is so dumb. He said it first. “He started it!” And she’s ending it. UGH! I hate him! He’s always messing with me and making me mad. It makes me so… mad! I hate him. Mrs. Rushing tells me to move my clip again. I shouldn’t hate. “Yes ma’am.” My classmates are making fun of me. I can’t cry, or they’ll call me a baby. God, I- I mean… gosh, I hate school… Mama says not to take the Lord’s name in vain, even if it’s in my head. I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry, Jesus… I shouldn’t hate either… School just makes me really, really mad. I strongly dislike it. That’s what Mama says. Mrs. Rushing tells me to stop biting my nails. “Yes ma’am.” She doesn’t like me… She doesn’t like me because he got me in trouble. He bothers me every single day… he’s so mean to me for no reason. She’s always getting on to me because he’s so mean. And why can’t I bite my nails? Isn’t that why we have them? I guess you can scratch your arms and your legs and your head and stuff with them… but you can bite them too! She’s mad that hers are painted so she can’t bite them. She should’ve thought of that before she made her nails purp– Mrs. Rushing tells him to move his clip… to red. Don’t laugh or she’ll get on to you. He’s in so much trouble when he gets home. He’s not gonna get anything from the Easter Bunny… He’s such a bad kid. His clip is always on red. Mine has never been on red. He’s so stupid… That’s why he’s wearing long sleeves when it’s warm outside. Stupid. “No! Shut up and leave me alone!” He didn’t. Oh my gosh, he didn’t just say that. He might not even get anything from Santa either… You can’t tell a grown-up to shut up. My classmates are quiet… Oh my gosh, she’s pressing the button on the wall. Mr. Anderson, the principal, asks what she needs. She tells him what happened. Mr. Anderson says he will be down there in a second. “No! I’m sorry!” He’s crying. IMrs. Rushing says you do not talk to an adult like that. She’s right. But he’s crying really hard. “I didn’t mean it.” Mrs. Rushing says he can tell it to Mr. Anderson.
42 Mr. Anderson is gonna call his dad. He always does. I’ve seen his dad before. He’s a scary man. He’s tall and mean looking. Mama says not to comment on other’s appliances, but he’s really scary. “Please don’t make me talk to Mr. Anderson. He’s gonna call my daddy!” Mrs. Rushing says she knows. “I’ll be good!” Mrs. Rushing says she knows. She always says that. Mr. Anderson is here. April 13, 2014 (14 years old): “Do you remember, Mr. Anderson?” “Yeah. Why?” “You hear he died last week?” “Yeah.” He’s looking at his feet, swinging them back and forth. What’s he thinking? “What are you thinking?” “Nothin’” “That he was an asshole?” He’s smiling. Cute. “Yeah, that he was. an. asshole…” “Yeah…” He’s not smiling. Mrs. Rushing was always too damn hard on him. She knew what she was doing. She knew how Anderson was. She probably knew how his dad was too. Now I’m swinging my feet. “I was an asshole too. I’m sorry.” “I wasn’t very nice to you either.” “You never did anything to me. I was always so mean to you…” “It’s okay–” “No, it’s not. I guess I thought if I could get someone else to like, yell at me, maybe Mrs. Rushing would pick on them for a while.” “She really was a bitch to you, wasn’t she?” “I guess… I just wish she didn’t always call Mr. Anderson… It wasn’t even about him… Dad was so… I don’t know.” “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.” His parents split a year ago. I’d never tell him how happy it made me. He doesn’t have to deal with him anymore. “I know… He used to make me wear long sleeves everyday, because he-” “I know.” April 13, 2022 (22 years old): “Come on, let me buy you a drink. It’s for your birthday!” “Okay, fine. Thank you.” “What do you like, Jaeger? Neat?” “Hell no.”
43 “Come on, now.” The waiter comes over and asks what we want. “I would like a chicken fAudrey Jordanita bowl and a banana margarita.” “I’ll have a chicken quesadilla and a Jack and Coke, easy on the Coke.” “Dude.” “I’m just kidding. I’ll have a sex on the beach.” The waiter takes our menus and walks away. “‘A sex on the beach’? Isn’t that a little… girly?” “You’re a little girly.” “Can’t argue with that.” He’s so much happier now. I’m glad he doesn’t have to hear from him anymore. “I got you something.” “But the drink was the some–” “Nope. I got you two somethings.” He pulls an envelope from his back pocket. It’s folded… and warm. “Oh, assprint and all, huh?” “Yep.” He didn’t lick the envelope. He folded it in. Appreciated. “Awww, thank you.” It’s a card with a beagle on the cover. He has a party hat. Happy birthday, beagle. “It’s just a little somethin’.” There’s a Bath and Bodyworks gift card inside and a note: “Julia, thank you for never giving up on me. Even when I was an asshole. Your friendship means the world to me. Forever, Chris.” Forever… “Thank you so much, Chris.” “You’re welcome.” His handwriting. Do I? What the hell. “You know… your handwriting looks funny.” I see him – first grade. Bowl cut. Long sleeves. He hasn’t worn long sleeves in years. I see me – nails bitten to the quick. My clip is on– “No…” His eyes meet mine, and he giggles. “...It looks stupid.” Runaway by Breunshae Engram It was a cold December morning when it happened for the last time. At least that is what Dominique told herself as she bit her lip and endured her last punishment. Dominique had been in the foster care system her whole life and experienced things far too cruel for most teenagers her age. The neglect and abandonment felt never ending until one seemingly sweet couple decided to take her in. The woman appeared to be in her mid-thirties with an expensive taste in clothes. She carried an aura of arrogance as she held her head high, attempting to look down on everyone in the facility except her husband. He was a tall, buff man that appeared a little older than her, judging by the fine lines on his forehead. His presence demanded attention as he stood tall and his voice forced even the most stubborn to take heed.
44 Despite their intimidating presence, they spoke with all the staff politely and made an effort to formally introduce themselves to Dominique. Although hesitant, Dominique was excited to finally have a home. So, when all the paperwork was finalized, she left with Mrs. and Mr. McKarry. They all walked out of the establishment together, hand in hand. Once in the parking lot, Dominique learned that the McKarrys owned a gorgeous red and black Dodge Challenger. Dom had never seen anything so luxurious and couldn’t hold back an audible, “Wowwwww.” The McKarrys seemed happy that she had finally spoken at all and took that as an opportunity to reassure her. Mr. McKarry spoke first. He chuckled, “Yes, this is quite a swell car. Maybe when you are older, you can take it for a spin.” Dominique offered a soft smile. This is when Mrs. McKarry chipped in: “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go eat! I am sure there is a lot to learn about one another.” With that, they finally came out of the parking lot and sped to McDonald’s. It was a great time. They catered to Dominique the whole day and spoiled her with greasy food, new clothes, and most importantly, a new home. But this was seven years ago, when their facade was firmly intact. Dominique soon learned that the McKarrys were very strict and cruel people. If Dom arrived a few minutes late from school, she was subjected to unusual punishments. Her punishments ranged from confinement to corporal punishment. Over time, the intensity of her punishments increased as the McKarrys' patience wore thin. That brings us to Dominique's current situation. The belt whipped through the air with a swiftness before landing with a heartbreaking smack. The sound of the belt’s impact echoed off the walls of the basement. Dominique held back tears as Mr. McKarry continued his rage-fueled assault on her body. He had reached his flow state. Smack…. Smack…. Smack. Then he paused to scream at her: “I told you to make it back home before seven, but you keep trying my patience!” Smack. Smack… Smack. Pause. He grunted before he took his last swing at her. At this point, mascara ran down Dominique’s tear-stricken face. She struggled to regain control of her breathing because this episode felt more brutal than the others. Despite her disheveled appearance, Mr. McKarry stomped out of the room without saying another word. He did not even pause to look at the damage he had inflicted on a seventeen-year-old girl. Dominique was left alone in the basement with the deafening slam of the basement door. Once fully alone, she broke down. She sobbed so loud that it echoed off the walls of the room. “I can’t do this anymore,” she muttered to herself. Little did the McKarrys know, Dominique had been planning her escape for months. Her eighteenth birthday was coming up, and she knew that would be the day she would leave without saying a word. She had been coming home late from school for the past few weeks because she was receiving help from one of her teachers to apply to university. Although this only resulted in beatings from Mr. McKarry and screaming matches from his wife, she knew it would be worth it in the end. This was only confirmed when she received an acceptance letter a few days prior. So, despite the intensity of this last episode, Dominique knew salvation was near. All she had to do was wait until one of the McKarrys came to unlock the door. After a few hours, Mrs. Mckarry came and unlocked it. She smirked smugly at Dominique. “Your time is up, I suppose. Just keep your head down and go straight to your room.” Dominique nodded and offered a weak smile. “Yes ma’am.” Then she ran straight to her bedroom. She began packing quickly but quietly. She had to make sure that they did not suspect a thing. Her designated bedtime was in fifteen minutes, so she had to make sure all the important items were in her favorite pink backpack and out of sight before Mr. McKarry came to do a room check. Time felt like it stood still, but she managed to get it done. His heavy steps approached
45 her door exactly at 9:00 p.m. He stood in the entranceway to her door for a few moments, scanning the room. He sighed and then quietly closed her door. Dominique lay in bed wide awake, waiting to hear the house completely fall quiet. It eventually did around an hour later. Once sure her parents were asleep, she slipped out of bed and grabbed her backpack that she had hidden under it. She barely pushed the door open to minimize noise and tiptoed her way through the house. She moved slowly, afraid that even her breathing may give her away. After five painstaking minutes, she finally felt the cool December night air. Then she took off running in the direction of the nearest bus stop, finally free from cruelty. X-ray Zombies by Kristina Kelm I woke up not feeling well, so I called in sick to work and went back to bed. Eventually, I went to the doctor's office, where he prescribed an antibiotic and a chest X-ray. I am a Radiologic Technologist, which means I take X-rays, so I figured that when I went to work the next day, I could get my chest X-ray there. I get up and go to work only to find my co-worker totally frazzled. She told me that every Xray patient the day prior walked out with a blank stare and said nothing. At the end of the day, some were wandering around the parking lot. I was instantly confused and wondered if my coworker was losing her mind. Anyone who works in healthcare knows it's possible to be a little crazy sometimes. I wrote it off and asked her to take my chest X-ray. She said, " No way; she didn’t want me to act funny. I laughed and told her, “Well then, I’ll test the equipment on you.” She looked horrified, but then agreed out of curiosity. I set up the room and took her X-ray. She seemed fine at first, but then she became nonverbal, started shuffling her feet, and wouldn’t respond. I was instantly concerned that maybe her story about the day prior wasn’t so crazy. Perhaps the equipment was causing X-ray zombies. I didn’t know what to do, so in a panic, I went to the manager to ask. She laughed too hard and said, “You are crazy, go back to work.” How could I work at a time like this? What should I do? Panic set in, and I went to the bathroom to cry. Now I felt like a baby crying at work. The next thing I know, I hear a knock at the door, and it's my coworker. She gently said, “I’m sorry, it was a joke.” I slowly opened the door to see that she was back to her usual self. I asked, “It was a joke?” She said, “Yes, but I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.” I was upset with her for making me panic, but I also realized how ridiculous I was for believing her. After calming myself down, I started laughing, and I couldn’t stop. She started laughing at me, realizing I was okay. She said, “Okay, let's go take your chest X-ray and see if you turn into a zombie.” I laughed and agreed, walking to the X-ray room. We still laugh about the day that she had me believing in X-ray Zombies. I do think it would make for a good movie. Just know that next time you get an X-ray, you might turn into a zombie. (Just kidding)- Well, maybe! A House in Hell by Judith Warren I like to imagine there is a house in hell. Not a castle or a fortress, built from the bodies of demons, it's very walls crying out in torment. No, nothing like that. It's just a house of brick with shingles and a wooden door. It is tucked away behind a wall of brimstone, where the wailing of
46 the damned cannot reach it. There are no windows; no one can be allowed to see inside. This is where the devil takes children. Not dead children, nothing so macabre. You see there are other places in hell where grown-ups take children. The devil watches, fingers aching to clutch their tiny bodies while the grown-ups introduce them to the darkest crevices of his kingdom. When the grown-ups aren't looking, he slithers up and snags the child, dragging it away to his house. He doesn't take all of the child, though, just the child part. The rest stays where it is, in the clutches of the grown-up who brought it. The devil slinks away, his prize tucked neatly beneath his scales. When he reaches the house, he shuts and bars the door behind him. The door is so thick and the bar so heavy, that no daemon or grown-up could ever open it. The inside of the house is larger than the outside, it has to be so it can house innumerable multitudes of his catch. He searches for an empty patch of pillow and tucks the child away, then he steps back. His hoard stretches to the horizon, children peppered across a sea of pillows shrouded in a mist of lavender. They all sleep, undisturbed, and hidden in this special house in the middle of hell. The devil stands over the nest, bloody tears streaming down his cheeks, “You don't belong here,” He hisses, “They should have never brought you here. Even I am not so cruel.” He keeps them there, sleeping and protected, and he waits. He knows that someday the part that he left, the part that escaped hell, will come back. It will have grown, maybe not entirely, maybe just enough to speak of hell. It will be looking for the child part of itself. It must walk through hell and look every torment in the eye on its way to the house. The devil will open the door for nothing else, but when it arrives, he will lift the bolt and quietly slide the door open, so as not to wake the other children. He will invite it in and let it take the child part. Neither the child nor the part that grew will be unburned, but he will watch them walk out of hell, hand in hand, with a smile on his bloody lips.
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Poetry
Fixed and Experimental Forms
48 Adulthood by Za’Maria Patrick 1st Place They said it would feel like freedom— like doors flying open, like skies with no ceilings, like we could be anything. But nobody… nobody mentioned the price tag. The rent that sits heavy on your chest, the echo of an empty room, the way nightmares come quicker than dreams— like hope is on backorder and fear ships overnight. We chased every promise they dangled— ran full-speed into the future and ended up exhausted, with Wi-Fi stronger than our faith, and hearts running on ten percent, begging for a charger that looks a little like peace. Adulthood? It’s smiling with cracked teeth while your insides ache like unpaid bills. They told us: Work hard. (But never how to stop.) Be strong. (But never how to break.) Go succeed. (But never how to feel alive once you get there.) And sometimes— I miss me. The me who believed the world was kind. Who thought effort = happiness, and love was the one thing that never packed its bags. I miss mornings without worry, nights that didn’t drown in silence. But still— I rise. Still— I try again. Maybe that’s adulthood: Not freedom. Not perfection.
49 Just learning to live with the cracks, and still finding light leaking through them. They said it would feel like freedom— but it feels like falling, free-fall faith, no parachute, just breath against the wind and the stubborn belief that somehow you will learn to breathe through it. ~Adulthood~ Coffee for One Audrey Jordan 2nd Place it’s 5 am and i can’t sleep barely a wink all night i get up, weary, from my bed and try to pass the time i hear the train rattling on i see the drops of rain i make my way into the kitchen to ease my tired head’s pain i start the coffee maker it brews noisily i try not to wake up the roommate i never see i feel alone in every aspect never going out my only friends are my journal and the coffee brewing loud a nice juxtaposition from the quiet of the room almost makes it feel like home if home was lonely, too She Speaks the Language of Flowers by Nina Nicole Garner 3rd Place She speaks the language of flowers. A fine woman fluent in Foxglove, French marigolds, and Judas tree.
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For three days, she speaks only of w hat will not grow in her garden. Speechless, we watch her yank and tear— plants from their beds, dirt devouring petals whole, pile of impotent roots. On her knees, she stuffs crippled buds back into the mother’s dark mouth. Her hands pound the Earth’s body, her lips moving— like a prayer— wild, unraveling, too much to take back. The One You Are Grieving by Jasmine D. Roberts Honorable Mention If you wonder where I am and you can’t see me with your eyes Look within your heart and keep your head beyond the skies I’m the wind that brushes your face and the sun that warms your skin You won’t have to search very far because I’m always within I’m in your dreams when you slumber and sleep so peacefully I’ll be the twinkle in your eye when you’re thinking of me You don’t need closure to heal, you don’t need to forget Just enjoy the happy little things, don’t you even fret I am those things that bring you love; I am the thing that makes you smile I am the things you take for granted or haven’t noticed in a while I am the smell of coffee you wake up to in morn I am the music to your ears that makes you feel warm I’ll be the raindrop that falls to your cheek when it rains Let me wash away your burdens and mend your pain Just keep me in your memory and appreciate your time Enjoy your little life and don’t you stress about a dime Always remember to be happy do not grieve me I’m still here Wherever you are I will always be so you never have to shed a tear The love we once had is the love we always will Carry it in your heart always and allow yourself to feel Although you cannot see me and can no longer hear my voice Just know my love is there for you to embrace it if you allow yourself to make the choice To choose happiness and joy because my love is all of those things I’ll be in every single joyful moment you allow your life to bring I know you want to feel my hands, my hugs and my kisses I know you long for my embrace and my voice your heart misses One day we will meet again and we will take on the same form But don’t let it be too soon enjoy your time while your body is warm
51 Don’t you let my leaving ruin your journey must continue Your life still has a purpose there is much more living for you to do I know I am the one you are grieving and the one you’re longing for Though I would love to be with you I want you to live even more So, remember me as the rain, the sun, and all of your joy to come Remember all of our good times and don’t continue living numb Let out all of your frustrations and open up to those you love Tell them what you are feeling and don’t hold in what you should be free of Those around you may miss me too and need your help to continue on Let others keep you company you will need it now that I’m gone Laugh and cry together don’t you do it all alone You can allow yourself time to be sad but don’t stay in sorrow too long You will always have your moments but remember to be strong Cry your tears and move past my leaving Sincerely yours, The one you are grieving Time Piece by Bryce Mitchell Honorable Mention Put thought into the 60. Cherish the 24. Plan out the 7. Reminisce upon the 52. Immortalize the 365. Time is finite, structured, precise. It does not wait for you to mend your wounds. Eternally sequenced past our infantile view of perception. Your youth is not everlasting. Time will run its course for all. Just make sure you live each second as a blessing, and do not become too enthralled. Be Still in the Quiet by Lizzie Norman Feel me, I am here. In the quiet of the night, in the song of the crickets’ call. In the midnight breeze as I move through your silver strands. Be still in the quiet. Feel me, I am here. In the stars in our children’s eyes, in their children’s peels of laughter. In their warm hands intertwined with yours as you walk along the dam. Be still in the quiet. Feel me, I am here. In the summer sun warm on your skin, in the cool shadows of the poplar trees. In the sweat on your brow as you work our land, in the rich dirt of our treasured garden.
52 Be still in the quiet. Feel me, I am here. In our crowded house over holiday dinners, in the bite of the sharp winter wind on your face.. In your generous, benevolent heart as it beats for our family and our legacy, As mine always beat for you. Be still in the quiet. Feel me, I am here. Never Have I Grieved Until Now by Jessica Mobbs Chasing ghosts under inky, ichor skies Vanishing into brush, thicket, and thorns Suffocating grief, echoing the cries Like a mother without her child mourns Spent sable, soul withers, vines twist, deform Praying to gods dark and light for a sign Malevolent eyes spy within the storm Gluttonous disease consumed, not benign Bury me to the cadence of your voice Carry me beyond the translucent veil Fingernails dig in damp dirt, no more choice Cracked chest cavity, free my heart from jail Tears fall like daggers, gloom cuts like a sword Resurrectionists can’t exhume my love Give your flesh to flowers, I’ll keep my word Float past gilded gates, watch me from above Summertime by Shiloh Kittles Eat a peach or a plum Even a nectarine Peel an orange, too Let the juices flow Down your chin Feeling the summer sun Those golden rays Washing over yo like waves Such intense feelings Such sweet, plump fruits Is there anything more satisfying Than sinking your teeth Into the firm flesh The sweetness Coating your lips and mouth
53 Liquid seeping down From your chin Down your throat Making your shirt collar sticky But you have no cares Because you are at peace In the sunlight At peace in the grass Holding the fruit Like it's the only thing Keeping you grounded How long has it been Since you ate a nectarine When's the last time You touched the soft skin Of a ripe peach Or felt the zesty mist After ripping into an orange How many years have passed Since you took the time To sit outside Enjoying a piece of fruit In the middle of Summertime And what took you so long To realize it's what you've been missing Dollbaby by Cari Thomas (aka, Cari Mims) Pretty face, pretty mind Makes my world unkind All the time everyone undermines What I feel inside They say I need help They say I’m unwell When it’s all a ploy To keep me on a shelf A dollbaby with no needs Just a pure soul from which everyone feeds Piece by piece they take my energy My presence fuels their personal gain With or without me their lives will never be the same S o I try to fly off this shelf I never had any help only hindrances That remind me I’m meant to be objectified
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Soft flesh dresses my bones But I feel like plastic empty and alone My wings had been clipped many years ago I take flight but only reach the floor I collapse to the ground a mere shell Once again from grace I have fell I’m returned to my shelf where I’m reminded That I am nothing more than an object My life is not my own Despair settles in my bones As I sit on this shelf collecting dust Making no fuss Smile plastered on my face Screaming to be erased But alas, I sit on this shelf Pretty face, pretty mind My own personal hell Visiting My Four-Year-Old Self for the First Time by Isabelle Bordelon Are you proud of me? Do you love me? Would you give me a hug If my arms were outstretched? Would you tell me all about Frozen Or Hello Kitty Or the book you read last week On a second grade level About the princess? Would you read me the best part Where she gets what she wants And isn't alone anymore? Could I do your makeup? Could you do mine? Could we run to Walmart And get one of those baby makeup sets With 60 colors For five dollars And use up the whole thing To make a big mess? To make a good memory?
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By now, can you tell that I am you? Are you as precocious as everyone claims? Do you like my Hello Kitty bedspread? What do you think about our family now? Can you tell me what makes you sad? Can I tell you what makes me sad? While we talk, can you pour me water And call it special tea And say there's magic in it? Should I tell you there is magic in everything For those searching for it? Do you feel "Different" yet Or are you too young? Would you tell me? Should I tell you "I do too, But I'm ok with it now?" Would you believe me? The most important question I have for you: Can I visit tomorrow? The Crows by Quatiana Quarles I see them again— black crows circling the hollow sky, their wings cutting slow, deliberate arcs through the fading light. Their cries are loud, sharp as splintered glass, and somehow they echo mine— a language of ache carried on the wind. Feathers spill like ink across the heavens, dark as the corners of my soul where light forgets to linger. They glide as if they know me, as if they have always known me. They appear again. Why?
56 What message hides beneath their wings? What omen trembles in their restless flight? They gather on bare branches, tilting their heads in silent judgment, watching. More and more come— a storm of shadows swelling above me. They swallow the blue of the sky whole, leaving nothing but a ceiling of black. Daylight falters. The sun retreats behind their veil. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. And as they cover the sky in darkness, so too does my mind dim— crowded with circling thoughts, sharp cries I cannot quiet, wings beating against the inside of my chest. I stand beneath them, small beneath their omen-filled dance, wondering if they are messengers or mirrors. But then— one breaks from the spiral. A single wing catches the light, and for a moment it is not black but blue
Lazy Downtown Streets by Kaleigh Stutson I like the trees on Chester Street and Jackson, leaves layer the sidewalks and the light is always red. I taste salted caramel in hot coffee, rain trickles down my windshield, and people walk past in frantic hurries as the weather gets bad. It’s finally dropped past fifty degrees, and my breath makes the air foggy. Brief seconds romanticize this fast-paced life, slowing down the moments before sending me on my way.
57 Anger is a Privilege by Heather Fernandez They test your fortitude, Expecting softness instead of an iron spine. A smile where rage simmers, Lips guarding bloody teeth. Danger always hidden from view, Tucked neatly in its box. They call for bent knees, A head bowed. Be pretty, be still, be safe. Accept it, learn from it, flee from it. Until the threat arrives at your door. Banging, disruptive, unbalanced, Reaching for the soft space behind your ribs, Clawed hand scrabbling for purchase. Anger is a privilege, One not afforded, The line you don't cross, Without taking a single step. They watch your wild eyes, The storm building, gray and spiraling. They think you look like the storm, Never recognizing that you are the wall it breaks against. Abomination Spaghetti by Judith Warren I don't want to be good at things. I should like to be, at best, average at everything I try. It might be even better if I were dreadful. When people ask me, “Judith, can you make me spaghetti?” I would say, “yes” and mix a can of diced tomatoes with vinegar and no salt. I would dip the noodles in cold water and call them cooked. Then, I would put it all together and serve it on paper towels, so the table would be soaked. I would smile and ask for compliments and expect them all to crunch down every last bite. They would never ask me to make spaghetti again. But, I think I could learn to like Abomination Spaghetti. I would like the tartness and the crunch. I would sit and eat while my guests claim to be already full, and mentally remind themselves to never ask me to do anything again. If they like my laughter, or my conversation, they can have it. I will give it whenever they ask. But, I will never cook spaghetti while they laugh with each other. Nor will I clean while they hold conversation.
58 And, if they ever say “you will catch more flies with honey than with vinegar”. I will say, “I don't like flies, but I do like Abomination Spaghetti.” Works and Worth by Tanek Mouser Pedestrian, that is I. I see the works of all man laid before me and cry. For I know I could never do what they have. I look at my hands and find none to blame, Save for one, known as I, the pedestrian selfsame. I try, work myself to a frenzy, but find prose lame, Poetry shallow, argument fallow, no fame, no claim. I learn and it does naught, Still, I am satisfied with aught. Especially when I measure against what’s come before. I find prose to adore, Argument worth more, Poetry amorous, tenebrous, celebratorous A rainbow of intention and mention Worth far more, even, than my life. I pine then, Work when Time allows Pull the plows And try To make something to stay when I die. Growing Up by Geonna Tipton I don’t understand Am I an adult or am I not? Because I thought you were once you turned 18 But I guess that’s not what they were taught They want me to grow up But tell me to stay in a child’s place They want me to take accountability and handle my business But if I do so without their approval then I’m a disgrace They want me to step into the world And learn what I’m capable of All before 8 p.m.
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They want me to make new friends And hang out with people more But only when it’s convenient to them So, tell me honestly, Am I an adult or am I not? Because I’m pretty sure adults should be capable of self-sufficiency But I guess that’s not what they were taught Memento Mori by Katie Knight the great equalizer of the final frontierquiet as the hawks and harriers sent to carry our bones to the bed we have made (go to sleep and good night, There is no need for mourning) The mute seraph White stork Stole your soul Gave you to Gaia (a biennial bairn) For her costume garden The mathematicians And realists and bankers Wonder if there is an art to dying The zealots and Baptists And Mormons are deifying Their casserole allegories The extent of languageNarrowed by the egotists What can’t be said Should be sung (when there aren’t any words Then we can just hum) Charging towards The great mirage (constructs of wasteful wanting) Assuming that space is vast enough To hold our needs
60 Night after night We stare at stars And wish away their Credibility Capitalism - Our sacred puppeteer Selling the rights to eternal life (and acres on the moon, too) The rich are buying their Legacies with life insurance policies Poe inspired poets lie Awake in the rustling night Dreaming of dying and Envision lying In her sepulchre There by the sea But as is our arrivalWe depart without Station. To go (or not go) Somewhere (or nowhere) Captivated (still) By our own (unassuming) Impression Just make sure you live each second as a blessing, and do not become too enthralled.
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Photography from Louisiana and Abroad
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1st Place: “Sierra Wave” by Sara R. Allen
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2nd Place: “Fountain” by Mick Drew
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3rd Place: “Yellow Wildflower” by Sara R. Allen
Honorable Mention: “McGee Valley” by Sara R. Allen
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Photos by Fouzia Nusrat
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Photos by Fouzia Nusrat
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“St Peter’s Basilica” by Joseph Kutch
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Photos by Joseph Kutch
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Photos by Annalise Breaux
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(Joseph Jefferson Mansion)
Photos by Annalise Breaux
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Photos by Annalise Breaux
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Photos by Annalise Breaux
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“Capri” by Grace Mayon
“Piazza dei Miracoli” by Grace Mayon
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Photos by Sara R. Allen
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Photos by Sara R. Allen
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Photo by Antoinette Guidry
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Photos by Alice Lee
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Photo by Trinity Nicks
Photo by Brandon Bryan
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Photo by Brandon Prater
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“Crossing Grant” by Reeghan Lacour
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Photo by John-Francis Jones
Photo by Maddison Johnson
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Photo by Tabitha Witzman
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Photos by Brynlee Fogleman
Photo by Ryan Lemoine
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Art Painting, Drawing, and Digital
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1st Place: “Intercesion” by Jose A. Alberto
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2nd Place: “Face Drawn in Charcoal” by Katherine Cannon
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3rd Place: “Enchanted” by Grace Mayon
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Honorable Mention: “Native Sky” by Kylie Jo Graham
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Honorable Mention: “Chocolate and M&Ms” by Pasey Sharp
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“Siblings” by Anna Deshotels
"Baby Teeth" by Grace Mayon
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Portraits by Bella McBride
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“Gremlin” by Kelsey Franks
“Jonglingit” by Emmaleigh Taylor
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Paintings by Lacie Grossie
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Paintings by Kylie Jo Graham
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Painting by Lexie Sharoian Painting by Kylie Jo Graham
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Sculptures by Pasey Sharp
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“The Beckoning” by Toriann Elam
“Physical Feelings” by Toriann Elam
“Unfolding” by Toriann Elam
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“The 88 Club” by Mason Houghton
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Purple Charc
“Purple Tank” by Sahraya McFarlan
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