Artifex 2023

ARTIFEX

ISSUE VIII • Fall Semester 2023

ARTIFEX ISSUE VIII

Fall Semester 2023 Foreword

Welcome to the latest issue of ARTIFEX!

ARTIFEX publishes the literary art of people who live, learn, work and play in Macomb County, Michigan. We showcase the works of faculty, students and community members of Macomb Community College and the surrounding area. By publishing local authors, we celebrate the early careers and continued successes of poets, writers, and storytellers advancing the conversation about literature and learning for our area and recognizing voices that too often are overlooked and underheard.

ARTIFEX is published with sponsorship from the Macomb Reading and Writing Studios. Our mission is to support, encourage and increase the knowledge and enjoyment of the literary arts in our region.

We are grateful to Associate Deans Angie Williams-Chehmani and Annette Ternullo as well as Dean Marie Pritchett for their continued encouragement and belief in the importance of ARTIFEX. We offer special thanks to Daniel Brengel in the Reading and Writing Studios for joining forces with ARTIFEX, and for sharing in my passion and enthusiasm!

I would also like to thank the Editorial Board—Adam Raceles, Daniel Brengel, Linda Quast, Jim Young and Leigh Krizek for your generous spirit and willingness to be an important part of the selection process. Thank you for your sincere commitment!

And, of course, our immense gratitude to our gifted writers and poets, because without your voices this literary magazine could not have happened! In this newest issue, you will find poems and short stories that will make you laugh, cry, wonder and question. You will find in these pages words that will put you on edge, challenge you, entertain you or surprise you. Are you ready to see the world through the writer’s eyes? Come with me on this journey through the landscape of these amazingly creative minds!

ARTIFEX is for you, and for the many voices of the past, today and the future.

Be

Castle-Kelly, Editor

Calm and Read on…

—Nicole

“A writer’s life and work are not a gift to mankind . . . they are its necessity.”

Toni Morrison

Pilgrimage through the Heavens

by Mark Morgan

suture

your lies rob sunlight from my garden your curses chew my heart with salt teeth

I love you remains a pilgrimage through scorched minefields and cosmic crossfire it is needles and thread on my tongue searching for hidden wounds to suture

epiphany

we traced the universe’s infinite walls, licked ancient dust from our fingertips and spat bitumen into the burnt brick crib of civilization. God flooded our lungs with moonlight until we drifted far enough away to remain content only with dreams of heaven. discordant heartbeats thrummed against wayward ruins tamed by time’s watchful sentry while we hunted, crawling in shadows, light-starved eyes scouring Andromeda’s complexion for open wounds. we forged serrated blades from steel and stone and pressed them against heaven’s grey throat until our path drowned in light and truth

noon shadows

all monsters are born from stardust.

you can glimpse their primordial shimmer in smears of bloodlust drool on fresh shag carpeting kissed with viscera and hot tears.

somewhere, a kid just locked his bedroom door, music up loud. he’s clawing tales of freedom in his headboard with a pen knife.

electric mad genius courses through stitching that holds your hand and her mind and my heart together.

folklore called for a silver bullet to slay the foul beast; we danced in noon shadows of warheads and napalm instead.

even the stars can turn ice cold.

A Spark in the Void

by Ashley Shar

The faint incessant beeping of the O2 tank echoing throughout his muddled thoughts only makes the incandescent stars blur together in a symphony of what, he hopes, will be as beautiful as his dying sight.

“Ground control, I...I want to go home.” The astronaut heaves, fracturing in the same fashion that his tethered suit gave way from his station; his only accompaniment in the crystalline void becomes his tears. As the beeping fizzles out, deafening silence takes hold in the deep recesses of his soul, realizing he’s merely a man alone, with each breath becoming more akin to a desperate defiance against reality.

“Please...” the man begs in bated breath, a cacophony of memories unwinding before him as the stars begin to swirl in synchrony of his rattling breaths.

“So...come home...” the stars sigh, embracing the traveler as if he is the lost crowning light in the glittering nighttide. As the weary soul calms, and his chest stills embracing the call home, his fear and longing change into a shine, sparking a new light into existence.

Alive

by Amy Laessle-Morgan

I think I knew I loved you so early on as we perused through pages at the used book sale on our first date me with arms encumbered, you were more cautious in choosing

I thought I had ruined it all when I joked about your taste in music, most 30-year-olds I know don’t listen to Chet Baker and Charlie Parker, an old soul-millennial I was older than you but not old enough to know better

Secret pains plucked heart strings like moody renditions of the jazz you loved so well my not so shining moments, you looked back at me without judgment with the kindest eyes I had ever seen

I kissed the poetry from your lips as you made me believe in second chances your warm hand cradled my smile as I reached up to meet it gently with mine

Alone in the shadows

whispered set lists of special requests, you sang my soul back together in the heat of the darkness I felt so alive

This short story was inspired by two things. First, the recent videos circulating on social media of these women complaining over … Nonsense. Second, a DIY Make-up Tutorial of how to make yourself up to look like a “Karen”. Several folks have thought the three at the end are based on the Sanderson Sisters from Hocus Pocus, which is partly true. I based them after the Weird Sisters from MacBeth or other fairy tales and myths with Three Witches out to make mischief.

Attack of the Karens

by Siete16 Guevara

He threw himself into an alley and crouched down. As he was trying to hide in the shadows, he worked on slowing his breathing. He had to catch his breath if he was going to run and escape. Back into the shadows, and into the night.

It was rumored that The Karens never hunted their prey during the evening hours. Just during the daylight hours, from 9am to sunset. He thought he would be safe at night, but he was wrong. As he tried to relax and focus on what he was to do next, he wondered if he would make it home and see his family again.

Just as he was about to stand and start heading home, Miguel used caution when he looked out and checked both ways. Just like when he was taught by his father when crossing the street at 4 years old; and when he was 15 and learning to drive.

Miguel was about to get himself ready to run, but he paused; he heard them coming. Their sound was not hard to distinguish from the usual sounds the city made at this hour; over the sounds of cars driving, tires on the road, dogs barking at intruders, and traffic lights clicking to signal who stops and goes.

Miguel had never heard their sound before, but today it would stay with him and haunt his memory; it was The Karens’s screeching. ***

During the day, The Karen is in perfect calmness in their world. The Karen would appear as an average soccer mom that you might know and possibly be friends with.

They are polite, calm, friendly, and appear as normal women. As long as they are happy with what’s happening around them, they are nothing to be feared.

But once something goes wrong or awry, or they see something they don’t like, usually someone that does not look like them somewhere they don’t think they belong, that’s when they begin to change into

something terrible. And the change turns them from regular soccer moms-- or your favorite aunt or you best friend’s mom-- into something terrifying.

Their faces go through a horrid transformation turning them into scary monsters.

It starts with their faces turning flush from the chin to their foreheads. The bright red color blotches their cheeks and nose.

Then their eyes widen and twist shape. The corneas become riddled with veins and their irises turn sanguine. The color shifts and swirls within their irises.

Next, their mouths began to shift and extend into a maniacal snarl and their mandible extends to make their mouths larger. The transformation of their mouths makes it possible for an extra set of teeth to grow, while their regular teeth turn into canine fangs. Their hands shift and twist into claws. Their fingers extend an extra inch in length, and their nails become razor sharp. As wicked as those claws are, they are rarely used as weapons. Instead, they are used as menacing instruments of judgment by shaking their wicked first and second fingers at their intended target.

Finally, their voices shriek in timorous tones that cause one’s head to pound and is annoying as nails on a chalkboard. Their screech not only causes pain to the victim, but also causes fear and disgust that chills their victims to the core of their souls. It’s not just the sound alone, but a victim can hear hateful words whispered or shouted at them, and it re-vibrates in their ears and infects their hearts; it brings out an anger that one would rather fight than run from The Karen.

However, for one to turn and fight a Karen would be a mistake. The Karens have some strange power to shift their appearance to suddenly look weak and helpless as soon as their victim fights back. This usually makes the victim look like the aggressor rather than The Karen who is attacking them first.

Miguel was about to let fear overtake him, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to keep his head. He was getting agitated because he wanted to be home and put this horror behind him.

Miguel listened. It sounded like the three Karens who were chasing him had left the area. He took a deep breath and readied himself to run.

Miguel stepped out of the alley and sprinted for home. He had not gone further than four blocks when he heard The Karens again.

“Wetback.” “Spic.” “Illegal.” “Go back to Mexico.”

Those words had been spoken earlier and triggered their transformation. The Karens were hunting him, and they were getting closer.

“Call Immigration.” “Wetback.” “Not an American.” “Taco-Bender.”

He was about to keep running, but his heart was getting infected. The white-hot anger was building up. Miguel felt the heavy weight from the words, the infection and the rage piled up in so many layers that he could not move one more step.

Miguel had no other choice; he could not run anymore. He had to turn to face them and stand his ground. This was exactly what The Karens wanted.

“Spic.” “Fence-Jumper.” “Narco-Mule.” “Wetback.” “Beaner.”

Miguel was about to fight The Karens, but he stopped as red and blue lights flashed and a siren wailed. Miguel felt a bit relieved; the police had arrived.

Miguel took a breath and exhaled to release the infection and relieve himself of the weight The Karens placed on him.

The Karens focused their vocal power on the police officers. The officers fell under their spell.

Unsuspectingly, Miguel greeted the police. They didn’t greet him back but instead slammed him to the ground and handcuffed him. The police arrested Miguel, read him his rights, and placed him in the back of their patrol car.

As the door closed, the officers turned to ask the three women what happened. Once the officers had taken their statement, they got in their car and took off with Miguel. ***

As the patrol car drove down the street, The Karens looked at each other and cackled in absolute delight. As they laughed at their latest victim being taken away in cuffs, they shifted between their everyday appearance to their Karen persona.

“Success, Sisters,” The Brunette had a beaming smile on her face. “Our tenth one this week.”

“Soon, Sisters,” The Blonde added, while wiping tears of joy from her eyes, “soon all of those Beaners will be gone.”

“Yes, Sisters,” The Redhead announced with confidence, “America will be Great again.”

The three kept laughing. Tomorrow there would be more for them to find and to hunt. They would continue their twisted Karen fun.

White Shoes, Mirror Puddles

by Christopher Bobryk

A gentle Spring storm

Swept in from the West. Shapeless clouds had formed Thunder to attest.

Remnants of rain

The day unfurled. Inviting portals

To a whole new world.

Reflecting our lives

Maples budding red. Running without strife

Feet jumping ahead. Worries to dispel Standing by her side. She bids fear farewell With one more great stride.

Splash!

The Dog is Looking at Me

by Matt Meerhaeghe

Everyone loves our dog and dad hates her. This is the view commonly held in our family. The children sleep with the dog, feed the dog from the table, pet the dog, and talk nicely to the dog. Therefore, based on this observation, they obviously love the dog. Dad, on the other hand, yells at the dog; therefore, he hates her. Obviously, dad instructs the dog to get her butt off the couch, not because he is worried about the need to buy a new couch once this one is ruined, but just because he is a cranky, old man. Buying dog food for fifty dollars a bag so she can have a shiny full new coat (whatever that is) is just what dad should do and this is not to be considered love. Getting shots for the dog at two-hundred dollars a visit in place of say, playing golf a half dozen times a summer, is what is expected of the old man, and is not to be totaled in the dog love column. I believe the greatest measurement of who loves a pet the most should be this simple litmus test: he who goes forth bravely into the crapping field.

First, if you are a family man, and do not know what the crapping field is then, I congratulate you. You are obviously a wise and powerful man who stared down the gathered forces of the family unit and bravely and defiantly said no! No, I will not give into the sad eyes and trembling lower lipped con artists known as your children. No, I do not believe you, beloved wife, when you say the kids will share in the duties and responsibilities associated with a canine animal. No, to that little part of you that says if I do this, the praises that will be sung about papa will last long after I leave this mortal life. I say to you brave, strong and steadfast man, go forth and enjoy your divorced bachelor’s freedom. Unfortunately, if you are familiar with the crapping field then you are, like me, a small, timid, weak-minded man who has been duped by a family with the combined evil powers greater than the Joker, Riddler, Catwoman, Penguin and Mr. Freeze combined.

It starts innocently, about a half hour after you buy the dog, get it home and the kids decide that the dog is no longer interesting enough to play with. This interest time can vary from one to six hours depending on how many TV’s, cell phones and electronic game systems you have. If you’re lucky the dog whines at the door when it is time for nature’s calling (if you are truly cursed, the dog decides that your house is a giant commode). If the latter occurs, and you should take notes here, proceed to the closet and slide on the largest boot you can find and begin your training by giving the puppy a powerful kick to the hind quarters

(note, this is not recommended by any dog training organization and is probably illegal but has proven quite effective). Once the dog is outside it will search for a suitable place to leave his first of many presents for their owner. As I look at the first of many gifts bestowed upon me by my puppy, I try to figure out how these unusually large mounds of waste will be removed from my yard. One theory, I share with my neighbor is that, dependent on season, the rain or snow will wash away the poop bombs. However, barring a monsoon in my hometown, I rule this out due to the law of canine excrement physics that is surely working against me.

I come up with the simplest conclusion that I have overlooked. The children had agreed, just earlier that day, that they would accept responsibilities associated with our purchase. My wife squashes my enthusiasm by reminding me that a man who would relegate his children to the collection and disposal of animal feces is a sorry human being indeed. I feel much shame after this rebuke. I meekly inquire whether she could be counted on to assist in this chore. She assures me that after she does the dishes, cleans the rooms, completes the grocery shopping, helps the kids with their homework, and works her night job that she would be happy to help. I am not encouraged.

The sad realization hits me one abnormally hot Saturday morning as I maneuver my lawn mower like Mario Andretti in the Indy 500 through the crap track. I make a mental note to ask my family, who sit comfortably inside, at the breakfast table playing a family game, where I might find the plastic bags and toy sand shovel. For I, the man who hates the dog, not my family who loves the dog, mind you, are destined to remove the droppings laid sporadically throughout my yard.

As I begin the first of many sanitation removals, I look at my faithful pet in my air-conditioned house. As God is my witness, she smiles at me as if to say you, yes you, I’m looking at you. You realize that when you go to work, I will be laying on the couch, getting fed from the table and eating your shoe. I suggest you keep shoveling into that bag. By the way, over there in the corner of the crapping field, you missed a pile.

Tapestry

by Terry Hojnacki

Spread across the cutting table, flaws in the fabric of my life glare like demons taunting me. I snatch silver scissors from the tray and clip withered webs of unwanted folds. snip by snip, removing snags, splotched dyes, and tiny tears until all that’s left is a holey mess of scraps. even the good parts have lost their beauty. reduced to a pile of sad rags tossed in a basket, the shredded cloth challenges me. I thread the needle. one seam, then another, stitch small swatches of material together like puzzle pieces to make it whole again. finally frayed, worn, wrinkled remnants of unique character, sewn with gold fiber, restore beauty to the tapestry of my life.

Past Back

by Leslie Cieplechowicz

The dirty, stringy clouds streaked over the steel sky and sent dripples of rain down onto the muddy, weedy earth, studded with broken concrete strewn across the decaying industrial complex. Hulls of buildings loamed, their rusting, damp girders holding up remnants of crumbling walls and dangling, tinted factory glass. Two figures picked their way over the dead landscape. There came a tall, slender woman, her dirty blond hair stuffed under the hood of a gray sweatshirt, the cuffs of her faded blue jeans stuffed into EMS issued boots, scuffed, and cracked. Then there was a shorter man with messy brown hair and ashy cheeks sunken in from years of drug use and smoking, sagging camouflage pants, and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Both carried backpacks with tripods strapped to their worn exteriors.

“Just a sec, I gotta light this,” Nick stopped and clicked a lighter. He inhaled deeply.

Jillian rested a boot on a flaking drum, her hazel-chipped eyes flicking over the buildings, lining the south edge of a dying, poverty-stricken city. She had been on many explorations over the past eight months, but this one but this one today made her slightly ill at ease. The two had come to take pictures of the place, a crazy, weird hobby called urban exploring or “urbex.” Jillian never thought she would be one to partake, but an on-the-job shooting which resulted in her untimely retirement from her beloved EMS had changed her mind. After fifteen years on the road, a patient had ambushed her and her partner, resulting in two bullets in her spine. She needed something to stir her blood and give her an adrenaline high like she used to get. Now she wandered the country, taking pictures of decayed, abandoned buildings, forgotten and broken like she was.

Jillian glanced at Nick, who was attempting to text on his phone.

“Fucking A, there is still no signal.” He threw his glowing butt onto the ground. “Good?”

She nodded and they continued their hike. Jillian stared at the back of Nick’s head. He was a leftover from her days as a paramedic. Their paths had crossed a few times over the years, as his love of drinking, dappling in drug dealing and use, and not watching his blood sugar, made him a regular to call 911. He gave up his criminal ways and his booze and, like Jillian, needed some excitement to feel alive again. After she left EMS, they re-established contact at a Coney Island they both frequented as it had the best Philly cheesesteak burgers.

“How long are we gonna look for this medical clinic?” Jillian asked. Nick heard the complex had an emergency clinic to treat its workers. All the antique equipment was supposed to still be there and intact as he had seen images from another explorer. Jillian had to admit the dusty exam table strewn with empty syringes with an aging, reflecting light glowering over it would probably make some cool pictures.

“It has to be in the building right up ahead. We hit all the other ones.”

The drizzle clumped and heavier drops splattered down. A loud crack sounding like a gunshot caused both to stop with a jerk.

For a brief moment, Jillian was back with her EMS partner Riley on the dark, hazy street, responding to an innocuous call of “man down”, rolling the stretcher to a rumpled figure in the middle of the street. Their eyes had met as they saw the dark pool of blood around the fallen man, the left side of his face a steaming, shredded mass with a dangling eyeball, part of his brain tissue splattered on the pavement. They saw the slow rise of his chest and stooped down to grab vital signs. A dark figure materialized in front of Jillian and Riley, his tattooed left hand gripping a .45 Glock, which was aimed at their patient’s head. The gun fired and the rest of the fallen man’s head exploded, spraying Riley and Jillian, who both jumped up.

Jillian stared into the shooter’s emotionless, metal-grey eyes as he unloaded two bullets into Jillian, then one into Riley, before his gun clicked and jammed. As Jillian crumpled to her knees, gasping for air, she heard police sirens close by. As she clutched her gut, she saw Riley lying next to her. Jillian smelled the metallic odor of her blood as it leaked from her body, then darkness shrouded her.

The vision ended and she was back standing next to Nick. She clasped her shaking hands together to hide them from her partner. Like feral dogs, Jillian and Nick held their breath and perked their ears, trying to locate the source of the noise. All they heard was the hiss of the rain. They looked at each other. Nick shrugged. He motioned with his hand. Both ducked into the crumbling doorway of the factories.

“I don’t think it was anyone,” Nick whispered.

“Me neither.” They had been told they may encounter a wild lot of scrappers, looking for metal to sell. They could be unpredictable and sometimes had unruly dogs with mean attitudes to enforce their owner’s unhappiness at seeing other people.

“The clinic has to be in this building.”

Jillian nodded, still unable to shake the unsettled feeling she had being here. I am just tired from

being up the past three nights, she reasoned, unable to sleep because of vivid nightmares, collateral damage from the shooting and wondering if, somewhere, the shooter was looking to finish her off just as he did her partner. As they penetrated into the hull, she felt her heart rate pick up, and a familiar dose of epinephrine flowed into her vessels. For an adrenaline junkie, it steadied her Jillian and Nick stepped into a dim, cavernous room, weak rays of light creeping through a dark ceiling with twisted strips of peeling gray paint dangled down like dusty stalagmites. They yanked out heavy duty flashlights from their backpacks and flicked them on. Branching off from the room were black corridors, their doorways framed by fallen, rusty steel beams. Littering the floor was remnants of broken, fragmented machinery, corpses lingering from a time long past. Rotting beams hanging from the walls were painted in white mold which glowed from the explorer’s lights. The odor of damp, rotting wood permeated the air.

“How about we start at the two hallways over on the west wall?” Nick flicked his light in that direction.

“Sure.”

The two slithered around the machine, avoiding jagged edges from broken windowpanes and nails rearing up from a decaying wooden floor. When they reached the two corridors, they paused.

“Which one do you want to try first?” Jillian said as she glanced behind her

“Hmm, I wish I could text that explorer for more info,” Nick stuck another cigarette between his lips and began to chew the tip. He looked at his phone. “But still no service.”

“Ok, I guess we hit the one on the right, then do the one on the left.”

Nick glanced at his watch. “It gets dark in 30 minutes. I don’t want to be messing around here much longer. We don’t have much time.”

“Hmmm, what’s your idea?”

“How about I take the right and you take the left? Do a quick recon and meet back here in a few.”

Jillian gnawed the inside of her cheek as her uneasiness intensified.

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Come on. You aren’t backing out on me now? We have been exploring for over three hours trying to find the place. I want to get the pics and then get some food.” Nick began to rock from one foot to another. “Remember my blood sugar?”

Jillian could feel his irritation. The last thing she wanted was a big pissing match between the two of them on the long ride home. “Yeah, sure.” She gripped her flashlight with her left hand and grabbed her backpack harness to hide the twitching in her fingers.

“Cool.” Nick disappeared down the corridor, his words fading, “See ya in a few.”

Jillian exhaled slowly. Nick was a knowledgeable explorer but sure could be an asshole at times. “Easy peasy.” She mumbled as the darkness of the hallway swallowed her.

Jillian’s boots crunched softly as she walked. A darkened entrance illuminated with her light’s beam. She crept into the room and flicked the lights over the room. Rivets of dirty water drew tortured lines down the walls. A rat squeaked and jumped back into the dark. Jillian jumped then felt cobwebs wrap her face. “Shit.” She rubbed it with the cuff of her shirt. A moment later, she realized the room was empty and headed out.

After a few minutes of traversing the corridor, she came upon another doorway with a faint glow from the interior. She ducked inside.

The dying rays of a bloody sun cast thin shadows across the large room. Black liquid streaked the broken walls and when Jillian focused her light on it, her eyes detected patterns, as if someone drew the shapes. Something groaned. Jillian’s light flared wildly over the room. On the far wall was a painted handprint. The strong, familiar odor of spilled blood crawled up her nose. She realized what the liquid on the wall was.

A moan of an animal in pain came from behind a small pile of rubble. “Oh my god, oh my god.” She stayed rooted to her spot, years on EMS training her not to panic.

“Help,” A man’s whisper reached her ears.

Her mind clicked through all the people who would be in here. A scrapper? Another explorer? Her rescue nature suppressed her fear for a moment, and she inched toward the pile, then peeked over. For a moment, her mind froze like a broken computer, unable to process what she was viewing. “Riley? Oh my god, Riley?” Riley lay on the ground on his back, his bruised eyes gummed with leaking blood. A gashed lip framed a gasping mouth with toothless gums. His fleece jacket was ripped in multiple spots glued to his body. Bare, pant-less legs were contorted into right angles. A collapsed chest rose slightly, the hole between the ribs bubbling frothy, pink foam.

Jillian crouched next to him. “Why are you here? Oh my god? What happened to you?” She touched his cheek as he tried to turn his face toward her voice. “What happened to you? Oh my god, I need help.” She

threw her flashlight down and grabbed her phone from her backpack, then realized there was still no service. “Oh my god, Riley.” Tears welled in her eyes and dropped on his cheek as all her years of training forced her into the horrible reality. His life was draining quickly and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She sobbed and hugged him. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

A slight cough startled her. Her gaze shot up as she reached for her light. A shadowy figure hovered in the entrance. “Nick?”

Her flashlight illuminated the familiar metal-gray eyes from her nightmares. Jillian inhaled sharply and scrambled to the depths of the other side of the room. Her hands clawed over the rubble. Her boots slid backward. She spotted a large crack in the wall and plunged for it. Hands grabbed her ankles and dragged her back. Her hands dropped as they broke through the rotting floor.

She screamed and thrashed, breaking free. Two tattooed arms seized her right arm and torqued her around. A fist smashed into her face, and she felt a fragment of bone slice her tongue. Another, then another, then another until darkness.

Light seeped through Jillian’s eyelids as she attempted to open them. A piece of cloth filled her mouth and she coughed, causing sharp pain to slice her brain. As her eyes focused, she tried to move her hands then legs and realized she was bound to a chair, each limb zip tied to its frame, set in a small room with a single heavy door, lit with a flashlight propped on its end, the air heavy with rotting, moldy wood. On a makeshift table near her was a rusty saw, a bent screwdriver, and a hammer caked in debris. Why? Why? she thought. But she knew why. Riley and she survived the shooting and gave enough information to identify the shooter though police never caught him. He was just finishing up business. Her foggy brain didn’t understand why the assailant was here. Then she remembered Nick. Where was he? Bludgeoned in some empty corridor?

Jillian’s eyes rested on the table, and her stomach knotted. She tried yanking her hands free, then her legs. Then tried rocking the chair back and forth. The door creaked and swung inward.

Nick walked into the room. Jillian wanted to scream. Her eyes pleaded with him to untie her quickly. He paused, then a figure trailed in after him. The shooter smiled slightly when he saw Jillian.

Confusion clouded thoughts. What?

“It’s nothing personal, love,” Nick said softly as he took a large envelope from the shooter. “Just business.”

“You will find it is all there. Just as we agreed.” The shooter’s voice was low and raspy.

Nick nodded. “Pleasure.” He turned and strode out the door, without looking at Jillian.

Jillian couldn’t move, her limbs were limp, her gaze fixated on a wall. She couldn’t process the magnitude of the betrayal.

The shooter slid over to the table and picked up the saw. “I have been on the run, these past few months, because of your helpful information to the police.” He stroked the saw and stood behind Jillian.

“Do you know how bad it is for my business to have cops snooping around all the time?” He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Jillian felt the saw’s teeth at her throat. “So many problems.” He gripped her hair tighter. “What is the saying? Snitches get, hmm what? Oh yes, dead.”

Jillian’s animal instinct screamed. She exploded, her body flying against the chair. She felt the tie on her right release as the frame of the chair cracked. The shooter roared and pulled her hair harder, and the chair flipped backward

There was a creak, a groan, then a snap. The decaying floor caved inward and the shooter and Jillian plummeted twenty feet into the basement. Jillian felt the chair shatter as she and it crushed the shooter against the floor. Stunned, she lay there for a moment, then rolled off the debris, trying to catch her breath.

The shooter lay next to her, his body sprayed with fragmented wood. His eyes fixed upward; a jagged, wet crack traced over his skull. Blood seeped from his ears. Jillian crawled closer looking for signs of life. She exhaled. Riley, she had to find Riley.

Jillian hugged Riley’s cold body and shut his eyes. “I will miss you so much.” She lay with him for a moment then the darkness of the room spurred her to leave. She sniffed and wiped her running nose. “I am sorry I couldn’t save you.” Crawling to her feet, she hobbled out through the building, stumbling in the dimness until she reached the outside, lit by a cold full moon.

Limping in the moon’s haze, Jillian picked her way back to her car. Her head pounded and she felt numb and empty. Only her fading will to live kept her going. She could make out the outline of her car ahead. As she approached, she saw the glow of a cigarette and the laughter of Nick, the faint glow of his cell phone near his cheek. He leaned against her car. “Yeah, yeah. This is a good place to pick me up. I will send

you the coordinates.”

Jillian slowed. She fixated on him. A slow rage ignited, burned her heart, and extended its tendrils into her fuzzy brain. Her thoughts sharpened and then focused on just one.

Jillian scanned the ground. She picked up a jagged fragment of concrete. Her breathing slowed as she crept forward toward the vehicle.

With a snarl, she lurched forward from the shadows and struck the back of Nick’s head. He screamed then crumbled onto the ground. As he stared up at her, she kicked his head with all the rage of a crazed animal. His head popped. Her booted foot smashed into his head again. As she hovered over him, her breathing ragged, his pupils grew fixed and dilated.

Dropping the rock, Jillian yanked her car key from her pocket. She slid on the driver’s side and, with trembling fingers, dialed 911. A familiar, warm voice from her EMS days answered. “911, what is your emergency?” The voice from Monica, the dispatcher, caused sobs to shake Jillian.

“Hey Monica, it’s Jillian. I need some help.”

Mr. Murray: First Impressions

By Meg Ritter

On the morning of the first day of 11th grade, paper wads soared past my head and my classmates shouted. I sat among it all tapping my feet, my fingers flying over my desk like it was a piano and I was playing a song. We were waiting for Mr. Murray.

“Greetings young minds!” A voice exclaimed over the loudest shouter. Abruptly the classroom chatter stopped. We turned to watch Mr. Murray leap like an acrobat from the door jam into the classroom. Every eye remained glued to his 5’6” narrow-shouldered frame, his wavy blond hair cascaded up and down against shirt collar, as he bounded down the row of desks. A few intermittent chuckles rose. Once near the board, he leapt again, as if onto stage, did a little spin, and tipped an imaginary top hat towards us.

“Good morning my fellow lovers of language! Literature! Art!” He spread his arms like a circus ringleader.

“Boy, you must’ve drunk a lot of coffee,” said a wise aleck in the front row.

“Indeed, young lad, I did!”

Everyone in the class busted out laughing, including the ‘young lad’.

“Indeed, I did,” Mr. Murray repeated. “But that is not the only reason I am so excited…”

“Drugs.” A boy in the back mumbled, but Mr. Murray had keen ears.

“No! Not drugs!” This time the laughter roared like a thunderclap across the room.

“No drugs are allowed in this classroom by the way—in case you need a reminder. Not drugs at work, but something even more intoxicating…Language. Communication. Storytelling…”

He paced back and forth in his exhilaration.

“This is the first day of our journey together, our journey of immersing ourselves into the works of the greats, the masters of words. Specifically American literary greats because that is what this class calls for and that, my friends, may one day include you!” He pointed to a girl. Then a boy. And then to another student. “Yes you. Perhaps simply because you are lucky enough to be inspired in my classroom. We are all on a journey together and it’s up to you what kind of ride we’ll have.”

The same boy in the front raised his hand again.

“Yes, Coffee Boy?”

“What if we hate to read?” And then he folded his arms across his chest, smug and sure.

A few timid giggles trickled about the room.

“Ah class, here he is. A naysayer. There’s always at least one, and we’ve hardly just begun.” Did he rhyme on purpose? I wondered.

“Well then I guess you will have to learn to love it.” He stopped his pacing and turned to the chalkboard. “The thing of it is, every one of us has one thing in common and that is we all need to communicate.”

He chalked COMMUNICATE in big white capital letters, underlined it a thousand times. “And we all love good stories.” STORYTELLING received even more attention from his chalk, the letters towering nearly twice as high as Communicate’s and its underlining continued on as he spoke.

“We all love good stories. I know you do. I hear you in the hall telling your tales, and I see the notes you pass in class. Like…” He hesitated a moment, chalk underline halfway drawn. “That one!” he couldn’t have turned swifter from the chalkboard if he’d been on a swivel. All heads snapped back to follow his pointing finger to the guilty party, frozen in mid-pass nonetheless, her hand clearly note clad and exposed between desks.

“Ah ha! Caught! Just like that!”

He walked down the aisle, held out his hand, and the mortified girl released the note. He went back up the row, unfolding along the way. Once on his stage again, he shook open the loose-leaf paper, rubbed it flat against his pant leg to uncrease it, then held it at arm’s length, and cleared his throat.

“Shall I begin with our first example of post-modern Western literature from the perspective of a teenager living in middle American suburbia nearing the end of the second millennium?”

“Yess!” we all screamed with an energy I didn’t know possible to possess at 9:30 a.m. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” We continued, less our desire not be crystal clear. He hesitated, cocked his head, made a show of it. We began to chant, pounding our desks, “Read it! Read it! Read it!”

At that moment we wanted nothing more than to hear those secret private words read out loud. However juicy or banal they may have been, we hungered for them.

Meanwhile the girl in the back kept her head down on her desk. Her long hair so completely covering her face not even the tip of her nose peeked out. (I almost felt bad for her. That could just as easily

have been me. I passed notes in class with a frequency that would make your head spin. I considered it quite a talent, in fact. I probably would not have let myself get caught like she had… Still, that could’ve been me.) But my curiosity far outweighed my empathy, and I joined in with the pounding and the chanting.

“Read it! Read it! Read it!” Coffee Boy was, by far, the most vocal of the group, I must add.

“Silence!” Mr. Murray screamed. We shut up.

He pointed to Coffee Boy, “You! Up here! Now!”

Coffee Boy sprang into action and stood at attention. He beamed out at us and nodded to his friends in their various corners.

“You want to read this?” Mr. Murray asked, fluttering the paper high.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, how very interesting, now I’m a sir...” He winked at us. “I thought you hated to read.”

“Not now I don’t,” he answered.

“Ah ha!” Mr. Murray exclaimed, more triumphant than when he’d first eyed the note. “You’ve made my point for me. Sit down lad; this has gone on long enough.”

“What? But you said…”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

Coffee Boy, defeated, hung his head, and took his seat.

“Neither Randy, nor I, nor any of you, are going to read this letter. Young lass you have been mortified far too long.”

He walked down the aisle, folding the paper back up as he went.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he tossed the note back on her desk. She slowly lifted her head and grabbed the squared paper.

“The first one I find…” Mr. Murray continued, “never gets read out loud. But after that, I don’t make any promises.”

He strode back up to the front of the class, all the way contemplating something and then he pivoted by pushing one foot with the other and faced us.

“Actually, that is not true. I will make a promise. I will make two.” Rhyming again!

“I promise that in this class any student writing I, or anyone else, reads out loud will be done with the permission of the author and only then. My second promise: Next note I see passed will warrant nothing

less than a detention. So, I think I’ve beaten that one over the head enough. On to your first assignment.”

He turned to the chalkboard once again. I grabbed up my pen.

“You are to answer these questions to the best of your ability, due at the end of our class today. Number one: When you are given a writing assignment how do you approach it?”

I look forward to it… I wrote in my neatest penmanship. Then I proceeded to copy down the rest of the questions, answering them to the best of my ability. There was so much to say that had been held inside for too long. It spilled out of me with that first assignment.

Something told me I could tell Mr. Murray what writing meant to me—the passion, the frustrations, the yearning, the feelings of inadequacy—the truth I’d never shared before. Something told me my revelation would be valued, safeguarded, and nourished with him.

And so, I wrote my heart out.

Last Mother’s Day -Bebes No Mas

by Siete 16 Guevara

**this is inspired by actual events and the documentary, Bebes No Mas (Babies No More)

it was learned that in the 1960s through the 1970sthere was a doomsday prophecy of America becoming a Bleak, Barren wasteland - We would run out of Food and Resources for the Millions that lived here - back then.

A plan was put forth to solve this possible problemPopulation ControlPushed forward by the Eugenicists movement and supported by Eugenics Law (Indiana) and U.S. Law/Code 116 (18 U.S. Code 116)

The Plan for Population Control was put forthSterilization of Minority Womenregardless if they were from poverty, working-class or well-to-do backgroundsand whether these Women wanted this done or NOT.

When they were brought to a hospitalof their own free-willto deliver a childThey were misinformed - and scare tactics was used(The Baby may DIE, You may DIE, or You will Both DIE) not fully explained that they were to get sterilizedIn English or In SPANISHBUT it was to save their own lifeand the life of their child.

Half understanding - Half confusedHalf-groggy from the medicine used for the previous procedure; They had consented for the doctor - Not one they knew or should have TRUSTED - to Cut away their inner womanhood.

If they were too young or had not given birththe youngest recorded to have this done was only 14 years old – she was getting an appendectomyher parents feared the loss of their child and consented to the doctor to cut away Her chance of Ever Becoming a Mother.

For all these Latina/Hispana women that had their last child and later was found out that she got la operacíon -

they were labelled

LA YEGUA – Gelded Mares

They were judged harshly by othersin whispers by some or Cruel glances by others. A Few gave Sympathy and Compassion to their Compadres - All of Them trying to act normal by making them Caldo, Menudo or Tamales or They are in church with them praying to Gawd or La Virgén* for Comfort and a SOUL-ution.

Seeking comfort or Wanting absolution –Some of these damaged women seek out Answers.

Unable to find them – or get the answers; They do their last desperate action.

A few women go to bridges above freeways –Climbing over the safety rails –Taking one last look, and step off the ledge and fall Earthwards – toward her End. Hoping that before she hits the ground, That Quetzacoatl* and his Four Winds will catch her, and take her away from Here and her Guilt –She can fly away peacefully.

A few others Walk along the shores of bodies of waters and stare out at the waves –hypnotized by them. They slowly wade out into the water and keep going, even if they go in over their Heads. They keep going into the water because La LLorona* is calling to them, beckoning them to come join her, and be welcomed into her Watery-Embrace.

For others it’s WorseTheir Husbands began to question and doubt the authenticity of being the Father of this Last ChildThese Husbands may have abused their Wives Verbally and Physically Damaging them physically and mentallyin Sober or Drunken Wrath Not only wrecking, breaking their bodies, but damaging their Minds, Breaking their Hearts and Damning their Souls. Making their Home and Life bleak,

dark and blacker than the darkest hour of night. Several of The Men just stepped out to go to the Store – to get cigarettes and Never Returned again.

Very Few Husbands understood that Their Wife was corrupted and broken by a Masked Man who they were supposed to TrustBut those Masked Men and Women have done La Operacíon and stolen that Trust and created a sense of Mistrust or Dread that they do not want to visit the Doctor - Anymore.

It was in 1973that a few brave women stood up for the 100s who had gotten la Operacíon in our courtsdemanding justice, demanding retributionand MOST importantly from preventing such TRAVESTIES to continue or to let this happen to their Daughters later.

While the Arguments were heard in the Courts of California To correct thisDía de los Muertos – Day of the Dead is being celebrated outside -- a Parade for Their Children that will NEVER be or Never become -as the Parade is done to remember them and to give those Souls a voicebecause they will never be heard these children’s cries will never comforted by their Mothers Not now, Not EVER.

Todaythose children that were last to be bornThe survivors - Los Milagros They are now adults; these women’s Last BebesSus Milagros – Her Miracle Children Are Now Adults.

For these last children, they try to comfort their mothers

because this burden Mamá has carried for 30+ years - a shameful secret and a dark history

por que Ellas son Yeguas (because they are gelded mares) Ellas Bebes No Mas (They have No More Babies)

This Secret had once broken them, but Mamá being Mamáthese women summon their inner Strength to survive and to continue

Knowing her past - her secret Her last child - Her Miracle Baby - tell Mamá Thank You and I Love You, Mamá Holding their mothers and kiss them to ease their Painthat she hides so well, and tries not to let the Pain make her cry.

and for the Lucky ones, those that had Husbands that understood and were compassionate toward their wivesthey stood by their wives. held their hand, give them hugs, kisses and genuine Love; and sometimes - If they hear a song being playedThey will Danceso they forget this trouble, her dark history and make it melt away to enjoy this life - their life until their last day.

Even though this travesty and injustice has been corrected nowand stopped these scare tactics and misinformation of getting forced SterilizedThese Mothers look to the sky and wonder — or when They are in church, lighting candles They wonder — These women pray to La Virgén, that the Holy Mother protect and love her children in heaven with La Virgen now -

Even though she knows La Virgén is with themMamá cannot help and cry quietly for them because She Never had a chance to hold them or love them, which makes Mamá miss them - and quietly weep.

But it is hard to release this shame and let go of this secret because She continues to hear the whispers and judgement:

Ella es una Yegua (She is a Gelded Mare) los Niños no esta aqui (The Children are not here) NO BEBES NO MAS (No Babies Are No More)

*La Virgen de Guadalupe - The Virgin of Guadalupe. A Patron Saint in parts of Mexico, and in Mexican communities in the United States. This is the holy apparition of The Virgin Mary. She appeared as an Indigenous Woman to a peasant, Juan Diego, to tell Bishop Zumarraga to build church for her. Zumarraga doubted this, and thought Juan Diego was “touched”. Zumaragga agreed to the church, if the Holy Lady could deliver him proof of her divinity. When Juan Diego returned, He had shown the Bishop some roses that he held in his tilma/pancho. After the roses dropped out, on his tilma was an image of the Holy Mother imprinted on it.

*Quetzalcoatl - The Aztec Patron Diety of the Four Winds.

*La LLorona - A Mexican Myth, and Ghost Story. Depending on the Community/Person telling the storyThis was a woman that lost her children from drowning. Some say that she drowned them - Others say that the children drowned due to playing by the water. So many versions of the story and her appearance amongst families and communities. The one thing that Mexican Mothers/Fathers will tell their children, when they are naughty: If you continue to misbehave, La LLorona will come and get you.

What Did Sleeping Beauty Dream?

by Kerri Dettmer

Did she count plump sheep jumping over fences And into lush, green meadows Over and over again For ninety-nine years?

Did she watch nightmare dragons breathing fire, Impaled princes on rose thorns, And hear cries of hungry crows As they picked at flesh?

Did she fly through the diamond-studded night sky, Catching silver stars, laughing Until one pricked her finger And she fell, fell, fell?

Did she stand on a street corner in New York And hail a yellow taxi To old Yankee Stadium To watch some baseball?

Did she ride a Ferris wheel in the cool rain And eat pink cotton candy And watch the people below As tiny as ants?

Did she dream of being a knight in armor, Riding a dappled gray horse, And rescuing the fair youth Locked in the tower?

Did she eat chocolate cake with white frosting Or see music in colors Or have a chat with Buddha Or smell gunpowder?

Did she feel happy to be saved when she woke To a stranger’s hazel eyes And unknown lips, or saddened That now she must be Only a princess again?

The Deep Shadows of the Forest

by Gail Terhune

So apparent is the vivacious sound of grinding, cutting, and tumbling in the deep shadows of the forest. Often a Bamboo sits amongst hundreds of thousands quite similar, yet inextricably unique. Their tremendous significance derives from being non-timber specimens, those which do not lean from side to side or haphazardly fall. In short, they are infamously known as superior herbs. Nonetheless, the process of growth awaits each stalk as a mandatory obligation. Inevitable change presents struggle and complexities. And, while the tropical movement of transformation occurs beneath the surface, the Bamboo planted in the forest waits.

Temporary waiting permits the Bamboo to do little of nothing, but merely grow. The Bamboo’s change is not readily apparent to the natural eye. Inwardly, the wonder of creative chemistry is taking place, while some years pass before the true moment of harvest is accomplished. Outwardly, the Bamboo emerges from the soil, it takes shape; the soil beneath the herb gives insurmountable life. The fertile plant motions it shoots to spread upward, to search for space, to discover its capacity to become. The tropical waters of its ecosystem nurtures and cultivates the Bamboo’s new existence.

Alas, growth is accelerated, and massive change can be seen. The Bamboo reaches heights taller than imagined. The long-awaited development produces the pride of sustainability, usefulness, and confidence. Their cessation is characterized by eagerness to make a difference; to render their shoots strong and capable. At once, the Bamboo moves from uncertainty to surety, making contributions to nature around them. The specimen genuinely becomes “friend of the people”, intrinsically aware of emissions into the forest life, and possessing a readiness to absorb them. The Bamboo is passionate to grant fresh life, to work tirelessly to clean polluted soil, to create protective hedges, and to become global climate changers.

Significantly, Bamboos choose a path where their stalks can best be replenished and shared. They acknowledge the forest about them as the major impetus for their change. They weather the challenges, and the resistance. Their natural habitat helps to shape their fortitude and perseverance. They survive the humid conditions of life and the perilous climates of woodlands infused with change. Magnanimous growth empowers the bamboo to share exuberance for life, to embrace and foster the qualities of protection, stability, and strength.

Like bamboo, human beings experience the shadows of the deep forests in which we live. We are undoubtedly unique, sitting alongside billions of others. The soil and rains of our forests are rich; ready to nurture and cultivate our transformation. Growth and change knocks on our door to invite us to walk through the forests of challenge and uncertainty. We answer the door; change walks in. Quietly, we peer out of own private window, seeking the path which leads to change.

As we resolve to enter the forest, a new perspective is welcomed. We move through the obstacles and challenges, we stare ahead to catch a glimpse of ourselves. We evaluate our strength to take the next step. Confidence emerges as we see our dreams, hopes, and visions still there, like bamboo shoots in the sky. We are no longer afraid of the grinding, cutting, and tumbling heard in the massive world around us. Each day of growth denotes we are being shaped in the highest quality. We have acquired great strength and stability.

We too, like Bamboo are ready to be “Friend to the People”. We are ready to offer an exuberance for fresh life, to be a hedge, to make pure our environments. Exponential change has come, and our growth is now apparent to the natural eye. Entering our very own forest of change leads us to new experiences, deeper ambition, enriched courage, sustained stamina, and the authentic ability to give of ourselves.

The Weight of Crystals

by Trenton Bridges

Drip, drip, drip; that was the only sound I heard. I looked up to see where the dripping sound was from, and soon saw a faint glimmer of a water droplet fall from the edge of my home’s many shingles to the orange floorboards of my patio below, shattering like glass with a small plop. However, it wasn’t the droplet that made the sound I was looking for, the one that I had anticipated when I left the warm, cozy house that was mere feet behind me. I hoped that I wasn’t mistaken, that I wasn’t wasting time looking for the one thing that never came.

Then I heard that dripping sound again, only faster than before.

I looked up to see the now dark sky shedding tear-shaped crystals that fell around me rapidly. The dripping sound had all but been silenced by the cacophony of the descent of the crystals with a roar of pitterpatters.

It was here.

Soon, my hands grew cold and wet against the now-glistening glass table where I sat, my burgundy hoodie turning two shades darker with every drop that landed on it. The already-cold floorboards became damp as I felt not only wetness touch my feet, but the crystals crash into them. Cold jitters flowed through me as each crystal drop struck out indiscriminately. Yet

I found comfort in the rain.

It didn’t take long for the wind’s howls to roar around me, as if even the wind grieved. The clouds rumbled above me, groaning with cries that echoed through the sky as hot flashes of light.

Yet I still found comfort in the storm.

The wind whipped and swished around me like an invisible scarf as a cold breeze kissed my damp fingers, caressed my chubby cheeks, and held me from my already wet back.

The weight of all my pain and struggles suddenly cascaded through my very bones with one singular question.

How could I even begin to hope that I could do anything like mom and dad?

My own crystals began to flow from my eyes, glistening like the glass table in front of me. They streamed down my cheeks, dragging thick lines along them as they burned against my skin. The burning

sensation ceased as the wind’s breeze and the sky’s cold crystals kissed my cheeks.

However, another question began to reverberate through me, making my eyes shed more of the painful crystals life wanted me to become.

How could I be anything more than what I am?

For all my life, I was merely a piece of coal, yet to have been hardened into the diamonds that my family already had become. Soon, my life became a blur of rapid change and strictness when I turned the humble age of eighteen.

I was not prepared. I was not ready, and I knew it.

I knew it the moment I walked across that small stage to get my high-school diploma; I knew it when all the eyes of my family were on me to either go to college or to get a job right after I graduated.

I knew that the world would eat me alive if I dared to move from where I was. Even in the storm, I felt the hot sparks sting my back as the steel jaws of the world gnashed ravenously behind me. They were so close that I could feel its metallic breath on me, ready to tear me apart.

What can I do? I can’t…I can’t…Do anything.

The agony of despair and frustration overwhelmed me as my vision became blurry.

Why do I have to be so useless?! Why can’t I do anything right?! Why am I so…weak?

But when I wanted to hug the only one there to comfort me, to cry about my fears of the unknown; I realized that there was no one with me.

No one was coming to save me, no one was coming to help me, no one cared. The only one that could hold me close, like I wanted my mother to, was myself.

It was in that storm that I finally, after so long, broke. I sobbed uncontrollably with the little joy that I had that no one would stop me; no one would confront me, scolding me for my childishness; telling me to grow up. I had finally found the one thing that I had wanted for so long.

Sanctuary.

But it was still hollow.

The storm once again enveloped me in its cold, painful embrace, holding me close. But I didn’t care.

I simply sat and cried bitter, searing tears; for the journey to become a crystal would break many coals like me.

I look out at the water, the waves are big, blue, and boundless.

A breeze blows across my cheeks, a slight chill in the summer air.

There is a brief absence of thought as I gaze into the distance, into the unknown.

Silence surrounds me for what feels like forever, but only a few seconds pass.

My thoughts return as quickly as they left, and I realize I should recast my fishing pole.

A Piece of Peace

by Krystal Lovelady

The Movie’s Ending

by Amy Laessle-Morgan

I had always felt this way about him, I am not sure if he knew this then, however, this fondness, this trust, this whatever this was, this was rare to find, and I appreciated the similarities we shared and equally the differences too.

On an overcast day that spring when he accepted my offer to go see a movie, it felt like the sun was shining on me from a whole other direction.

I grabbed onto him like kite strings floating above the horizon and gave myself permission to live in this moment, no matter how fleeting I knew it was.

Loss brings with it an appreciation of the “little things” like crumpled up receipts lining cupholders, a refreshing reminder of the human condition. Feeling like I no longer had the energy to survive another moment, I hummed along to The Smiths lyrics playing on repeat in my head, “driving in your car, I never never want to go home” and I truly didn’t.

Shared laughs became life preservers.

Navigating through the labyrinthian maze of what was downtown parking, we finally found a spot. It was such a novelty to be concerned with something as trivial as missing opening previews. The rain began to pour, and he told me he would meet me inside. As I began to run toward the shelter of the glowing marquee, I stopped and turned around to watch him fumble with his keys, getting soaked while he fed money into the meter. I didn’t want to leave him, half out of guilt he was getting soaked and half because it felt so good just to be here at this proximity.

Steam rose up as the rain hit warm pavement, I thought about how cold the rain felt and how in a few minutes we would be inside the air-conditioned theater, how uncomfortable that would feel, but strangely, nothing felt weird or uncomfortable within that moment.

I’ve never seen anyone love popcorn as much as he did. I don’t think I will be able to look at popcorn the same way ever again. As the movie began, I remember a strong feeling of melancholy washing over me knowing this too eventually had to end.

My mind reminded me insistently, I can’t bear to watch another ending. Veiled in shadows, the darkness disguised the crying, my tears flowed freely as I hoped they wouldn’t catch the lights from the projector’s reflection and be noticed.

There was so much to lose, confusing themes of friendship and love indescribably glossed over this instance of the ephemeral fading matinee. Having someone so close that I thought so much of felt safe. My heart was obliterated but I could strangely feel it beating. I wanted to reach out and hold his hand because I was so scared of so many things then, but I knew it would come across all wrong. The beautiful symmetry of each frame slipped away and the end credits would soon be rolling, our time together was running out.

I knew this anxiousness, the dread of yet another loss, another ending. It was much easier to ignore the truth and sit preserved in this contentment one minute longer.

THE CREATIVES

Brenda Alward began her career as a student at Macomb Community College. She is a former Kindergarten teacher, who received her graduate degree from Oakland University in Reading and Language Arts. She has been a professor at Macomb Community College since 2000. From elementary school, she has enjoyed writing. Her first creative writing piece, “How I Won the War with Russia”, was written in fifth grade and received a creative writing award. Brenda has written several songs for use with the kindergarten classes and for church events. Besides writing, Brenda enjoys embroidery, bike riding and spending time with family and friends. She is the oldest of four and blessed with six nieces and nephews and one great nephew.

Trenton Bridges is a twenty-year-old aspiring writer with a passion for fantasy. Although he might like to write, his interests in writing lie elsewhere from a book on a bookshelf, which started when he was thirteen years old. “It all stemmed from an unusual emotion to associate with a writer’s first spark: anger. It sparked soon after I finished watching a story of an older game, and I loved every second of it. However, as the finale finally approached, that joy died a quick death when the game’s plot ended very quickly with no true stakes. It was merely an outlandish corruption plot-twist that didn’t make sense, nor deepened the overall ending, a depressing end, similar to the narrative that I will share. “The Weight of Crystals” will be a depressing tale of a wailing soul forced to adapt in a cruel world.”

Christopher Bobryk was born and raised in the coastal city of St. Clair Shores and now lives in the river town of Utica. He is an Ecologist and Adjunct Professor at Macomb Community College teaching Environmental Science and Biology. Christopher uses poetry as a tool for creating a deeper understanding of connections between people and ecosystems, and a vehicle to document the many beautiful, intimate moments he experiences with his family. He wants to pass along his passion for the environment to his daughter, Luciana, whose shoes, once reflecting in fresh puddles after an early spring storm, was the inspiration for “White Shoes,

Mirror Puddles.” Christopher has two published works in MI Sunrise Journal (Vol. II, Spring 2019) and received honorable mention in the 2021 Rochester Writers’ Margo LaGattuta Poetry contest for his poem, “Last Line of Light.

Leslie Cieplechowicz is a photographer and writer who developed her craft by working the streets of Detroit as a paramedic and shooting old, historical buildings she found on her runs. Her love of creating unique imagery lead her across the state, then the United States, then globally, where she currently finished shooting in the country of Portugal, documenting its lively culture, diverse people, and vast expanse of classical, ornate architecture. Leslie’s book, Detroit Revealed: A Different View of the Motor City, was released in fall 2022. She currently works as a biology instructor after leaving the road and spreads her love of photography and writing to her students.

Kerri Dettmer has been an English instructor at MCC’s Center Campus since 2000 and has taught all of the composition classes at one time or another. She earned her B.A. (1996) and M.A. (2000) in English at Oakland University along with a B.A. in Performing Arts with a Theater focus (1996). She is an enthusiastic reader, a proud nerd, and a fan of fairy tales, animals that don’t have an unreasonable number of limbs (eight being the maximum), and chocolate. She also realizes this introduction requires a minimum of one-hundred words in it, which she just achieved.

Siete16 Guevara. Son. Brother. Husband. Father. Mexican-American. WordSmith. Siete resides in Sterling Heights with his wife, child, and pets. He is the current Creative/Artistic Director for A.L.A.S. (Artistas Latinx en Accíon Siempre). He has successfully published three books of poetry, a book about Day of the Dead, and two books of poetry written by local 6th Graders. Siete and A.L.A.S. are planning presentations and events once again so be on the lookout for those! Find out more about them at: https://www.facebook.com/ ALAS.Wings2016/

Terry Hojnacki, founder of Sterling Script: A Local Author Collection, works to bring writers and readers together. Through her stories and poetry, her children’s book I Can See With My Eyes Shut Tight, and community involvement, she encourages people to explore their creativity and share it with others. She is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators and a Detroit Working Writers board member. She facilitates the Creative Writers Workshop, coordinates the Local Author Book Sale, and serves on the Library Board of Trustees at the Sterling Heights Public Library. When Terry steps away from the world of books and words, she can be found playing in the garden, practicing Tai Chi, or spending time with her family. Her poem “Tapestry” was inspired by a torn quilt, rewriting her novel, and Kintsugi.

Follow her at www.facebook.com/ terryhojnackibooks or visit her website at www. TerryHojnacki.com

Amy Laessle-Morgan is a poet and Sterling Heights native. She graduated from Oakland University with a Bachelor’s degree in Communication. When not writing, Amy enjoys photography, music, cinema, reading and traveling. She often finds solace between the pages of books or in stacks of vinyl records.

Krystal Lovelady is 36 years old and the single mom of a teenage daughter. She recently quit her 15-year job at an automotive factory to get a degree and become a certified teacher. “When my best friend and I were in our early teens, we started a poem notebook. When I think of writing a poem now, I think about expressing deep thoughts. “A Piece of Peace” is about a time when I experienced what a quick minute of peace was. As I was fishing and waiting for a bite, my mind went totally blank and I noticed I was staring out at the water with no worries to think about. It was a wonderful feeling, compared to me normally having anxiety because my mind is constantly racing.”

Matt Meerhaeghe began his book of collected true stories 15 years ago in the midst of married life,

raising a family in Sterling Heights, MI., managing a career while making every attempt to keep a roof over their heads, food on the table and keeping the lights on. A lot has changed since that time. He now lives in Clinton Township, Michigan, and is closer to the end of his career than the beginning, his kids are now successful “adult” children, the lights stayed on, there is food in the refrigerator, and he is a proud Pappy. “Each time I read this book I can’t help but smile and laugh at the memories that are in my mind’s eye. Although some of the references are somewhat dated, I believe that the readers will recognize the situations and will relate them to their own life events.”

Mark Morgan is a Detroit native, teacher, and poet. His work is featured in The Rising Phoenix Review, Peninsula Poets by Poetry Society of Michigan, and the 2018-2022 editions of Sterling Script: A Local Author Collection by Walper Publishing. Mark also won Landmark Books’ Fourth Annual Haiku Contest in 2018. When not teaching, writing, or working toward his Master’s degree, Mark may be found reading, playing chess, or listening to jazz.

Meg Ritter (Alles) has taught middle schoolers, led writing workshops for elementary students, occasionally produced independent radio and podcast pieces, and now works in the Career Services department at Macomb Community College where she conducts Student Success Seminars. Meg has lived in Ohio, Missouri, California, Illinois—where she graduated from Columbia College—and now resides in the Detroit metro area with her husband and children. Currently she is at work on a memoir about why she considers Chicago— a city she moved to when 21— the place where she truly grew up.

“Mr. Murray: First Impressions”, although fiction, is heavily influenced by Meg’s experience with a high school teacher—a teacher who subsequently changed her life for the better. Educators sometimes don’t realize the impact they can have, especially in young people’s lives. Meg hopes this story can serve as a little reminder.

Growing up in the inner city of Detroit Michigan, Gail Terhune was one of nine children. Her mom was a seamstress for Chrysler and dad a 30+ year firefighter and veteran. Reading was mandatory in her home; and learning carried precedence over leisure and play. Gail enjoyed writing for relaxation and concentration and researching new ideas & making connections with existing thoughts. Although her initial interest in school was Sociology, she obtained her graduate degree in Administration while working full and raising a family. Currently, she works as an Administrative Assistant in Workforce Continuing Education and offers her skills in non-credit programming at Macomb Community College. “When there is no book or pen in hand, I enjoy the outdoors including walking scenic paths and bike riding. I have been married for 34 years, have two daughters and sons-in-law, in addition to our five amazing grandchildren. The inspiration for this piece was perseverance in light of change and challenge.”

Ashley Shar is an avid tea enthusiast who lives life with her mind in the clouds, thinking about art, literature, and music. When down to Earth, she spends time with her friends, family, in the library where she works, or writing out her newest ideas; trying to breathe life into them. Ashley began writing around 13, and has been dreaming ever since that one day she’ll become a successful author one day. This piece was inspired by what happens to the soul of someone lost among the stars, when they breathe their last breath, from her deep love and admiration for space and the stars. The entire story had to be written within six sentences, per the guidelines of an assignment in one of her last classes before getting her Associates Degree in Art.

MACOMB COMMUNITY COLLEGE BOARD OF TRUSTEES

Katherine Lorenzo, Chairperson | Frank Cusumano, Vice Chairperson Kristi Dean, Secretary | Roseanne DiMaria, Treasurer

Joan Flynn, Trustee | Shelley Vitale, Trustee | Vincent Viviano, Trustee James O. Sawyer IV, Ed.D., College President