Spring 2016 [pt 1] - What If?

July 12, 2369

I arrived at the Earth and Space Coalition outpost here in Texas yesterday. All ten astronauts and the two doctors had to sit through the final ESC mission briefing last night. My cousin Mark is so excited to go on this adventure alongside me. I barely ate my dinner and have been restlessly pacing the room since. It’s hard to imagine we’ll be in space in less than 24 hours.

Dad, I know you were scared when I first decided to join this program, but I’m glad you’ve embraced what we’re doing here. Giving me journals means a lot and I can’t wait for you to read about my journey.

Before I left home, I sat out back using the telescope you gave me on my 12th birthday. It was warm that night—though not as warm as on Texas Isle—and the sky was beautifully clear. I saw so much detail on both moons: the craters on the Moon and the blue-silver surface of Melaer. ESC hopes we find something there that will help protect Earth in the future. I really believe they’re trying to right the wrongs of our past.

That night, the high tide was at its peak so I scanned the water as well, watching the foamy white swells crash. I was so surprised to see a boat out there, rocking violently, its captain braving night time travel between The States.

I wonder if that boat ever made it to its destination. Will people watch and wonder the same when our rocket launches tomorrow morning?

July 14, 2369

It’s been a day since we left Earth. The emptiness of space is overwhelming. We’re able to move around some and look out the windows. Melaer is still a long ways off. Right now I’m watching the Earth grow smaller by the minute. It’s so surreal to see the world at a distance. It makes me think of old pictures from the days of NASA, way back before Mars was destroyed. The United States was whole, yet so little of it remains now.

The power of water is amazing. After the remnants of Mars’s core got pulled into the Earth’s orbit, those chaotic high tides wore down the nation. Now we have our Nevada Isle, which is really Nevada, Utah, Arizona, and California.

There’s still Texas, Virginia, Michigan, and Colorado—and whatever parts of bordering states chunked off with them. The erosion is more gradual now, but will those go under as well one day?

That night, the high tide was at its peak so I scanned the water as well, watching the foamy white swells crash.

I guess you didn’t need a history lesson from me though, Dad, but it’s hard to think of much else right now. I’m just grateful the space program was given enough funding to send astronauts on exploratory missions again. We’ve been taking a lot of pictures and can’t wait to make a before and after comparison. They’ll be much better than the satellite images.

We’ll pass the Moon in a few days. Can’t wait to see Old Glory.

July 15, 2369

Yesterday we spent a lot of time organizing our supplies and making plans for arrival. I’m so excited—I got picked for the first shift! That means I’ll be one of the first to set foot on Melaer. We decided to have four daily shifts, so that means the docs will need to pull doubles. Mark thought that was funny, that he couldn’t escape hospital hours even in space.

ESC contacted us about the most recent probe they sent to Melaer. It failed to report this morning. We’ll be looking for it and hopefully can figure out why all three probes stopped responding. At least it analyzed a bunch of samples over the past few months, but like before, they all came back as negative matches.

Years of scientific theory lean toward Mars’ core being composed primarily of iron, but there may be an unknown element out there still.

July 16, 2369

Apparently we shouldn’t have watched Catastrophe before I left for this mission. My dream last night felt like a replay of every key scene, complete with over-the-top acting and heavy doses of virtual cinematography. The director who thought it depicted our second moon’s origin in a good light shouldn’t be allowed to make any more movies.

It began in a dark meeting room with the group of scientists seeking a solution to the freshwater scarcity of the early 2100s. They all wore white lab coats and goggles, of course. They produced that bizarre scheme to harvest the frozen water on Mars. Seriously, why didn’t anybody stop them?

My dream-movie jumped to the scene where Mars got knocked out of its orbit as layers of the planet stripped away. It hurtled toward Earth and like the history books describe, chaos erupted. That was really the saddest part of it all, how people committed suicide thinking the end was near, or hid away in bunkers, sometimes for months. Some bravely lived their lives with hope, which is good because we wouldn’t have those historical accounts otherwise.

Just as the dream hit the dramatic conclusion of Mars being snagged into our orbital field, I woke up. Thank goodness enough of the planet was gone, so it was smaller than the Moon, otherwise much worse could’ve happened.

Not the most pleasant thoughts to start the day.

July 18, 2369

Dad, it was amazing. The Moon’s craters were beautifully illuminated.

It was Mark’s turn with the camera and he took some fantastic pictures.

Tonight we reach the surface of Melaer. ESC’s predictions seem onpoint and we’re not expecting any trouble landing. We’re so close now it’s like flying into an endless sea of silvery-blue. Both majestic and terrifying.

Who would have thought that such a thing had existed beneath those endless seas of the Martian red desert?

July 19, 2369

I’m sure the broadcasts back home let everyone know about our safe landing by now. We haven’t left the shuttle yet as there was a mechanical problem on-board.

Our refrigeration unit lost power sometime during travel. We didn’t notice so the lettuce, milk, and a few other foodstuffs went bad. We’ve already revised provisions for the remainder of the trip.

Our engineering expert, Jackson, spent a few hours working on the issue. He discovered a short in the wires. Unfortunately he got shocked and suffered some burns. Mark and the other doc, Sarah, fixed him up the best they could, and Jackson finished the job. He doesn’t seem to be suffering any side effects, but we’ll all keep an eye on him for the next couple of days.

Hopefully that’s the worst thing that happens during the mission.

July 20, 2369

I finally set foot on the moon today, Dad. We couldn’t stay out there long because of the cold, but there was enough time to canvas our immediate surroundings.

Melaer’s surface is smooth enough that no debris is present, yet also rough and uneven, and seems to be alive as its strange coloring shimmers. Who would have thought that such a thing had existed beneath those endless seas of the Martian red desert?

We tried using a few tools—shovels, pickaxes, a chisel—to scrape off some samples but all we succeeded in doing was dent and scrape them up. Whatever this material is, it’s unbelievably hard. The second shift went out with some carbon enforced tools, but they’re struggling as well. We might have to use the lonsdaleite blades, which is what the last two probes were equipped with. I just hope they hold out long enough to gather sufficient samples.

Tomorrow we’ll continue mapping as far as our tethers allow. It’s fun to take near weightless bounds across the surface, but a bit terrifying in those few seconds before your feet touch down. Mark thinks I’m crazy, but you always said I was a thrill-seeker like you, Dad.

By the way, Jackson is doing great. The salve Mark and Sarah used on his burns has helped a lot and today he hasn’t needed much medicine for the pain. In another day or two he’ll be worked into the shift rotation.

July 22, 2369

Yesterday was so busy! My shift mapped more, and tomorrow we plan on chaining the tethers to explore further. Sarah and Lilliana are lending me some of their clothes so I can layer and safely stay outside the shuttle a bit longer. The second shift carved out chunks with those blades. They work, but it’s very slow. The third shift finished and the fourth was timed perfectly to get some amazing pictures of The States.

I waved when Nevada passed by and pretended you were waving back.

While I wouldn’t exchange this experience for anything, I miss you a lot, Dad.

July 26, 2369

I’m not sure if the news covered it or if ESC even bothered to contact you. Maybe they didn’t want you to worry.

On the 24th I went out for that longer mapping walk I mentioned before. Jackson went with me, also bundled to abate the cold. The fourth shift had set up a few footholds the night before. We used a chaining system with the tethers to move between them.

Everything was great the first two chains, and Jackson is really adept with the digital mapping device so we were making great time. But when we reached the last foothold, my tether snapped while I was mid-bounce.

I always thought that when people were faced with their death they’d envision their life playing out, but that definitely didn’t happen. All I saw was

Maybe he was berating me for foolishly giving you my word that I’d return home unharmed.

Jackson’s horrified face yelling something, but my ears must have shut down because I had no idea what he was saying. Maybe he was berating me for foolishly giving you my word that I’d return home unharmed.

Then he was bounding, and I really expected his tether to snap as well, but it held. The man must be a giant, Dad, because he managed to grab my line and haul me back down. I don’t really remember much else aside from a rushed blur of movement toward the shuttle. When I woke up yesterday, Mark told me I’d been hyperventilating so much that I sucked my oxygen tank dry.

So Jackson’s quick actions saved me in more ways than one. He deserves a medal. I told him as much, but he brushed it off and said he knew I would’ve done the same. When we get back home I’ll make sure his wife and kids know what a fantastic man they have.

July 28, 2369

Today the doctors confirmed I could be put back into the rotation. It’s our last day on the surface. Yesterday the second shift found the latest probe and we spent most of the afternoon and evening getting it back in working order.

Turns out the thing had hit a rut and damaged a circuit board when it tipped over. Though it righted itself and continued traveling, the damage had stopped its flow of communication with ESC. We replaced then reinforced the part, confirmed that it was transmitting once again, and set it loose.

As it awkwardly rolled away, it stopped to take a sample from the area we’d been cutting into. We all got a much needed laugh out of that.

On the fourth shift we’ll be busy ensuring the last of our supplies are back on the shuttle and taking some final pictures. By the time we’re out there the Moon should pass between Melaer and Earth. I imagine you’ll be watching the sub-lunar eclipse through my telescope.

August 1, 2369

ESC cleared us for departure three days ago and we’ve been in transit since. Today we watched a wave of meteors plummet ahead of us toward Earth.

Kylie swore they looked red. Maybe there are pieces of Mars still floating around after all these years.

When they hit Earth’s atmosphere, the chunks flared so brightly. Perhaps some were big enough to make it to the Great Pacific Ocean. No doubt they’ll show it on the news tonight.

We’re expected to land late tomorrow. It’s kind of scary watching the world grow as we head toward it. We have a lot of final preparations before entering the atmosphere, so we’ll be preoccupied.

Any troubles we encountered were worth it for our future.

August 3, 2369

Though facing death will likely be my most potent experience for years to come, re-entering Earth’s atmosphere has to be second. No one admitted it aloud, but I’m certain we were all terrified something would go wrong. We held hands the entire time, listening to ESC broadcasting our progress toward landfall.

The shuttle got so hot it made me think about the old deserts of Earth.

Scorching, dry, uncomfortable. Everything shook, and the clattering metal still rings in my ears.

Kylie and Collins landed us flawlessly. At first, no one moved while ESC prattled on, asking for updates. They probably thought we’d cracked. Jackson finally snapped out of our daze, rousing us into action.

The best part of stepping off that shuttle was seeing your face, Dad. Though I have the utmost respect and trust in my crewmates, nothing beats family. It will be many years before I leave our island again.

I got a chance to meet Jackson’s family while you were with Aunt Helen and Mark, by the way. His adorable twin boys climbed all over him after I told them how brave their daddy had been. He tried to downplay it until his wife, Marian, shushed him. It was pretty funny, but you can tell they get along brilliantly. She exchanged numbers with me and they’re already planning to come visit when the kids are on winter break.

August 5, 2369

You asked me about the journals this morning, so this is my final entry.

It’s so wonderful being back home. The city’s welcome party for Mark and me yesterday was a lot of fun. Seeing so many old school friends and the families they’re starting was a poignant reminder of the importance of that fact-finding mission. Any troubles we encountered were worth it for our future.

My ESC agent called to tell me the results from their sample analysis.

Teams have been working on them non-stop since we unloaded the shuttle.

They’ve discovered a new metal which will be added to the Periodic Table of Elements soon, once it’s named. I suggested they keep up with the “M” names and call it Mithril.

The metal is so durable they’ll be able to use it in reinforcing houses, buildings, and ships, which should help as erosion increases and during the violent, erratic storms we get. When I pointed out we didn’t bring back nearly enough to do much with, ESC said they’re going to try cloning it. It would transform our lives if they succeed.

Silly though, isn’t it? The same type of people that destroyed a planet now need to clone what’s left of it to protect Earth from the mistakes of our past.

I guess we can only move forward, Dad. Hopefully this time it’s for the best.

To Do List

by Olivia Fleet

Don’t drink. Don’t smile too much.

What were you wearing? What did you say to him?

Cover the bruises on your neck with makeup. Maybe wear a scarf. It’s September, it’s hot. You’re melting.

One day you will stop flinching. You won’t feel his hands on you forever.

“You should’ve known better.” Repeat this to yourself until it sounds real.

Walk barefoot outside. Sink your feet into the ground. Take a shower in the morning. You have bruises on your legs. They almost look like flowers. Your lip is bleeding.

Drive home with the sun in your rearview mirror. Turn the radio on. Call your best friend. Make sure you’re calling to say hi, nothing is wrong. You’re okay.

Notice you’re breaking the speed limit. This is your fault and so was he.

Fall asleep in a cold sweat.

When you look in the mirror, all you can see is your eight year old self.

Dig your fingernails into your thighs during the daytime, each mark like a crescent moon. Try to remember this body is yours.

Whisper the truth to your ceiling at night. Hear rape jokes in the hallways. Keep waking up.

Tell your friend the truth behind a pine tree on Halloween. She hears you. You hear you.

Say it aloud more often. Think of your cousin. Think of her walking home in the dark and not being afraid. Think of braiding your best friend’s hair and hoping she has never been hurt. Think of knowing she has been.

Keep waking up.

Cronies Night Out

by Ann Hosler

The clock struck 5:45 as the bus rolled up to the next stop on the line.

Out tumbled five eccentric ladies, with sleek black tresses and magnificent accessories. They flocked together for the short trek down the road and, veering off onto a dirt path, headed into the Bingo Barn.

The clock struck 5:55 as the ladies swooped through the doorway and

were greeted by the barn’s proprietors. He wore a red top hat capped by a feather, and she styled a sparkly new cowboy hat. Everyone shared their greetings and, accepting their bingo cards, nested into their seats.

The clock struck 6:00 as the first bingo numbers were called. Minutes

slowly ticked by and the tension grew as each of the ladies’ cards became more covered. “O-73,” the man squawked in his high-pitched tenor. “B-7. N-32.”

The clock struck 6:12 when the first lady, her shoulders warmed by a

white knitted wrap, sprung up to chirp “Bingo!”. The other ladies looked on with a touch of envy as her win was confirmed, and she preened a bit for the crowd as she settled back into her seat.

The clock struck 6:15 by the time the ladies calmed down and the cards

were cleared for the second round. This one went by quickly, with the bespectacled lady swooping her limbs in excitement while chanting, “Bingo! Bingo Bingo!”. Adjusting her red jeweled necklace she settled back down, nodding graciously at her win.

The clock struck 6:28 when the third and fourth ladies bounced up from their perches to exclaim “Bingo!” simultaneously. One had ridiculous blue feathers accentuating her outfit, and she shot a baleful glare over to the shier of the two, the one who had adorned her head with feathery black holly for years.

They had to share the glory when the red top hat one acknowledging that both had fairly won the round.

The clock struck 7:06 when a hiccupped “BingoooOOoooo!” sounded off from the back of the barn. Wearing a fashionable red scarf and glittery blue shoes, she winged out around her table, stumbling to the ground. The sparkly cowboy hat one pulled the lady back to her feet and discretely slipped the bottle of Old Crow liquor from the table. Confirming the win, the lady spun around in glee, the others laughing at her expense.

The clock struck 7:30 when the proprietors said their goodbyes to the lady for the night. Flocking to either side of their drunken companion, they returned to the bus stop to wait for the next pickup. The ladies compared the silly trinkets they acquired from their wins of the night, reveling again in each other’s company and the heady competition set aside until next week.

This ekphrasis is based on a piece of art of the same name created by Beth Bynum of Kingsley, MI.

No More Fear

by Alexandra Johnston

It’s nearly ten p.m. I’m closing Espresso Bay downtown. I’m alone. I step onto the snowy street. The door swings closed behind me, and locks. I don’t have a key. Across the street, two guys stand in front of The Franklin. I recognize them—they were in the shop earlier. They didn’t buy anything, but they sat in the back and watched me closely. I stay on my side and cross Front Street toward Ecco. They cross to my side and follow, slowly at first, but when I enter the parking lot they speed up considerably. I pull out my phone and make a call, and they back off a bit, but watch me until I get into my car and drive away.

Every night when I walk to my car, my heart races.

It’s near the end of the night at Lulu’s Bistro. I’m just the hostess, but so far tonight, one man has tried to bring me a drink. Another took my picture. It’s dark. There’s only one guy left in the bar-side of the restaurant. I pick up a dirty wine glass to bring to the kitchen, when the guy grabs my arm. He offers me a drink, which I decline. He demands to know why not. I laugh it off nervously while I look for the bartender. He smells like bourbon.

“Here, try this,” he says, and as I open my mouth to protest he shoves a spoonful of crème brulee between my lips. I pull free and run to the kitchen. I’m later reprimanded for the incident.

I’m sick of being afraid.

Since these two incidents, there have been many more weird, almost-threatening customers. My regulars at Espresso Bay have gotten worried and stayed with me on more than one occasion. Every night when I walk to my car, my heart races.

What if I didn’t have to be afraid of the night? What if my (all-female) coworkers and I could walk to our cars without being catcalled by the roving bands of drunk guys that always seem to be hanging around downtown? What if I didn’t have to be terrified the homeless guy who’s been hanging around will be waiting when I’m out?

I’m sick of being afraid.

What If

there was a space for your story in this magazine?

Mother’s Pantoums: A Life...

…With Gratitude

If I always remember children’s curiosity no spite when dismantling my organized piles as pens become corrals and notes adorn dragons what a wonder-filled world

…Without Guilt

by Alissia J.R. Lingaur

If the pang of failing at motherhood disappeared when I make you hurry and dress for snow so I can leave you, our weekly ritual that often interrupts a story or elaborate playscape

No spite when dismantling my organized piles instead you rebuild them in complicated and interesting ways what a wonder-filled world your brain, the keeper of the perfect thought Instead you rebuild them in complicated and interesting ways your sketches peopled with queens, villains, horses your brain, the keeper of the perfect thought a snaggle-tooth smile erupts on your face Your sketches peopled with queens, villains, horses curiosity manifested in grays and silvers a snaggle-tooth smile erupts on your face as pens become corrals and notes adorn dragons

When I make you hurry and dress for snow your feet are swept in a wandering whirlpool that often interrupts a story or elaborate playscape frustration seeps from my lips Your feet are swept in a wandering whirlpool as I reel you to shore and your empty boots frustration seeps from my lips you, a three-foot imp with eyes sparkling As I reel you to shore and your empty boots you sing, “I love you, ma-ma” you, a three-foot imp with eyes sparkling so I can leave you, our weekly ritual

…With Generosity

If parents recognized each other instead of judging this journey would be less lonely a world of joy and yes, yes, yes rather than not now, hurry up, please don’t scream at me

…Without Grief

If you had lived you’d be seven now a freckle-faced, red-haired beauty, I’m sure with a name like Gwendolyn, or Adan, or Bly

This journey would be less lonely when we help each other rather than not now, hurry up, please don’t scream at me a stranger giving his bus seat to a mom with babe asleep When we help each other our days brim with support, a net of hands a stranger giving his bus seat to a mom with babe asleep easing the collective burden of the next generation Our days brim with support, a net of hands a world of joy and yes, yes, yes easing the collective burden of the next generation if parents recognized each other instead of judging

You’d be seven now both a younger and an older sister with a name like Gwendolyn, or Adan, or Bly you would be Lingaur-tall or Riling-solid Both a younger and an older sister with blue eyes you would be Lingaur-tall or Riling-solid your temperament like dry autumn leaves, your birth season With blue eyes a freckle-faced, red-haired beauty, I’m sure your temperament like dry autumn leaves, your birth season if you had lived

Untitled

by Megan Yagle

If men knew the fear of going out alone, would still highly doubt that it’s the fault of rapists?

Would they even get pissed that no one listened to their shouts?

10 of 110 (aka driving)

by Nancy Tucker

It’s 6:30 and I drag my briefcase to my car, pull out of the parking lot and join the snake of cars heading home. The white line becomes my guide as darkness slips down behind me. I’m on the road again, Willie. Driving my life away, Eddie.

I eat flattened fruit ‘n’ pastry bars from a side pocket in my purse and wish for pasta in Alfredo sauce or a beer with a juicy burger. But I’m driving, driving, driving, so there’s no hope of that.

Armenian Way

by Gabby Dewey

(Jessie, age 17, ceremony in 18 hours)

Tomorrow is my birthday. My 18th birthday. My mom says that I shouldn't be worried about the ceremony, but I am. How could I not be? What if something goes wrong and I don't get to find out? What if I get the wrong one?

What is the right one? How will I know what one is right?

What if I’m not normal?

What is normal?

Here in Armenia, we grow up not really knowing what our sexuality type is. We learn about gender as we grow up, but we don't know until we get to our 18th birthday. People used to fight about it and wars were formed over it, so they have changed the way sexuality is approached. It has been that way since the fall of the last great empire. Both of my sisters have gone through it and both are fine, but I'm worried. What if I'm not normal? What is normal?

My dad keeps assuring me that I will always be normal, no matter how I get assigned, but I still worry. Will I lose my friends? Will I be like my sisters? I just don't know and it's not ok.

(Meri, age 22, heterosexual)

Jessie’s 18th birthday is tomorrow. I worry that she won’t be happy with her assignment. Both Mel and I know that she is a girl, but she doesn’t. It was nerve wracking for me when I went through the ceremony. I can only imagine what it will be like for her.

She keeps asking mom if she has to go, and mom is even beginning to worry. I’m not worried that she will be different than anyone, but I know she worries. Dad knows the truth, but he has always hoped for a boy. Who knows, maybe Jessie will be dad’s boy. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. I just hope she is fine with what she ends up with.

(Mel, age 24, pansexual)

Jessie is going through her ceremony tomorrow. I hated mine. Well, I did at first. It put a label on me and I wasn’t ok with it. They didn’t know me.

Why did they get to label me? They said I was pansexual and that frustrated me because none of my friends were. I didn’t even know what it meant at first. I did accept it after a few years.

They didn’t know me. Why did they get to label me?

Meri is the only heterosexual one in our family and I don’t think that will change. I really think Jessie is going to be homosexual. Our family will be a fruit basket after that. Dad would love that too. Mom wouldn’t, but she would never say it to anyone. I just know her too well not to see it. She is worried that Jessie will turn out that way. I know she will still love her, but she will struggle with it more than a little bit. Dad will act like it bothers him, but we all know it won’t.

I just want Jessie to be ok with whatever comes out of it.

Naked and What It Brings

by James Logston

In the heat of a mid-summer day, I had an epiphany that would change the way I look at the world. I was walking through the woods with a group of girls on a scavenger hunt. We were all campers at Crystal Springs Recreational Camp, which is a church camp in Dowagiac, Michigan. It was an extremely humid August day and we were all sweating up a storm. I got so hot I just naturally took off my shirt. I heard a girl behind me say “Oh man, I wish I could do that!” I almost responded with “Why don’t you?” Not that I wanted to see them without their shirts on—I just didn’t want them dying from heat stroke. I then started thinking about how sad that fact is. I can remove my shirt which shows off my body while these poor girls have to sweat in the sun. That’s when I started asking: why is it that society shuns a woman’s body? Why are their bodies so taboo that it creates such an inconvenience for them?

Why are their bodies so taboo that it creates such an inconvenience for them?

What would society be like if we were all naked? Like if seeing someone in their birthday suit would be the same as seeing them in a normal suit.

The only reason we would wear clothes would be to keep warm or be fashionable. People wouldn’t have a clothing fetish and lust to see more of a person. We would stop seeing ourselves as sexual objects and be just people. We are all born naked, why don’t we stay naked?

I am going to make a confession. It’s personal, but it is super important to this argument. I once stepped out of my house naked just to see what it would feel like. I lived in the middle of nowhere and it was three in the morning. I just finished with a shower and saw that the thermostat read eighty-two degrees. So I opened my back door and stepped outside. It truly was the most freeing experience I have ever had. It just felt so natural to not have to hide myself indoors.

I felt like everyone should be able to feel that. They shouldn’t shame their body and hide it. We should be able to respect each other, be open to the realness of the body.

We are all born naked; it’s society that covers us.

If we were all naked, the conversation of sex would be natural, just like the weather. People could ask important questions about their body and could get real answers. They wouldn’t feel so closed off while going through puberty or could talk about having attractions to the same sex. Once the body becomes a normal subject, sex wouldn’t seem dirty or wrong. People wouldn’t feel ashamed for having sexual desires. Women’s breasts wouldn’t be so suffocated by bras.

They would be seen as another section of human anatomy. Our bodies and genitals shouldn’t seem evil, they should be a fact of life.

What if we were all naked? We wouldn’t fear being judged because different body shapes would be accepted. With this all said, sex would be able to reach its full potential, which is connecting with someone on a deeper level. We could be free in public and not have to hide. We are all born naked; it’s society that covers us. If we were all born naked and stayed it, those poor girls from the camp would have been able to feel the whips of the wind on their backs.

My Mind is Sick

by Mike Liu

While sitting by the lunch table looking out the window I start to imagine something terrible What if the trees never go green would the spring come again What if the sun rises with black would the buildings freeze and crack What if those birds suddenly fall off would my dinner menu have more value What if those cars are troubled and doubled would I be able to walk on the cars What if a running car crashes into the window would I then lose the point for this item What if that man, laughing with three girls, dies would I be happy to give him a burial Think something happier What if a pretty woman comes for a date Oh, you are thinking too much baby Now, go to your class

Heat Swap

by Corey Boudrie

The middle of summer and you wear a coat.

Those around you giving looks.

People wearing swimwear or sitting on their boat, assuming your body in those layers cooks.

The ground snow-covered and you wear shorts and tees, while everyone else wears what you do in summer.

The snow burns, but others wonder if you’ll freeze, the icy warmth soothing though others think winter a bummer.

Your temperatures have always been reversed, when hot is cold and cold is hot.

Others think you’re cursed, the opposite of typical, but a curse it’s not.

People may sit on their pedestal and call you a freak, Yet you ignore the remarks since you know you’re unique.

Connected

by Nichole Hartley

Technology is an ever-changing part of our lives. From cell phones to internet and TVs to flying through space, technology is all around us. It is quite amazing what has been developed in the past hundred years, and even more amazing how rapid technology has evolved in the past couple of decades. We now have the ability to access bank accounts, social networking, television shows, internet radio, email, and games right in the palm of our hands. That being said, what is out there in front of us? Have we lost sight of, and connection to, the things that have been here for thousands of years?

As helpful as technology can be, we take it for granted. We rely on it to find jobs, keep in touch with each other, use it for school and work—and that’s only covering communication. As the number of factories continue to grow, it is rare to find anything handmade anymore. Our society is becoming a slave to technology—taking it for granted and losing a sense of who we, as humans, once were. We’re losing the instinct to find our way through the world without the aid of an electronic map or machine.

When I lived in a secluded tourist town in southern Utah, I experienced this very battle of technology versus nature. People would drive into town, hoping for cell phone reception and all the modern conveniences, despite being in the middle of the desert. They would come to the store where I worked and proudly exclaim they were going to hike through the Fiery Furnace (a maze of red stone walls in the middle of Arches National Park). My first question to them was always, “Do you have enough water?” The majority would say yes, and tell us they had a guide as well, but there were a few who looked at us with surprise.

Why bring more water when they could rely on their cell phones if they were to get lost? People have become so dependent on technology that they have lost this basic instinct for survival.

It may seem that I am against technology altogether. This is not true: I own and rely on many electronic items including my phone, computer, DSLR camera, and GPS unit (just to name a few). I am currently going to school for Visual Communications, which is heavily reliant on computers and internet, as well as the people who also rely on those items for their businesses or to get through the day. I know that there is no way to stop the advance of technology short of an electronic apocalypse, and I don’t believe that we should try to stop it. I do feel, however, that we have grown away from our roots, and have let it tear us away from the important interactions that we, as humans, yearn for.

As helpful as technology can be, we take it for granted.

There are many ways to obtain the connection to ourselves, to each other, and to nature that we have grown away from. By understanding how technology has advanced over time, rather than just taking advantage of it, we will become well-rounded individuals who in return respect technology, as well as where our products came from. I was lucky enough to grow up before digital cameras, and I learned how to process film, and even made a camera from an oatmeal box—batteries not included, or necessary. This has generated in me a great respect for how cameras have advanced over time, and I feel privileged to have been able to experience (in a sense) what cameras were like before electronics took over.

Though technology can often be a burden, it can also help bring us together.

We can also step away from the technology we have at hand—away from computers and laptops, away from work, and get out to experience the world around us. A road trip is an excellent way of taking people out of their comfort zones. While I do use technology to help me plan and navigate, I try to put it away to step out into the world and experience what has been there for hundreds of years. By taking detours, and putting the navigation devices away, I force myself to commit to memory where I am, creating a map of my own, helping develop my instincts and allowing me to be more confident in myself.

Though technology can often be a burden, it can also help bring us together. Throughout the past few years I have traveled to many spectacular places, both in the United States and South Korea. Thousands of pictures have been taken, shared through Facebook, viewed on my laptop, and printed. Every one of these practices includes some sort of technology in an attempt to share my experiences with friends and family when they couldn’t be there with me.

I love telling the stories of the large grizzly bear I saw in Yellowstone National Park, the beautiful slot canyons in Page, Arizona, and the elaborately painted temples in South Korea. But the stories and pictures cannot compare to sharing a quiet moment with someone while watching the last sliver of light slide below the horizon of Lake Michigan. Cameras and phones help to record the moments in life that we want to share with someone, but sometimes we need to get lost in the experience—that is something we feel, connecting us to nature and to each other.

What I urge you to do now is find somewhere that you would like to visit, and use limited technology to get there. While you are there, experience where you are and whom you are with. Forget about time, forget about the laundry that was left at home, and forget about work for a day. Live in the moment.

Listen to your world. Take in the sights and smells around you. Take advantage of the fact that you can travel, whether it is a hike behind your home, or flying to another country. This will strengthen the bond between yourself and your fellow traveler, and ultimately allow you to reconnect with the world.

Comprehensive Sexual Education

by Alyssa Cullen

In the world and culture I live in, students very rarely receive sexual education. If they do, they receive it in high school, often after they have already started having sex, and it is done poorly and inaccurately. This makes me wonder, what would happen if we brought professionals in to teach sex ed. starting from the time we are in kindergarten? I know, from our cultural point of view this seems absolutely insane--but hear me out. Growing up the only sexual education I ever got was what I figured out myself, and that left me very vulnerable. I do not believe that having comprehensive sexual education would solve all sexual health problems, but I do believe that ignorance is never bliss. While looking through different comprehensive sexual education programs I found a guide of age-appropriate lesson plans from the Advocates for Youth.

If comprehensive sexual education was instituted from kindergarten to 12th grade according to this plan there would be fewer STI’s, fewer unintended pregnancies, less bullying, more respect of others, an encouragement of healthy relationships, and improved body image in youths. Teens, like me, would know, understand, and love their bodies, practice safer sex, and would just generally know how to make informed decisions about their sexual practices.

Advocates for Youth: advocatesforyouth.org/3rs-curric-lessonplans

Medley of Youth

by Ann Hosler

A three year old’s eyes light up What if we don’t have legs, he asks We would have to crawl like incher worms And drink from bowls instead of cups The five year old looks skyward and wonders What if there were no more summers We’d never get to go swimming All that would be left to do is ice skating And she doesn’t know how to do that yet An eight year old springs up, excited What if people could do anything they wanted We could fly, or leap over buildings in one jump You could teleport anywhere you wanted; that would be much easier (Except people would be teleporting on each other, he giggles) The eleven year old claims this would change the world What if her family won the lottery They could donate money and help people buy expensive medicine Instead of getting cooks or having parties And not do anything fancy, like move into a mansion That eleven year old isn’t done yet What if people stopped polluting, she pondered She wouldn’t fear the sun’s rays And people would live longer The air would be cleaner and wouldn’t hurt your lungs Fish would stop going extinct; the food chain wouldn’t break (And sharks would stay where they should be, she insists)

The sixteen year old takes his turn What if global warming became more severe Icebergs would melt and oceans would rise Cities would be submerged, and people can’t live underwater (Unless they’re mermen, of course, he adds) There would be huge seasonal changes Nothing would be the same

A seventeen year old also weighs in What if there wasn’t anyone you could trust We would always be alone, she says And probably seclude ourselves from the world

An eighteen year old digs deep What if there was never any daylight There would be nothing, really, she thinks The world as we know it would pretty much cease to exist

The nineteen year old’s eyes sparkle with mischief What if the grass was blue, she posits There wouldn’t be much definition between the ground and the sky It would almost be like we were floating

If Ever in a Fire

by Liam Strong

In a fire, you stand, read the air and its failing respiration, move in all the contortions forgotten from your leisure. The only way to test your reflexes, isolation, and mind has never boiled to this degree before. Now you know how your mother’s burnt cookies felt, tossed prior to tasting, unwanted. Burning a flavor so jealously bitter, mockingly black and sarcastic of sweet. Everything around you crumbles like incinerated flour overdosed with flame. Turmoil the greatest fuel in this situation, to get you on your feet. Let’s survey your circumstances: this could be one of many options. A dream, an intention, a mistake, a crime against you. The foundation of the house depresses under its own collapsible influence, ribs of trusses snapping like wishbones, tile and carpet bruised with black eyes. Everything is falling, even you, bowing down to the besmoked aura.

All you want to know is the time, to formulate a possible reason--as if that will lessen the heat. You could look all around, in every forgotten corner, but the blood rustic flicker hewn over the walls you painted years ago belittles the “everything” you owned, shriveled below the worth you granted it. Your furniture like smoldering prunes. Your kitchen a kindling sea of mercury shimmer. Take your time, really, watch your world burn. Watch the things you own shrink, commit suicide, cry, or remain steadfast in their designated place. Forget trying to stop this. Keep your arms at your sides at all times and feel the sway of heat, a rickety breeze of wood cascading to the floor. You are a walking ruin. Wondering if your eyes are sweating or if your body is being sautéed. As if in death your body could extinguish a path out. Think about all that you’ll have after the fact. You’ll be starting off fresh.

If College Was Free

by Sarah Schaub

What if college was free?

I dream about this as I lay beneath an NMC pine tree.

Imagine being able to travel the world, and explore the Dead Sea. I have so much debt, to the tenth degree, I would to be able to be relaxed and be full of glee I’ve asked one of my friends, “What if college was free”?

They said, “How could it be? And it’s not like all Americans will agree.”

I said, “I know, people would slap their knee if college was free.”

College students wouldn’t have to eat Ramen noodles full of carrots and peas, they could go on vacation, shopping sprees and ski.

I think having no college tuition would be the key to let people decide to higher their education or be carefree.

But only the fortunate ones can make that decision and I think they agree that others will be able to join them in that decision, but only when college is free

Walking was a challenge to Trex—it was harder than the virtual map made it seem. At home, his computer station was set up in a stationary semicircle around him, so his physical movement was out of practice. He zigzagged into a puddle on accident as he tried to navigate the dark streets. Normally, his HUD displayed neon-lit cosmetic modules and other environment information, but without his visor interface, the city was just a shadowy, blank husk.

Scratching the back of his auburn head, he glanced around, but there was nobody out—not at this late hour, not in the last century. Only a faint, blue light came from the windows towering above him. Night life was very much alive, but not on the streets. He tapped his fingers on his arms habitually; disconnected, he was missing a lot on this little adventure.

But he’d needed a power core for his systems—couldn’t do anything without one really. These days, they lasted so long that he hadn’t thought about what would happen when it quit. He’d had to navigate the city without GPS, the virtual map, or any devices at all. Thankfully, he found the technician and acquired a new power pack as well as some charge to his old one.

Now the trick was to find his way home. Out here, everything was slightly blurry; even squinting didn’t help that much. This was a screen he couldn’t enlarge.

Then, his eye caught something flash across the street. Trex’s head snapped up. Shuffling to the fence, he unconsciously hooked his fingers through the holes as he stared out into the junkyard. Mountains of discarded equipment and materials covered the other side; there was little else he could detect in the dark.

Only a faint, blue light came from the windows towering above him.

Several moments went by, but the tiny flicker appeared again—a beeping of green. In the brief moments the flash was visible, he caught the outline of something vaguely human-shaped.

That was all it took for him to seek the entrance.

Inside the scrapyard, his footing was even less steady. Shells of old computer gear shifted beneath him, exposing crusted wires and parts that had been gnawed on by the pests that still haunted the city.

The flashing turned out to be a distress light—the one signaling the last reserve core was dying out in the machine. Lately, he was well-aware of this phenomenon. But not of what the signal was attached to.

The blinking came from a headpiece on one of the early companion bot models. It was one of the first AI prototypes: the ones that looked mostly human but had moved beyond the phase of actually being controlled by real people remotely. This girl had long, straight hair—that was a popular type—and the plates making up her body were smooth and nearly seamless. Still gray-tinted though, from what he could tell in the poor light. Newer ones had synthetic skin.

The light was slowly fading from green to yellow. As he watched, it waned to orange. Once it got past red, it would power down entirely. Trex looked around again, but nobody was there. The companion robot was just an abandoned piece of equipment tossed to the ground.

The spare power core burned in his pockets. As a hint of red appeared, curiosity won out.

Before the bot could die completely, he sat her up, took the refurbished power source, and attached it in the empty space on the back of the robot’s neck. When nothing happened at first, he thought something else was faulty with her, but then he saw the blue-white lines of energy feed through the circuits as the bot’s start sequence initiated.

Energy returned to him, too, at the thought of the unknown, even after all the walking. For a momentary flash, he was worried about his appearance— nobody online cared if he was in a dirty tank top and capris in the cold season—but then he remembered that his cosmetic module was still enabled. He’d appear as normal.

But as the robot awoke from her dead state, he noticed that the hardware on her temples wasn’t normal. One scanner was broken off halfway while the other was gone completely.

Her other sensors were working, though. Once she was fully powered up, her body twisted slightly in his direction. Both of her hands came up and hovered outward. He could see the beeping light on her palms as she registered him. If his interface had been on, it would’ve sent him an alert.

That was all it took for him to seek the entrance.

Her voice was less robotic than he expected. “It appears my… visual input panels are malfunctioning. Am I your new companion?”

“Er…” Trex began, momentarily forgetting how to speak. His fingers absently moved to type the letters. here.”

“Not really.” Not companion in the way she meant, at least. “I found you

She tilted her head, and the realistic fibers for her hair, although damp, tried to flow with her motion. It was a little scary how real she seemed. “Where is… here?”

He shrugged and, remembering she couldn’t see, said, “I dunno. Some junkyard I guess.”

“Oh,” she responded, and even in that one word, he saw her whole form change, as if she had a “proper” setting and was defaulting to casual, just like another person. Her shoulders slackened, and she turned slightly away, attention no longer solely locked on him.

“I remember… the dark, and my systems inaccessible one by one. Was this what they meant when they said I was… obsolete?” she asked. The first models were based more on the people who once operated them. Trex shivered.

“And you… revived me? What is your name?”

He went to speak but then realized he was going to use his online screen name. At the last second, he changed his mind. “Travis,” he said. “Yours?”

“MK-309. I… don’t have a name.”

She said each letter and digit individually. Trex thought maybe he should’ve used his screen name after all.

“Do you want one?” He wasn’t sure what made him ask—maybe it was because she was so close to human, so much like the rest of them.

At her panic, he reflexively took her hand.

It took her a second to respond. Maybe it was due to her system being unused or the laggy AI intelligence, but he thought it was like she was processing the question, like she really understood what it meant and was considering what she wanted.

“Yes,” she answered, and after a minute more, she added, “I am unsure what to do. All of my protocols have been removed.”

“I don’t think you have to do anything.”

As soon as he said it, it became truer—and not just for her. He found himself relaxing too, even though he was still sitting out in the junkyard in the middle of the night. There was no rush to go back home, to pull up his device, or reconnect his visor. That was new.

But not bad.

He just watched her for a little while, as she fidgeted much like a person would. Slowly, the sky around them lightened, and soon, a bright orange glow, much more intense than how he’d found her, peaked over the horizon. Trex made a surprised sound.

The companion bot immediately went on alert, straightening up and flicking her head from side to side, her visual component no longer helpful.

“What is it?”

At her panic, he reflexively took her hand. But he couldn’t look away from the horizon.

“It’s the sun,” he whispered.

The bot was quiet for a moment. “I have no current records of what that looks like.” “…me either.”

It was difficult to look at directly—the vivid colors stretched up through the sky more rapidly as he watched, lightening the dusky night into a bright dawn. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The virtual version didn’t compare.

“Gloria,” he suddenly said.

“Hmm?” the bot questioned, tilting her head again.

“Your name. What about Gloria?”

Travis could feel the light warm his face. Everything became clearer. Before them, the junk repository smoothed out into glowing citrus hills. He didn’t let go of her hand. “… I think that’s a nice name.”

Fight for Our Lives (lyrics) Written and Performed by Amanda Woodruff About this song: “The original idea came to me as I was getting water from the free flowing well in our yard. I thought about how lucky we are to have clean water, and what would happen if the well ran dry.”

When the well ran dry We looked for a livelihood in raindrops from the sky When the storm came through It blew away everything that we were used to When the birds flew away There was nothing left for scientists or religious men to say In the foreign night With a lonesome cry we realized We missed out on the fight For our lives We built an empire of ghosts Just to turn around and watch it all go up in a pillar of smoke What an agonizing joke to know the future was shut up inside many of the books we wrote We just assumed it all would last And never paid attention to the lessons of the past Despite knowing what was right It’s no surprise to realize We missed out on the fight For our lives

With comfortable homes fresh in our mind how we yearn to go back but you can’t unwind time With thirsty throats, eyes dry with smoke we’ll learn to let go control and learn to let nature thrive And live in the light Of a sun that comes and won’t give up The nature of the fight For our lives And the sun will rise...

For our lives

Song available at: youtube.com/watch?v=IvjrrGVk9Iw

Amanda is an NMC graduate of the music program. She is currently a staff member working in the Health Occupations office. She lives in the woods by the river with her family and two dogs. She writes folk pop songs, often inspired by nature. Saxophone and guitar are her main instruments. She also plays ukulele and bass clarinet.

Riding in Cars with Strangers

by Nancy Parshall

On March 9, 2016, world news outlets exploded with the story of Victoria McGrath and Priscilla Perez Torres, two Northeastern University seniors whose Spring Break excursion to Bali dead-ended during a brief layover in Dubai. It’s unclear how the young women met the two Canadian guys, a boxer and his cousin, the ones with the rented yellow Ferrari. They weren’t on the same flight. No one will ever know how the four ended up crammed in the two-seater screaming down a parched boulevard. It is clear that when the Ferrari hit a lamppost and split in half, sending the four mangled bodies flying through the air, that the 25 mph speed limit hadn’t been observed.

“Don’t talk to strangers” doesn’t apply in international travel.

We last heard of Victoria in April 2013 when she survived flying shrapnel at the Boston Marathon bombing. The world saw her picture splattered across front pages, a firefighter carrying her, a do-it-yourself tourniquet wrapped around her bloody leg. We saw her photo again standing on the Boston Red Sox field, reunited with her firefighting hero. She’d faced death head on and won, but a tourniquet couldn’t save her in Dubai. The four bodies were too broken for families to identify. They recommended a local cremation.

The girls’ parents will always wonder how this could have happened.

Did the young men lure Priscilla and Victoria from a hotel bar saying, “Wanna see my Ferrari?” Did they pull up to the airport saying, “Hey, Neighbor.

We’re from Canada. Wanna ride in a Ferrari?” Cautious Priscilla, her future bright having just been accepted into medical school, would never get in a car with strangers.

But “Don’t talk to strangers” doesn’t apply in international travel.

Around midnight on September 1, 1997, the day after Princess Diana’s death-by-car in a French tunnel, I stood outside a nightclub in Capetown, South Africa, with two British travel companions. We’d been out celebrating the completion of our overland expedition from Harare, Zimbabwe to Capetown. For the four weeks, luck had been with us. We’d marveled at the exceptional weather, the lion’s kill, the elephant who changed his mind

about charging our truck. Standing at the curb waiting for a taxi that night, it looked like our luck might have run out. But then, David from Scotland, a middle-aged man dressed in a suit and tie, drove up in his shiny BMW.

“Hop in,” he said. “I’ll take you where you’re going.”

To us, hopping a ride with David-from-Scotland seemed as legitimate as a ride in any South African taxi. When you’re in a foreign country, void of friends, family, responsibilities, you do this. You ride in cars with strangers.

We were all at the hands of men with fast, pretty cars.

I popped in the front seat. Stephen and Graeme climbed in the back

As I reached for the seat belt, David floored the accelerator. The rear end of the car squatted; the front lifted up like a plane on a runway. G-force pressed us into our seat backs as the Beamer flew between skyscrapers. 100 mph through one red light. Two red lights. Three. I looked back. Stephen and Graeme sat in stunned silence, eyes wild with terror.

“Wanna see the coast?” the Scotsman yelled over the roar of the engine.

“NO.” Unison.

David slowed and delivered us to our hostel where the rest of the safari group was still discussing Princess Diana’s death.

Diana. Victoria, Priscilla. Me. We were all at the hands of men with fast, pretty cars. Things could have turned out differently for any one of us.

That night I was luckier than Diana. Than Victoria. Than Priscilla.

Nancy Parshall splits her time between Northwestern Michigan College, where she teaches English, and the Lake Leelanau hobby farm she shares with her husband, David. Before returning home to Michigan, she spent 16 years out in the world. Nancy has worked in England, Australia, and Japan, and traveled in 41 countries. Her writing has been featured in Warmbloods Today, KYSO Flash, and is forthcoming in Dunes Review.

Charles

Shreds of white skin flaked off my emaciated hand as I flexed it, stretching out the tightness gathered in my tendons. Glancing into the wall mirror in my study, I winced at the face that stared back: droopy translucent skin, black irises, and heavy wrinkles. It had been too long since I last revitalized my body.

After grabbing a pair of elbow-length gloves from my desk—it wouldn’t do to not be presentable outside the mansion—I picked up a hooded cloak and tugged everything on as I headed down the hall. My legs were noticeably weaker, so I stepped lightly, taking several minutes to reach the foyer.

My elderly driver, Joseph, was already familiar with this routine and nodded to me as I approached, opening the door and escorting me to the black sedan. I compensated him and my other employees well enough to pay for their full discretion regarding my monthly ritual. A few have stepped over the line through the years; using them as soul sacrifices had been enough to terrify any outliers into submission.

Jackie

The front desk secretary for the phone company that I was just laid off from shot me a look drenched in pity over the top of her reading glasses. I came to a stop and took the envelope holding my pink slip and final paycheck she was holding out.

“Sorry you were one of them, hun.”

I shrugged and stuffed it into one of my pockets, forcing a smile.

“Guess it was time for a change of scenery anyway.”

Waving, I headed outside, walking over to unlock my bicycle from the rack. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to clear my mind from the hell that my life had warped into today. It started when I knocked my cell phone off the counter this morning, shattering the screen and rendering it useless. Then a feral cat chased me nearly nine blocks during my commute. I swear the thing had been foaming at the mouth.

Work itself had not been much better today. Management held a really long meeting this morning, and we all knew that whenever that happened, layoffs occurred. The office held a subdued atmosphere all day as we each waited to hear our fate. When there was only 30 minutes left in the workday, they called thirteen of us into the conference room and delivered the verdict.

So now no job, no phone, no severance pay, and let loose into a volatile work market… I grimaced at thought of another prolonged job search within two years of the last. Maybe I should look into some scholarships to finish out my Accounting degree. I wasn’t even sure how I’d be able to afford next month’s rent, and I didn’t want to be an imposition on my brother financially yet again.

I exhaled slowly and swung onto the bike, pedaling down the road toward the setting sun. Many businesses in our suburbs were already closed for the day, so the number of cars passing by dwindled as I turned further into town.

I stuck close to the curb, knowing that I wouldn’t be highly visible to drivers with the number of streetlamp bulbs out.

The sun hung low in the sky, red and purple hues illuminating the clouds as it neared twilight.

My mind began wandering again as I turned onto another dark side street. Suddenly my bicycle struck an object and jolted me out of my reverie, and I locked my elbows to stop myself from soaring over the handlebars. A groan escaped me as I took in the flat front tire. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the perpetrator—a large chunk of broken glass—lying ten feet back.

Dismounting my limping bike, I scowled at the sky and began trudging the remaining 12 blocks to my apartment complex.

Charles

Joseph guided the car through the streets of Bellevue, driving at a leisurely pace to give me time to take in our surroundings. The sun hung low in the sky, red and purple hues illuminating the clouds as it neared twilight. The car rolled past many quiet houses and businesses, the fading light glinting off of their windows and awnings. I focused on the sidewalks and alleys, knowing that an opportunity would eventually present itself.

As the minutes ticked by, I began to grow impatient. Lances of pain shot through my hands and arms as I tapped out a rhythm against the door.

Movement from a sidewalk garbage can caught my attention, but as a rat scurried down its side I growled in frustration and glared at the rodent. It squeaked in alarm and scampered off through an alleyway.

Flicking my gaze momentarily upward, I realized that twilight had now fallen. The immortality contract was tied to that briefest of moments between day and night. My eyes flared wide as tendrils of excitement flitted through me.

Jackie

Twilight soon replaced the last vestiges of sunlight and a cold wind blew, buffeting me in the face and sending goosebumps down my arm. I zipped up my jacket and pulled the hood tight around my face. I resumed walking only to jump in surprise a few steps later as a rat scurried out from a nearby alley.

After a few calming breaths, I took a few more steps before coming to another halt. I propped by bicycle up on its kickstand and smiled when I noticed headlights turning onto the street. A surge of hope filled me as I began waving my arms to flag the vehicle down. Surely they’d have a phone I could borrow to call my brother. He didn’t live far from here, but I didn’t want to drop in unannounced and chance waking up my infant niece.

Twilight soon replaced the last vestiges of sunlight and a cold wind blew...

Charles

Joseph turned onto another side street. Most of the streetlamps were unlit and I couldn’t see any movement in the long shadows cast by the silent buildings. I cut a frustrated sigh short and straightened in my seat when I noticed a single person ahead, standing near a bicycle on the curb and waving her arms.

My lips painfully cracked as I smiled; leave it to naivety to make soul reaping easy. I carefully tugged my right glove off and leaned forward.

The car slowed as it neared the person – a woman’s face, lips painted cherry red, peeking out from her jacket hood. Decades ago I may have found her attractive, but now she just looked too young, nearly childlike. Euphoria peaked as Joseph began rolling down my car window, causing a surge of adrenaline to burst through me.

As we rolled to a stop, the woman leaned forward, those painted lips parting to speak. Just being this close now was like a drug I couldn’t wait to consume. My arm shot out and I clutched my fingers around her slender neck.

The familiar connection began transferring her soul into my body.

She gasped desperately for breath while I shuddered, waves of both pain and pleasure coursing through me. Her vitality became mine; I could feel my skin tightening, cuts and bruises healing, and muscles regaining their elasticity.

My arm shot out and I clutched my fingers around her slender neck.

My strength now returned, I smirked in amusement while lifting her off the ground. She kicked her legs, knocking the bicycle over, and a surge of life burst into me as a final breath crossed cherry lips. I tossed her away from the car and she landed in a head atop her bike.

Pulling my arm back in and rolling the window shut, I nodded and we resumed driving. On the way back to the mansion, I pulled off the other glove and cloak, dusting some flakes of skin off of my crisp business suit. Joseph glanced over as we approached the mansion’s gate and I grinned in delight, winking one blazing blue eye.

The Silent Wave

by Rachel Harden

First your voice will grate suddenly cracked and swollen.

Squawking like a parrot, tremors strange against the larynx, over time, you only attempt to speak because words clog your throat.

One day, Zurie told her parents she found something bizarre outside, promising to take her voice.

Zurie’s throat began to hurt, but her parents didn’t yet believe such childish fantasies.

At work, her father sweated with an aching throat.

Speaking through coughing fits, he told a colleague, “Just coming down with something,” Zurie’s claim forgotten.

The colleague’s throat swells, he must’ve caught it too.

Before his business trip, of course.

On the airplane, deep in thought, he wonders how to explain this new strangeness of his voice.

Zurie’s teacher senses a bug.

Several children absent, parents describe sore throats, hoarse like having the flu.

Many attending also sick with the same.

Doctors work long days.

People schedule visits revealing an ache and trouble making their voice heard.

Patients suspect laryngitis; other symptoms do not relate.

Touching throats of patients, nothing out of line.

Patients do not embellish, doctors mystified.

How can they treat something intangible to senses?

Work is delayed with so many gone.

Those who stay are paid extra so hard it is to communicate.

Protests break out, buildings shut down, everyone is affected.

Half the population contracted mysterious symptoms.

Numbers continue to rise, cause still unidentified, scientists search for a cure to end this pandemic.

Though the world sounds asleep you still hum with life.

Faced with hardship, you will progress and adapt, even to a silent wave.

Handling Reproduction

by Corey Boudrie

A shake of the hand May lead to reproduction Everyone wears gloves Hands-on approach to children The world a different place.

Human Abstract

by Liam Strong

if my veins pulsed on the outside of my skin you would have killed me long ago or now in the past ten minutes a handshake greeting death concave in my palm i'd be translucent and you'd be seeing every color flowing that you never knew bloomed like a skeleton flower over your being hemorrhaging lifeblood as if your body was all roots my eyes haven't changed those little pockets for you to see the only reminiscent seeds of my former self watching you all stare and go with the smile i cannot grow the false heart gruesome and purple on my chest like a malignance

Back and Back on Your Back

by Julie Dyson

In the moment of orgasm all of human history exploded in your mind’s eye birth, death, pleasure, pain, war, famine, joy the culmination of it all while your body writhes in ecstasy the back and back of humanity meeting your exhalation in the beautiful act of release

The Bitterroot Mountains

by Leigh Fairey

You might be wearing a dress that poofs out in front and think, this is what I would look like pregnant, though you will never feel that quickening or cry the first time your child says “I hate you.�

You could be driving and not thinking.

The horizon looks like the foothills of the Bitterroots even though you have not been to Montana, but always longed to.

No red-tailed hawks will catch your breath.

You will see no neon sign for the Lewis & Clark Motel.

In a frenzy, dancing alone at night in your living room, you think you are Maria Tallchief if only you had gone to the community center for lessons when you were six.

You will never have red roses tossed on stage.

You will never take off toe shoes stained with blood.

Leigh Fairey writes poetry, works on a farm, volunteers in a library, and walks 1500 miles a year. She has published in the Dunes Review and Concrete Wolf Magazine.