Blackwater Review 2016

Jason

Jesse

Allicyn

Ekaterina

Colby

Jocelyn

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

A Journal of Literature and Art

Volume 14, No. 1 Spring 2016

Niceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, student art, and intellectual and creative life at Northwest Florida State College by providing a showcase for meritorious work.

Managing Editor: Dr. Deidre Price

Prose Editor:

Dr. Jon W. Brooks

Poetry Editor: Dr. Vickie Hunt

Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography:

Benjamin Gillham, MFA

Editorial Advisory Board:

Dr. Beverly Holmes, Dr. Christopher Snellgrove, Dr. Patrice Williams, April Leake, Rhonda Trueman, and Dr. Jill White

Art Advisory Board:

Benjamin Gillham, Stephen Phillips, Leigh Peacock, Dr. Ann Waters, and K.C. Williams

Blackwater Review Intern: Joshuah Jacobs

Blackwater Review is published annually at Northwest Florida State College and is funded by the college. All selections published in this issue are the work of students; they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of the administration, faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, or Foundation Board of Northwest Florida State College.

©2016 Northwest Florida State College

All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Front cover artwork: As Above, So Below, Candace Harbin

Acknowledgments

The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College Interim President Dr. Sasha Jarrell, Dr. Anne Southard, and Dr. Deborah Fontaine for their support of Blackwater Review.

We are also grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor of the James and Christian LaRoche Distinguished Endowed Teaching Chair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annual James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, whose winner is included in this issue.

We Called Him Mister Foster

Jocelyn Donahoo

You could find him sitting on the stump in front of 629 West Virginia Street. Between hocking up spit like lobbing a soft ball, he’d pull out a piece of Tops paper, open his tobacco pouch, take an ample pinch, align it, lick a thick glob of slob, and roll the uneven cigarette. Saturated, it took a few attempts to strike a match and keep the leaves lit.

Like a squirrel, he had a hidden collection of possessions tucked in pockets and places that he rarely shared. He often sat alone, smoking and wearing a beater, but welcomed company when folks strolled by his home. “Al talks about y’all all the time,” he often bragged, about his oldest son, my dad.

Funny, we rarely called him Granddaddy. But he was proud to call me his grandbaby and say, “Come here and give me some shug-ga,” with his raspy voice and rattling cough, cigarette flopping between his full lips. I’d drag my feet, sidestepping a brown bottle, and give him a kiss on the cheek, confessing, “I love you, Mr. Foster.”

First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Poetry Contest, 2016

A Harmonious Day

Jocelyn Donahoo

The three-hour bus ride from Niceville to Selma with a united, multi-racial group turned into a party. I’d never been on a bus that had tables in the back. We played cards, laughed, and joked, and then our tour guide played the documentary Keep Your Eyes on the Prize, the original footage of Bloody Sunday. I felt pride watching the peaceful protestors ascend the bridge, but that feeling was short-lived. My heart pounded, and my stomach twisted as the camera panned the raging officers’ rabid bulldog-like glares. Some were banging their billy clubs in their hands, just waiting. The sudden assault on men, women, and children devastated me. To see people pounded with billy clubs, trampled by horses, and whipped like slaves hurt me. I reached over and squeezed my husband Dustin’s hand. Then I looked around, caught Mama and my sister Bria’s eyes, and they were wet like mine. When I was eight, Eyes on the Prize played on PBS, and I remember asking Daddy, “Why are they doing that to those people?” and when he said, “Because they’re black,” I couldn’t comprehend it then, and I still don’t. We weren’t the only ones disturbed and crying. Everybody on the bus had become solemn, reminding us of why we were on our way to Selma.

In the past, the ride was for voting rights. Now they were trying to revoke that law. The police have gunned down our black men; disparities in employment still exist, and jail and prison terms are unequal. My family had been to the Bloody Sunday Commemoration Anniversary March in the past, but this was the 50-Year Jubilee. Dustin passed our 21-monthold son, Peyton, over to my father. Then he leaned over, bear hugged me, and tenderly whispered, “Aw, Natalie, I know. Don’t cry.” But afterwards, Dustin was squirming. His long legs kept wobbling as if he could run off the bus. Nobody blamed him. The bus dropped us off at Brown Chapel African Methodist

Episcopal Church, but because it was already so crowded, we skipped going into the church and walked around town. The boom-boom of rap met us as we turned the corner. A guy with sagging jeans and an oversized jersey was lining up CDs on his table. He looked up and stared. And I thought, oh here we go. But he nodded and said, “Like your shirts.” Dustin and I smiled and said, “Thanks.” Dustin’s shirt was black, and Peyton and mine were red. A guy with a salt and pepper beard and crisply creased jeans blasted James Brown’s “Say it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud.” Vendors lined the streets selling African masks, canes, necklaces, earrings, purses, dresses displayed on clotheslines, green tee shirts with Reparations, others with “I Can’t Breathe” and “Hands up, Don’t Shoot” and commemorative t-shirts of The 50th Anniversary Selma to Montgomery March. Mama and Bria saw some dresses and earrings they were interested in, so we agreed to meet at the edge of the bridge. People teemed everywhere. They weren’t following the usual protocol. The procedure should’ve been the following: service at Brown Chapel, the dignitaries head up the line, and the rest of us follow suit. But people were already visible on the bridge. Both sides. There was no order.

As we headed towards the Edmund Pettus Bridge, Melissa Harris-Perry, a short little thing from MSNBC, stood in a small barricaded area interviewing a middle-aged nutmeg toned sista’. Farther up, a brown-skinned reporter dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt poked a microphone toward Dustin and asked, “Why are you here?”

“I’m walking this bridge for my son!” he said, thrusting his chest forward.

“I see you’re wearing a ‘My Color Is Human’ tee shirt. Are you a part of the movement?”

“No, we’re not in any organization. We just believe what it stands for.” I turned around and peeled down my jacket to show him the back that read, “The only way to stop treating people like their color is to stop seeing their color. The only way to stop seeing their color is to stop seeing our own” C. Gray. We got many stares and compliments about our shirts.

About a block away from the bridge, we watched Samuel L. Jackson, Jesse Jackson, and Eric Holder, who attended the Brown Chapel service on the Jumbo Tron. In the meantime, the sun was glaring and hot, not at all what we expected for March weather. Peyton started getting fussy. He was sweating, so I took off his long-sleeved shirt and left on his tee. I dug for his sippy cup of apple juice and handed it to him, grabbed a bottled water, and tossed one to Dustin. He gave me his jacket, and I took off mine and stuffed them at the back of the stroller. The crowd was getting restless. It seemed like twenty dignitaries each gave a thirty-minute speech.

A lady said, “Another one!”

“I know,” I said. “They should’ve given them a five or ten minute limit!”

Somebody said, “Amen,” while others shook their heads in agreement.

Rev. Al Sharpton finally got up to the podium. He hit his stride doing his singsong preaching like in the old black churches. When he finished, Mayor Evans asked that people in the church stay put. Because there were too many people on the street, he’d called the National Guard to maintain order and safety.

Dustin said, “It’s getting late. I don’t know where your family is. Let’s just go ahead and walk across the bridge so we can make it back to the bus on time.”

People walked in all directions: tall people, short people, fat, skinny, big, small. Black people, white people, Asian-Pacific, Native American, Hispanics, and variations of miscegenation ranging from ivory to onyx. A man on a blue electric scooter all but ran me over. An elderly woman with a white, short curly ‘fro and honey toned skin pushed her silver aluminum walker. A tall man with a pecan complexion walked with a curved golden oak walking stick, a group of black Muslims in black suits, white shirts, and black bowties sold bean pies; groups of black fraternities and sororities in red, purple, black and gold, pink and green, blue and white were everywhere. It was so crowded on this bridge; I felt like I was in a school of fish. A 20-something

blond male swung his legs between his crutches. It was nothing for folks to just stop walking, take a selfie, or hold a camera or phone overhead to film the crowd. Natural, straight or curly hair, locks, swirls, cornrows, braids, traditional hair colors: blondes, brunettes, redheads, and some new fads: blue, red, green styles were worn. A little Asian boy in white-framed, mirrored sunglasses looked so cute. A colorful group of nuns, rabbis, priests, and ministers walked by. It had been a long time since I’d seen that many black people, no, “people” in general. They were everywhere.

Dustin’s strawberry blonde hair whipped in the air as he kept scanning the crowd, repositioning, no—posturing, grabbing for my hand or embracing my waist, as if I were a child. I was okay. It felt nice to be around my people for a change. Then I realized he was marking his territory, showing people—guys—that I’m his wife. It reminded me of the time he got jealous of one of my coworkers I was dancing with at a club. When we got home and I angrily rejected Dustin’s drunken romantic moves, he slurred, “I know you want a brotha. You can be mad if you want to, but di-vorce is not an op-tion.” Really? I was about thirty-seven weeks pregnant at that time. I am often in the minority or the “only one” in our social circles, but I’m okay with that. Dustin, who often claims, “I’m a redneck and proud of it!” was obviously uncomfortable. I curled my finger motioning for him to come down to my level and gave him a peck. I wanted him to know that I love him and was proud to be his wife. Everybody looked peaceful despite his or her diverse race or attire. Groups of Asians for Human Rights, LBGT, and Americans with Disabilities holding their banners walked past us. Some people were singing, “We shall overcome,” while others chanted “I can’t breathe”…

Dustin’s response to the reporter kept resonating in my head because it had been a looong time coming.

A few months ago, tired of complaining to family and friends about Trayvon Martin walking home from the store, and Eric Garner being choked down despite calling out “I can’t breathe, who both ended up dead, and somebody’s mother

being beaten like a man by a cop on the side of the highway, and on and on, I, Natalie Pierce, decided to take a stance for all of those injustices. I got an email about a NAACP Black Lives Matter rally regarding Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner at Chester Pruitt Park in Fort Walton Beach on December 13, 2014. When I asked Dustin to join Peyton and me, he said, “I don’t want you putting my son or you in danger. We are not going!” He acted like we’d be facing the haters of the Civil Rights Movement. And before we (Peyton and I) set out to go to the rally, Dustin boomed, “YOU’RE NOT TAKING MY SON!”

His son! Oh, it was on!

I retaliated with, “YOU FOR-BID ME? YOU MUST’VE CHEWED SOMETHING THAT CLOGGED YOUR BRAIN!”

“I don’t want our son in the crossfire of some fool!”

He was being petty and aggravating, so I informed him, “The police are going to be there. You don’t have to worry.”

“I don’t want you to go!” he said pointing his finger.

“Well, you might as well hold your breath and turn blue. ‘Cause I’m going.” He wasn’t going to control me.

“I don’t know why you think you have to save the world!” he said, pointing his judgmental forefinger at me.

“That’s what’s wrong with this society. Too many people are complacent! Just sitting back, not taking a stand, and doing nothing!” Yeah I was doing that angry black woman head and neck rolling as much as I could with Peyton on my hip.

Dustin blocked the doorway and folded his arms. “Leave my son here. He’s too young to understand what’s going on anyway.”

“Move out of my way!” I said with as much authority that I could muster.

He didn’t flinch. “My son stays.” He may as well have banged his imaginary gavel because his words were a judge’s final verdict.

So I readjusted Peyton on my hip, rolled my eyes, and thought about it for a while. I softened my tone and said flippantly, “You can come with me.” I waited for him to hold me in

his arms, peck my lips, and grudgingly say okay.

He didn’t. He gave a pouty frown and said, “I don’t have to show my support by going,” a tad too defensively.

After he trounced on my feelings, I said with strained composure, “Then please move. You’re going to make me late.”

With malevolent eyes and a firm stance, he told, not asked me, “Give me my son.” Too bad the stroller was already in the car, or I would’ve rolled it right over him. I passed Peyton over, and he stepped aside. Towering over me, Dustin said, “Promise me you’ll hold your tongue and be careful.”

Fuming, I held his gaze and sauntered out the door. At the corner of our block, I banged my hand on the dashboard and let out a frustrated squeal.

When I caught up with my family at the rally, my sister Bria blabbed, “Where’s Dustin?” Then she put her hand up in stop mode near my face and said, “Oh, don’t tell me. He can marry a sista’ but won’t stand up for the mistreatment of a brotha’. I guess he forgot his son is black!”

I was already pissed off at Dustin and was itching for a fight. “Don’t fufreaking—I’m not in the mood for your—”

“That’s enough, Bria!”

Thank God Mama interrupted her. Because with the mood I was in, we would’ve exchanged some not-so-nice words, words that almost slipped out and disrespected my parents. Words that would be hard to take back. Or forget! Her ranting was like bedbugs biting me when all I wanted to do was slip into bed, clear my mind, and sleep. I wanted to lash out and smash those reckless sentiments down her throat … because quite frankly, I was thinking the same thing. Where the hell was my husband?

Probably at home trying to make sense of his bigoted family members. Or better yet, trying to justify being married to me with my chocolate skin and bushy hair. Our union did cause some talk among his extended family. Guess they never dreamed he’d meet a sista’ at college and marry her after graduation. His uncle even messed around and jokingly called our son, Peyton, a mutt. It took a while for us to forgive him for

that. Truth be told, it’s been almost two years, and Bria is still holding a grudge. The bottom line, Dustin’s ancestors owned slaves, and he and his parents are ashamed.

I couldn’t stay focused on the speakers at the rally thinking about our argument. I stayed gone from ten a.m. until six o’clock in the evening, trying to excuse Dustin for giving Bria ammunition to humiliate me while failing to support me. When I walked in the door, “You could’ve called and assured me you were okay,” is what greeted me. I threw my hands up in the air. “Why is it every time black people congregate, white people are scared?”

I guess Dustin didn’t think he needed to dignify my question with an answer. He shook his head and said, “Your son is fine. In case you cared to know.”

“Don’t you throw him up in my face! It was your decision to keep him home. And if you were really so concerned about my wellbeing, you would’ve accompanied me. Instead of being scared something might happen!” And with that I went to bed.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peyton’s cup fly out of the stroller. I stooped down to pick it up when I spotted Mama, Bria, and Daddy loaded down with bags catching up with us.

“It’s about time! What’s in all those bags?” I asked.

“I had to pull them away, or they’d still be shopping,” Daddy said.

“We’ll show you on the bus,” Bria said. “All of these people—this is crazy!”

Mama said, “We’ve been here several times—”

“And this is the most people we’ve ever seen,” Daddy added. “I’m happy I bought this hat.”

“Yeah, nice Panama,” Dustin said.

Tired of being in the stroller, Peyton reached for his dad, and Dustin lifted him out and toted him on his shoulders. Peyton liked riding up high.

Then Dustin slid Peyton down and said, “Come on son, you’re gonna walk so you can be a part of history.” I was so proud of him, and for that, I leaned over and kissed him, and we shared a smile.

We surrounded them so Peyton wouldn’t be trampled. Like so many others, we took out our phones and cameras and snapped pictures and selfies. A man behind us offered to take a family picture. And we all stooped down closer to Peyton on foot. By the end of the bridge, Dustin was more relaxed and not one person had taunted us about being a mixed couple. It truly was a harmonious day.

Reality Check

Jocelyn Donahoo

Every black man I know has been profiled. You know, DWB or WWB. Oh, you want me to clarify? Driving or walking while black. Hell, just being black!

Yeah, it was wrong for those brothers to burn, loot, destroy their own neighborhoods. But there comes a boiling point. What would you do if for centuries your people were hanged, raped, oppressed? Let’s be real, discriminated against and exploited!

Trayvon Martin rightly hiked home from the store and was wrongly killed by a cop wannabe. Michael Brown flexed and instead of being arrested, ended up in a casket. Eric Garner sold cigarettes— a misdemeanor— but was choked down screaming “I can’t breathe!” He paid the ultimate price, indicative of our lengthy Emmitt Till-like unfair history. What takes the cake is the statement that the officer made. Freddie Gray simply made eye contact and ran.

Sadly, he ended up slammed, complaining of pain, a severed spinal cord, and eventually, a reservation in the morgue.

Black lives matter!

Martin worked for peace. But sometimes, like Malcolm, it takes “any means necessary.” So don’t talk to me about thugs and beasts. It’s easy to judge when some people, my people, aren’t seen as human beings.

Fairytale

Evangeline Murphy

Life isn’t easy, she told me. Mary Poppins never flies down from the sky with her umbrella to help you. You can’t fly away to Neverland And fight captains with only one hand, With little boys running their own carefree kingdom Just because you don’t want to grow up.

Life is hard, she said.

Forest creatures don’t do your laundry or clean your house. You won’t wake up one morning and find yourself a Greek god With super strength and immortality and whatever else Or find a pair of magic shoes that will take you home With just a click of the heels because you’re scared or in trouble. You have to do all that yourself.

Life sucks, she continued. People don’t randomly jump into song. That’s not normal.

There’s no such thing as true love’s kiss, More like a bunch of smooching frogs that definitely don’t turn into princes. No random prince will find you asleep somewhere and kiss you awake To live happily ever after.

If the apple’s poison, you just didn’t clean it well enough, And you were stupid enough to still eat it.

Life is tough, she stated.

If a man’s a “beast,” he’s really just an ass, And there’s no wicked stepmother—that’s your boss. Neither of them will change. A fairy godmother won’t help you get a night off Or turn your old, ’98 Saturn into a golden carriage To meet some prince who never even knew your name.

Life is difficult, she sighed. But you gotta make it worth it. You’re the beauty who doesn’t need a beast. Screw the shoe you lost and just go buy another pair.

Be the evil queen to get what you want. Go live in the woods to find yourself, be Tarzan or Robin Hood Or whatever you want. Sleep forever.

She looked over at me and smiled, Life is definitely not a fairytale, But make it something.

10/12/2002

Andrea Hefner

It came with sudden recognition, an announcement grudgingly acknowledged: a bunion, followed by gel toe spacers worn daily wedged between the great toe and whatever that second little piggie is called. Kept in by knee highs worn in lieu of sexy garters and stockings. Sensible comfort. All the while, I attempt to convince my inner being that I have no need to get my groove back. Slipping work clothes off after a long day, my eyes meet yours as I pull my hair up. But we both know that the hanger that holds my negligees has dents in the velvet from the weight of time. I slip on my head wrap and size-16 pajamas, their shot elastic offering relief to the red marks left on my skin. I almost apologize for passing gas as I bend over to slip them on. Embarrassment nearly formulates from some semblance of personal pride, but your hand on my ample backside assures me you have lost any standard of expectations for such formalities. You even swear that conjugal visits are better without the worry of EPTs and pink lines. Later, at 9:23 pm, 12 minutes of time suspended in bliss, I spin my wedding ring on my finger. Somewhere between for better or for worse is the truth of the vows, for mediocrity, for hair dye, college-day visits, empty nests (God willing), and even for orthotics.

Seniority

Andrea Hefner

Morning light filters into their bedroom, but he has been awake for an hour. The beams stream onto her hair, and he is enraptured by the refraction of the reflection. He lays a hand on her temple and ponders in wonderment at experiences that he was not a part of. Slowly he takes a weathered hand and cups the side of her breast. He feels the lightness and the paper thin crinkling of her soft skin against calloused knotty hands. He marvels at how the time has changed the topography of her landscape. He appreciates the response as she stirs in her early morning slumber and stupors towards the day. He rubs her wrist and examines spots that weren’t there even yesterday. Years have taught him to tread slowly when stoking the fires that she holds within. But he knows that his time is short: he is desperate to show her what he knows to be true: There has never been another woman since her. They say age knows no number, that you are only as old as you feel. He feels every bit of his eighty-three years.

He won’t lie to her and say that he doesn’t notice the silvery stretch marks that run across her belly or how her skin has begun to hang on her once creamy thighs. He sees how her blue veins are right at the surface, and he feels her strong life blood still coursing. He longs to make her understand that while he knows the elderly wrongs that the years have enacted upon them his passion is suspended in the time she made stand still at twenty-seven. He leans over and kisses the small of her neck, that has not changed, lifting silvery strands of hair that she quit dying six years ago. He runs his fingers down her spine. She turns towards him, and he kisses the side of her mouth. There are no children to interrupt, no work to do but this. He feels her smile against his cheek and knows that now is the time to be completely honest. Words are no match for the actions he must pursue. They make love in a place suspended between the heavens, the earth, and even the soul. They pass the remainder of the day hand in hand. As they lay down with the moonlight filtering in through the window, he tells her his secret and cries hot tears with her. They fall asleep together, and as he drifts off, she whispers a prayer for just a few more chances at the morning light.

I’ve Got This

Jocelyn Donahoo

Funny how people look at me, frowning and confused, when they offer to help and I tell them, “I got this.”

Their intentions to politely push open doors causing missed clearance on my canes, or offers to lift up my walker over a curb, while I’m still leaning my entire body weight on the black rubber tires that rotate, producing a hindrance to keep my balance.

You see I really do appreciate their intended assistance. But I’d rather not fall. I’ve got this.

People talk about me, but I watch my husband take offense when someone volunteers to extend an arm or a hand, open a door, carry my bag, better yet, fetch a chair, while he’s standing right there.

Or my son Armand, when he’s backing my wheelchair up a step on the sidewalk, and someone proposes to assist with the lift. Whether they get it consciously or subconsciously, somehow it’s not perceived as rude or crude, when they too say, “I’ve got this.”

Hidden in Valor

Zachary Thomas

“Stand straight, tall, and proud. Never let anyone see through this guise. Let them thank you for your service and move on. Never speak the truth of who you are or how you feel. Keep it closed in and contained.” Those are the words Marcus O’Malley has lived his life by. Those words have kept him in chains throughout his teenage and young adult life. They have haunted him every time he tried to break away.

Marcus stared out across the room remembering his graduation ceremony from basic training, becoming a soldier, and how it was the first time his father had ever truly been happy to call him “son.” He had lived life trying to be the perfect son: smart, strong, independent, and determined. Hoping it would finally make his father proud, he joined the army, and for once, it seemed he succeeded.

Marcus’s mind flashed back to the late spring of his senior year when his father returned from a trip to London. It was around the same time his older sister, Tabatha, returned from her first year at Stanford, so the house was once again filled with the buzz of her return. Marcus and his siblings crowded her, asking her obnoxious questions about her social life and what she had been doing in her free time, attempting to squeeze details out of her, but she would not budge. Not long after the intense questioning, they were called to their father’s study.

“It took you both long enough,” his father said with his back turned to them. “I have more important things to do than to wait on you two.”

The two stood there in front of his mahogany desk in the center of the dull room. It was a fair-sized room with enough space for a large desk, two brown armchairs facing the desk, a large brown executive office chair at the head of the desk, and several bookshelves and small tables dotting the surrounding walls. The walls held many pictures and random certificates

that were framed, and just behind the desk was the large family portrait, a symbol of everything the family wasn’t: close and together.

Marcus had lowered his head while Tabatha had looked forward at their father. Marcus shifted uncomfortably after moments of silence passed. Neither he nor his sister said a word back at their father for fear of what might happen; instead, they waited for him to proceed.

“Hmph, yes. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” his father said in a cold voice turning to them, pulling out his chair and sitting. “Sit, now.”

The two took a step back and lowered themselves into the brown armchairs. Marcus felt a sense of discomfort fall over him as he sat down into the armchair, his father staring intently at the two. Compared to Tabatha who sat straight up, looking right back at her father, Marcus was terrified and slouched over. Why would he call us here, he thought, what purpose could he have? Fear had already fallen over him, and there was nothing he could do but wonder.

“So, I assume you are wondering why you are both here. The answer is simple; you are the two oldest of my children, and because I refuse to allow my business to fail, it is time to decide who will be the heir to your mother’s and my business after we are gone.” His words paused, looking at the two, his face growing tense, “Marcus, you graduate soon, so what are your plans for the future?”

Marcus sat there, uncertain of what to say. Whatever parts of him that were frozen with fear were now definitely frozen in fear. What was he to say? Tell his father he had no plans? That he didn’t know what he was going to do? Or make up a quick lie and make it seem reasonable and achievable?

“Well, are you going to answer me, boy?”

“I...uh, yes. I’m...not sure...”

“You’re wasting my time then. Get out.”

“I...Father?!”

“Go. Now.”

“Just go, Marcus,” Tabatha chimed in.

“Fine,” Marcus responded.

Marcus sighed as he rose from the bed shaking away the memory. It was just another memory of his father turning him away for not being who he wanted him to be. It made him sick to his stomach. He tried so hard but always seemed to fall short with few moments of success. All he wanted was his father’s approval that it was too late to get.

Walking away from the bed, he made his way to the nearby dresser, pulling out a pair of grey sweat pants. Pulling them on, he looked across the quiet room. It was arranged with a bed against the wall with two end tables on its sides, a dresser on the left side of the bed, the side closest to the door, and a mirrored closest straight across from the bed’s end.

Marcus looked above the bed to the two black picture frames. Both pictures held different meanings with different people: one with a lover, the other a friend; two people for whom he cared greatly. Walking towards the closest mirror, he turned away from them. His eyes gazing at himself.

His eyes finding their way to the bullet scar brought the images of Afghanistan back into his mind. He rubbed the bullet scar on his chest where the Taliban had shot him just inches above his heart. He held his head, his eyes closed as he could feel the bullet passing, feeling the anguish in his heart as it continued into his friend, Stephen, the friend who would never see his wife or child again, the friend whom his secret would die with. The bullet wound would always represent something more; his guilt that it had not killed him, for all he wished was to be free. His whole purpose of joining the military was to free himself from his father’s chains, but he only found he was chained more by some of the guilt, rules, and regulations.

His mind flashed back to a few years ago, just weeks before their deployment to Afghanistan, when Stephen was with him getting settled to deploy. It was a hot day in Southern California, and the two had been driving to pick up some things.

“So, you’re not going to tell them?” Stephen asked as they pulled off onto the highway.

“Tell them, what?” Marcus replied, wanting to act like he

didn’t know what Stephen was asking.

“That you’re, you know, engaged to a guy? Dating a guy?” he said glancing over at Marcus in the passenger seat, “Fucking a guy.”

Marcus let out a sigh and looked out the window and watched the passing buildings. It didn’t really occur to him that he should tell the rest of his unit. It wasn’t their business, he’d always told himself. It was something he only shared with Stephen because of the bond they forged, the friendship they made. Marcus didn’t want the others to know. There’s no telling how they would react or what they would do, and he couldn’t afford to lose their support and trust.

“Well?” Stephen repeated.

“No. I don’t think I will,” he answered.

“Why not? Afraid of what they will say? Don’t wanna be the queer of the unit? The fairy?” Stephen taunted.

Marcus looked over and glared at him. He didn’t care what they would call him; what he cared about is what they would call the man he loved. What they would say, how they would do it, what they may even do to him. He wanted to protect him from that.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what is it? You can tell me, ya know?”

“I know.”

“Well?”

“It’s about him.”

Stephen glanced back over and gave him a wicked smile, followed by a chuckle. Stephen was preparing to say something, Marcus could feel that, but what he wasn’t really sure.

“Worried about Pretty-Boy, eh? He can take care of himself; I’m sure he’s been through worse than you have about all this. I mean he grew up out to the world. You haven’t. I’m sure he’s had a black eye or two because of it.”

“I just don’t want them abusing him, if they knew.”

“Of course.”

Marcus scoffed at himself, looking away toward the nearby window, sunlight starting to pour into his house in the

quaint little neighborhood not far from Fort Drum, New York. Marcus cast his gaze back to the moving body in the bed, trying desperately to get comfortable again; he couldn’t help but look away in shame. His partner had given everything up for him, changed his entire life for him, and dealt with the idea of not being recognized by any except certain family. Yet he still felt that he had to hide their relationship from so many, for fear of judgment.

He lived with the constant idea that his father and society would disapprove. It always lingered in his mind, he would always be a son wanting approval, a person wanting approval, and this was always one thing he felt his father would disapprove of more than anything else, something that would make his father so disappointed.

Marcus looked over to the bed again trying to shake the feelings of disapproval from his mind. His gaze once again caught the sleeping body of his beloved partner, Andrew. Andrew was a smart, kind, compassionate person who cared deeply enough for Marcus to leave his job and family behind and move with Marcus from base to base, always living in the shadows, only revealed to some, and that’s what hurt Marcus most about this situation. He was so willing to not be known to the world because of how Marcus felt about it all. Marcus knew that Andrew knew that he loved him, but he always knew Andrew deserved better. However, Andrew always reassured him how much he loved him, and no matter what, that he was staying with him until the bitter end, and in a way that willingness gave him a sense of hope.

Marcus faintly smiled as he looked back to the picture right above the bed on the right, hanging over Andrew. It was the picture of them a few years ago, taken on the day Marcus had come back from a deployment. Andrew had shoved himself into Marcus’s arms when he walked through the door of his apartment, his face buried in his chest. The feeling was mutual as Marcus almost refused to let go of him.

“I missed you so much.” Andrew said looking up at him. Andrew was the smaller of the two, only 5'8" compared to

Marcus’s 6'4" height, which in a way was a charm of Andrew that Marcus loved.

“I missed you too, Little Cub,” he replied picking him up in his arms.

Marcus held him in his arms for a long time before finally kissing him and putting him back down. He looked down at Andrew and couldn’t help but smile like a fool. The two of them seemed to just forget about the rest of the world at that minute, taking each other back in.

“I missed you,” Andrew said again leaning up and kissing him again.

“And I missed you.”

Andrew took a step back and gently smiled at him. He reached to take the bag that had been dropped on the floor, before being stopped in his tracks.

“It’s fine; I will take it. Don’t trouble yourself with it.”

“Come on; I’m not that weak. I can take a bag and move it upstairs.”

“I said I will take it.”

Marcus looked down at the now scowling man, whom he couldn’t help but laugh at a little. Andrew was stubborn, incredibly stubborn when it came to wanting to do something. In a way, Andrew hated being told no, or that someone else would take care of it. It was something that Marcus loved and hated about him because it could get annoying, but it also was adorable in moments like this.

“Hmph. Suit yourself then,” Andrew replied turning away from him and looking the other way.

“Oh, come now, don’t be that way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure…”

Marcus crept forward flinging his arms around Andrew, holding him in close.

“Let go of me!” Andrew pleaded.

“Not happening,” Marcus replied.

“Ugh, I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Most days.”

Marcus smiled and finally let him go, turning him around to look at him in the eyes again. He took Andrew’s hand and led him to the nearby living room, which didn’t seem to have changed much. He sat down on the couch leading Andrew to do the same. He looked at him, leaned forward, and kissed him again before pulling away.

“So, how’re you? What’s been happening?” Marcus asked.

“You get back, and you want to know about me? I think it should be the other way around, honestly. But if you insist, I got accepted to continue my medical residency nearby.”

“That’s great. I’m very proud of you.”

“Of course you are!”

Looking away from the picture, Marcus smiled back at Andrew, who was sleeping peacefully in the bed. It was time, Marcus thought, it was time to make the change. He was ready; he was going to be ready. It’s time that it happened, that the world knew about Andrew.

Guilt-ridden Remembrance

D.L. Thornton

The putrid stench of the train’s coach car toilet bowl filled my nose, as I knelt, fingers poised to probe my throat again, above it. Why can’t I puke? Please God, just let me puke. I had always heard of motion sickness, but I could never have dreamed it could be this bad. Tears streamed down my face from gagging, but I just couldn’t vomit. It was awful, and no matter what I tried, it just got worse. Ok Ezra, You can do this. Just think of everything that’s happened in here. All the disgusting, rotten things that have…that have happened…

“Don’t let them bury me, Ezra.” My mother’s voice filled my ears, and I closed my eyes.

“Please, I know I haven’t got any right to be putting this all on you, but do me this one last kindness,” my mother said, her voice hoarse often pausing to cough in between words; from beneath the shroud cast over her off the light from the window, the light of a world just given away to the night, the words rose into the stagnant, dusty air. The sight of my mom, decrepit and fragile, surrounded by her moth-eaten quilts in a simple homespun gown, stained with sweat and the morning’s grits, stirred a profound sadness in my heart. The sallow skin, the knotted, thinning mess of hair haloing her head, and shuddering movement of a skin and bones hand reaching for a handkerchief on the bedside table, in an attempt to preemptively suppress a coughing fit.

Her frail body was racked with a string of violent coughs, the sound of which filled her modest bedroom of our house. Insistently, she tried to continue speaking but couldn’t manage to stop long enough to talk.

“It’s ok, Mama. I heard you,” I said trying to hand her a glass of water. “Drink something. It’ll make you feel better.” She reached for the glass, still coughing, and spilled more than a little before managing to down a couple of swallows.

“Thank you Ez. I—I needed that,” she said, her voice catching about halfway through. I couldn’t help but notice how carefully she was folding the handkerchief, trying to hide that it was now stained pink with her blood, but it didn’t matter. Despite her efforts, I could see a few drops mixed with the stains on her gown. “It’s just, you know how much I abhor tight places and the dark. The idea of being trapped in a box underground for…well, for forever is more terrifying than dying itself.”

“But you’d be gone, Mama. You wouldn’t know anyway.” I said this despite the fact that the words nearly killed me, too. I was being strong for her, but the idea of losing my mother was too much to fathom.

“Yes, I would. Whether I end up in heaven, hell or experience nirvana, I’d know.” Her eyes grew distant as she went on. “Even if all we do when we die is vanish to nothing, I still feel like I would feel it somehow. No, I wasn’t meant for the coldness of the ground. I want to be cremated. You know as well as I the power fire holds. The purity it grants.”

“I do.”

“After all, fire is life. It’s born. It feeds.”

“It grows, and it dies,” she smiled as I finished one of her favorite sayings. My voice broke on the last word, and I looked down at the once-white carpet to hide my tears from her. Hot tears burned rivers of fire down my cheeks. I heard the bed shift as my mom rose to place her hand on my shoulder.

“Ezra, listen to me. I know this is hard, and I know it seems impossible and unfair, but it’s going to be ok. People die, even the ones we love. It’s the single absolute of our existence.” She squeezed my shoulder slightly. “It’s normal to be sad, to mourn, but promise me that, when I’m gone, you, celebrate the life I had.” Her voice was still soft, as if she feared raising it too high would induce more coughing.

I turned my head toward her, slowly lifting my eyes to meet hers. Her hand moved to my cheek as I did, her thumb stroked the side of my face gently.

“Can you promise me that, Ezra?” she asked.

Opening my eyes, I saw the warm intensity in her gaze.

Her green eyes, once glazed over in thought, were so vibrant, so young. Looking into my mother’s eyes, I almost forgot that she was sick. How could those eyes, those resilient knowing eyes, be in such a decrepit body? She was right; it wasn’t fair. Not in the slightest. How could this be happening to me? Things like this never happened in real life. I was spinning out of control. My eyes began darting between my mother’s eyes. Back and forth, from one to the next again and again. Blood rushed to my head. I could hear the dull thud of my heartbeat in my ears.

Thud. Thud.

“Promise me. Ez.” Her voice was stern, full of a strength I had missed from her, and the grip on my face grew ever so slightly tighter.

Thud. Thud.

I took a few deep breaths.

Thud. Thud.

Nodding as I said, “Yes, I promise.”

Her thumb ran across my cheek one last time before she smiled and leaned back into her cocoon of blankets, “That’s my girl.”

Thud. Thud.

“Miss.” A man’s voice called from outside the bathroom.

Thud. Thud.

“Miss! Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to vacate the lavatory as soon as possible.” His voice seemed frustrated with a hint of worry.

“I’ll be right out.” I said, flushing the toilet for effect. I rose to my feet, nearly falling back down still gripped by the vertigo. I washed my hands and face in an attempt to rinse the signs of crying away, but as I did, I knew it was no use. Still red and swollen, my eyes would give me away instantly. I took a few deep breaths before opening the small bathroom door. I didn’t think it possible, but the sight on the other side of that door made me feel worse.

The young porter stood next to the doorway of the bathroom with an anxious looking pregnant woman next to him.

“There you are, Ma’am,” he said gesturing to the open doorway before turning to me.

I had barely gotten out the word sorry before the woman barreled past me and shut the door.

“I am so sorry for that, Miss, but she was very insistent. Are you doing okay? You were in there quite a while, and your color seems a bit off.”

“Thank you for your concern, but yes, I’m fine.” I said “Well, if you need anything, I will be around, and please don’t hesitate to ask,” and with that he was gone, walking off towards the next train car.

I wonder if he even really cares, or, if like the woman now in the bathroom, he simply did enough to sate the urge. Genuine concern or employment obligation? In the end, I didn’t really care either way.

Trying with all my might not to look out of the windows on either side of me, I slowly made my way back to my seat. The sight of the rushing landscape intensified the vertigo by a power of ten, at least. Even staring at the ground, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I decided to take a break and just stand for a bit. Grasping the side of an empty seat, I stopped and closed my eyes.

“Attention all passengers; this is your captain speaking. We will soon be approaching a tunnel. We will be traveling for about fifteen minutes underground, and your ears may pop due to the pressure change,” a tinny voice rang from the intercom system.

I opened my eyes. The few others in the car seemed to buzz with energy. Most reacted excitedly, but one man seemed nervous. He was gripping the arms of his chair so firmly that I could see the tendons in his white knuckles straining. The look on the man’s face as he shook his head exuded terror. I could tell he was trying to contain it and failing, but the woman next to him, his wife maybe, had a hand over one of his, and was speaking softly to him, but he kept shaking his head.

I couldn’t hear everything, but a few phrases managed to pierce through the residual train noise and reach me. “Shh, it’s okay—” Muffle. Muffle. Muffle. “No, just try and—” Muffle. Muffle. “It’s only a few minutes, just—” Muffle. Muffle. “It’s only temporary.”

“It’s only temporary, Soph. Besides, Kevin’s a great man. I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” my father said, talking into the phone.

I was standing there, hiding just outside the kitchen, the shadows of the dark hallway concealing the sight of me from my father, who sat at our maple breakfast table. It was initially the sound of my father’s voice, which had prevented me from simply entering the room, but it was well past midnight, and the last time he had caught me out of bed at this time of night it hadn’t ended well.

“The fact of the matter is I can’t support her, and our brother can’t help, Sophia.” There was a pause.

“No, I’m not just trying to palm her off. I just—I know I can’t do right by her. I can barely look at her without wanting to die myself. There’s so much of Violet in those eyes.” There was a hollow quality in his voice as he said those words, a sadness that was both foreign and familiar to me.

A pause.

Did Father not want me, not love me, anymore?

The wooden floors of the hallway, worn smooth with years of use, were cool on the bottoms of my bare feet; I tried with all my might to disappear into the wall, making myself as thin as possible. I wanted to simply vanish into the wood of the wall, and not have heard what he had said.

“Yes, I still love my daughter! What the hell kind of question is that?”

A pause.

“It’s not forever, Sophia, just until I can get my life back together. Once I’m back on my feet, she’ll be back here with me.”

In those moments, I understood that my father, as much as it pained me, was right. I had noticed how he would look at me sometimes. How his eyes would completely sink and his face would melt for a few seconds at the sight of me, only for the briefest of moments, before being replaced by the strong front that I was used to.

I was frozen. I wanted to rush back up to my room and pretend to be asleep. No, to actually be asleep; I wanted to

never have left my room. This doesn’t make any sense. But it does… it makes complete sense; you just heard him explain it, hell, you agree. But… no that wasn’t him; it wasn’t. Aunt Sophia was right to question him. He’s not thinking clearly. He can’t be thinking clearly.

“Ezra!” my father shouted in surprise. “What on earth are you doing out of bed?”

The shock of seeing him suddenly there, BAM in from of me, made me scream without realizing it. Then I was in motion. My once-frozen limbs were all at once a blur of motion. I was running, running down the hall and out the front door. I kept running long off our property. I ran down our driveway and out into the street, only stopping when I reached the stop sign at the end of our street.

Breath ragged, I stood doubled over in pain, one hand on my knee, the other clutching the stich in my side. The pain and shock mixed inside me. Colliding in my abdomen, they began a battle inside me. I could feel my stomach turning, roiling. My throat constricted, and I could feel the low acidic burn of bile rising in my esophagus.

I collapsed to my knees, and in five gut wrenching heaves vomited onto the carpet of the train.

“Oh my God. Really?” a nearby woman groaned as she rose from her seat.

Shaking, I knelt there, hands covered in the contents of my stomach. I’m not sure how much time passed, but it seemed that instantly the porter who called me out of the bathroom was herding people to the cars to either side of ours.

“Just until we clean this up. Don’t worry, won’t take ten minutes,” he was saying to everyone as they passed him.

I began to pull myself together. Struggling to my feet, I headed towards the bathroom again to rinse off the vomit from my hands. It was a difficult feat because I didn’t want to touch anything along the way, but I came to the same problem at the door of the bathroom.

“Do you need help?” It was a young boy; he couldn’t have been more than six, and he was standing beside me pointing at

the door.

I gave him a small smile and said, “Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.”

Grinning, he reached up and opened the door, pulling it with both hands. The sight of him, so willing, so eager to help, warmed my heart. I stepped into the bathroom, turned on the water with my elbow, and washed my hands. The warm water cascaded over my hands and forearms in rivulets of soapy purity.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I saw the boy still there. “Oh, hi. Thank you very much for your help. I’m Ezra,” I said, extending my hand to him.

“Hello. My name’s Harry. I’m four. Me and my mommy are going to visit Grandma in the country.” He said this as a worried woman rushed up to us and picked him up.

“Harold Bloom! Don’t you ever run away from me again! You had me worried sick,” the woman, his mother, said as he fought to break out of her grip. She struggled with him for a moment before she began to hum mindlessly.

I didn’t recognize the tune at first. It wasn’t until the end of the first verse that I finally placed it: “The Wheels on the Bus.” At the end of the verse, Harold was still fighting against his mother, but she began to walk back towards their seats. Was I that innocent, that pure ten years ago?

I followed them, not really knowing why, but I needed to follow them. I sat two rows behind them as Harry’s mother’s voice rose from her humming.

“What do the wipers on the bus do, Harold? What do they do?” she asked him.

“They go back and forth. Back and forth all through town,” Harry said, calming down enough to respond, but still not giving up.

“That’s right,” his mother agreed, “They go back and forth, back and forth…”

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

I had grown to hate that lake. Uncle Kevin forced me to

go out in the boat with him a few times a week. Every time we went out there together, it was a little worse. It always began the same way. We’d get in the boat, the hard wooden bench hurting me as I sat. Uncle Kevin would look at me, a frightening look in his eyes, and he’d slowly row us out into the lake. The oars moved back and forth in the water. Always back and forth, cutting in and out of the water.

Even after we stopped in the center of the lake, I would close my eyes and imagine the oars still moving. Pushing, pulling, moving back and forth, and cutting in and out of the water. Instead of the leering glance of my uncle. The malicious intent behind those eyes. His rough, calloused hands grabbing, pulling at me, my clothes.

The carnal need to resist, to fight back, nullified by the memory of that first time. The anger that flared up. The hands that turned to fists and stuck out, full force, at my head, chest, everything in reach until I—No…

Just think of the oars, of their power over the water.

The cold, dead water. Existing under the guise of bringing life, facilitating growth, but suffocating, smoothing, dousing all in its path. How I longed to wield the control those simple tools inherently possessed.

It was the fourth time he had taken me out on that wretched lake that week, and it would be the last. That boat ride, like all the others, became a sad, painful blur when I tried to remember it in the safety of my room, but one thing was for certain. I was never going out on the lake with him again, and I couldn’t stay in this house one more night.

Who are you fooling, Ezra? Where would you go? Home? Don’t you remember why you’re here in the first place?

“Damnit, Ezra! If you don’t get your ass down here and tend to the fish I put on! I want to shower before dinner.”

Hoping against all odds that he would drop it, I didn’t move. He’d let me recuperate in peace. I had locked my door, just in case anything escalated.

Minutes passed in silence. I almost began to believe it; maybe a semblance of a heart was forming in the chest of

that—the doorknob jostled in its place angrily. BANG. BANG. BANG.

“You’ve got ten seconds to get out here Ezra.” I wanted to move even less after those words. His voice was calm but cold. Smooth, thin ice that would soon break and give way to the torrent of rage just beneath the surface.

“I was just changing. I’ll be right there,” I said rising hurriedly to my feet and making an audible fuss near the small closet. His only response was to slowly tread away toward his bedroom.

My knees collapsed underneath me, and before I knew it, I was softly sobbing on the floor. My chest heaving with my broken breaths, I forced my way to my feet and made my way downstairs. As I neared the kitchen, a chill ran through me, returning the heat to my hands and face.

The following hour or so became a haze of flashing memories, but before I knew what had happened, it was too late. I was already stirring the pills into the quickly thickening box of macaroni and cheese.

Hands in my pockets, I clenched the money I had stolen from his nightstand. I tried to convince myself that he would be fine. They were only a couple sleeping pills and some laxatives, I thought. He won’t die… I just don’t want him to be able to follow me. I began to walk away. Into the darkness. Into the future.

Where are you going? I kept asking myself, but I never came up with an answer.

“Attention all passengers. We will be a arriving the next station in about five minutes.” The captain’s tinny voice said through the intercom.

“Come on, Harry. This is our stop. Don’t you want to visit grandma?” the woman said still holding the fussy child.

“Grandma!” Harry said, excitedly wanting to get down.

The pair of them gathered their things from overhead and headed toward the nearest exit. I watched them go, almost wanting to go with them, longing for the normality of their lives. I sat in my seat staring in the direction that young Harry and his mother left, until.

“Ma’am? Are you feeling better?” It was the porter. The same one who had pulled me out of the bathroom earlier.

“Um,” I actually hadn’t thought about being sick since I met Harry. “Yes, I feel- much better.”

“Well then, is this your stop?” he said a smile stretching across his face.

“No, not quite yet, thanks. I’m not sure what my stop is actually.”

“Well, where are you heading?”

I turned away from him, not answering his question. I wasn’t trying to be rude, not really. I just didn’t know. I let my gaze absent mindedly trace the rushing landscape, and felt the traces of vertigo returning. Trying to minimize the spinning that had already begun again, I quickly shut my eyes and put my head in my lap. I should just stay on this train. Going on and on like this…forever.

“Miss? Miss, are you sure you’re all right?” he was still there. This stranger who was so concerned for me. Why?

I looked up at him, ready to reply that I was, and that he could leave, when I saw his eyes. Soft, green eyes.

Like mine. Like…

In those almost familiar eyes, I saw earnest emotion. Those weren’t the empty eyes of someone simply doing his job, not the leering gaze of someone with ulterior motives, nor the sad gaze of someone looking on with pity.

He really wants to help me.

“I’ll go and fetch you some water. I won’t be a minute.” He began to turn, heading away, but I reached out and held his forearm. Grasping the cloth of his uniform in my hand, I waited for his eyes to return to mine. I needed to be sure. Had to be certain of what I had seen.

As the warmth of his gaze fell upon me again, I saw the hints of a questions there, but still the soft concern I had sensed before. But there was something else now as well. They were sharper, more determined.

“Is there something else I can do to help?

I hesitated.

“Yes, yes there is. Is there a phone on-board?”

He answered my question with a nod.

“Could you take me to it, please?”

“Of course. Right this way,” he said, a small smile returning to his face.

Walking slowly, eyes half closed to minimize the rushing view of the landscape on either side, I followed him down the car and past the bathroom. He led me to the train’s dining car, where there were two phones at either end.

“Thank you,” I said picking up the receiver and starting to dial, “and you don’t have to get me that drink. I can get it on my way back to my seat since I’m already here.” He just nodded in reply because I had finished dialing and was waiting for it to ring as I said this. I just watched him walk away. I wasn’t sure what I would say. I didn’t really have a plan; I was just kind of...

“Hello. Hello, is someone there?”

“Dad.”

Dear Jake

Allicyn Baldwin

Dear Jake,

You left some things behind when you died— that old pillow, your smelly, holey blanket, a few pictures, hundreds of short hairs, and me.

You left an empty space in my bed that no amount of bubble bath or tea could possibly fill. Sleep still refuses to come for me.

But though you have died, your ghost lingers, an unseen hand that guides and protects. I can practically hear your soft footsteps beside me.

You would not want me to be crying, hunched up in the shower, shampoo forgotten. You would want me to remember summer and you.

You would not let me close my door and sit in bed alone, losing track of days. You would want me to go outside, take a walk for you.

Though you have died, my dear one, I know that you still love me. I know you forgive me, and you’re waiting for the night I once more sleep beside you.

Until then, Allicyn

Untitled

Drew Swaggerman

Raisin wrinkled skin is what we find, pulling off our wet socks. Wet, from the puddle, that had looked so tempting to splash in.

Tempting then, regret now, like a slice of cake eaten without permission only to be caught with the crumbs on our shirts later.

Raisin cookies are what Jace and I would find, if we were entering my grandmama’s kitchen even with the mud from our wet rain boots tracking sloppy prints on her clean linoleum.

However, this is not Grandmama’s kitchen, and cookies are not what greets us.

Raisin colored bruises are left on our skin. Jace and I blink back tears in the bathroom where we sit, peeling off our mud-caked rain boots and wet socks to reveal raisin wrinkled skin.

Without Guilt or Penalty

Jocelyn Donahoo

It was my decision to write a quick revision. It shouldn’t take but a minute or two. But if you’re a writer, well, you know that minute … it overlapped, and trampled my vow of “dinner will be ready in an hour.”

The problem is the voices keeping up with the voices. A hungry mob chanting, they can be distracting. They crowd my head, pushing and shoving, each and every character wanting the spotlight of attention. Unlike some writers, I don’t outline. The characters dictate the plotlines I create. They force me into the zone. Not the Twilight, but the artistic, imaginative up to three—four—five a. m.

Keys can be heard pecking, computing: wisecracking, face slapping, roving over ruddy clay roads, heart pounding, hairs rising on the back of the neck, breathtaking views of a luminous red maple tree, tears trailing down pudgy cheeks, a kid smiling with jack-o-lantern-like teeth, type verses and scenes.

So I guess I just need to answer their bidding. And let the words flow freely. Without guilt or penalty.

Hey Imagination

Morgan Masek

Hey Imagination,

Can you finally come up with something for me?

I’ve been sitting here for hours staring at this barren page. That black bar has blinked three hundred sixty-two times, On this void, which I have mistaken as a mirror, For I am sure it reflects the blank stare on my face. Despite it being digital, I can hear the clock ticking, What I should be hearing is the clicking of the keys, On my keyboard and seeing letters appear on the screen, Of light that feels like a strong fan blowing directly into my eyes. Yet nothing comes to mind.

Is your fuel tank empty? Should I go to a gas station? If it’s rest you need, well too bad, I need a poem now. You were working fine this morning! The images in my head were vivid, bright and alive, You could have painted a masterpiece painting, That could have been hung in a museum with a golden frame, In the hallway with exotic, high-priced, oil-splattered canvasses. But no, when I most needed the masterpieces you could produce, You leave me with this vacant space while I’m drying out my eyes staring, hoping that somehow words will magically line themselves, In rhyming, flowing orders of vague phrases, that one could call poetry. However, alas, I stare and chew on my fingernail, Trying to pull out something before the deadline, Without your damn help.

Photograph

Jason Anderson Geometrica

Jason Anderson Photograph Trepidation

Apple Study

Jesse Ash

Six

Serenity

Ekaterina Balushkina

Photograph

Photograph The Last One

Ekaterina Balushkina

Sharon D. Barnes

Photograph Adam’s Dust

Margaret Bartlett

Clay Kabelka

Mixed Media Clusters

Kimberly M. Brown

Kimberly M. Brown Stagnation

Colby Detwiler

Acrylic Acedia

Scribble Colby Detwiler

Acrylic

The

Neighbor

Billy E. Gartman II

Megan Gossett Graphite

Megan Gossett

Graphite

Memento Mori

Candace Harbin

Vector Drawing Camera

in Your Wallet?

Candace Harbin

Hnyla Photograph Weathered

Pamela

Casandra Holmes Oil Mother’s Work

Out of the Dust

Natalia Kireeva

Clay

Natalia Kireeva

Aeryn La Mar Graphite Family

Anna Lennon Ink Creation

Anna Lennon Ink Garden Life

Alyssa McClellan Sunken Treasures

Anemones of the Sea

Maria B. Morekis

Clay

Maria B. Morekis

Mark

A Sting Not So Sweet

Gouache, Chalk Pastel, Charcoal

Crystal Ryan

Pen and Pastel

Daniel Valenzuela Rajah

Wood and Thread

Chloè Young Prizm Break

Chloè

Chloè Young Tactile Self-Portrait

Olivia

Linda Safford

Olivia walks three blocks from the market to the alley beside Baubles Jewelry Store. Her fast pace does not allow her to reach the stairs before the raindrops appear the size of saucers as they hit the sidewalk. Climbing the stairs and fumbling with the key, she cusses, drops the bag of groceries, and then cusses some more as she unlocks the door. She glances to see a man at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ophelia doesn’t live here anymore,” she yells to him.

“I’m not looking for Ophelia. I’m looking for Olivia. Are you…her?”

The rain is now pouring in solid sheets blown by the wind.

“Go away,” she says as she grabs the box of spaghetti, the head of lettuce, and makes her way into the apartment. As she places her soggy load on the kitchen counter, there is a knock at the door.

“Olivia! I need to talk to you,” the man yells with volume but without anger.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know anyone. Go away.”

“Your Aunt Ophelia told me I’d find you here. She’s an old friend. So was your mother.”

“Go away!” yells Olivia with angry volume. “I’m calling the police!”

She wipes the rain from her arms with sheets of paper towels and pulls her cell phone from her pocket. She quickly scrolls the list and finds the number for the jewelry store owner. She texts him.

“Go outside and get the man away from my door. I don’t know him.”

A fast reply.

“I’ve been watching. He’s OK. Let him in.”

“NO!”

“Trust me. Let him in.”

Aunt Ophelia had introduced Olivia to the jewelry store owner when she moved into the loft. Warren Zogby, the owner and designer at Baubles, is the only person Olivia has met in Bayside, Florida. She feels confident in his words, “Trust me,” because she felt something trust-worthy about him when they met, something in his eyes.

She walks to the door and slowly opens it to a three-inch crack. “I have people watching.”

He smiles, “Please, I am not going to harm you. I only need to talk to you.”

Olivia moves back and allows the man into the apartment. He is soaked from head to toe and begins to take off his shoes.

“May I have a towel?”

Olivia eyes him up and down. “Wait here. Don’t dare sit on anything.”

“I won’t.”

Olivia likes his voice and finds his patience admirable. Most of the men she has known would be screaming and ready to point a gun at her head for having kept them standing in the rain.

“So who are you?” she asks as she hands him a beach towel.

“Thank you,” he says as he takes the towel and dries off. “I’m Harlan Breck.”

She steps back, cants her head to one side, and squints her eyes. “I’m calling the police,” she says as she pulls her phone from her pocket.

“No! Wait! I know my name is familiar to you from North Carolina. I’m his son.”

“Whose son?”

“Harlan Breck is my father. He owns Breck Furniture. Your mother worked there.”

“How do you know?”

“I know her … well … I knew her then. We met in 1997.”

“Well, she’s dead. My so-called father murdered her. Now he’s dead.”

Olivia walks to the kitchen and sets out a Dutch oven and

begins cooking ground beef. “She never mentioned you.”

“I think she did. She had to have mentioned her summer vacation here with Ophelia. About seventeen years ago?”

She begins chopping an onion and bell pepper. “Aunt Ophelia said you’d come. Let’s stop beating around the bush, ok? If I’m your daughter, just say so. ”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“Aunt Ophelia said you’d say that.”

Olivia wipes her hands on the kitchen towel and walks to the credenza by the door. From a basket she picks up the three envelopes and hands them to him. “Mom obviously never mailed these. I found them in her safe-deposit box.” She watches him take in a deep breath and exhale. His eyes are fixed on the address.

“I’ve not lived there for at least fifteen years.”

“You don’t have to open them here. I don’t care what’s in them. Whatever happened, whomever I may share a genealogy with, at this point in life, I don’t care. I’ve got to work on me and set out on this new adventure called adulthood.”

He smiles. “I heard your mom say those exact words… about setting out on her new adventure of adulthood. We were both seventeen.”

“And were you lovers?”

He nods. “It was sweet and almost innocent. We were together for three weeks. Then she had to move back to North Carolina.”

“Why did you stay here?”

“College. My father had it all set for me. He had my entire life planned.”

“So you’re married?”

“Divorced.”

Olivia nodded her head. “Look, I’ve had a screwed up and jumbled life. My dad was a drug dealer, and my mom and I bore the brunt of his rampages. She didn’t have the money to leave. She worked the factory line.”

“Can I help you finish whatever it is you’re making? Can we talk and get to know each other?”

“I don’t want to get to know you. I had a father. Pitiful

Safford • 73

excuse for one, but he got what was coming to him … finally. A swift prison sentence and then murder … the same way he killed my mom. They sliced his throat.”

“Oh God, Olivia … ”

“What, you didn’t know she was murdered? Hard to believe with all the news coverage. I had an eyewitness view. He was high as a kite and drunk. He murdered her out of anger and jealousy … pure and simple. They said, after he came off his high, he had no clue he had murdered her. I saw his eyes, and I heard his accusations. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Harlan shakes his head and moves to the window overlooking the parking lot behind the building. A small shaded park is beyond the lot. He sees the water through a break in the trees. “Last time I saw your mom we were on the other side of the park sitting on a bench. Are you sure she never told you about me? Am I the reason you came here?”

“When my father raged against my mother, he told her to go find her Florida lover and get the hell out of his life. She ran into the bedroom and started packing. That’s when he slit her throat. I came here to see if you were worth my losing her.”

She can see Harlan’s eyes welling up with tears. He tries to fight back his emotions.

“Don’t cry for her or me. Maybe I did come here to find you, but one thing is sure—I’m on my own, and I’ll make my own way. I’m set. Believe it or not, he actually had insurance money on himself and Mom. It’s not enough to live like a rich girl, but I can get a job, and it will put me through school. It’s the only good thing out of this wicked nightmare. Unlike my mom or grandmother, I don’t have to live in Breck’s Grove. I don’t have to be harnessed to everyone’s bad decisions. Go open your cards, on your park bench, and mourn her. I don’t need a happy ending with my long-lost Daddy coming to my rescue.”

He glances at the cards and looks back up at Olivia. “I wish she’d had a fighting spirit.”

“I think you’re the one who needed a fighting spirit.”

He nods, “I agree. I didn’t have any fight in me, and my

father ruled my world. I should have been a man. I’m not that way anymore. I know it’s too late now to make any difference. I want to know for sure you are my daughter. I want to be a part of your life.”

“You should go. Maybe we can talk some other time. I just don’t see what difference it can make. I’ll tell Aunt Ophelia you came by. She felt our meeting needed to be a priority. I don’t see why. Your life is set, and so is mine. I’ve never had a real father, and I don’t need one now.”

“I hope you’ll come around to changing your mind about a relationship with me, Olivia. I’ll go. Call me if you need anything; here’s my number.” He places a business card on the counter and turns to leave.

Olivia steps back to the stove and pours the tomato sauce and spices into the ground beef. Tears are close, but she does not let them flow … not for him … not for anyone today. One day soon she will sit in the park, on their bench, and cry for her mom.

The Night Slayer

Samantha Monteverde

… I love the thrill of impending, weightless doom … —Jennifer Niven, All the Bright Places

“Such a dull place, this here is,” Zipporah remarked. The three young reapers were just entering the village. The village itself was dreary and gloomy. It didn’t help that the sky, too, was gray with clouds.

“We’re only here to speak with the head of this town. It’s not like we’re going to live here or anything of the sort,” Dinah replied as she pulled her horse to a stop outside one of the buildings that seemed to be where businesses were housed.

“C’mon then,” she told her friends before sliding off her horse. A bow held in one hand and her quiver of arrows slung across her back, she made her way to the front of the building with a sense of purpose in every stride she took. Her friends followed in her wake, looking just as deadly and menacing as she. Dinah felt every eye watching her as she mounted the steps to the front of the building. Casting a look behind her, she saw many sets of eyes watching her from the corner of every window, both bottom and top floors.

“Be wary; we have an audience,” she said offhandedly to her friends.

Entering the building, they were greeted with a warm fire in the fireplace and a man writing things down at a desk by candle light. The room had a few windows and cupboards placed around the bottom floor. To the right of the little room in the back corner there was a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. Looking up, Dinah saw empty chairs and benches surrounding the top in a square ring.

“Who are you?” The man at the desk asked harshly. His eyes disdainfully scrutinized Dinah’s apparel, and seeing Zipporah’s clothing, he looked ready to throw a fit.

“You sent for us, sir?” Jason responded when Dinah didn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you too young to be fighting off vampires and werewolves? You hardly look older than a young child, much less like one capable of fighting!”

“We’re eighteen years old, sir, and more than capable of handling ourselves. You called and we came because this is our sector, and we’re here to protect those who ask.” As Dinah spoke, she sensed Zipporah ready to lash out at his obvious rudeness. “Are you the person in charge of this village?” she questioned impatiently. When he nodded, she smiled a wolfish grin, “Jason, shut the door. We have some matters to discuss with this here man.” At the sight of her smile, he grew nervous and pale. Never had he had to deal with those of the Angelum Lucis race, let alone a Reaper.

Following orders, Jason closed the door behind them. The three Reapers crossed the room to stand in front of the man. There were two chairs available, so Jason had his two companions sit while he stood behind. Jason looked at the man in an intimidating way, arms crossed and face emotionless.

“My name is Dinah, and these are my friends, Zipporah and Jason,” she gestured to them respectively. “Who sent us the letter?” Dinah asked.

“That’ll be me, Henry Penstive of Widdleton,” he responded with a slight quake to his voice. Dinah felt his nervousness in the air and felt somewhat bad that he was scared of them, for it was never her intention to frighten him. Nevertheless, she had to put him in his place. He asked for help, her help to be exact, and he shouldn’t go and criticize her looks – after all beggars can’t be choosers.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Dinah responded. “What seems to be your problem?” Zipporah demanded, getting to the point.

The man pushed aside his papers and set down his writing quill. Taking a deep breath, he began to explain, “We’ve had people disappearing from nearby villages. Children disappearing, to be exact.”

“What does that have to do with us? Ever thought that they were wandering around in the woods surrounding the villages? I also don’t see how this concerns you; if anything they’re the ones who should be calling on us,” Zipporah said at once.

“Z, be quiet,” Jason told her, setting a hand on her shoulder to make sure that she remained seated. Dinah almost groaned with Zipporah’s quick temper.

“I thought it was just as you suggested until it happened to my village. My little girl was taken during the night. You see, it was no simple kidnapping. Nothing else was taken or broken, and no one even noticed she was missing till around the middle of the morning.”

“How can you not notice your child missing until mid-morning?” Zipporah fired off right away.

“We’re villagers, and we work day in and day out getting food, water, and wood. I thought my wife might’ve sent her for more firewood. But that’s beside the point; I believe that something took my daughter from me during the night.”

Dinah sensed her companions about to talk, so she held up a hand to silence their barrage of questions and remarks, “What exactly are you saying here, Mr. Penstive?”

“I’m saying, that I believe that a vampire has taken a villager from my village, and I want my little girl back.”

“You do know that that is a serious accusation to make. Vampires and werewolves aren’t something to be messed with,” Jason remarked.

“I’m very aware of that, Mr. Jason. But I’m sure that there has been a vampire in my village.”

“Vampires cannot come into a house unless invited in. In saying so, the only way the vampire would have been able to kidnap the child is if she let the monster in or she was out of the house. Both of which seem unlikely given the time period in which this event occurred,” Dinah told him.

“However unlikely the scenario might be, I stand by it that my child was taken by a vampire.”

Dinah was about to respond when Zipporah interrupted:

“This can all be solved if we just go to your house and see for ourselves. There we’ll be able to detect if there was indeed a vampire.”

Dinah looked at her friend and gave a smile. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Zipporah’s right. Take us to the house, and we will determine if it was a vampire or not.”

“Certainly,” he responded. Standing up from behind his desk, he gestured for the door. The three Reapers took that as their cue to exit.

“Mount your horses; the house is a little farther than a walk down the lane,” Henry suggested to them. Dinah tied her bow to the saddle before mounting her horse.

“Follow me,” Henry commanded once everyone was mounted. They took off in a trot down the lane and followed the bend in the path to a house that was at the edge of the village. “You would think they would put a fence or something,” Jason muttered too low for Henry to hear.

The house was dreary as was the rest of the town and the sky. Built out of wood that looked like it was starting to turn gray, it looked like it had been through hell and back and was ready to face more. The roof of the house needed some patching and a few boards were loose from the walls of the house making the shelter look a little unstable. There were two windows from what Dinah could see, but nothing seemed to show that a vampire crossed this land. Behind the house was a slightly larger building, looking just as rundown as the house did.

“Everyone lives off the land,” Henry commented, sensing their questions about the big open land full of vegetables. He got off his horse and began walking up the path to the front door. Dinah, Zipporah, and Jason followed suit. They were just passing the gate when a woman came through the front door. She looked disheveled, and her hair looked like her hands ran through it quite a lot, making a few dark blonde strands come loose from the bun. Her weary brown eyes searched the Reapers with slight apprehension, worried that they would cause harm to what was left of her little family.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Easy, Elizabeth, they’re here to help. They’ll bring our daughter back.”

“If we can, of course,” Zipporah butted in.

“Quiet, Z,” Dinah reprimanded.

“Help? They’ll bring our daughter back alive and well?” She demanded, cutting her eyes from her husband to the three Reapers.

“We will see what we can do. But if it’s possible to bring your daughter back alive and healthy, we will do so,” Dinah responded.

“Come along, I’ll show you the house,” and Henry gestured for them to follow.

The house was sparsely furnished, two cots pushed in the right hand corner of the house near the fireplace with a kitchen table toward the left. A sink took resident beneath a window across from the door. There were two chairs in front of another window and a rug in front of the fireplace.

Entering the house, Dinah was hit with pain from her upper right arm—where her mark was placed. “Did you make sure that your house was empty and safe?” Dinah asked the couple. They both nodded.

“I’m going to grab the holy water,” Jason volunteered at once, jogging back to the horses.

“What’s going on?” Elizabeth asked. Her gaze travelled between Jason and Dinah before settling on Zipporah, as if she would be the one to answer her question. “Your house was indeed visited by vampires,” Zipporah volunteered.

Elizabeth and Henry paled at Zipporah’s statement: “Our daughter was taken by vampires?” Elizabeth confirmed.

“We’ll try and get her back,” Dinah responded.

Jason returned with holy water in an animal-hide container, “I’ll sprinkle it around the house.”

“What will him pouring holy water around our house do for us?” Henry questioned.

“It will keep the vampires at bay. They cannot enter even if the resident of the house gives permission because it will burn them,” Dinah answered, looking around for anything that

the vampires might’ve left.

“You said that there were other villages that were attacked?” Zipporah asked dropping her search of the house. Henry nodded his head in affirmation. “Where were the other attacks?”

Henry walked out the door toward the gate with Dinah and Zipporah following his lead. Pointing straight ahead of him, he began to speak, “Fourteen miles that way.” He then turned to the back, left corner of his property, “Sixteen miles that way.”

“I will take the first town,” Zipporah said at once.

“I will take the other,” Jason said coming from behind them. Dinah whirled around to face her friend.

“Are you sure, J?” Dinah asked and Jason frowned.

“I will be fine without your watchful eye, Mother,” Jason said snippily. Dinah stifled a wave of agitation.

“I was only asking, Jason,” she responded.

“So it is settled then. Zipporah and I will venture to the other towns and find out what has happened there,” Jason said before walking toward his horse. Zipporah followed his lead and saddled up onto her own horse.

“Be careful, please,” Dinah said to her friends from her stance on the ground, “the both of you.”

“Nothing is going to happen to us, Dinah,” Zipporah said softly before pulling her horse in her designated direction. Jason didn’t say anything, only pulled away in his destined direction.

When they were gone, Dinah turned to Henry, “Do not venture into the night. Stay inside, no matter what you hear.”

He only nodded before turning back into his home. Dinah hopped up onto her horse and turned him around to face the path heading back into the village.

“This is going to be a long night,” she murmured, heading up the path.

It was two hours into nightfall when Dinah was exiting the last house, “…if you do as I say, you should be fine.” The woman showing her to the door nodded at Dinah’s last words.

“Thank you, young Reaper, for you we are eternally grateful,” the woman said to Dinah with gratitude wrapping itself around the words that came from her mouth. Dinah placed a comforting hand on the woman before leaving her standing there alone.

Sidling up to her horse, she rummaged through her pack that was on the backside of the saddle in search of her cloak. Once it was located, she fastened it on then slung her bow and quiver of arrows across her back. Hopping up onto her horse, she began to make her way toward one end of the town. She managed to get out her warning to all of the villagers before it was late into the evening and now all she had to do was keep a watchful eye through the night.

It started out simple enough; the moon rose, and slowly the candle light in the little houses went out. Soon all that was glowing was the stars in the sky, the ones that weren’t obscured by the cloud, that is. The sound of the wind whistled through the trees—the only sound in the air, not even Dinah’s horse produced a sound. Sleep pulled at her, yet she resisted. Late into the night, the fog rolled in making uneasiness bubble in the pit of her stomach. She cast her eyes upward, looking at the round moon taking center stage in the sky.

“I wonder how the others are doing, don’t you boy?” she asked her horse, but he didn’t show any sign of understanding.

After twelve rounds going up and down the village, Dinah was quickly becoming bored and was about to call it quits. The sun would be rising soon, she thought to herself. A cry from the opposite end of the village rose from the dark of the night. That’s near Henry’s side by the trees, Dinah thought in a panic. Another cry prompted Dinah to take off down the road. She was no more than five yards away when she saw a pasty, white figure carrying a girl out of the doorway. The girl in its arms was struggling to extricate herself. Moving instinctively, Dinah jumped off her horse, not bothering to come to a stop, and reached into her boot freeing her dagger from its place. Her mark on her arm began to burn with the presence of the creature in front of her. Pulling her arm back, she let the dagger fly hilt over blade,

willing it to hit its intended target. The creature must’ve heard the whistling through the air because it moved, making her dagger miss. Turning around, the creature bared its elongated fangs before taking off into the surrounding foliage.

She whistled for her horse before taking off at a run in the direction that the creature took. A hand was extended towards the direction of her dagger, willing it to come back to her. Not a moment later, it was sailing through the air, hilt first, into her hands. The creature was running ahead of her, nothing obscuring her line of sight. Grinning, she pulled her arm back and let it snap forward, her dagger once again sailing through the air. Like before, the creature heard the pursuit of her dagger and veered to the side to avoid the oncoming death. A curse left Dinah’s mouth, and she pulled free her bow just as her horse cantered up beside her. Not breaking stride, Dinah reached out to grip onto the saddle before jumping onto her horse in one leap. She held her hand out for her dagger to fly back to her and was delighted to see it zooming back. Once it was sheathed in her boot, she spurred the horse into a gallop.

She ducked and dodged the overhanging branches that tried to knock her off her horse. When it was safe enough for her to sit on her saddle without having to hold onto the reigns for a short period, she pulled free an arrow and fitted it into her bow. Taking aim, she released her arrow on an exhale, hoping it would find its home in her intended target. She gripped the reigns tightly when she felt her horse lurch towards the side. A demonic screech caused her to look up from her horse and straight up at her victim. She was happy to see that her arrow pierced the creature, causing it to fall and tumble.

Dinah rode up onto the vampire and then jumped off her horse, hanging the bow on the horn of the saddle. She grabbed a wooden stake out of her pack on the rear of her horse and made her way towards the creature crying in agony. The girl he was carrying was unconscious, lying on the ground beside him. She raised the stake into the air, smirking in triumph, “Get ready to meet your end, vampire.” But before she could strike him, she was knocked off her feet by something. She crashed

into a tree, making her wince in pain. Dinah closed her eyes, trying to block out the feeling of pain that wanted to encompass her. Getting to her feet, she saw that another vampire had joined them. By now her mark felt like it was on fire.

Gripping the stake, she ran at the vampire. She dodged one of his arms coming at her but failed to see the other arm coming her way. It struck her in the side causing her to slide sideways; her ribs began to scream in pain at the blow. Catching her breath, she ran at the vampire once more, but the other vampire jumped in her way. She swung with the stake and managed to slice at the vampire. It screeched in agony, and she was able to kick him away. Continuing on to the other vampire, she raised her stake once more, but her wrist was caught in its icy, tight grip.

It twisted her hand in an uncomfortable direction, making her wince in pain. A blow to her chest caused her to fly backward. “Away with you, Reaper,” it hissed at her before taking the girl and running away with her.

“No!” Dinah shouted out and tried to run after them, but the vampire she shot with her arrow latched onto her leg. She couldn’t shake him off, only succeeding in falling to the ground. Turning onto her back, she shot her other leg out, smashing it into the face of the vampire. Although vampires had tougher skin than average humans and Reapers, it wasn’t completely impenetrable. Her foot seared in agony after smashing against such a hard thing, but she pushed it away with the triumph of breaking the vampire’s nose.

Upon closer inspection, she could see the feral beauty of the vampire, but in its desperate attempt to live and kill this Reaper, it couldn’t conceal the demon that lay within. His eyes were completely black, gone was the iris that made it look human. His skin was the color of porcelain with the blood pouring from his mouth and nose giving him his only color. In contrast to the blood that surrounded his mouth and nose, his white fangs were elongated, snapping to deliver the bite of death to her. Dinah struggled to grab the stake that rolled from her hand as she fell to the ground while also trying to keep the

vampire from biting her. Willing herself to stretch just a centimeter more, she was able to grab the edge of the stake. Quickly sitting up to stab the stake into the heart of the vampire, she made it just in time. Blood spewed from the orifices of the vampire pooling into a puddle around him. Determination consumed her when she stood up and walked deliberately toward the injured vampire. She dragged him away from the puddle of blood and turned him onto his back. She pinned him to the ground with her dagger at his throat and the stake at his heart once more.

“What do you want with the little girls?” she questioned immediately. The vampire spat the human blood at her before chuckling. Enraged, she pushed harder with both weapons.

“Do it! I will only die in the end,” the vampire goaded in a Romanian accent.

“True, but I could make the death less painful if you give me the answers that I seek,” she answered.

“I would rather die a thousand deaths than release the secrets of my kind.”

“Tell me!”

He kept his mouth shut, refusing to say another word. A sly smile crept onto her face, “You know, I heard vampires cannot stand to have the cross upon their body. If I were to draw one on you, would it have the same effect?” Fear struck his black eyes, making Dinah feel a little guilty for threatening him in such a way. Torture was something Dinah and the rest of her friends tried to avoid at all costs.

Still he said nothing, so she took her dagger and began to carve a cross onto the chest of the vampire. It screamed in agony and tried to throw her off, but his arms were trapped beneath her knees.

“They need the lives of innocents to complete it!” the vampire shouted out between screams of pain.

“Why? What are they completing?” Dinah’s voice was harsh and demanding.

“To rule,” was all he said.

“Where are they?”

He refused to say anything.

“Tell me!” she shouted at him.

“I have already betrayed my kind. I refuse to say anymore,” he said.

“Very well,” she said with a tone of carelessness laced in each word.

Raising her stake high above her head, she saw the fear course through his eyes and show on his face. “N—” But it was too late, for Dinah had already plunged the wooden stake through his heart.

She whistled for her horse, her eyes never wavering from what lay before her. The corpse twitched, and she grew worried that her horse wasn’t going to come before the vampire healed itself completely.

When a vampire is stabbed through the heart with an ash wood stake, it does not kill it. More often than not, the vampire will heal itself with the human blood it has drunk. The only way to fully kill a vampire is to set it on fire. The body of vampires are flammable, so it is easy to set them afire. Her horse galloped into view bringing about some relief. She got up and walked to her horse, and without thinking, she reached into the pocket of the saddle and brought out the tools to bring about the fire. Carefully, she picked her way around the corpse so that she stood by his feet. Making the sparks to light the fire as fast she could, she let out a sigh of relief when the body was engulfed in flames. It screamed in agony, but Dinah tried to ignore the sounds. Although it was her job to kill them, it still ate at her. The only thing that kept her going was the knowledge of their being behind her parents’ murders.

Dinah walked back to her horse to put away the tools but quickly fell to the ground. Intense pain gripped at her foot, and she looked behind her to see that the vampire, which was on fire, was grabbing onto her. She reached into her boot and extracted her dagger raising it into the air and bringing it down with enough force to break a stone. It released her foot cradling its bloody hand. It was a gruesome sight, something Dinah couldn’t bear to watch. The smoke that rose from the fire was

purplish-grey and smelled sickeningly sweet. There was a lot of it as is usual of a vampire burning, and the flames could be seen for miles around.

The moon was beginning to disappear as the sun was beginning to rise when the fire was done, and all that was left were the charred remains of the vampire. Seeing the arrow that she shot, Dinah picked it up and placed it back in the quiver where the other arrows were. Stringing her bow on her back, she hopped onto the saddle and began to ride back towards the village. Her body sang with pain, and every movement she made caused her to wince at the agony.

“This is going to take a while to heal, boy,” she said to her horse, knowing that he probably wasn’t paying attention. There was a break in the trees, and soon she was entering the village. The villagers had ignored her warning and were now crowding at the edge of their village anxiously waiting to see if she would return or not. They parted like the Red Sea without a word being exchanged. Once she was through the crowd, she pulled her horse up short and dismounted. She was about to speak to the crowd when the rumbling of horses’ hooves caught her attention. Quickly unsheathing her dagger, she spun around only to see her friends jumping off their horses and running toward her. Zipporah reached her first and crushed her to her chest followed by Jason. In the commotion, she dropped her dagger to clutch at her friends despite the protest of her body.

“I thought something had happened to you,” Zipporah whispered with relief in her voice. Everyone pulled back to look at one another. “When I saw the smoke, I began riding back,” Zipporah continued.

“You know how dangerous it is to ride at night,” Dinah admonished.

“Nonsense, it was more dangerous to split up,” Jason quipped and hugged her rather tightly. Dinah gasped in pain, causing both Jason and Zipporah to scrutinize her.

“You’re hurt,” Zipporah said at once.

“I’m—”

“Where’s my sister?” a voice shouted from the crowd.

Momentarily forgetting her injuries, she turned towards the crowd to see a boy about the same age as her walking toward them. He had brown, wavy hair and green eyes that looked angry and stormy.

“Who?” She asked.

“My sister, the girl who was with the vampire you were chasing. Where is she?” His voice was coated in anger and desperation.

Dinah looked down at the ground, “I failed to retrieve her.”

“But you went after that damned thing,” he argued grabbing ahold of her arms and shaking her. Fire flared from her injuries, causing her to wince.

“Release her,” Jason said at once, his tone going dangerously deadly.

“I’ll be okay, J,” Dinah said softly before turning to face the angry villager. “I’ll get your sister back.”

“Who are you?” Zipporah demanded.

“Emil Dalca,” he answered as he stood up to his full height. Emil was the same height as Jason, but where Jason was lean and muscular, Emil’s body structure was well defined.

“Well, Emil Dalca, would you kindly release my friend. We need to make plans, and she needs to be healed,” Jason said his tone between forced politeness and thinly veiled anger. Emil released his hold on Dinah and took a step back.

“I want to help make the plans.”

“Your kind is of no help in this problem,” Zipporah said, her tone neither unkind nor kind.

“She’s my sister. I will help bring her back.”

“We are Reapers, and we’ll bring your sister back. Go back to the farm where you belong,” Zipporah said, her voice hinting on anger. Sleep deprivation was eating at them and causing their tempers to be shorter than usual. Turning Dinah around, Jason helped Dinah onto her horse while Zipporah looked for Henry.

When Zipporah spotted him, she beckoned him over. “Yes, Miss?” he asked.

“Is there a room we can use? Somewhere private so that

my friends and I can talk without prying ears?” Zipporah asked.

“The room you came to upon entering this village,” he said at once.

“Is it opened?”

“Take my key,” Henry said, offering her key.

“Much obliged,” Zipporah mumbled before mounting her horse and taking off in the direction of the office with her friends trailing behind. Dinah had to grit her teeth because of the pain that ached with every movement.

When they finally reached the room, Dinah couldn’t have been more grateful. She tried to dismount her horse but ended up falling ungracefully into a heap.

“D!” Both her friends shouted.

“I’m fine. Just help me up,” she replied, trying to stand. Doing as she asked, they helped her up. They slung her arms around their shoulders and helped her up the steps to the room. Once she was inside, they sat her down on a chair, and Jason quickly got an herbal remedy to help with the healing process. He gave her the remedy along with her dagger that she had dropped at their short reunion.

“Good thing we heal fast, or else we would have to push off the search for a couple days,” Zipporah remarked.

“Yeah, well, I’m not really hurt, just bruised really badly.”

“Just bruised and bloody,” Jason snorted.

“It’s not my blood; it’s the vampire’s,” she retorted. Jason shook his head and began wiping at the blood that caked her skin. He touched her side, and she hissed in pain.

“Looks like that might be broken,” he said and Dinah just grumbled. “Drink the remedy, D, it’ll help heal you faster.” Huffing, she downed it and made a face.

“I don’t like the taste of them.”

“They’re not supposed to taste good,” he teased; he then turned to Zipporah, who looked like she was about to fall asleep in the chair. “Z, what did you find in the other villages?”

Startled, Zipporah grabbed for her dagger and looked about her wildly. This made Jason and Dinah chuckle. Scowling at them both, she put her dagger away. “Three children were

missing, all girls and all under the age of twelve.”

“How long were the intervals of when they went missing?” Dinah asked.

“Not many days had passed. Two went missing within the first night; four days later the third one vanished.”

“Did you tell them they were taken by vampires?” Jason inquired.

“Yeah, they turned white when I told them so,” Zipporah answered.

“It’s best they know now. Things like this shouldn’t be kept from them,” Dinah said. She had a hard time keeping her eyes open. Because of the remedy, she was slowly feeling drowsy.

“What about you, J?” Zipporah asked.

“Five girls. There was no pattern; everyone just noticed that the girls were all gone. They all lived near the forest, much like Henry and his family.”

“The three girls lived near the forest, too,” Zipporah added.

“Into the woods it is,” Jason stated, voicing what everyone else was thinking.

“We’ll set out at noon. It should give us enough time to rest and recover.”

“Oh … good … ” Dinah said to Zipporah, her eyes already drooping closed without her permission.

A nightmare from Dinah’s past caused her to wake up with a start. Through the window, she saw her friends outside tending to the horses. Groaning, she rose from the chair and stretched her stiff joints. She relished the fact that her body had ceased to ache. Not wanting to waste a moment, she quickly scurried over to her friends in hopes that there was a job she could complete.

“Alas! She has woken from the slumber which hath consumed her!” Jason said with humor lacing his tone.

“A slumber which thou hast cast upon her,” Zipporah remarked with the same humor.

“You are both in a good mood, and why is that?” Dinah commented, ignoring her friends’ remarks.

“The villagers managed to replenish our supplies. We’ll be good for another week,” Zipporah responded gleefully. Dinah chuckled at her friend and then cast her eyes skyward.

“We should be leaving soon,” she sighed.

“Now is the time, actually,” Jason asserted.

“Let’s ride,” Dinah said with a smile coming onto her face. Mounting their horses, they made their way through the village and toward the tree line.

“Stop,” a desperate voice rose from the crowd of spectators. The young Reapers did as they were told and cast a look behind them. Dinah was surprised to see that it was the villager Emil, who had stopped them from entering the forest. She looked to her friends to see that they, too, were just as surprised as she. They all turned their horses around to see the newcomer that dared to stop them.

“What is it that you want?” Jason asked him at once.

“I’m coming with you,” Emil said, riding up to them on his own horse.

“You will only slow us down,” Zipporah said in a bored tone.

“She’s my sister, and I must come with you to save her,” he insisted, his eyes filled with desperate determination.

Dinah studied him and was surprised with what she saw. The same determination that Dinah still has within her where her family is concerned was mirrored in his own face, “I understand that she is your—”

“Let him come,” Dinah said, interrupting Jason. Surprised, her friends cast her bewildered looks. She didn’t look at her friends, but rather kept her gaze trained on the young man in front of her. “He’ll follow after us anyway. I would rather have him in my sight than have him behind us where he could fall into trouble. It will only make us work double time,” she answered.

“He will only cause us trouble and cost us time,” Zipporah said.

“Time that is already being wasted as we sit here and argue over a petty issue. Let the boy come, simple as that.”

“I am not a boy,” Emil said indignantly.

“Fine, then I am leading,” Zipporah said at once, turning her horse around to face the tree line.

“Lead the way, Z,” Dinah told her friend. Jason followed suit, not bothering to say another word to Dinah. Dinah looked from her friends to Emil, “Stay behind Jason. I will bring up the rear.”

“Don’t you think I should?” he asked.

“Are you a trained warrior?”

He frowned at the question, “No.”

She smirked, “Then you have your answer.”

Left Turn on Red

Donna Wilke

It was morning, and I woke up on edge. The light shined through the windows into my eyes. There weren’t any curtains unless you count the one that hung from the ceiling that was made to encircle the bed for privacy, and it was pushed back against the wall like an accordion. I wanted it to still be dark. I’d had another weird dream of my fiancée Katelyn. I was on my way to our wedding, but I couldn’t find the church. Frantic, I searched by going to places that didn’t make sense like work, the Post Exchange, my sister’s house. I kept at it until I found the church, and afterwards, I realized I was at the wrong one. The problem amplified when I noticed my clothes. I’m wearing a tux with my combat boots, and I freaked out knowing how upset Katelyn would be. So I started trying to find my shoes between the pews of the wrong church. Eventually, I wrenched myself awake with my chest aching and muscles throbbing. The dream was vivid and felt real. I didn’t want to think about Katelyn, the wedding, my deployment or anything else. I rolled over blotting out any thought, pulled a heavy blanket across my mind, found a comfortable position, and set myself adrift again. It felt like it had only been a few moments when I heard the buzz that went off on the panel just north of my head. Grinding my teeth until it stopped, I shifted to my back and lay there trying to ignore the noise. Taking a deep breath, I felt like lead had been poured into the veins of my limbs overnight.

The door latch echoed with a hollow clank in the big room, and squeaky shoes treaded across the polished floors. With only two beds and a small nightstand each, it wasn’t enough furniture to absorb any sound. Each step hammered through me.

“Good morning, Specialist Miller. Is there a problem with your Com. Panel?” the orderly who had Private First Class Rank asked with a lift of her eyebrows and a hand on her hip. She was short with brown hair in a messy bun and maybe somewhere

near my own age, in her mid-twenties.

Watching her out of half-opened eyes, I glanced at the window noticing the change in the position of the sun and said, “It’s Saturday,” and closed my eyes.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said as if talking to a small child. “Now would you like me to assist you in getting up and readying yourself for breakfast?”

Quickly arching my back, I stretched the muscles pulling them taut. I heard her shoe squeak as she took a step back. I grimaced opening my eyes again. I glanced at her.

“It’s time to get up,” she said flatly.

“It’s Saturday,” I said. “I just want to sleep in.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” she said shaking her head. “You have to come to the day room and then we’ll all go down for breakfast.”

I rubbed my hand across my forehead trying to set my self-control dial on function. “Fine.” I lay there a few moments longer and could feel her getting uneasy. Keeping the blanket across my lap, I sat up and swung my feet to the floor. I scraped at the three-day-old stubble with my fingers and looked back as she stood watching me. “What?”

She forced a smile. “I have to make sure you’re going to stay up.”

I looked down at my lap and back up at her and started to pull off the blanket. “I’d sure like that, but I guarantee we’d miss breakfast, maybe even lunch,” I said, feeling the first genuine smile in weeks.

“Oh,” she said glancing down then quickly back up and taking another step back. “Well then, we’ll see you in the day room in … ,” she paused and looked at her watch, “less than twenty minutes.” And she turned and left.

I fell back on the bed before the latch clicked and groaned. A part of me felt guilty as I thought about Katelyn. I didn’t know what to say to her or how to tell her what was going on. After a few minutes, I figured I’d better start moving. I dragged myself into the bathroom and took care of business. I looked into the mirror running my hand over my face and decided that if they

wanted me showered and shaved, they’d have to make me. I put on some sweats I had kicked off behind the door, found my slides, and made my way down to the day room.

It looked like the crowd was all here, the five other lucky guests at Ft. Campbell’s fourth floor of the emotionally challenged. Apparently, the hospital staff in the mental ward had expected to need a larger capacity, which as far as I was concerned doesn’t say too much for the United States Army. All six of us had our own double-occupancy room with a few to spare. The four rooms closest to the locked door were empty, and I figured the staff must have had runners. That was an entertaining thought, but the only thing I wanted was a chance to get to talk to Dr. Fairfield again.

Last Tuesday I had been working out my problems with Jack. We had become best buddies all the way down to the last drop. When I came to, I thought I was still somewhat drunk because nothing was working right, except my pain receivers. I was in the ER with some dumbass butter bar trying to start an IV. After the third attempt, he moved to the other arm as if that would help his aim.

“What the hell!” I said jerking my arm back as blood spurted.

“Specialist…” the intern said as he glanced at the chart through his bottle-thick glasses, “Miller. Please give me your arm,” and he reached for it again.

No, not happening,” and I sat up, “I’m good; I just need a ride back to the barracks.” I jumped out of the bed, and my vision blurred, and my legs gave out sending me crashing back into it and on to the floor. A nurse and doctor hurried over to help the intern get me back into bed. I listened, cradling my head noticing a huge lump, as the intern talked about me, explaining how I was uncooperative. They all looked at me as the doctor leaned down.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

I gritted my teeth and spotted his brass oak leaf. “Sir, Hell must look like a hospital.”

“All right,” he stood up. “Do you know how you got here?”

I tried to focus on his face. “I passed out, and somebody must have flipped and brought me here.”

“Doctor Fairfield is going to join us shortly.” He pulled out a pen light and started flashing it in one eye and then the other then continued with some other tests. “Until then, I’m going to need to set up that IV and start you on fluids for dehydration.” He picked up the chart, wrote something down, and gave the nurse some signal as she took my arm and started the procedure. “How’s your head feel?”

“Like I drank too much,” I said. He nodded his head, finished his scribbling, and left.

Once the nurse finished, they left me alone in my curtained-off cubicle. I felt like I’d played tag with a dump truck and lost. This had to be the worst hangover in history. I wanted to ask the doctor about the lump on my head, but for some reason, I didn’t. I waited a long time for the other doctor to show, figuring he must be the one I needed to sign a release, but I started to doze off.

I heard the curtain being pulled and watched a bald man in a white coat with round, gold-framed glasses introduce himself. He was wearing a full bird insignia.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Fairfield,” he said holding out his hand. I grasped it and shook it back saying, “Specialist Miller, Sir.”

“Scott, right?” he said. “I’ve got some questions for you. Would it be all right if I got a chair, and we could discuss them?”

“Um, sure … yes, sir.” I felt my palms start to sweat, and my mouth went dry. He went around the curtain and brought back a chair and placed it next to the bed as I pushed the button on the bed to elevate it.

“Scott, I would like to know, is it your habit to drink in excess?” he said watching me.

“No, Sir,” I said straightening. I think he was waiting for more because there seemed to be a lot of dead air between us.

“How about we begin with how your day started yesterday morning?” he asked.

“Uh well, I got up, did P.T.; I went to formation, fell out, and went to work at the motor pool,” I said trying to figure out what he was looking for.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“No,” I said wondering what that had to do with anything.

“How about lunch?” he asked.

“Well, I was finishing up on a Humvee that needed to be ready for a mission, so I worked through lunch.”

“And for dinner?”

“We … my roommate and a few guys from the barracks went to this bar. We ordered some wings and had a few beers,” I said rubbing the area around the tape from the IV.

“And then?” he continued to prompt.

“Then we stopped at a liquor store and headed back to the barracks,” I said.

“Whose idea was it to stop at the liquor store?”

I hesitated a moment and answered, “Mine.”

“What did you buy there?”

“A bottle of Jack,” I knew it didn’t sound good, but drinking is legal, so …

“What happened next?”

“Well, we got back to the barracks. Everybody split except for my roommate, and we had a few more drinks and went up to the roof.” I ran my hand over my buzz haircut and finished, hoping the inquisition was over. “I must have passed out.”

Dr. Fairfield picked up my chart and flipped a page, “I’ve looked over your medical chart, and it seems that you’ve lost nearly thirty pounds in the last ten weeks. What would you say accounts for that?”

“I don’t know; I guess I’m not hungry,” I said having not really thought about it much. I mean, I did notice my clothes were baggy.

“I see you’ve just transferred from Ft. Jackson. Are you having any problems in your personal life?” he asked, and I laughed causing myself to wince. “I’m sorry, did I say something funny?” he asked, looking at me over his glasses. I got the feeling he knew something he wasn’t telling me.

“No, Sir, it’s just that, yeah, my personal life has hit a few brick walls,” I said and folded my arms.

“And what would one of these brick walls be?” he asked, setting the chart down.

“Well, my dad died a couple of months ago.” I could feel my nails biting into my palms.

He leaned a bit forward. “Would you like to tell me about that?”

“What for?” I took a deep breath through my nose and stared back at him. “It won’t change anything.”

“All right, you said ‘walls.’ What’s another wall?” he asked, maintaining eye contact.

“When can I get out of here?” I asked and looked away. “I mean other than a hangover, there’s nothing wrong. Except now I’m late for duty.” I started wondering what they had done with my clothes.

“I would like to discuss these other walls you feel like you have in your life,” he said, sitting back in his chair.

“Look, Sir, it’s just life kicking my balls. I’m not an alcoholic. You can talk to my unit, friends, or even my family; I just drank too much last night. I don’t see anything unusual about that. And no disrespect but I don’t understand why I’m not being released.”

He sat for a moment watching me and finally said, “Do you have any memory of what happened on the roof of your barracks?”

I remembered talking to Carter my roommate and chugging on the bottle of Jack, but after that it was a blank, so I said, “No.”

“According to a Private Carter Brown, you climbed up on the ledge and deliberately leapt off,” Dr. Fairfield said as I shook my head. “Fortunately, you landed only one story down on the connecting building. Otherwise, it would’ve quite possibly been fatal.

Arguments sprang to my mind, but mostly I was stunned. I finally uttered something like “that’s bullshit,” but neither one of us bought it. Dr. Fairfield went on to say my CAT scan was good as well as how he was going to keep me for observation for a little while. Before he left, two burly guys in white escorted me from the ER to my new happy home, which left me to figure out how long a little while actually is. I haven’t seen Dr. Fairfield since.

So now my time is spent getting shuffled around the hospital to breakfast, lunch and dinner like part of a chain-gang,

escorted by Humpty and Dumpty in white. And I’m making real progress in art therapy if you believe paint by numbers is psychotherapeutic. Then Thursday’s treat was to play volleyball with the enlisted weight-control group. And to top it off, yesterday some captain that looked younger than me led this group therapy thing, which turned out to be just a bunch of whining.

I waited in the day room for a few minutes, away from the rest of the group that were sitting on the couches and chairs that amazingly enough, didn’t look like your regular military issue. They were tan and black in a style, something you might find in someone’s home. They faced a TV with two round tables behind them that could seat six to eight. I made my way over to the back wall next to the bookcase that was filled with puzzles, games, magazines, and books and stared out the windows that lined the outer wall. I watched the wind blow the burnt leaves that struggled to hang on to the tree that was almost bare.

Humpty and Dumpty entered, and everybody rose and headed toward the door. I got in the back of the line behind Jess, a cute little brunette who at least didn’t have some sappy story. She had said that some dude had tried to kill her while she slept in the open bay dormitory at in-processing. They’re keeping her here until after the court-marshal and her testimony. The scar on her neck was almost healed where he took a razor blade to her. And despite her situation, she seemed like the only normal one in here. There’s one other woman and three guys. The girls do most of the talking during breakfast or any other time. Jess is kind of quiet, but that other one, Stephanie, is loud, and I’m not sure what they’ve been giving her, but she acts like she’s won the lottery, always smiling, invading people’s personal space. I don’t know how Jess puts up with it; maybe she’s just glad to have another woman here.

After breakfast, we came back up to the day room, and they allowed us to have our cell phones for the next couple of hours, so I called my sister. She’s married with three little kids and is busy every time I call. I leave out what’s going on with me, and we talk about some of the details of her selling Dad’s house. She told me that they have some furniture stored in the garage for me

I stared at the phone wanting and not wanting to call Katelyn. She doesn’t have any classes on Saturdays, so I have no excuse for not taking the time to tell her what’s going on. They’d let me send a text on the first day before they’d confiscated my phone, and I had told her we were out in the field to cover for not answering my phone. That was totally lame, so now she’s sent all these texts asking questions about what kind of exercise it is. Why all of the sudden and how long? And she hopes it’s not too rough with the weather, and am I okay? I can’t stand it anymore. We are supposed to get married in June. Her parents have rented a ballroom, and she’s been picking out all this stuff and emailing me pictures of flowers, cakes, invitations, and a million other things.

Katelyn was going to change majors and move to a college outside of Nashville so that we could be close enough to have weekends together. She’s busted her ass to get into the University of South Carolina, but I didn’t like the idea of her moving and neither did her parents. But that was before Monday, when my unit announced an eighteen-month deployment to Afghanistan. At least her parents will be happy that she’s doesn’t have to move because their deposit on the ballroom is a bust.

The one thing I have learned about the Army is that long-distance relationships don’t work. Every time a guy gets deployed and has a girlfriend waiting at home, some kind of shit happens, and he ends up with a Dear John letter. Screw that! I sent her a text saying that things were crazy busy now, and I would try to call her in a few days. I turned the phone off and turned it into the front desk.

Somehow a whole week had passed, and Friday rolled around again. I decided this place must think that overwhelming monotony was some kind of cure. During last Tuesday’s group therapy the same baby-faced captain, Dr. Nelson, tried to get me to “open up.” One of the other guys, an old dude named Sam, had

100 • Blackwater Review along with my stuff I’d left at home. I’m really grateful she and her husband Dave are handling the estate. I hated saddling them with it, but with me being stationed out of state, there wasn’t much I could do.

been spilling his guts about Desert Storm. He had been in among some of the heaviest fighting during his first enlistment. After that, he’d gone his whole career until a few weeks ago without being deployed to that region. When his plane landed, he was hardly off the tarmac when he started having flashbacks, so they sent him here.

It was time for group therapy again, and what I wanted to know was where the hell was Dr. Fairfield. I guess I’d be willing to answer whatever questions he asked, if that was going to get me out of this place. If they don’t think I’m fit for the Army, well, then, cut me loose. As a matter of fact, I figured they’d be doing me a favor.

I made it to the day room early for the meeting, and most everybody was there. Stephanie was entertaining the group with her impression of Beyoncé. Stephanie had a way of growing on you, and I wasn’t sure if it was part of her personality or the happy pills they gave her for schizophrenia, but she was kind of like the team mascot. One thing’s for sure: They don’t keep the truly crazy here. This guy came in one evening ranting, and at first, he quieted down for a while. Later that night, he woke up the whole wing. It took the entire staff to restrain him, and in the morning, he was gone. I don’t know where they moved him to, but Sam, who’s a bit of an insomniac, said he had seen the dude heavily sedated and being wheeled out of the ward strapped to a gurney.

The individual missing from our cluster, a young sergeant from the Special Forces unit came in, followed by Dr. Baby Face. We sat in our circle, and Stephanie started by telling us she was going to be released on Monday back to her unit for out-processing. Her meds were stable, and she was going home. Something hit me like a fist. I was happy for her. I was … but—

“Scott, you seem unsettled,” Dr. Nelson said. “How about you share with us?”

I gritted my teeth. “What I’d like to know is, where’s Dr. Fairfield?”

“He doesn’t do group,” he said. “If you have a question, I’m sure I can help or find out for you.”

I folded my arms and asked, “How about an appointment then?”

“I’m sure we can arrange that after we’ve seen some progress in group.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said, shaking my head.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said, and I realized the rest of the group was staring at me.

Stephanie said, “That’s what’s helped me.” I didn’t respond, and she took offense. “Do you think you’re better than the rest of us?” and I watched a couple of heads nod.

“We all have our own pace, and we need to respect that,” Dr. Nelson said, which cut to the bone. I started to say something when…

“His pace is stuck in park because all he’s done is park his ass right there in that seat!” she said pointing to my chair.

“What the hell do you want to know? Huh? That my dad died three months ago? That my mom’s an alcoholic and left when I was four? That my sister is selling the only home I’ve ever known? Or that as soon as I tell my fiancée, who’s in the middle of planning her dream wedding, about my eighteen-month deployment, it’s over?” They all looked at me a bit stunned.

“What is your fiancée’s name, and has she told you she won’t wait?” Dr. Nelson asked.

“It’s Katelyn and no, but I’m not going to wait for some Dear John bullshit either,” I said glaring at Baby Face.

“You haven’t even asked her? Man, that’s cold,” Stephanie said doing the huh-huh thing with her head. “Why would you want to be with a woman you don’t even think will wait for you? I mean, you are in the Army and all.” The group gave a collective yeah.

I put my hand on my knees and leaned forward. “That’s not it. It’s just that shit happens. Katelyn’s smart and beautiful….” I sat back, rubbing my forehead, “Everyone I know who’s had a long-distance relationship has ended up splitting.”

“Well then, I would say you need to broaden your view,” Dr. Nelson said, “because I’ve known many couples that have endured separation, including myself. And although it is difficult

as well as sometimes painful, it is worth it for the couples that last.”

Everybody nodded.

Sam leaned forward looking at me and said, “I’ve been married for twenty-seven years, and I’ve had three remotes to Korea,” he looked at Dr. Nelson. “Now I won’t lie and tell you that we didn’t have some problems, but marriage is work.”

Jess was sitting beside me and put her hand on my shoulder and said “I would like to say that I’m truly sorry for your loss.” Everybody chimed in with condolences. “It sounds like you were close.”

I could take the attack. I knew how to fight. What I didn’t know was how to accept pity, and I could feel myself shaking, and I said, “Ye … yeah,” but it came out broken. An eternity slipped by as everyone waited on me to pull it together. “He wasn’t just my dad. He was an awesome man.”

“Was he sick?” Jess asked, now patting my shoulder I thought how amazing it was that she who had almost been murdered could be so kindhearted. “No, he was hit by a drunk driver making a left turn on a red light, as my dad was passing through the intersection,” I said looking up, and I noticed Stephanie wiping tears from her eyes.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m leaving because Miss Jess is making me look bad.” Stephanie said elbowing Jess. “It’s like we done did good cop, bad cop or something, and I got stuck with the ugly end of the stick.”

Someone started to chuckle, and Sam covered his mouth, and I was smiling too when Dr. Nelson said that time was up. Everybody started congratulating Stephanie and wishing her well, and so did I.

Later that afternoon, we had phone privileges, and I went to the front desk to get my phone. I took it back to my room, shut the door, and dialed Katelyn.

“Hello, I’m so glad you finally got to call,” Katelyn said. I could see her smiling.

“Ahhh, I love hearing the sound of your voice.” I took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about that wedding date …”

Wilke • 103

The Pledge

Donna Wilke

Henry sat on the hard industrial chair in the cinderblock lobby waiting for his son to finish smoking his cigarette outside. Shifting in his seat to see out the door, Henry watched the sun radiate in waves as it baked the pavement. Rubbing the front of his balding forehead with enough force to loosen the last strands that had been holding on, he waited while Jeremy was puffing through his last minutes of freedom. Henry looked over his shoulder through the bullet proof glass wondering how much longer it was going to take the police officer to prepare the admittance paper work. Jeremy’s sentence for stealing the car was only a few months, and if he behaved during probation and met all the requirements, he could put in for a reduction to a misdemeanor.

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Henry thought. How’d I ever end up worrying about Jeremy’s felony reduction? What the hell am I doing here? I’ve worked my entire life taking care of my family, and this is how it is? Henry sank into the chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands holding up his head.

Becky Anders checked the contents of her purse one last time before getting out of the rusty Dodge pickup. She had to slide over to the passenger’s side to get out since the door handle had come off in her hand a few weeks back. Catching herself in the rearview mirror made her hesitate for a moment and check her lipstick. She tilted her head to assure her platinum hair was flattened out to perfection. Satisfied, she gave it a final shake and slid out of the truck.

Walking from the parking lot up to the county jail, Becky’s heels make a slap clip clop that she usually took pure enjoyment from, but today, she could only think to imagine the look Randy would have on his face. After nine months of waiting and plotting, she wasn’t as nervous as she thought she would

be. Spotting a guy with a Motörhead T-shirt checking his cell phone and smoking a cigarette, she flashed him a look and swayed seductively past mindlessly, still focused on her plan. She made her way to the door of the lobby.

The door opened, redirecting the light, and Henry looked up. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass, and his mind flashed back to a moment in his life when he had seen an identical image of himself. One he’d buried deep, and in that instant, the memory flooded back through him. It was Christmas Eve, and Jeremy was three months old. The oxygen tent enclosed the entire crib. Antibiotics had been administered, but the drugs didn’t help. Jeremy had viral pneumonia. The doctor informed him that the oxygen along with a steroid that allowed Jeremy’s bronchial tubes to remain open were the best they could do for him, and now, all they could do was wait.

Henry couldn’t sit there anymore. He felt like he was losing it, listening to the sound of his son drowning, as he lay in the tent dragging in each breath. He got up and hugged his wife who stood beside the bed like a statue and told her he was going for coffee and asked if she wanted any. She shook her head “no,” and he left the room. Once past the door, he almost ran. Taking the stairs, he flew down the four flights and made for the exit. Jogging through the parking lot, he hit the key fob and got behind the wheel. Wondering where he was going, he looked around and stared at nothing. After a few moments, he started beating on the steering wheel with his fists, screaming obscenities until his hands protested in pain. When he finally stopped, he opened the door and popped out like his seat was burning, slammed the door, and walked back to the hospital.

Henry got a coffee from the cafeteria and sat at one of the empty sets of tables and chairs. The coffee untouched on the table, he slumped forward in his chair resting his elbows on his knees and head in his hands, praying for something he could do. A chance to make everything all right, some way to make a difference, and as he quietly contemplated, he realized the only

thing left was to believe, believe Jeremy could get better. He was a fighter. And he was fighting now, believing in supporting his wife. Being there, if only to hold her hand. Believing in himself, not running, not blaming, or asking pointless questions, but standing in love. He made a promise to himself, and abruptly light flashed off the chrome from a bumper of a passing car, and Henry looked up to see his reflection in the window.

Becky pushed through the door, scanning the lobby. Glad Randy hadn’t been released yet, she let go of a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. The secured door from where he would be released was next to the exit, and across the small lobby was the restroom. The few chairs made a half circle with only one man sitting there staring out the door. She smiled at the officers behind the glass doing their clerical work and crossed the room in her usual manner.

Becky went into the restroom leaving the door partly open. Leaning close to the mirror, she inspected her make-up and pulled some tissue from a roll to blot the perspiration from her face. She ran the cold water over her hands and noticed they were shaking. Balling her hands into fists, she gave herself a pep talk.

“You can do this,” she said to her reflection. “You’ve waited all this time. You’ve got to do this.” And she reached in the bag and pulled out the 9 mm.

It felt warm in her palm, and she gripped it with both hands and went into her practiced stance, studying herself in the mirror. •••

Henry started to get up to go find Jeremy when both doors opened. Two men were being released through the secured door that led to the office behind the glass, and Jeremy was coming in from outside, filling the room with bright light. A shot was fired. Jeremy spun as if doing a grotesque pirouette and crumpled to the floor. On their own, the released inmates dropped to the ground, and Henry jumped so hard that the wave of shock through his body was still singing as he looked at

his son, then over at the shooter.

“You bastard,” the woman screamed. “Did you think you could get away with what you did to me?”

“Becky, honey, you know I’m sorry.” The man was flat on the floor inching toward the door on his belly. “I was coming to see you, first thing. Ask anybody,” he said, moving another foot.

“You lying sack of shit! I gave up my baby girl for a lying, cheating sack of shit,” Becky shrieked.

Jeremy lay half in and half out of the door. The light pouring in made it hard to see from Henry’s point of view, but he saw Jeremy move, lifting his hand to his shoulder. He started to go to him when she fired again.

“Don’t anybody move,” she said lifting a hand from the pistol grip to block the sun from her eyes.

Henry saw the officers behind the glass speaking on radios and motioning for him to lie down, when he decided to stand, saying, “Please don’t shoot.” Henry slowly stood facing a girl that couldn’t be much older than his son. Becky swung the gun toward him. “That’s my son over there in the door,” he said pointing to Jeremy. “I want to go help him, but I need you to help me.”

“Who the hell are you?” she said shaking the gun at him. “This ain’t nothing to do with you.”

“I’m Henry, and that’s my son Jeremy, and I need your help.”

“What the fuck do you want?” she said waving the gun back toward the doors.

“I need to get him to a hospital,” Henry said standing with both arms in front of him palms up. “Please help me.”

“I ain’t no doctor,” she said, but she was shaking. “Go get him, and get out then.”

Henry blinked hard and took a long breath but didn’t move. “It won’t work, as soon as I move, or you do, everything’s going to change, and not for the better. Please help me,” he said again.

“What the fuck do you want!?” she screamed, and they both turned their heads when Jeremy groaned, as Randy tried

to crawl across him. Becky fired again shooting the glass out of the door, stopping Randy from moving any farther. “You son of a bitch, where do you think you’re going?”

Becky took a step toward the door hesitating, when Henry said, “Please don’t.” She looked at him as he faintly shook his head.

She swung the gun back on Henry, “Don’t tell me what to do,” she said shaking so hard she had to grip the gun with both hands to hold it steady.

“I want to help you, too.”

“Yeah, how so?”

Henry whispered just loud enough for her to hear, “If you move to that door, they’re going to kill you.” He watched her as her face went white. And then she glared at Henry.

“You’re lying,” she said waving the gun inches from his nose, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

Henry spoke calmly, “Right now, you have a choice. Nobody needs to die.”

“Randy needs to die,” she said moving the gun back toward the door. “You need to die, Randy!”

“And he will,” Henry said. “One day he will. Becky, your life’s worth so much more.” He lifted his palms up again. “Please.”

The tears streamed down her face as she stood looking from Henry to the door. The moment seemed to roll on forever. He wondered how she had gotten to this point. Ready to throw everything away, how young she was, and did she have any idea what she was doing? His mind bounced to his wife, who was going to come today, and to his son lying on the ground, and how upset he was with him only ten minutes ago, and he wanted to laugh at himself. But he didn’t feel like laughing.

She lifted her hand to wipe at her face and to shield her eyes from the sun, but her arm was too weak to hold the gun steady and she started to falter. For a twinkling of a second, he caught sight of a red light touching the center of her chest, and he thought, “No!” Henry stepped in front of her, blocking her line to the door.

“Get out of my wa—way,” Becky said, her voice cracking.

“This is my chance. Your chance! My son’s chance! Please put down the gun,” Henry said, feeling his heart beating, air passing in and out of his lungs. There was a noise behind him, and without turning around, he could tell by the look on Becky’s face that Randy had popped up and jumped through the door. “He’s gone,” and she lifted the gun to his face. “It’s your fault.”

“Yes, and I don’t want to die for him. And I don’t want you to die for him. Please … just put it down.” Henry repeatedly searched her eyes, wanting a connection, even if it was his last. Becky’s emotions leapt across her face stopping at shattered.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she said, shaking her head and lowering the gun. Taking in broken gasps of breath, she hunched forward started to sob.

Henry stepped closer, “It’s going to be all right,” and held out at his hand. “You have to believe. It’s going to be all right,” and he reached for the gun.

Crosswalk

Andrea Hefner

I caught a glimpse of her blonde ringlets in the sun as I turned the corner. Her hand fit firmly in her mother’s, her dainty fingers curled in the palm of security. The mother had brown hair: I remember the incongruity. She wore her newborn in a cocoon on her chest.

Another sat in the stroller, all waiting patiently for a light.

The crosswalk lines shimmered with their white glow through the hazy morning. The vulnerability of moments in the universe susceptible to time struck me.

Just as the car that could have struck them.

A moment here or there, time stitched with a different color thread

Yielding red instead of golden light

Today, tragedy gave way to normality

The mother was left to walk on, finishing errands, kissing the baby’s crown while I turned the corner, barren and empty. Pulling in for an IVF cycle, left feeling as I might not make it across a crosswalk.

Meals Shared

Lucy Miree

I once was invited to the table of Zeus, which was laden with piles and piles of food. He spared nothing, and I swear even the tablecloth was inlaid with gold. His laughter boomed; his face shone brighter than the sun.

I once attended a luncheon with Hera, almost intimidated by the dangerous curve of her lip over the rim of her glass. She had elegance abounding, but her nails were filed to a point. She whispered plans of vengeance, and she smiled murder.

I once went to dinner and the symphony with Apollo; his golden hair shone as he bobbed his head to the music. I could feel his heart swell with the rising crescendo – euphoria, angst, and beauty with each savory note.

I once found myself in Demeter’s care, and she cooked me a hearty breakfast. Golden honey drizzled over fresh-baked bread, a reminder that this was the most important meal of the day. She stuffed me to the brim and pinched my ruddy cheeks.

I once had a plan to get lunch with Hermes, but there was no time. Too busy, he said, so we went to a drive-through. He checked his watch three times, shoveling the greasy food in with hardly enough pause to taste it.

I once got coffee with Athena, at a library filled with old books. I sought advice, and she gave it, smiling knowingly, leaning close like she had a secret. Her grey eyes glinted; somehow I was assured that my problems were solvable.

I once went out with Dionysus, diving into the night life. It was a hazy blur of drink and dancing, but eventually we ended up in a rundown diner half an hour before dawn. Our heads lolled, our voices rasped, torn from shouting and drunken laughter.

I once shared a bag of trail mix with Artemis as we trekked through the forest. She knew the wilderness like it was in her veins, nimbly dodging every rock or bump in our path. She whistled back to birds as they flew overhead, knowing their song by heart.

I once went to the wharf with Poseidon, nestled into a corner table at a fish market. He joked openly and laughed heartily, but the squall of the gulls made him sigh. Every so often, he looked out at the roiling sea with a passion I had never seen before.

I once was made a meal by Hestia, slow cooked over the fire. In the light of sputtering coals she sat with me, listening to my woes like a mother. The first bite felt like home, like love, warming me through and through.

I once had a girls’ night with Aphrodite, and she styled me with her own masterful hand. We sipped Cosmos and tittered, watching men fawn over her beauty. She wanted no one, leaving them with kiss marks on napkins and a vague sense of yearning.

I once ended up at the feet of Hades and his wife, begging and gaunt from hunger. They brought me into their home, where no fire burned in the hearth. They shared their meager meal, lukewarm as it was, and his wife offered me the sweet seeds of pomegranates.

Icarus

Allison Williams

Have you heard the story of Icarus?

Lived his life in a cage, captors cruel, Till he abandoned his tower, Home of everything he had ever known And flew on wings of wax and shine; Swooping, crying, bold with all the freedom of the sky before him And so much freedom there was, All the light in the world in a ball above him. Finally he could touch it, and he did, And he was free.

You have not heard the story of Icarus Because Icarus, sick of mud and brick, Made sure he never again touched ground. Instead, Daedalus tells the story; A father who lost so much, Cursing the allure that stole his wide-eyed son. And because Daedalus tells it, It is a warning:

Don’t fly too high nor sink below the waves, Lest the welcoming warmth scorch you, The innocent waves destroy you. But Icarus, The boy who tasted sky and touched the heavens, I know his last words. I have spent my life caged, Dreaming of the world he saw, For he cast away the dirt he so long trudged in, Shedding worries like feathers off his back the higher he flew. He knew the cost of his freedom, And I know his last words: It was worth it.

Second Place, James and Christian LaRoche Poetry Contest, 2016

Painting by Words

Shelby Harrison-Smidt

Speak of your dreams so that I may write them. Let this pen illustrate, bringing forth life through a skeptic’s eyes. Have you dreamed of Heaven, a cool, swirling breeze above clouds, below your feet, a chilled path of stars? Could you ever be so engulfed in glory? Who is to stand before you but God himself? His presence unknown to the eyes should be shockingly clear to the heart. Shall I paint those deceased? Arms stretched, urging embrace with curled lips and puddled eyes. They motion eagerly for your return. May awe weaken your stance, falling at the pitch of a trumpet. I would hope your knees to bruise from such a heavy realization. What is it your eyes see? Speak!

Let these words paint a masterpiece! The lost long to see such a glorious light.

Captain Robinson

Shelby Harrison-Smidt

My mind wanders to early memories of you: peppercorn hair, dusty blue eyes, cigarettes stretching the pocket of your shirt. Musky aftershave mapped every step. You made long trips around the cul-de-sac, dragging each step like a walk along the plank. Even then, begging God’s mercy on your tar-blackened lungs. The plaque already eating away, calling to the swirling seas then, hairless, pale, wrinkled skin, wilting and disgusted by the reflection in your sword. By the sting of the blade, you fell into the sea, arms outstretched, sinking your lifeless body six feet.

Irresistible

Donna Wilke

A warm, blanketed hand reaches out and a gumball fist wraps around a finger, tying knots in the strings of aprons while Play-Doh toes play peek-a-boo.

Sweet breath exhales past O-shaped lips that split, dimpling sugar-glazed cheeks. One brow lifts with a blue forget-me-not wink imparting a wonder-filled toothless grin.

And I sit here.

Not Pink Floyd

Ashleigh Hillebrand

Listening to the rain fall,

Listening to my relaxing music

Found at a spa or while taking a bubble bath

Or in my home.

Listening to the quiet that is Even as you sit across the room.

And I sit here.

Smelling the remnants of dinner, Chicken and rice and vegetables,

A moderately healthy dinner. And ice cream.

Smelling my old Yankee candle

In an exquisite porcelain holder

With flowers detailed perfectly around it

Rose, I think it is.

And I sit here.

Watching the flame dance

Watching the smoke rise

Watching shadows flicker against the white walls.

Watching you through the dim candle light

Through the fire

Watching you push your glasses up on your nose

Flip the page in your book

Cross your legs in your mannered way

And I observe you,

Porcelain skin flawless from youth with growing wrinkles

Each line perfectly detailing your experience

Your expression as such an old man

And you grow older.

The fire within you still burns strong.

And I sit here.

Listening to the rain fall, Listening to my relaxing music

Found at a spa or while taking a bubble bath Or in our home.

Listening to the quiet that is Even as you sit across the room.

And I sit here.

Smelling the wood as the fragrance fills our home.

Our great fireplace, embers burning late night,

Warming our home from the icy rain the storms brought.

Our great fireplace,

Each stone meshed together in organized perfect chaos.

And I sit here.

Watching the flames dance, Watching the smoke rise

Watching shadows flicker against the warm walls.

Watching you through the blazing firelight

Watching you push your glasses up on your nose

Flip the page in your book

Cross your legs in your mannered way

And I observe you,

Hair still voluptuous, even white.

Wrinkles, your experiences, etched into your handsome face

All pressed together in organized perfect chaos. You aged well.

And I sit here,

Drinking my tea, Wishing you were here.

Namaste

Andrea Hefner

The cork floor smooth under bare feet

The instructor instructs on the focus

In and out, through the core, tighten the navel

From the first to the last is a lifetime

Whether it be a moment or 100

The time and the space between, an infinity

Done with parasympathetic precision

Tidal volume and reserve

Heightened in passion

Held in surprise

Hiccupped in sobbing

Hypoxic with hemorrhagic shock

Hypnotic with metered flow

In through the nasal passages

Out through the larynx

A sigh over the vocal cords

Deep through the shoulders

Pressing down into the mat

Swirling in with the others

Energy in the making

Namaste.

Faith Is an Old Couch

Allicyn Baldwin

Faith is an old couch. The material is threadbare, worn down from the weight of asses.

There’s a pungent smell it carries that reminds me of relatives whom I never see and never want to see.

The layers of stains and dust on the old couch grow and dull its true colors as years pass.

Not everyone has a couch, not everyone needs it, but I admit, there’s a certain comfort it provides.

It may be old and have holes, but it’s sturdy and holds some stories that might be worth it to hear if the old couch could speak.

Stones beneath the Moon

Ryen Goebel

Underneath the indigo sky we could be frozen desert stones carved by wind and sand, the caress of frost in an arid sea, twisting towers of sediment cold-pressed by the years.

Look straight up, stretch, hold the balance of Orion’s bow  in the arc of your shoulder blades. We are just two lonely heartbeats surrounded by the black trees, the moon, a glass half full of glowing wine, and behind it, the god of lightning.

The Sleeper

Ryen Goebel

She fears—s  l  e  e  p

as if it is a growing, living thing: a twisting tide, a shadowed snare, waiting

Leaves curled in the darkness

Roots clawing, craving every word that pooled under the fragile skin of her fingertips

Rippling under feet that ever strayed to faerie paths…

When her lashes flutter—

Moths to flame—

When her veins run with ink

When her hands, black gloved, are welling, flowing, into a sea of paper-white

When the witching hour casts its spell over the girl, the girl and the winding petals of pearl are

once more ribbon-caged love letters bound too tightly.

once more a sleeping beauty as her pale castle goes to black

On the Gray Days

Linda Safford

On the gray days, the ones that are tinted blue and impede my steps, I think of you. Sadness, its source not the matter, leads me to you. Thoughts of us— the short season of us— impact every living moment. In the broken place of my heart you remain, and there we are safely kept.

The Story That Could Have Been

Jaclyn Tipton

Balancing her weight with her slightly outstretched arms, Nora walked along the edge of the curb. She focused on the ground, her feet, the grass, and the litter in the road, anything she could look at so she wouldn’t have to look up. It was sunny that day, and she was relieved for that. She didn’t know if she could attend a funeral in the rain. It would be too much for her head. She didn’t know how people did that, show up with black raincoats, black umbrellas, black veils, and black ties, all prepared to put a loved one in a hole in the ground. The sky cries and spills its content all over everything as if God feels their sorrows. She didn’t want the skies to cry today. She had already cried enough to fill a lifetime.

A boy Nora didn’t know well, Max, walked up, forcing her to turn to him on instinct. The graveyard stretched out behind his head, and she focused on it instead of his worried, red eyes.

“Hey,” he said. Nora didn’t answer. “I wanted to tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Nora said.

“But I really wanted to. I know you two were really close. It must be really hard on you now that he’s gone.” Nora looked at Max, but not his face. His hair was a gross bleached blond color, and his ears jutted out but only at the tips. He wore a black suit with a black tie and black shoes. His pants were too small, and Nora saw that his socks were black, too. Black, black, black, black, Nora chanted in her head. She listened to herself think the word over and over until it stopped sounding like a word and just like a group of noises. Fuck black. Why does everything have to be black?

“It’s fine,” she said and started walking the opposite direction Max had come from. She was done feeling, done crying. Everything was numb to her now. This must be how he felt, she thought, when he decided to kill himself. If Sean were with her, he would have told her to be nicer, to not judge by appearance. He would have tried to explain his views to her like a doctor or a psychologist would, analytical and patient. But he wasn’t here, so Nora continued walking. Nora came up to a large oak tree with lots of Spanish moss

hanging around the branches. Some of them swung low to the ground, so she went over to touch them. She caressed the moss and patted the tree trunk, feeling the texture on her fingertips. She had always loved the feeling of living things. They amazed her whether it be a cat, dog, tree, or leaf; if it was alive, she found it fascinating. But now, when she touched this moss and tree, she felt nothing, not the swell of happiness or the comfort of the rough bark. She thought about how everything dies, and whether it be tomorrow or in eighty years, it is inevitable. This tree was going to die. The moss will die too. She will die … But hell, it couldn’t be worse than living with this pain. She sat down at the base of the oak. She watched a man with a leaf blower clear leaves and dust off sixteen graves. She counted aloud in broken, soft words.

“Nora,” a voice said. She turned at this, knowing it was her mother. “It’s almost time. They’re about to start.” Nora stared at her, at her mother. Her wrinkled face was far too round. Her black hair was far too dark. Her black dress had too much lace. She was too thin, too blunt, and far too cheerful for Nora’s best friend to be dead. Black, black, black, black. Who was she really? Did Nora really know her mother? Nora bet she was hiding something, bet that her mother and father actually hated each other, bet their minds screamed in ordinary agony. She bet that her mother actually hated her book club friends, bet she wanted to sew their stupid mouths shut with a thread and needle when they gushed about the newest chapter. After all the years of being around her mother, Nora knew relatively nothing about her.

“Mom, what’s your favorite color?” Nora’s mother hesitated.

“What?”

“I asked what your favorite color is.”

“Oh.” She looked worried, but Nora didn’t care. She should be worried, Nora thought. I’m fucked up right now. Let her see how fucked I am. Let her see how much I need help. “I guess it would be orange.” Nora sat up a little straighter. Orange? Did she hear that right? No one’s favorite color is orange.

“Why orange?” Nora asked.

“Because it reminds me of a sunset, and I like sunsets.” This disgusted Nora. Orange was such an awful color. Only pricks and pedophiles liked the color orange. She turned her head away from her mother, not wanting to look at her now. She stood up and

Tipton • 125

brushed some dead grass off her blue dress, not making eye contact. Nora’s father wanted her to wear black like everyone else. He said that it was a part of the mourning process, that it’s tradition. Nora knew that, but she also knew that blue was Sean’s favorite color. He actually didn’t know what blue looked like because he was color blind, but he had always said that he felt happiest around that shade of grey. So Nora wore that shade, wore the same sky blue dress, in fact, that he had commented on only three weeks before when they went to the park and laughed at ducks until their sides hurt. Black, black, black, black.

“Are you coming, Sweetheart?” Nora’s mother said. Nora saw past her to the distant pack of people. They all stood motionless like a painting, as if the first person to move would break the secret that all paintings are alive and have souls.

“Yeah,” Nora said. Careful not to be near her because she didn’t want to be touched, Nora walked past her mother. She hadn’t wanted to be touched since the 31st, the morning they still couldn’t find him.

The night of the 30th was one of the worst days of Nora’s life. Nora was at a friend’s Halloween party where she had been wreaking havoc on cupcakes and tiny skeleton-shaped sandwiches. Then she got a text from Sean’s brother asking if she was the last person to see Sean that night, saying that his family was worried about him. She had stopped halfway between the back porch and the kitchen. Her vision got blurry, and her heart beat faster. She quickly replied yes and that she hadn’t seen him since then, that she had seen him heading home about two hours before. Her limbs felt like jelly, and her head started to spin. She thought of the hard, bracing hug he gave her, an awkward hug that he didn’t know how to approach, and the quiet apology he breathed in her ear before he left. After relaxed, loud, ticking minutes, Sean’s brother replied that they were going to call 911. Nora couldn’t catch her breath; she couldn’t hear her friends’ questions. She could barely feel their hands on her back or the background voices calling everyone that knew him to see if they knew where he was. She shook so violently that her knees buckled, hitting the wood floor with a soft thump. Her friends brought her to a dipping couch where she loudly sucked in breath after breath, wondering if Sean was still doing the same.

The funeral was appalling. Nora didn’t want the pats on the back or the hollow sounds of sympathies. She wanted Sean back. She wanted all of his bruises, cuts, and sadness to be hers not his. She wanted him alive.

Nora sat in a black foldable chair in the front row. She didn’t want to be here. He deserved more. He deserved better. No one deserves that much hardship in the last year of high school, only a month away from turning eighteen. He didn’t deserve the way his mind treated him or how the shadows on his walls at night turned into her face. He didn’t deserve to die over the rejection of a fucking girl, a girl so average Nora’s brain burst furiously into flames when thinking about her.

The girl that he cared for too much, Olivia, was one of the many people to say a few words about him. When she went up, she was a mess. Her dark brown hair curled in odd places like it hadn’t been washed in days. She wore a black dress that had buttons at the top, and one at her cleavage gaped open. One of her black socks was slightly longer than the other sock. If she had worn makeup, it would have been smeared from her forehead to her chin. The black mascara would streak her cheeks. Black, black, black, black. Olivia was still crying, and for that, Nora looked down upon her. So weak. So new to the pain, Nora thought. She doesn’t know all that he went through because of her. She doesn’t know how to turn it off.

Olivia talked about Sean’s big, beautiful personality and smiled through her heavy tears and choking sobs. She talked about his sincerity and love for all people. She talked about how he never missed an opportunity to open the door for someone. She talked about his infectious smile and how if you were low on gas or food or anything really, he would take out his wallet and insist you take his money. She talked about how much she hurt.

Sean’s family spared no expenses on his funeral. Large bouquets crowded every open area, making the air thick with the scent of dying, red roses. His coffin was nothing like Nora had ever seen before. It was black with bulky, bronze handles. The bronze seeped up through the coffin and created swirls, like you would see in fairy movies, all over the top. And the inside was pure white with more cushions than Queen Elizabeth’s bed. Although when

Tipton • 127

Nora thought about the inside of the coffin, she thought of the wake, of Sean’s cold, dead body sitting in it, and how his unbearable pain in life was still etched on his stiff features in death.

The people around Nora were weeping as Olivia spoke, some silently, but others with great, racking, moaning cries. Nora couldn’t stand them, stand any of the fucking people. They didn’t know Sean. They never played a video game with him or watched him out of the corners of their eyes sitting like a ninja would on a moonlit night. They never saw his uneasy approach to cats and how he would say, “pat, pat, pat,” in time to his strokes as he petted them. They never heard how good he was at piano nor received a message saying, “It’s not perfect,” but the audio clip attached could bring anyone to tears. They didn’t know about the times the two of them would go to the library just to sit in silence together. They didn’t know how he reacted when she broke down about school or boys or family, how he’d stay up talking to her into the early hours of the morning on the phone to soothe her tired mind that everything was going to be okay. They didn’t know about the times she did the same thing for him as he fell into self-hatred and madness. Nora unexpectedly started to feel claustrophobic, like her clothes were pressing too tightly on her body, like the sun was closing in on her, like her heart was being crushed by God Himself. She stood up so fast her chair tipped over. Everyone’s eyes turned on her, watching her strings snapping, watching all of the emotion she thought was gone forever inside of her flooding back with demanding purpose.

“Nora, are you okay?” Nora didn’t know who was speaking to her. She couldn’t take it. She stepped away from the crowd of inquiring eyes.

“Nora?”

“Nora, you can’t leave.”

“Nora.”

“Nora, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Nora, stop. Don’t be rude.”

“Nora.”

“Nora.”

“Nora.”

The noises were barely whispers, but they screamed in her head. She heard her name, but all she could think was, “He’s dead.

He’s dead. He’s dead.” She thought of all the times she could have done something. All the times she could have worked harder to get him help and get him better. She thought about the time he snapped loud and messy at school, and his mom had to drive him home. She thought about the night he sent her those terrible texts: “I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.” She thought about the nights he cried so hard that he threw up. She thought about the 30th when she waved at him as he drove away from the school, not realizing that he would never arrive at his house, that he would end his own life within the hour.

Nora started running. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was going away. She didn’t want to mourn; she wanted him to be running with her with his incredible stamina and sneakily long legs. She didn’t want to think of all the bodies she was running across, all of the corpses that felt the low “thud” of her sneakers six feet under. She imagined him under her, rotting away forever in the black darkness of the earth. Black, black, black, black. He would be so bored, she knew. He always liked to be moving. He was in too many clubs to count and did volunteering on the side. His hands were always doing something. He loved playing the violin or the piano, writing, or making origami cranes. He would die of boredom if he wasn’t already dead. But he was dead, and there was nothing Nora could do about it. She lost her balance and dropped to her hands and knees, weeping once again for her best friend. Her vision blurred, so she shut her eyes tightly, trying to focus on her breathing. She felt almost calm with her eyes closed like that in the middle of the graveyard. She couldn’t see anything this way. She wouldn’t have to face the world if she just kept her eyes closed. She imagined herself in the coffin with Sean. It would be a tight fit, and she was afraid of the dark, but it didn’t matter if Sean was there. He would protect her from everything the world threw at her. She didn’t respond to the “Nora! Nora! Nora!” coming from behind her. She could almost feel his presence in the black behind her eyelids. Black, black, black, black.

Contributors

Jason Anderson is a current NWFSC student seeking an A.S. degree. After many years, he has finally found an outlet for his creativity in black and white photography.

Jesse Ash is a sophomore at NWFSC and plans to transfer to the University of Central Florida in the fall to pursue a degree in digital media.

Allicyn Baldwin is a writer and reader with an appetite for great food. Well-traveled, she’s lived in a lot of different places, including Japan. She aspires one day to publish a novel, but until then entertains herself by writing and rewriting the first chapter.

Ekaterina Balushkina is a student at NWFSC who is pursuing a degree in graphic design. She was born and raised in Russia and has loved photography since childhood. At NWFSC, she has learned how to make her photography more interesting and memorable.

Sharon Barnes is the proud wife of an Air Force Retired Master Sargeant, mother of two children, and grandmother of one. She is a third-year student pursuing a degree in the Graphics Technology Program.

Margaret Bartlett enjoys sculpting and working with the versatility of clay. She has four parrots.

Kimberly M. Brown is an aspiring artist working on her A.A. in graphic arts.

Colby Detwiler is an illustrator and an art educator for Abrakadoodle.

Jocelyn Donahoo is a medically retired home-health nurse who heeded to a still, small voice suggesting her to take a creative writing class. She did and, bitten by the writer’s bug, she hasn’t looked back. Jocelyn is this year’s first-place winner of the Frederic and Christian LaRoche Poetry Contest.

• Blackwater Review

Billy E. Gartman II is an NWFSC student from the Fort Walton Beach area and is a father of three. He seeks to inspire his viewers with his art.

Ryen Goebel enjoys art and literature and playing the bassoon. Passionate about music, she’s also learning the violin. Someday, Ryen wishes to write stories and animate the books she grew up loving.

Megan Gossett is “a brain, Watson. The rest of her is mere appendix.”

Candace Harbin is currently enrolled in graphic design and multimedia at NWFSC. She has a passion for photography and digital images/illustrations.

Shelby Harrison-Smidt is a student at NWFSC and a mother of two. While her passion is writing, she does, however, hope to eventually major in biological anthropology.

Andrea Hefner is a poet who rhymes from time to time. She values family and loves to explore the legacy of lives lived. She finds great pleasure in her two children, her husband, and her two sisters and misses her parents. One of her greatest joys is when she finds a spark of kinship with other writers.

Ashleigh Hillebrand is from North Carolina, having moved to Florida after marriage. She is in the United States Air Force Reserves and attends NWFSC, seeking a B.A .and M.A. in computer science.

Pamela Hnyla will graduate from NWFSC’s graphic design program in Spring 2016. She is deeply grateful to the instruction and encouragement she has received from the school’s faculty and staff.

Casandra M. Holmes is a radiography student who loves art.

Natalia Kireeva came to the Emerald Coast from Russia in search of sunshine and inspiration in 2012. She enjoys exploring various mediums in order to expand her artistic abilities.

Aeryn La Mar was born in Jacksonville, FL. She is currently married and serving in the Florida Air National Guard.

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Anna Lennon is in her last semester at NWFSC. She is 18 years old and plans to transfer to UWF as a studio art major in the fall.

Morgan Masek is a dual-enrolled high school junior at NWFSC. She intends to seek a B.A. in creative writing.

Alyssa McClellan will graduate this semester from NWFSC with her A.A., and from here she hopes to go to FSU, where she will continue her studies in art so that she can earn her B.F.A. and eventually her Master’s.

Lucy Miree is a junior in the Collegiate High School at NWFSC. She has always loved to write and finds inspiration in the works of Dylan Thomas and Richard Siken.

Samantha Monteverde enjoys writing. Hailing from a military family, she has moved around a lot, allowing her to experience different people and places, all of which have greatly influenced her writing.

Maria B. Morekis uses her inner strength to show her passion through the art she creates.

Evangeline Murphy has been writing for as long as she remembers. Her curious nature often leads to new ideas to explore and great writing topics.

Mark Peterson is a senior who graduates in May.  He has always loved taking pictures and continues to learn to be a better photographer.

Crystal Ryan is a driven, mixed-media artist who looks for inspiration everywhere she goes.  When it comes to art, she always pushes the limits.

Linda Safford is a Pensacola native who has traveled across the U.S. and now resides in Niceville, Florida. She creates fiction and writes creative nonfiction. Currently, Linda is working on her first book, Natalie’s Cafe.

Drew Swaggerman is a poet and student at NWFSC.

Zachary Thomas attends NWFSC in pursuit of an A.A. before transferring to a major university. Zachary aspires to be an educator.

D.L. Thornton is a senior at the Collegiate High School who is double majoring in English and musical theater.

Jaclyn Tipton is an English major at the Collegiate High School at NWFSC. She enjoys every type of writing; however, she leans toward realistic fiction and satirical prose.

Daniel F. Valenzuela has taken two drawing classes at NWFSC, and this is the second gallery he has appeared in.

Donna Wilke is a writing student at NWFSC who is currently seeking publication for her children’s book.

Allison Williams is a junior at Seacoast Collegiate High School. She has been writing everything from poems to short stories to novel-length works since she was ten. Allison is this year’s second-place winner of the Frederic and Christian LaRoche Poetry Contest.

Chloè Young is an art major at NWFSC and enjoys working with mixed media.

Contributors • 133