Blackwater Review 2025

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CONTRIBUTORS

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Nathan

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Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

A Journal of Literature and Art

Volume 23, No. 1 Spring 2025

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. Jessica Temple

Prose Editor:

Kodi Richardson, MA

Poetry Editor: Kathryn Young-Hunsinger, MFA

Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography: Benjamin Gillham, MFA

Additional Photography: Tim McSwain, Ashan Pridgon, MFA

Editorial Advisory Board:

Dr. Heather Hartness; Dr. Beverly Holmes; April Leake, M. Ed.; Dr. David Simmons; Dr. Christopher Snellgrove; Dr. Anne Southard; Dr. Robyn Strickland; Dr. Jill White

Art Advisory Board:

Bejamin Gillham, MFA; Ashan Pridgon, MFA; Lesha Maureen Porché, M. Arch; Jennifer Wren Supak, MFA, MA

LaRoche Poetry and Hunt Prose Contest Judges: Dr. Anne Brinton; Mary Gutierrez, BS, MPA; Claire Massey, MFA; Andrea Jones Walker, BA

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.

Front cover artwork: Water’s Memory, Krista Sundberg from an untitled photograph by Dana Gage used by permission Acrylic

©2025 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Acknowledgments

The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Mel Ponder, Dr. Jenna Sheffield, Dr. Kimberly Hostetler, and Dr. Robyn Strickland for their support of Blackwater Review.

We are 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 winners are included in this issue.

We appreciate the many contributors to the Blackwater Review fund through the NWFSC Foundation. That fund supports the Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest, whose winners are in this issue as well.

We also would like to thank the estate of James P. Chitwood for funding the Editors’ Prizes, which the editorial staff awards for excellence in writing and art.

COLOR PLATES

trailer trash

Jude Peck

my childhood home was built with a carpet of eggshells walls made of glass and the only words we knew were written in sticks and stones. my childhood home was broken and shattered but i never knew a home that wasn’t so it was familiar, safe. still, i feel a sense of nostalgia when a man yells or when i smell the smoke of a marlboro light.

James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Award – First Place

Suspended Silk

Angelina Skye Kouchnir

In a street of moist greenery and rich houses, on an elderly woman’s porch, where the contrastingly white paint on the wooden beams started to peel, there was a spider. Ignoring the rustling of the lively leaves, the occasional drops still falling from the afternoon’s sunshower, and the rhythmic squeaking of the rocking swing’s rusty chains, the spider spun its web of silk. In a second of peace and equality, a world of movement got suspended, stopped in time.

The thin, divine silk threads of the web are motionless. The drops of dew are no longer sliding down them, but rather are suspended in their sudden position. The spider, earlier vigorously moving its little hairy paws, intensely creating its ornate sanctuary, is now stuck in the moment. In the house, the one it took generations of money to build, lives an old woman—not the kind of old where you strike a comment about back pain or get a little too tired while playing with the grandkids, but the kind of old where you’ve seen everything you cared for fade and become obsolete, abused, thrown out and forgotten. The old woman of the lavish house doesn’t live alone because she wishes to, but because everyone else has left one way or another. Maybe, if they had stayed, she wouldn’t have been where she is now, slipping on the stairs to her own well-furnished living room. She will slip and fall. Maybe she’ll turn out to be fine; the hospital’s not far away. Maybe she’ll wake up and be greeted by a relative or a friend who she thought had forgotten about her a while back. But then again, who will find her if she hits her head and can’t dial the phone herself. Now, her pink silk robe is suspended in majestic swirls. Her fingers, soaked in expensive rose-scented creams and ending with neatly painted nails, are trying to hold on to the bone china cup which is slipping. Her gold necklaces and bracelets from a boutique in France are stopped as they are flying up while she is falling down. All alone, in a dark, empty not-home—house.

In a hospital, a little down the muddy road from that house,

lies a baby in a crib. His parents are right next to him, spelling out his overly complicated name to the delivery nurse. Who are they? Oh, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter where they come from or if they care for each other. It doesn’t matter if the baby’s mother has gotten her instincts yet or if his father will stay. It doesn’t even matter if they love him. At least not at this point, not yet. All that matters is the baby boy, who’s just softly cooed. His big eyes are open for the first time. His first glance at the world frozen. In a moment, his mom will grab his hospital-issued plastic crib, roll it closer to herself and call out the baby boy’s fresh name for the first time. Baby’s dad will open the digital camera he’s already holding and will start recording. However, now, in the stopped moment, baby’s looking at the world for the first time. His bow-like lips are gently shut, his nose is slightly flexed mid-breath, and his few golden hairs are peaking out of his baby-blue beanie. His little hairs are like silk. This is the moment his innocence will start living. Not with the first cry, but with the first look, his first glance at the world. Downtown, not that far from the hospital, in a bar where any second the roof could cinematically fall, sits a man, although he barely resembles one. He has ordered the cheapest beer, as always. It doesn’t bother him that it is 3 o’clock in the afternoon or that he has a family waiting for dinner at home. He wouldn’t even try to think until he could see the bottom of that bottle. Of course, after that he would have an excuse not to, an excuse he’s taken every time. It was the lack of thoughts from the alcohol that served as an excuse to not feel the unexplainable guilt. Right now is different though… He’s thinking. After the bottle was dramatically set on the bar by the tired bartender, the man starts thinking. The first real thought he has had in a while. He will leave that bottle without even touching it; he will walk away, even after years of always staying to feel the illusion of numbness. But now he is staring at the neat bottle that seems so small, condensation rolling down it, like guilty sweat rolling down the forehead of a liar. Now, he is deciding. Now, he has the desire to seek out his own personal Dr. Silkworth. Now, the flash of feeling is going off in his brain.

In the makeup store, walking distance from the bar, underneath the fluorescent lights, a woman is standing, a girl at heart. Her hands are filled with makeup she can barely afford. She’s been counting all day, figuring out the most she can spend without having to borrow money from anyone. She has been calculating the prices of all the lipsticks, eyeshadow palettes, nail polishes, that one silk finish foundation, adding taxes and any coupons or discounts she might have. To someone else, it might seem like her bi-weekly rituals are trivial, materialistic, but to her they aren’t; she will feel unexplainable childlike joy when she puts that glittery purple eyeshadow on her eyelids, when she applies that lipstick that reminds her of when she was a kid, how she would smear a half-bitten cherry all over her lips and pucker up. That one perfume will remind her of the one she used in high school. Yes, she will dwell on the next required credit card payment, but now she is standing at the checkout, suspended in the motion of giving all the little boxes of makeup she has warmed in her hands to the cashier. The woman’s smile is as wide as can be, her cheeks sticking out like a hamster’s. At this moment, she is the girl she has always been and hopefully will always be.

Through the wall of the makeup store, in the back of a small clothing shop, a severely underpaid employee is on lunch. He opens a lunch box, packed for him by his elderly mom, a box filled with the food he was so ashamed of once. Not so long ago, although it feels like a lifetime has passed, he was sitting like he is now at a school lunch table with his friends. Back then he would open a lunch box, filled with fried rice or dumplings, chow mein and be too ashamed to even eat it. He’d throw all of it away, sometimes even with the box itself. He’d not only refuse to eat the dishes his mother made for him, saying it was too Chinese, but would come home and yell at her for embarrassing him in front of his friends and making him starve. He’d say: “Go make me a grilled cheese instead!” and storm off to his room, leaving her to cry alone in the kitchen. After months of these outbreaks she finally gave in and learned how to cook “normal” meals. But now, after years, whether it was from her old age or from her forgetting all those times he broke her heart, she made him

noodles for work. Now he is sitting alone in the back room, midslurp of those silky noodles, regretting all those years he hurt her due to his own aversion towards his culture. In that moment, he felt pain that the comforting food was both causing and curing. He will regret being ashamed of his own home; maybe, he’ll even shed a tear for all he did and can’t take back. But never again will he not want his mother’s cooking.

Like a boomerang, the story returns to the lovely street full of greenery. A few houses from the old woman there’s a couple in their bedroom, lying on their new bed. They’ve just moved in together this morning. A few years ago they met at a moment when she needed to find comfort in something, and he needed to know he could care enough for a person to want to stay with them. They’ve never had a “perfect” relationship but rather a complicated one, at times a deeply flawed one. They’ve fought a lot, but in the end, when walking away, they always chose to turn back around. After a shared cat and dog, hell, they even shared a foosball table once, they finally decided to share a home. In this suspended moment they are stopped at the point when “they knew.” While joking around and play wrestling, they stopped to look at each other for a second. After that they’ll continue laughing. But, for a second, they’re looking at each other, and they know that they want to, that they will spend every day with each other, laughing or crying, raising kids, or dying—it doesn’t matter. All that they know is that they want to look into each other’s eyes and souls as they do now. And they will. But for now let them lie on those silk sheets.

In a suspended moment of still and serene beauty, stories and lives collide in gorgeous neutrality. In a second, in a single frame of the everlasting film, there is nothing but emotion and the feeling of the now. It’s not a worry of the future or a thought of the past; it’s just the true thought of the moment. And that thought is equal, and the whole picture, the whole silver sparkly web of silk, is beautifully neutral.

Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Award – First Place

Dear Sera

Matti Stigler

“The light shines, even though the star is gone.”

~ Shadow, Sonic the Hedgehog 3

Even though you are gone, I still see you everywhere.

Standing in front of me.

With a pretty dress. And a prettier smile.

Even though you are gone, I still hear you everywhere.

Your silly laugh.

Talking my head off after midnight.

But you are gone.

And I will never see you again.

I will never hear you again.

But I still see your light.

Your beautiful, radiant light.

While the loss of you drives me to mourn, My memories of you drive me to smile.

To live.

To love.

Goodbye.

on a life not yet lived

Susan Swain

do not yet judge my life, my words, or my beliefs. my deeds are merely seeds that have not yet sprouted. i am just a fledgling, not yet ready to fly, full of useless plumage, afraid to hit the ground. you expect well-thought-out from an immature brain? how can you judge a life when it’s just seventeen?

My Uncle’s Funeral

Anonymous

Here I am, crying and staring at the large photo of my late uncle. The photo is a beautiful one, one where he was really happy. The frame, however, makes it sad, because of that plaque on the top with piercing cursive lettering saying, “In loving memory of Brent Warnecke.”

The photo really encapsulates who he was, though. In the shallow sense of things, he’s wearing an IU Hoosiers shirt, which I think is so funny, because he was their biggest fan even though he didn’t go there. He’s standing on the back porch of my grandparents’ old 600 West house that he grew up in with my mom and their two other siblings, a beer in his hand and classy aviators on. The only thing odd about this is the beer; Brent was a (safely, I think) chronic wine drinker. So many pool parties and crazy games went on at that house every weekend. My mom’s side of the family is very large.

The best part about this picture is the size and quality. You can see all the details in it. You can see how tan his skin is from those pool parties and all the time he spent in Europe. You can see in the way he’s standing that he’s the guy that everyone, and I mean everyone, wants to be friends with. You can see how fit he is due to his obsession with biking and physical health. You can see his sly wrinkles, mostly smile lines, because he was genuinely so happy and lived his life so proactively. You can see every detail of his styled and combed grey hair, which surprisingly came on early but really did fit him well as a fit 47-year-old. I’m guessing he was 47 in the photo, but now he’s around 54.

The most prominent feature in this photo is Brent’s smile, because it is so real. I look to my left and see the slideshow of my uncle’s life in photos. Every single one of them has that same smile. That same smile in France, Italy, England, the Caribbean, Vegas, and Colorado. Everywhere the man went,

he was genuinely happy. It’s almost like he knew he’d have a short time on Earth, because he really did take life head-on. He travelled the world, had great friends, and had an amazing wife for a short 5 years. One might even say Brent Warnecke was crazy, but, from here on, I will do my best every day to see life the way he did.

After I collect my thoughts, I head over to the kitchen area where my cousins are. We go there because no one is allowed back there but us. It’s a safe space. The black and white checkered floor, the red paint on the walls that’s been faded since the last time we were here, the old-fashioned television playing SpongeBob, the outdated white countertop, and the oldschool photos of Marilyn Monroe on the faded wall. It’s a sad, yet comfortable safe space. It really reminds me of my greatgrandma Jones’s house. Maybe that’s why it’s so comforting.

I star t to take comfort in all the food that’s back here. Donuts, cookies, chocolate, and Jimmy John’s. I scarf down what I can just to keep myself from bawling again. I can’t look at the photos. I can’t look at him. I can’t keep talking to all these people. All I want is to be at his celebration of life, where we go to one of his favorite spots and honor him, because that’s what he would have wanted. Brent hated funerals.

I begin to fall into my thoughts again, wondering what could have gone wrong, what could have happened differently. I reflect on my own life, hoping that I could do as good as Brent. Maybe that’s why he had to go; he was too good at life. He jammed all given quality of life into his short years. Double the happiness, but half the lifespan. He should be satisfied with his life; he did so many great and unique things. I just wish that I could have had consciousness from the jump so that I could remember all the trips we went on with him when I was a baby. I wish I had done better reaching out. Did I ever even get to say, “I love you”? The Joneses and the Warneckes aren’t the most affectionate, so I didn’t grow up affectionate. I wish I had.

When Did We Stop Looking Up?

Charlie

When did we stop looking up?

Did the stars become dull, Did they regress in their brightness?

Did the mountainous clouds become null, Unable to resemble their likeness?

Did the sky lose its blue, And turn into an empty void?

Did the galaxy in all its clamor, Lose all of its noise?

Did God smudge the pink, When he painted the sunset?

Did the orange that once roared, Now go quiet?

Did the tree tops that flourished, With birds and with squirrels Become less a part Of our everyday world?

Did the leaves, varying greater than you or I, Fail to hardly even catch our eye?

Did Heaven become too far out of reach, To look up at the one who loves us each?

It mustn’t be that, it just can’t be It’s like there’s something else we want to see. If not up, it must be down

And yet, I find nothing special about the ground. What else could it be, In all of the land?

It must be something We can hold in our hand.

Something that gives us the sun, moon, and stars

Something that takes us further than Mars

Something that captures every orange, red, and pink

Something that shows us only what we can think.

where are the wild things?

colbea raybon

i used to like the idea of me, & my hand-picked humans, running away to live in the woods.

somewhere we could truly be ourselves— free from confinement.

however, it’s starting to dawn on me… the morning hues hinting in to help open our eyes would be heavenly. but truthfully i crave a cage i can create in.

a place i can feel protected as a person, somewhere i’m not scared inside my skin.

a spot to speak subconscious sentences aloud, & still the earth sits.

hell— even an area to display agony, & not apologize for it. yes, talking amongst the trees provides a top-secret territory. but the wilderness is not a requirement.

willingly welcoming the wild is.

A Chance Encounter

Allie R. Saunders

I curse my professor under my breath as I stalk to the law library through the flurrying snow, dreading the endless hours of research that await me. Only Professor Woods would assign a case brief on a landmark Supreme Court case the week before spring break. And what’s his deal with the court cases? It’s not Con Law anymore.

I open the door with my left hand, my right holding my third coffee. Jordan, the overachieving and volunteering bastard, nods from his perch at the circulation desk. Screw you. Not everybody’s dad is filthy rich like yours. I mask my annoyance with a saccharine smile that disappears into a scowl as I ascend the staircase to the miles of cubicles filled with over-eager firstyears or exhausted third-years like me, counting the days until they can skip down to Mexico and forget about this hellhole for a week.

No one looks up at me, and I’m not surprised. Being ranked seventh in my class doesn’t earn much recognition, except from the person ranked eighth. It doesn’t earn much recognition from my father, either. My older brothers, Jared and Henry, were ranked first or second in their class by their third year.

Avery’s already asked if I want to go with him to Mexico, but I’d rather write five dissertations than spend a week with him, listening to him drone about how terrible the Mets are this year. I need to break up with him. It’s a pity that he’s going, though. I’d love nothing more than to lounge around somewhere with warm weather and forget about my utter unpreparedness for the bar exam.

I reach my favorite cubicle, the one nestled beneath the windows at the south end of the library. It’s secluded, with easy access to shelves stocked with massive books that are avoided until the midterms or finals. I slip my heavy bag from my shoulders and disentangle myself from my parka. I drain the

final drops of my coffee and toss it into the wastebasket inside the cubicle as I settle into the chair. I pull out my notes from Professor Woods’ class, well-used colored highlighters, and cracked BIC ballpoint pens to analyze his lectures. I scour every detail for something usable.

My linguistics degree provided little preparation for the torment of law school. I started Yale as a starry-eyed first-year, ready to study the complexities of the law. Now, I’m a cynical third-year with a disdain for briefcases. I hope my father’s proud of me, his youngest daughter, miserable but fulfilling the family legacy. Jared and Henry had fifteen job offers combined before they graduated. I have none. My father never lets me forget it either, always berating me about not working hard enough, not wanting it enough, and not being my brothers. I shouldn’t let this get to me. It should fuel my fire, making me work harder to prove him wrong. Nothing would make me happier than seeing his jaw drop when I make junior partner at thirty, which neither of my brothers did.

~

My eyes struggle to focus on my notes as I summarize Mapp v. Ohio—or is it Gideon v. Wainwright?—when I feel someone’s eyes boring into the back of my head. I tighten my grip on my pen and turn to face my attacker: Jenn.

“Hey, Jenn. Next time, why don’t you try talking instead of creeping up on me like the Scranton Strangler?”

She playfully punches me before replying, “Very funny. But if I were the Scranton Strangler, you’d be dead right now.”

“ What are you doing here?”

“Busting you out of here. I figured you’d be in here—”

“ You should be in here, too. Professor Woods didn’t just assign this brief to me. You know that, right?” She can’t think she can flirt her way out of a brief, can she?

“I know that. I also know that happy hour starts at Bernie’s in thirty minutes, and you’re going to be there,” she says.

I look down at my watch—my mother’s, in truth—a small silver one with a tiny crack in the glass above the four—and realize that seven hours have passed since I began studying.

“Damn. It’s been seven hours,” I say.

“ Yeah, which is why you need to get the hell out of here before you’re here another seven.”

“I need to finish prepping this brief. It’s due—” She cuts me off before I can justify studying for another seven hours.

“March 20th. Which is six days from now. Sloane, Professor Woods isn’t going to flunk you if you go get daiquiris with me like a normal twenty-six-year-old.”

“No, but my dad might. You know how he is.” She’s been my friend since our first year, and she’s somehow managed to maintain a 3.70 GPA and a glorious social life. She tries to drag me into her glittering agenda of parties and mixers, but I often respond with a resounding ‘no.’

“He’s a jerk-off, and what he doesn’t know isn’t going to kill him,” she replies, repeating the same mantra she always uses to convince me to skip class. “You need to get a life. How are you going to make it as a lawyer if you only interact with our boring professors?”

I sigh, knowing she’s right and that I want nothing more than to saunter off to Bernie’s with her in search of idiotic men who trip over each other to please us. Which, to my knowledge, only happened to her once, and the guy broke his ankle on a barstool.

“Fine. I just need to run by our apartment first,” I say as I replace the caps on my highlighters and pens and cram them into my backpack. I pull on my parka as Jenn snatches up my bag and starts heading down the staircase. She’s probably mentally choosing an outfit for me. I don’t mind it, since my wardrobe is filled with blazers, faded jeans, and sweatshirts. I follow her and wonder, not for the first time, why I let her rope me into these things.

“Jenn, there’s no way I can wear that. It’s too short for me.” She’s holding up a satiny black dress that I’ve seen her wear— and that I’ve avoided—countless times.

“Shut up and put it on, Sloane. I’m not letting you wear that crusty sweatshirt to Bernie’s. And hurry up; I need to fix your hair.”

“Fine, whatever.” I pull on the dress and let her twist my frizzy, toffee-colored hair into something pleasant-looking that she claims accentuates my narrow face, with some assistance from a generous amount of bobby pins. I don’t bother with makeup, except for a bit of mascara to help me look awake.

Ten minutes later, that dress is crawling up my thighs, and her slouchy leather boots are digging into my heels as we walk into Bernie’s. It’s already full of students; Room 12—the preferred local indie band—blares over the conversations. Some guy whistles at Jenn as she pulls her coat off, but she just rolls her eyes and turns to the bartender to order our drinks: a strawberry daiquiri and an espresso martini. We’ve been coming here for three years, and while Jenn almost always leaves with a guy, I have yet to pick one up. Except for Avery. Ugh.

“I don’t know how you drink those, Sloane. They taste like dirt,” she says, sipping her drink. Someone taps on my shoulder before I can reply. Jenn’s eyes grow wide as she looks at the person behind me. I turn, preparing to offer an eloquent version of “screw off,” but I can’t remember any of that when I make eye contact with him. Tall, with perfectly disheveled brown hair that brushes his forehead. I instantly recognize him: Adam, from Professor Woods’ class, who is incredibly far out of my league.

“Hey, Sloane. Can I join you?” he asks, with surprising kindness. He knows my name. Wow. That’s an interesting development.

Jenn has to elbow my ribs before I reply yes, of course, he can join me. I feel both exhilarated and terrified, and I sneak a glance at Jenn for advice, only to see that she’s gone.

“ You got this!” She mouths at me from across the bar, already flirting with some guy.

Something tells me I won’t be leaving Bernie’s alone tonight as he slides onto a barstool next to mine.

Heartbreak in Dreamland

Kendall Feal

I love you, but this isn’t real Your touch is one my heart can’t feel Your lips press soft and leave their stain, But kisses cannot heal my pain.

Despite the torrent in my mind Through the storm, you’ve been so kind Your arms stretch out to hold and soothe, But love alone can’t hide the truth.

The roads we walk are not our own No trail will ever lead us home For our fair lady, Queen of the Sky Imagined this world in her celestial eye.

This land was made from childish dreams But nothing is quite as it seems Though every man and woman sings, All of us are just playthings

I love you, but you aren’t mine The truth I cannot leave behind Our bond I pray this will not sever, But Dreamland cannot last forever.

Winter’s Hidden Grotto

Cecilia Verworn

It was a cold winter night—knee-deep snow as far as the eye could see. Her journey was far from over.

She trudged through the endless abyss for hours on end. That was, until she saw something. It was a light far off in the distance. It gave off a warm glow, and the very thought of feeling its warmth was enough to make her quicken her pace.

W hile the promise of light and heat on an endless and icy night was enough to keep her moving, it was not the reason she left her warm home for this frigid wasteland. She was there to find the flowers. The flowers were from a myth, passed down from parent to child for hundreds of years. It was said that on the longest night, the stars will guide the worthy to a magic garden filled with magical flora. That was where she was going. She needed one of the flowers for herself.

With every wretched step, the blazing fire of the lantern grew brighter. Cheerier. More welcoming. Like the flame, her hope continued to grow.

S he soon stumbled upon a flat square built of bricks, not dissimilar to a courtyard. It was unclear how long it took her to reach that point, but she knew it had been many days and nights. From there, she could see many smaller platforms that formed a path, leading her off into the distance. That must be where the elusive garden is.

“ The stars brought you here as well?” a young man asked as he approached her. With everything else going on, she had not noticed him. “The flowers should be ready to bloom by now.”

“Indeed. I believe that they are just beyond these steps. There is far too much warmth in the air for magic to not be in play. Fire-lit lanterns or not.”

“ You’re right. So, what brings you here? You must have come for something great if you were willing to make the journey without even a proper set of gloves.”

“I came in hopes of the flowers here truly being magical. My little sister, my sweet little Inesa, fell terribly ill a few weeks back. We tried everything, but it only got worse. It was the longest night by the time we gave up hope. As soon as we realized what night it was, I packed my things and left. I knew it was the only way Inesa would be able to survive this horrible winter.”

“It seems we both have a lot of faith in this myth being true. My father was grievously injured just over a month ago. I fear my family won’t be able to survive if he doesn’t get better. We fear he never will. Others will only be generous for so long…” he paused. “I had to come here. My father worked in crafts, and I am nowhere near ready to take over. I’m not yet good enough to provide for them. So, I had to. I am my family’s last hope.”

“I see. Well, we better get moving. I don’t know about you, but I would not be able to live with myself if I missed this chance.”

Just as she said that, she noticed something. There was a satchel lying on the ground, unattended. She could see a gate in the distance, and she assumed that was where the flowers were held. Maybe the person left their bag while they went to grab a flower? It seemed as if the young man had noticed as well.

“There’s a lot of stuff still in here,” he said, and there was. The water canister and food supply that the person had was mostly gone, but there were all sorts of other things still in there. A lot of gold coins, for one. This wasn’t something one would just leave behind, but when she looked around, she saw no one. While she saw footprints in the snow, none led to any person. She and the man were the only people in sight.

“They also left a pair of gloves,” she said while picking up the pair she finally noticed sitting by the bag. “Who would take them off in this weather?”

“We shouldn’t stay here,” the man said warily. “Who knows when the person will come back for their things. They might assume we are thieves.”

With that, they continued towards the gate. Vines entangled the intricate metal framing, with small flower

blooms sprinkled in. She doubted that these were the flowers they were looking for. It simply did not feel right.

S he ended up walking several paces behind him, when suddenly a wave of nausea came over her. It was odd for her to start feeling ill now. She hadn’t been near Inesa in days, so she couldn’t have caught something from her. She eventually chalked it up to the cold having caught up to her.

“These must be the flowers. They truly are a thing of beauty,” he said serenely while looking back at her. His skin was much paler than she remembered it being only moments before. His eyes also appeared bloodshot. She wondered if something got into his eyes.

S he watched him try to pick one of the many flowers. For some odd reason, he was struggling to grab it. He kept yanking, but nothing happened. The stem of the flower stayed strong. Was it something about the magic of the flowers that made them unpickable?

S he watched his face contort into one of pain and fear as he let out a strangled scream. Looking down, she saw a vine wrapped around his arm, dragging him towards the cold ground.

S he took one step forward, then two, then three. Everything happened in an instant. The spot where the young man stood was empty, him having been dragged into the Earth only moments prior. The spot wasn’t vacant for long, however. In the very spot he once stood, a new flower sprouted. It was a vibrant purple, elegant flower, just like all the other ones around it.

It was only then she began to feel the sharp tug on her ankle of a thorny vine. She realized the fate of the young man, the traveler who left their satchel, and so many others with horror, but by then, it was far too late.

A Penny for Thought

Baleigh Hannah

I wonder what it’s like to be a penny, To travel the world for only one cent.

To touch every wallet, and touch every hand, To be so accomplished and be so well-spent.

I wonder what it’s like to be a penny, To corrode and fade but never lose value.

To be so desired, for such a small price, To be a copper-colored circle that the ground can hold onto.

I wonder what it’s like to be a penny,

To now exist in a world where pennies are no longer loved.

To be jealous of the credit cards and the big, fancy checks, To realize that your physical value has been given up.

Your Call Has Been Forwarded to an Automated Voice Message

Eliza Ridge

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 4, 2036

0:00-0:13

Transcription

“Hey, it’s Lilly. Thought I’d check in. The district is locking down, so I don’t know when we’ll see each other next. Just wanted to make sure that you’re staying safe n all. Call me back when you can. Love you.”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 6, 2036

0:00-0:48

Transcription

“Hey, hon, my calls haven’t been going through since the whole Rupture deal. I guess I’m just, I don’t know. Leaving these voicemails? Anyway. My day has been okay; me and Michelle are safe. We were running low on cat food so I risked the store for rations. It’s a ghost town, pretty much, super weird. Some of the people have been staring and it’s really off-putting, I think it’s something up with their pupils. I honestly wouldn’t be shocked if it’s a stage of infection; I’ve seen The Last of Us. A sinkhole opened up by the Chevron, so gas is a big no right now. That’s gonna be a problem if this whole situation is permanent—stating the obvious I guess. I’ll let you go; just feels good to talk to someone. Love you the most, stay safe.”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 7, 2036

0:00-1:35

Transcription

“Hi, it’s Lilly. It’s been a minute. I’m going a little stir crazy. I’ve been stress cleaning and everything. My hands reek of bleach. Are there any spores from the cracks where you’re at? I’m not risking touching them. With our luck the staring thingie and the spores are linked. Shit keeps getting weirder by the way; the starers can talk now. I try to be polite n shit but like—they talk so disjointed? Weird, so, so weird. It kinda reminds me of that one Japanese folktale I brought up, you remember. The KuchisakeOnna, slit mouth lady. So, I guess I can’t get too polite. Need my mouth to talk to you. How are things over in your district? News said it hit most spots in the Northwest. I wonder, are you getting any of that weird weather? Reverse rain and that deal? We got red snow the other day. It hasn’t snowed in September since like— twenty-nine at least. Shit, you remember that probably. Yeah. Mm, I’m gonna go; Michelle’s yelling at me. She keeps hissing at the front door by the way—steering clear of that for sure. Back door only for now. Alright, I’m going! I’m going, damn. This is what I get for naming her Michelle; she’s a bitch sometimes. I gotta bounce, love you, bye.”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 10, 2036

0:00-2:47

Transcription

“Hey. Lilian here. Ha, shit, sorry, couldn’t resist. I’m so thankful my dad kept all these old DVDs. I remember being the only kids that grew up on Avatar the Last Airbender, NOT the live

Ridge • 23

action. Ever watched that series? Yeah. Zuko’s great, ha. Shit, I could’ve made a Markiplier reference instead. Oh well. I wonder who was on the other end of this before the lines went dead. I’m not gonna pretend anymore; yeah, I feel crazier when I do. Talking to…Talking AT a stranger. Fuck, you might be deleting these as spam, hell if I know. Well, I’m Lilian, your nonconsensual pen pal. Voice pal? No, that sucks. Pen pal. No one calls me Lilian though. What’s like, icebreaker shit that high schoolers do? Hm. I’m 24, grew up a little bit everywhere. Military brat, you know how that is. I’m an editor by trade, comedian on the side. In the sense that I’m functionally talking to a wall I guess, a stand-up act for sure. My FBI agent is rolling right now. Maybe in his grave, news shut off here last night. I have a cat, a tuxie named Michelle. She has many opinions; you’ve probably heard her voice some. I wonder, are you a cat or a dog person? You might be a bit too dead to care if I’m being a deadass. I’m gonna quit the icebreaker shit actually. I remember why I hated this. I’m just going to talk to you like I know you and stop pretending this is weird and I’m self aware. The sky is doing the weird color shit again, green at dusk and red at weird times of day. Honestly I’ve kind of gotten over the whole panic phase. I’m a little numb in all honesty. Weird emotional state. The sky is, like, really pretty at night though, I’m looking at the stars right now. I can’t tell if I’m crazy, but, I swear to god, the Big Dipper is gone. I’m kind of theorizing that the stars are flickering out. I’ve given up trying to science my brain through this whole situation. It’s like Remina kind of, by Junji Ito? You should read it if you haven’t, or not if horror freaks you out. If horror freaks you out, ha, shit. I’m sorry about all this then; must suck. Wow, sorry, big yawn. Saw Michelle yawn and all; you know how that works, probably. Thanks for listening, guy. It’s so crazy how alone and not I feel at the same time. I was like eight when Covid happened so I was just happy to not have school. I had older siblings too, so like. Yeah. Loneliness and I, we are an odd pair. Him and I. … Fuck. I miss my family. And my dad. Awesome. Cool, I’m actually, uh, hanging up now. I’m not crying at a stranger. Bye, guy. I love you.”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 11, 2036

0:00-2:59

Transcription

“Happy terrorism day! I remember each 9/11 the flags would go half mast and I’d always forget why. One year I asked mom who important died, and she just looked at me weird and went … nine eleven, hon. I remember how hard my older brother and I tried not to laugh. He went nine eleven; sometimes forget. That’s what plays in my head each year, as terrible as that is. My brother got married a little while back. I’m pissed all this is happening so early in his marriage; he shoulda had more time. I’m glad he was the one that got hitched first; I’d be a whole fucking disaster. It would have been so nice to find someone rich though; editor’s paycheck is pretty ass. I finished Avatar again, animated, original version. I need to watch something new; I’m testing all the DVDs to see what’s scratched and what’s not. We have two copies of Howl’s Moving Castle scratched on two different spots so like I have essentially one functioning dvd. Hayao Miyazaki is a whole genius, but for, like, not the mainstream reasons. It’s not just the romance he captures, like the earthquakes and the bombings and how it feels like the end of the world. I understood that before, but, like, not like how I do now. I said fuck it by the way and touched a spore to see what’ll happen. In my defense, the starers seem to be breathing way easier than me and I’m not gonna piece together a filter or something. I’m an editor; I’ll just annoy the brain worms to death with grammar or syntax or something. So far nothing yet; I’ll keep ya posted. Anyway, Michelle was delighted at first to have me home all the time but she’s kinda sick of me now. Sigh. I went to the store again and went through the expired section for funsies. Kicks and giggles. I found bleach and box dye—expired but I don’t even know what that means for hair dye so, you know. Fuck it. Green hair. I dyed my hair! Love myself a good green but not certain colors of

Ridge • 25

green. Hunter green? Vomit, actually terrible. Also nine year old turquoise, you know what I’m talking about? That specific shade of teal nine year olds and also millennial mothers love. Actually burns my eyes. I did a decent job of it. I think my mom would cry. It took a shit ton of dye, my hair is that thick Thai person hair, you feel me? Feels right though. I like it. Wonder what color your hair is. Oh shit, that’s the taps. I dunno who’s been doing them but it’s great for telling time after the clocks started being fuckass. Dates are fine though? My analog clock is chilling. I don’t know. I’m not the apocalypse; I’m the wrong person to ask. Alright. I’ll let you get to it, guy. You’re loved, by me at least if no one else.”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 12, 2036

0:00-0:13

Transcription

“It’s midnight. I thought I’d let you know that my dreams got, like, SUPER weird. I can, like, think of myself in third person while I’m awake, does that make sense? Like I’m watching myself. Sigh. Memory’s shit, Benadryl has got me FUCKED up. Love you. Lillian.”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 12, 2036

0:00-3:01

“Sparkle on! It’s Wednesday, remember to be yourself! Does anybody get that reference? My brother referenced it all the time and I just, like, echoed it constantly. It’s Lilly. Nothing’s new except the mirrors, they look weird to me. I don’t look like me, but I know it’s me, but, like, you know that feeling when you

feel like you recognize someone but you’re scared to talk to them cuz you might be getting their name wrong? Like that, vaguely. Anyway, I went outside again. The starers are no longer starers. Pretty sure they recognize me as one of their own or something. I should probably be a little more scared about losing my humanity or whatever but, honestly? I dunno, I’m more upset about Michelle. She’s wary of me now. I shouldn’t have ever touched that damn spore. I regret being impulsive for the sake of her because if I do bite it, who takes care of her? Everyone is holed up or like me and going all stare I can even feel that I’m BLINKING less… But what’s done is done. Damage control is all I can do right now. Today is dedicated to my cat Michelle. May she live a long n blessed life. I got her an auto feeder and when that runs out I have the cat door unlocked so she can escape. She’s smart enough to know if I’m not me. I’m petting her right now, wanna say hi? No? Mmkay. She’s only vocal about food. If this is, like, all that’s left of me, I guess I’ll talk about Michelle. I will say now that I didn’t choose Michelle. I went to the cat shelter literally just to visit and she just. Sat in my bag. She pretty much said you’re taking me home. Let’s go home. I was really reluctant but after the third visit where she, like, literally snuck into my bag and having to explain to my friend that runs the shelter that I swear I wasn’t trying to steal her, I gave in. I don’t know why she was so insistent on me when she’s insistent that I’m the worst everyday, but I adore her. Even if she’s a bitch. Being friends with a bitch is so funny cuz it’s like, yeah she’s a bitch, but she’s a bitch on MY behalf you know? I will always trust Michelle’s judgment over mine. Also I keep calling her a tuxie when she’s not. Michelle as a little baby looked like a tuxedo cat cause she was white with dark patches but the older she gets the more her tabby stripes on the dark spots come in? She must’ve had a lotta dads. Her momma got around. Did you know that? A litter of kittens can have multiple dads. Anyway, I have the prettiest cat ever; I win. She’s got red on her too, not ginger, red. I might text you a picture actually and be cringe. I’ve got more things to do so I’ll hop off here. So long, guy! I love you”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 13, 2036

0:00-1:13

“Hi—uh. It’s. Three? In the morning, and Michelle just, like, woke me up, and she refuses to go near any of the outside doors. She hissed at all the mirrors and knocked the glass of water I had in my hand out of my hand. I just—I can’t be— I don’t know. Broken glass sucks and I ended up cutting my hand. My blood is glowing. My head is pounding. I feel like Akira in that one scene, where, like, something is trying to tell me something and I can’t? I can’t. My fucking head. I’m holding Michelle right now; she’s really freaked out. She’ll just sit on my chest and purr sometimes. Scary. Cool, I love you. From Lillian Walker.”

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 13, 2036

0:00-3:13

“Hello everybody, it’s Markiplier! We’re all good now; it’s Lilly. Me and Michelle are alright. The sky actually looks kind of normal. I missed it. I’m still not going outside to play it safe, though I did check out there today to see what Michelle was hissing about. Checking for bodies and shit. No bodies but I saw birds for the first time in a long time. I fucking LOVE birds. There were a bunch of crows flying overhead, I counted five? Maybe? Other birds too. Crows get a bad rap but like corvids are such advanced and cool birds. Ravens can speak better than a lot of parrots; their voices are real deep n funny too. Oh! Oh! You’ll never guess what I found. This might not be exciting to anyone else but I found our Pacific Rim DVD and I’m literally over the fucking moon. I fucking ADORE this movie! My dad was a big anime guy so of course there was that, but is there literally any

+1 (541) 777-4809

Madras, OR September 14, 2036

“It took. Oh fuck it took. All the reflections are red, it’s all red and I just, I just. Fuck. Michelle knows, she’s on my chest and she’s crying. She can’t cry tears, but, fuck, I am and so is she and I’m gonna die here. I won’t be me ever again and shit I was. I was JUST ready. I was finally okay with being me and I’ll never have that shit again, I’m never gonna have this again. Fuck, fuck, fuck,

Ridge • 29 other movie that’s better? I just, good god, I love this movie. It hits a little different seeing their apocalypse versus ours. Cuz like our world isn’t going out with giant Kaijus and all knock on wood, but, like, the earthquakes, the natural disasters, the metaphors for natural disasters and climate change in the Kaijus. Literally there’s so many parallels even looking at how the Kaiju are rated like hurricanes and quakes. I don’t know about the starers or anything, but I just. I love how it’s about giant lizards and giant robots and they fight and that’s epic, it really is, but even more than that to pilot a Jaeger, it requires two people to let each other into each other’s heads. You need to connect on a human level and the Kaiju threat brought the nations together united against a threat. It’s just not often you see a piece of commentary media so hopeful and critical at the same time. Watching this and even just a clear sky makes me hope, you know? Is that dumb? I dunno; I don’t really care. It’s my love, it’s my hope, and it can be stupid, but I’ve got this and my cat and for even just a couple hours, everything feels okay. I just wish that—I want not to be alone. I miss my dad, I miss my mom. I miss my brothers. And I miss the people I never met. I’m grieving strangers. I’m grieving you, guy. I’m so sorry that as a generation we were born into this that we failed as a race. I’m so sorry it was us when the Earth gave out. If this spore shit or whatever just decided not to take and I’m okay, I might try to find you. Not you specifically, obviously, but what you are to me. Fuck the apocalypse, I don’t want to be alone. So yeah. I love you, guy.”

I acted so fucking okay about this and I—I’m not fucking ready to go. I’m gonna die here. I’m dying. I want my dad. I’m so, so sorry for touching that damn spore. I. I love you and I’m so sorry. This is my fault. So I guess this is the last time my name is gonna be said. My name is Lily Walker and I love you so much. Bye”

Voice message failed to send

+1 (541) 680-1358

Metrolius, OR September 14, 2036

“Hey, it’s Adam. I’m not counting on this sending cuz none of my other messages have been going through but I’ve been receiving all of yours, as I’ve been saying each message when you finally get them. And I’ve kinda gotta be quick cuz I’m on the road but I wanted to let you know that I fucking adore Pacific Rim. And I also wanted to let you know that I agree with you on the whole humanity isn’t a lost cause shtick, including you Lilly. I don’t know you all that well, but in times like this no one deserves to be alone. I’ve been traveling across the country kind of aimlessly up until now. I’m coming to get you and Michelle if that’s okay cuz, like. I might as well make myself useful you know? Sit tight, I’m on my way to Madras. Don’t worry, we’re gonna figure this out stranger to stranger. Honestly I was thinking of throwing in the towel myself til I started getting your messages. I forgot how nice it was to hear a human voice. I’ll watch Pacific Rim with you if you’ll have me, I haven’t seen that movie in a damn long time. Just sit tight, I’m on my way and then I can tell you all about it. Stay safe. Love ya. Bye.”

A Poem with a Line from Shel Silverstein’s Giving Tree at the Start

Bryce Harper

Once there was a tree

That towered over man

With leaves that rustled in the autumn breeze

And roots that spread far underground.

The tree bathed in the light of the setting sun

Glowing embers of twilight taking hold

Leaves tasting a crimson radiance

Only this time it wasn’t the sunset

But instead a scorching, insatiable hunger

And the tree’s own bark proliferated a terrible beauty

That burned out all the brush

Paving the way for new life.

As the inferno died down,

A gentle wind spread the seeds

And the clouds released a steady downpour

Onto the ashy earth below

So that a new sprig could feel the rain upon its leaves for the first time.

Amour Refusé, Pourtant Nous Équilibrons sur le Désir

(Love Refused, Yet We Balance on Desire)

LaKeshia Stigall

For so long, despite your flaws, I saw you as desirable, as needed, as beautiful…

Something profound and undiscovered lay hidden within you, something I had yet to obtain.

But you were the destroyer of those ideas— inevitably flawed, despite the false beauty you so masterfully portrayed.

You showed me there was no hope… That it was nothing more than a dream, a fleeting fantasy, to cling to such whimsical thoughts of what could be, what might have been.

For that, I lost my passion. I became cold. And in the endless trying— the desperate attempt to love— I forgot how…

For you. For anyone.

And yet, still you held everything I once was.

Time passed, as if centuries have flown past our undiscerning eyes.

Only a fleck of light— that once shone so luminously for you— still remains, flickering, longing to reignite into the bright flame it once was.

Constantly extinguished by the reminders of the past— the harsh syllables that lash out from your tongue, the absence of your gentle caress upon my cheek.

And yet, your whispers of sweet nothings, the sincerest of apologies, heal the festering wounds I believed would never heal.

Our wounds tremble with fear, waiting to be ripped feverishly back open, in a furious moment of passion.

It is for that final flicker, that last inkling in the realm of possibility, that we still exist as we are.

For that realization, we remain, despite that— we cling to our denial of hope.

These ideas, still found to be moderately viable, lie exposed at the threshold of life, to be perceived by all who can bear witness.

Pendant si longtemps, malgré tes défauts, je t’ai vu comme désirable, comme nécessaire, comme beau…

Quelque chose de profond et d’inexploré reposait en toi, quelque chose que je n’avais pas encore obtenu.

Mais tu as été le destructeur de ces idées— inévitablement imparfait, malgré la fausse beauté que tu as si magistralement dépeinte.

Tu m’as montré qu’il n’y avait aucun espoir… Que ce n’était rien de plus qu’un rêve, une illusion fugace, s’accrocher à ces pensées fantaisistes de ce qui aurait pu être, de ce qui aurait pu exister.

Pour cela, j’ai perdu ma passion. Je suis devenu froid. Et dans cet effort sans fin— dans cette tentative désespérée d’aimer— j’ai oublié comment…

Pour toi. Pour quiconque.

Et pourtant, tu tenais encore tout ce que j’avais été. Le temps est passé, comme si des siècles avaient filé sous nos yeux aveugles.

Il ne reste qu’une étincelle de lumière— qui autrefois brillait si intensément pour toi— toujours là, vacillante, aspirant à se rallumer, pour redevenir la flamme éclatante qu’elle fut jadis.

Constamment éteinte par les souvenirs du passé— les syllabes tranchantes qui s’échappent de ta langue, l’absence de ta caresse douce sur ma joue.

Et pourtant, tes murmures de doux mensonges, les plus sincères des excuses, soignent les blessures purulentes que je croyais à jamais ouvertes.

Nos blessures tremblent de peur, attendant d’être fébrilement rouvertes, dans un moment de passion furieuse.

C’est pour cette dernière lueur, ce dernier pressentiment dans le royaume du possible, que nous existons encore ainsi.

Pour cette prise de conscience, nous restons, malgré cela— nous nous accrochons à notre déni de l’espoir.

Ces idées, toujours trouvées modérément viables, reposent exposées au seuil de la vie, prêtes à être perçues par tous ceux qui peuvent en être témoins.

Growing Pains

Alyssa Early

The days of past that have gone by End sweetly with a lullaby And milk.

She tucks you snugly into a bed That has been wove with golden thread Of silk.

You dream of what tomorrow brings— Wrapped warm in linens like past kings Of Rome. And off you go away with a swish To float until you think and wish Of home.

And when returned to days of now, You toss and turn and think of how You lost

All the wonder from youth—expelled. How masterfully they all withheld The cost.

Glass Jar

Gabrielle Moore

Naked woman in a glass jar.

I watched as they rattled Your confined space.

As if they were a child

Shaking Santa’s gift

Close to their ear

On Christmas Eve

Wondering when you’ll open up Your precious fruits

For all to enjoy.

Your retaliation: Their favorite sitcom.

It’s funny to think The woman gets to choose In a man’s world

Your glass jar: A false sense of security

Closely watched, Poked at, Prodded

Tweaked, and Touched

The thick wall of glass Won’t save you.

Paint

Isabella R. Bradley

Paint is amazing,

The things and possibilities from it are endless, Years of paint caked on my skin to hide the colors that I possess, Fear of ostracization, Fear of discrimination, I paint my skin bleak and bland to blend in, The orange, yellow, green, purple, red, and blue begging to be let out, Suffocated against the injustices of the world, they go quiet, Forgotten, smothered, and shunned, Layer after layer I paint grey, Grey is the only thing that is known to be safe,

Yet the tear-stained paint always begins to chip away, Leading to the false hope that I may one day have the courage to remove it, The courage to be free, bold, and brash, And the courage to let the world know who I truly am.

Alyssa Early

My sweet nothing parched for ink, Tell me what it is you seek To show.

I shall oblige your ardent cries, And write down all that you despise To know.

Shall I frame you little sweet Or feed you to a fire for heat? Please speak! No, sit there silently and dumb, And leave me here with not a crumb To tweak.

I’ll fill your happy heart I swear Just save me from this bleak despair. Converse!

What shall I fix your empty with? I’ll drown your every line and pith In verse.

Or shall I fill each somber line With ways to tear your flesh and spine Apart. And choke and bash till you confess The words you wish me to oppress; In part.

Why must you hate the truth you speak Aloud in every corner bleak –Profuse? Yet, every whim that leaves my pen You never seem to think again Of use.

overripe

Jude Peck

i don’t care for oranges all that much. i don’t think i like citrus, the way it tingles and stings the bite marks on the insides of my cheeks. but i would give anything to share an orange with you again. to smell the strong scent of the rind, peel it apart in my hands, and split it. always giving you the bigger half. i wish we could share an orange again.

Nathan Bloodworth

Excerpt from a manuscript. The narrator is Addison, an archivist who earlier in the novel notes an anomaly in an old Bible she’s working on.

Chapter 11

There’s a strange connection between the physical world and my ability to absorb it. The research I’ve done and the quantification of the thoughts and emotions of the artisans from a thousand years ago are absorbed in the works I study, and they become part of me. These artifacts aren’t simply physical products to me. They are living; they breathe. All the hopes and wishes that are contained within these pages come alive to me. The codex isn’t a book to me. It is a living, breathing organism that has secrets that it wants to hide. My job is to learn those secrets.

I flip the page back and forth and note again the familiar sound. I feel a chill come over my entire body.

There’s something here. I can just feel it in my bones.

But after flipping back and forth, back and forth, I don’t see anything other than an Uncial script with some stray marks on it. I need to approach this differently.

“L et’s start from the beginning,” I say aloud and turn each page over until I’m looking at the cover of the book.

I spent last night arming myself with as much information as I could to prepare myself for today. I worked through the legend that accompanied the exhibit, focusing my attention on the British New Testament. I also visited the official codex website and perused Wikipedia. I feel confident that I’ve served due diligence in my preparation. Now it’s time to get crack-a-lacking.

I review the first page, noting not just the Uncial script, but the stray marks, stains, and editorial marks. Previous binders

would use squiggles in the center of the page as a reference to follow when collating the pages into a book.

Yes, I break the law, so to speak. I gently glide my fingers over the words and even smell the pages. Morgan always tells me, “You’re going to drive yourself mad by letting the work get into your bones.” I find that involving as many senses as one can is a useful tool, especially when a potential mystery looms. I feel energy begin to build within me as the pages move faster. I know this feeling well. I let myself slip into it.

I call this space the “Ether.” It’s a place that opens up in my mind when curiosity overtakes me and where the sum total of all the data I’ve absorbed over a lifetime becomes a sort of invisible guide. Imagine standing outside on a quiet, cold night. The chill heightens your senses, but you feel nothing but the internal machinations of your mind. This is the Ether. And it’s where I find peace.

The pages begin to move rapidly, as if they have their own energy, and move as my will determines and not my hands.

The beauty of the script, the editing marks, the squiggles, and stains all form into a coherent voice, a pleasant hum.

A s I approach what may be the center of the book, I hear another voice enter the hum. It’s off-putting. It shuts me down. The pages stop moving. I pull myself out of the Ether and look with my conscious mind at the page I’ve stopped at.

I slide my fingers across the touch pad of my laptop that’s sitting next to the oak box. The monitor comes to life and, as I compare the book to the monitor, note that I’ve struck upon the anomaly pages.

I wonder where that sound came from. I need to capture where that sound came from. I look at the book and flip back and forth. I see the same squiggles and stains. I flip back a couple of pages and work through, past the anomaly pages. I get nothing.

Thankfully, I’ve experienced this before and know just the trick. I walk over to my desk and pick up a pad of paper and a pencil, never a pen. A pen is too permanent. The Ether doesn’t like the pen.

I make sure the pencil is sharpened. There’s nothing more distracting than a pencil that runs out. Hopefully, I won’t need it for long. I place the pencil and pad next to the book and turn back a dozen pages. I let myself fall into the Ether and work. The pages begin to move and I can again hear the pleasant hum. As they move faster, I hear the other voice. A duh, duuuh, duh, duh, sound overtakes the hum. My hand begins to scribble.

I hear a flip-flop sound as the anomaly pages move back and forth. I hear the other voice die as I work past them. The pleasant hum takes over and I work. I feel myself pulled out of the ether as the back cover closes.

I look at my scribbles and note a ........-.. and hear an alarm go off. I stare at the page. Why is this page sending off an alarm? I hear another bing, bing, bing go off and realize that the sound isn’t coming from the page but from my cell phone that is sitting on my desk.

I look up at the clock, thinking it must be my “pick up Adam from school” alarm and note that it’s only 11:05.

I walk over and pick up my phone. Another alarm goes off as I turn it over. Then it starts to buzz, then another alarm.

A series of banner messages start to scroll as I look at my home screen. Message after message keep popping up. I can barely read “ATTENTION: ACTIVE SHOOTER…” and “LOCAL SCHOOLS ARE ON LOCKDOWN” before the next message pops up. Then I see David’s name on the screen. The cell coverage within the vault is spotty at times and it’s common for messages to stack up until they find a way to infiltrate the room through a crack in the door or an opening in the HVAC system.

I tr y to answer David’s call, but it drops as soon as I swipe the answer screen. As I attempt to call him back, another series of messages pop up. “ACTIVE SHOOTER. ALL SCHOOLS ON LOCKDOWN.”

I check the time stamp. The messages began at 11:00. That’s lunchtime at the school. I hear a whoosh of the vault door and see Elle entering. I grab my bag and run past her.

Now that I’m out of the vault and have cell coverage, I call David again.

“Addy, Addy, are you there?” he said. I’ve never heard him so frantic. I didn’t know that he could be frantic.

“ Yes, David, I’m here.”

“Addy, there’s been a shooting at the school. Why haven’t you answered my calls? I’m on the way there now!” he said and hangs up on me. I feel a sudden drop in my chest. I begin to run.

Chapter 12

I’m blinded by the sudden burst of light as I push through the double front doors of the museum.

I feel myself slip into the Ether and time slows down. I see pigeons taking flight in slow motion. I see an old person sitting on a bench looking at a magazine. I see a man with a dog on a leash. He’s kneeling and adjusting the collar on his Labrador-mixed puppy. Then I see a man running. He’s wearing an overcoat. The tail of the coat billows behind him as the air catches it. And time comes back to me.

I just make it to the metro in time to make the train to Rosslyn. My phone keeps buzzing and alarming as I stand behind a group of anxious people waiting near the exit door.

A s the door opens, a gaggle of people begins to run. I run with them.

I follow the same path as the gaggle. I feel the Ether take control of me. I follow the group for a couple of blocks, then we arrive at the circle drive in front of Adam’s school. I see police vehicles and an ambulance. I see a fire truck. Time slows down. I see a boy shove through the front doors of the school. I see his face. He looks so frightened. I see his face erased in an explosion. I see something heavy fall from his right hand. I fall out of the Ether.

I’m Fine

Kat Martin

You’d think a retail worker would love a quiet day at the store, and most do, in my experience. But me? I hate them. There’s something about the silence that just seeps into my skin, somehow burrowing its way past my pores and straight into my brain, buzzing around with all the things I just can’t shut off. Bills. Gas. School. Health. Home. Parents. Pets. As if the hours spent awake at night dreading the next day weren’t enough time for such things to occupy my mind, they have to follow me while I’m trying to concentrate, too.

I’m fine, I tell myself. I can handle it. I always do, somehow. Today’s no different.

The doors are already open to the store as I pull up, and I see James’s old ‘97 Ford parked up near the road just like always. He’s out front, pulling the last of the seasonal merch outside that won’t otherwise fit in the store and still count as being up to code. Sweat soaks into his black shirt and rolls off his wiry frame as he drags a particularly heavy cart piled with bags of soil outside, and I wave. He catches sight of me and beams back.

“ Well, heya darlin’! How’re you doing this morning?”

“I’m fine,” I call back, returning the smile as I wipe at my face. “How’re you, Captain?”

He laughs at my nickname for him, then taps the little Star Trek communicator stickered to his nametag. “Lookin’ forward to Comic-Con next week! You’ll be goin’ too, right, for your birthday?”

My smile falters, my heart sinking at the mention of the convention, but I force myself to maintain it for James’s sake. “Yeah. Saturday.”

He pats me on the back with an excited grin before heading back in, and I linger for a moment in the parking lot before following. I could feel my face and throat tensing, ready

to cry at the drop of a dime, and I bite it back. Not now, damn it. I didn’t need James to worry. I didn’t want him to feel bad that I couldn’t afford a pass like I’d hoped. What money I’d been saving for the convention went into an emergency repair for my car when it broke down three weeks ago. James didn’t need to know that. It wasn’t a big deal, anyway. So what if I’d miss out on all the panels I’d planned to stop and see. So what if my cosplay that I worked on for the past six months would have to stay in storage. So what if I wouldn’t get to wander from booth to booth, babbling excitedly with my friends as we all wowed and ahhed over our idols and other cosplayers.

It wasn’t a big deal that I’d be missing out on the one thing I’d looked forward to all year.

I smile and nod as James clocks out and ring up his things for him before he goes, an excited “William Shatner!” echoing behind him. And then I’m alone in the store. 10 a.m. until 6 p.m. The buzzing begins, and I go and turn on the radio James always forgets in the morning. Country music crackles over the old, tinny speakers, and some good ol’ boy that could’ve been my neighbor starts crowing his heart out about girls in the summer to the sound of a guitar. It’s not my favorite, but I try to hum along anyway as I start straightening shelves.

The store itself is small and cramped, with too much crowded into each aisle and barely any room for one person to maneuver, let alone two. The clearest area was the walkway in front of the refrigerators full of beer—tellingly cleaner than the rest—but you’d still be tighter than sardines trying to fit two people in front of them at a time. The shelves were always a mess, things misplaced left and right. Cat food left in the middle of arts and crafts. A box of ice cream three steps away from the freezer. Two empty drink bottles tucked behind cough medicine. It’s irritating, but it’s a different kind of buzzing than the anxiety. Easier to bitch and moan silently in my head about people and laziness and thieves than worry about what awaited me after.

Still, even as I try to keep myself busy from task to task, the dread seeps in. What will I have to worry about when I get

home? Dishes left all over the house? Dog crap and hairballs all over the floor? Trash overflowing? Food left out? Laundry heaped in the corner? I’d probably be expected to cook dinner after making a last-minute grocery run, despite having left a list on the counter.

Was it so fucking hard to take care of just one thing? Was it so much to ask to come home to a little love and care?

I slam the door to the beer cooler, startling myself with the force. Stop it. Breathe. Focus. The country twang is in full volume over the speakers, static interspersing the audio as the station wavers in and out. It feels like my nerves. I press my forehead to the cool glass and choke down another deep breath. Don’t think about the three essays due in two days and the test you have tomorrow that you haven’t studied for. Don’t think about how Roxy will be crying when you get home for a little love and company as the lump on her neck gets bigger. Don’t think about how you’re down to your last twenty dollars and don’t get paid until Friday.

The electric doors slide open, and I almost jump as a customer finally comes walking in. A woman just this side of the pasture, with a snowy cloud of hair wisping about her wrinkled face, stoops over a cart. Her big purse sits in the upper part, in all its lurid pink, blue, and yellow glory, right next to an advert and a half-used roll of paper towels that look as if it lost the fight with her purse for the biggest spot in the floorboard. I smile and wave at her.

“ Welcome to Save-A-Day. Let me know if you need anything, ma’am!”

The manufactured cheer I put into my voice almost makes me feel sick all on its own. But even so, the old woman turns and smiles at me, and an image of her in an apron with a tray of fresh cookies in her hands springs to mind. There’s just a warmth and old-lady kindness in her smile, and something about it is both painful and peaceful. For a moment, I just want to be a kid again, free of responsibilities and worries and this crushing, existential dread. I wonder if she has grandkids that lounge about in the living room as carefree as only children can be.

S he murmurs something in acknowledgment and ambles on her way, and I watch her for a little longer before returning to my work, a little disappointed. It was becoming painful to not have anyone to talk to. The quiet drones on, background noise to my internal mantra. Check expiration dates. Open the next box. First in, first out. Rotate stock. Keep moving.

B efore I realize it, an hour has already passed. Great. Just seven more to go.

Six hours and fifty-nine minutes left until I have to go home. Six hours and fifty-eight minutes. Six hours and fiftyseven minutes.

The clock keeps ticking, its hands made of miasma and glue.

Totes are done. Cigarettes are stocked. Fridges and freezers are full.

There’s two U-Boats left in the back, and one on the floor in the back corner. Back corner is James’s, and I’m already ahead for the week. Last time I got this far, my manager pulled me aside and told me to slow down. I don’t want to have that talk again. So, I stand at the register and I fidget. Six hours and fifty-two minutes to go. One hour and twenty-two minutes until TJ gets here.

And there isn’t a single damned soul in sight.

The music cuts out, and I sigh, marching back to the office. Cheap piece of crap. For wanting us to play music all the time, you’d think corporate could afford to supply us with a radio that wasn’t already two decades out of date and half-functional most days. Just more pins and needles on the pile. I fiddle with the settings, and for want of noise, my thoughts wander.

Useless piece of shit. Like me. Like my boyfriend.

W hy can’t you just, once in your goddamned life, do what you’re supposed to—

I berate the thing in my mother’s voice.

Stupid! What the hell was the matter with me—it? Fine. Fuck it. You know what? Fine.

My hands shake as I tear them away from the stereo before I can do any damage. Fine. No music. I’ll deal. I’ll find

something else to occupy my thoughts. I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m fine, even though I’m working full-time for peanuts and can barely pay my bills.

I shake, trying to steady my breathing.

I’m fine, even though I can’t keep up with my schoolwork, and I’m falling behind and failing three of my courses that I can’t afford to not pass.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I’m fine, even though my boyfriend sits on his ass at home all day and leaves the house a mess for me to clean up.

Don’t cry. Not here, not now.

I’m fine, even though my dog is slowly dying of cancer, and I can’t afford to take her to the vet one final time, so she barks and whines all night in pain.

I tr y to breathe, but it hurts. My eyes water.

I’m fine, even though I’m a disappointment and a failure to my parents and will never amount to anything.

I cup my hand over my mouth, feeling sick.

I’m. Fine.

E xcept...I’m not.

I’m not fine. I’m not okay. And before I can stop myself, the tears burst out of the dam I’ve been trying to patch all morning. My throat constricts, my chest heaves, my face burns, and I bury my face in shame. I can’t do this. Not by myself, not all alone. I want to scream and cry out and let it all loose so long as I’m halfway there anyway, crying in the office like a child throwing a tantrum. I just struggle to breathe and get it to stop. This isn’t the time or place for this. Get it together already.

Another customer comes through the doors on the cameras, and I desperately wipe my eyes and swallow it all back down until I think I might puke. One. Two. Three. In and out, in and out, come on… Every part of me is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, but somehow, I find the composure to grab a few paper towels to blow my nose and clean my face. I know my eyes are red and puffy now, and my cheeks are probably

flushed. I don’t trust myself to speak just yet. But as shaky and messy and weak as I am, I make myself go out to the register.

Six hours and thirty-nine minutes to go. Six and a half once this other customer comes up to pay.

“Hey! How are you?” She’s all cheer and bounce like her curly red hair, with deliberately painted red on her cheeks versus my blotchy mess of emotion. And for a second, I want to spit. Snarl. Tell her to fuck off with her smile and happy cheer and inane question because she doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to really know how I am. I want to tell her anyway just to wipe that stupid grin off her face.

But I’m working. I have to be polite. So, I suck it up, and I smile.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

March 2nd, 2018

A Stalker’s Tango

Ty Borschel

My friend Lenny said writing might help clear my head and help organize my thoughts, so here goes nothing. My name’s Malachi, my mom’s a druggie who beats me when she’s home; my dad left when I was 5, blah, blah, blah. This is so stupid.

July 15th, 2018

He keeps trying to convince me to write in this thing, saying I need to clear my head. What does he fucking know?

He’s not in my head, he can’t see my thoughts, and if he could, he wouldn’t be my friend. Why do I have to convince everyone that I’m okay? I mean I’m not fucking okay, but the constant convincing is even more exhausting.

24th

January 23rd, 2019

Lenny told me to give this another shot, to talk about school or something. And I caved, so here I am. School’s the same as it’s always been. I’m completely invisible and failing everything. It’s just sad. I’m seventeen, stuck in this godforsaken town, and now I’m flunking the 12th grade. I just want a way out, a distraction, something. Not even ghosts are this empty.

February 1st, 2019

There’s a new girl at school; her name is Jess. I guess that she doesn’t understand the social ladder yet, because she willingly talked with me during class. I sit behind her in third period. She is soft-spoken and sounds sweet, she’s pretty, too. Aside from that, I have to buy a gram or two from David, I haven’t smoked in what feels like weeks.

February 3rd, 2019

My mom left again. She didn’t even bother to leave a note this time, just ten dollars for, I assume, pizza. She always leaves ten for pizza when she goes, and I never use it on pizza. On the best days, I can’t feel my face.

February 5th, 2019

She waved at me in the hallway today and we talked all through third period. I sat at a table behind her at lunch, she looked very pretty today. My mom finally called me and said she was on a “business trip” again. Since when did fucking Pic N Save require business trips?

7th

February 8th, 2019

Lenny’s coming over tonight. Thank God for that. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I’m slowly going insane by myself. Lenny’s been by my side since the 6th grade. He is the only person that knows me, let alone cares. My mom’s still not back yet. It’s embarrassing when she’s here anyway. She’s constantly stumbling around, yelling and shouting for no good reason, and shoots up with no consideration for the ones around her, not even her damn son. I’m in hell. The worst part about hell isn’t the flames, it’s the hopelessness. The pure fucking hopelessness.

February 11th, 2019

She’s still being nice to me. We talk all period; when we aren’t allowed to talk, we write notes back and forth. She’s so smart, funny, and mature. I love her hair. It’s so long and dark and beautiful. She’s beautiful.

February 12th, 2019

- Jessica Mason

- She is from Virginia

- She lives alone with her dad.

- Her dad’s always at work

- 17

She has fantastic handwriting and always smells good.

February 13th, 2019

James started talking to her. He sat in the seat beside her and started to flirt. It’s so apparent when he does this; he goes through girls so fast, it’s like they’re only temporary. Like they are just there for his enjoyment. He makes my blood boil. He doesn’t even deserve to look at her.

Lenny says that I’m starting to get obsessive over Jess, which I called bullshit on. I’m not obsessed with her; I just like her.

February 17th, 2019

Jess and James have been talking nonstop since he sat beside her. He doesn’t deserve to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to look into her big blue/green eyes. He doesn’t deserve any of her.

February 19th, 2019

- 206 Brewster St.

- Walks home from school

- 10 minute walk from school

The window to her bedroom is big and uncovered. This means you are more open than I thought, nothing to hide, huh? Quite dangerous don’t you think? What if some creeper walks past while you change? She is so beautiful. She is small and thin, fragile even.

I just wanted to make sure she got home safe. How does that make me a stalker? I didn’t follow her; I was protecting her. Lenny just doesn’t understand.

February 22nd, 2019

James and Jess started dating today. He asked her out during lunch. All she does is talk about him or to him. It’s driving me into a fucking spiral of insanity. It’s not fair. He doesn’t deserve her. He can’t make her happy. He can’t love her the way I can. He can’t take care of her, but I can. I’m supposed to be yours, not him.

All will be right soon.

February 24th, 2019

- 1939 Palm Tree Cr.

- He lives with his mom and younger brother

- Parents are divorced

- Silver Toyota Camry

James is well-built, fast, and smart. However, not smart enough; he always leaves his back door unlocked.

February 25th, 2019

Lenny just doesn’t get it. I’m doing this for her, to protect her. I mean, come on, I’m not a stalker. He says he is worried about me, says I’ve changed, says I need to leave them be. But don’t worry, Jess, I’ll protect you. I’ll love you. I’ll cherish you. You will be mine, and I’ll be yours. Soon.

February 27th, 2019

As I crept through the back door and searched for his room, all I could think of was how happy we were going to be with him gone. You’ll finally be mine and mine alone forever. He was a heavy sleeper. I taped his mouth shut and stabbed him 43 times in the stomach and chest. By the time he woke, my glistening blade was five inches deep in his lung. He thrashed around, attempting to fight back or, at the very least, make enough noise to alert his mother. I couldn’t stop. I saw the life slowly drain from his eyes, his fear overtaking him, his muffled cries for mercy. Then, there was silence. I remember smiling. I won. I watched the blood leak from the bed to the carpeted floor. I did this for you, to save you from his bullshit promises. I did it for you, Jess. It’s all for you.

Charcoal

Paige Bamborough

The Corner of St. Louis and Bourbon St.

Paige Bamborough

57 Photograph

Cayson Barreto Snow Squirrel

Photographic Composite

Kate Beliaeva

Composite

Photographic

Noah Camden Surreality

Did You See the Snow?

Photograph

Luke Franklin

Photograph

Amanda Hargrave

Okaloosa Island Pier Sunset

Photograph

Azaan Haris Levitate

Photograph

Kalyn Mckinnon

Argonite Close Up

Photograph

Kalyn Mckinnon

Fossilized Ammorite

Eyes of the Soul May Cause Harm

Jeremiah Sexton

S. Stearman Atlas

Meaningless Complexity

Krista Sundberg

Acrylic

Susan Swain Floating

Mixed Media

Susan Swain Girl and Cow

unexpected showers

colbea raybon

a thunderstorm on a clear day.

sweet sunshine surrounds the world, yet somehow it’s as if that’s expected. not only expected… it’s ridiculed.

squinting eyes. sweating bodies. spoken words of the unbearable sun.

resentful reasoning rolls in as swiftly as the clouds.

before the regrettable thoughts can even conclude, it’s as if the earth is engulfed in the ocean itself.

it becomes all too clear that the sun does not owe.

dripping lashes. drenched clothes. dreams of when the sun might return.

an afternoon shower?

no—

a wake-up call. that way, when the sun does decide to show its face again… it is relished.

a quick and effortless storm— gone the same way it appeared… out of nowhere.

•••

James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Award – Second Place

Sunshine

Wilborne Gottlieb III

I woke up to a very unappetizing roof this morning. John was in bed next to me, still passed out from last night, and my room was still messy as hell. It was one of those days, the kind of day where the room is dark, and the sky is dark, and you can tell that the sky is dark because you peek out the tiny holes in the blinds where the light trickles through, and, although you can’t see much, you can still very much tell that the sky is dark. And because the sky is dark my room is, of course, dark. And, of course, a dark room, combined with a messy room, is a very unappetizing sight. Despite my unsavory living space, I was still very hungry.

I pulled myself out of bed, threw on some undies, and a stretched-out tee before walking out to the kitchen to make some oatmeal. The dark messiness stretched throughout the rest of the house. The faded yellow paint appeared dampened in the greyish shadows; without sunlight, the already trashy furniture seemed even more muted and beaten, giving the whole area a gloomy-sucky vibe. I made sure to pour about a quarter pound of sugar into the oatmeal before eating and deciding what I wanted to do that day. Gloomy-sucky mornings always make me think hard about what I want, and today I think I want a little sunshine. John and I used up the rest of it last night, but I could always go out and get some more. I don’t work after all, and I just got a bonus on my last check. We already had enough groceries in the house, and I had no intention of changing any furniture anytime soon. Before leaving I made sure to roll John over on his side in case of vomit, but he ended up just flopping onto his stomach. I nudged his head over the side of the bed so if anything happened, I wouldn’t end up sleeping in it. If I walked fast enough maybe I could get back before he woke up. Sunshine helps a lot with pain, and I knew John was gonna be sore as hell when he woke up.

O utside was worse than it was inside. The gloomy-sucky vibe had combined itself with humidity that made my skin crawl and my hair stick wetly to my body. It was a weird kind of cold outside that made me want to go back in and put on a hoodie, but once I had the hoodie on I’d be too hot and break into a sweat. And then once the hoodie was damp with sweat it would stick to my skin. And of course, I just washed it, so the smell of detergent would clash with the feel on my skin and the humidity in the air causing a very miserable experience. All of this to say, I didn’t put a hoodie on. Despite the gloomy-sucky, gross day, quite a few people were out enjoying themselves. I looked ahead of me to see my neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Dubois had stripped down and began dark grey-cloud bathing on their porch making sure that they got every square inch of their body evenly not-tanned. I looked over to my left and saw a welldressed little boy walking down the street with his not-sowell-dressed dad and his not-so-dressed-at-all stepdad. To my right, birds congregated on a rooftop. They weren’t singing or anything, just gathered together picking off the same little bit of food.

A side from the little boy, the only other notably welldressed person was the patrol officer, Arnold, who had been posted outside my house for the past few days. He was your standard fuzzy-mustached, no-life-having, little bitch-ass who thought he was better than everyone cuz he didn’t turn on the sunshine every once in a while. I remember how John and Arnold got into it once before. It was right after he became a cop that Arnold decided he had the authority to break into our house, screaming about some illegal drug charges. He tried pulling his taser while I was still high, but John smashed it out of his hand and also just smashed his hand. He tried suing us and putting John in jail for assaulting an officer, but not even Arnold’s own beloved court systems can take him seriously. As I crossed his car, I flipped him a quick middle finger for the sake of it and started on my walk toward the clinic. Per usual it was a largely uneventful walk, save for the noise of construction walking past the new kirkyard. This was

about the third one I’ve seen get put in the area. I knew the other graves couldn’t have filled up already, but I also knew it wouldn’t take long. The government had been expanding a bunch of them because of the virus. It took off maybe a year or two ago when the U.S. population hit about five hundred million. That year, all of a sudden, the whole country was dealing with it. For months, the only thing on the NATNN (National American Television and News Network) were videos of people rioting across the states, out of fear and panic of the disease. Hundreds of thousands of rioters were arrested and ended up in prison. I never saw any riots myself, but I’m sure they happened somewhere. Curiously, however, the epidemic mainly affected the prisons. Most people outside the jails never got sick, but the protestors…they’re doomed. All of this didn’t concern me though; regardless of what Arnold wants, I’m safe out here. Whether he likes it or not, the only crime I’ve ever committed is sunshine, and that’s legal now.

W hen I got back home, I was hoping that John had woken up and would use some sunshine with me. Sunshine was always more fun when people did it with you. I made my way to the back of the gloomy dirty house and crawled back into my gloomy dirty bed. John had vomited on the floor while I was gone, adding a really disgusting smell to the already dark and gloomy-sucky room. However, it wouldn’t matter much in a second. After we took it, the sunshine would make all these dark, dirty–trashy details seem a lot “brighter” in a sense. The gloomy sullen floors would appear freshly polished, and the dirty gray walls would gain a much better coat of paint. Everything would feel nice and warm on my skin and the shining glow of light would add a splash of color to everything.

I tr ied shaking John awake, but he still didn’t move at all. He was still in the same position I left him before leaving, albeit slightly hunched over from vomiting. Given the amount on the floor, he must have thrown up a few times, and in no small amounts. I decided to take him to the doctor if he didn’t move by the time the sunshine wore off. I took the tiny plastic baggie and set it on a clear spot on my nightstand, taking a

Gottlieb • 75 few minutes laboring over how I was gonna get this to work. I always knew that I wanted sunshine but could never decide how I wanted to get it to work. There were so many different ways: snorting it, smoking it, soaking it in water till it dissolved and then drinking. Ultimately, however, I decided to just swallow the little bits of sun whole with some water from the tap to help the taste. Tasting bad was probably the only thing you could say was wrong with sunshine. This method took a while, but at least I wouldn’t have to deal with coughing or sniffing too badly; I would probably throw up though. I laid down next to John and stretched out while waiting for the sunshine to kick in. After about 4 minutes the sunshine started to work, and my gloomy, sucky, cloudy, dark, humid day was draped in bright daylight and warmth on my skin. I sat on the bed admiring the colors for a few hours and tried again to wake John up before closing my eyes for a little bit.

It was a few hours later, though, that I felt myself get woken up by someone yelling at me. I knew it had only been a few hours because when I looked around me, everything was still colorful and covered in light; I was still high from the sunshine, of course. Although, I couldn’t tell if the light in my eyes was from the sunshine, or the flashlight pressed up against my face. I recognized the shrill, wimpy voice screaming at me as Arnold, who was yelling different charges and obscenities that I could barely make out. The most I caught was some words that started with an s- and ended in -odomy, along with -urder, whatever those meant. Even for someone high on sunshine, I was pretty confused, but that didn’t stop Arnold from rolling me over and strapping on his cuffs before picking me up by the arms and attempting to drag me outside. As I tried to stand up, I could see John lying still and contorted on the floor, undisturbed by the mayhem around him. He had his eyes open this time, or at least I think so. They were pure white, and I could see all the veins that were supposed to be on the side facing his brain. He had drool coming out of his mouth, and the spot where his lungs were supposed to be didn’t move at all. I don’t really know though; it’s probably just the sunshine.

I stumbled outside with Arnold, where I was hastily pushed into his cute little car. The sun appeared to be out now, and it wasn’t quite so humid to me. I looked around me to see Mr. and Mrs. Dubois had fallen asleep tanning. They didn’t seem any darker, just drenched in sweat. The little boy who had been walking with his fathers before was now gone, and the birds, who had been on the rooftop to my right, had all left as well. The gutter on the roof they had sat on was now overflowing with rain and was pouring into the street. Arnold strapped me into the backseat of his little car, which made it kinda hard to lay down, wiped the dripping hair from his face, and began driving off. As he drove off, my stomach got to bubbling, no doubt from the sunshine, and I didn’t feel like raising my voice to tell Arnold what was about to happen. We eventually hit a speed bump, and when we did, all hell broke loose. I retched up a shit ton of oatmeal and other stomach juices that splashed onto the floor and my legs. Arnold let out a retching sound and lowered his window before throwing up himself, but the smell didn’t really bother me.

Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Award – Second Place

The Doppelganger

Anna Robinson

I consider life to be a limited torment, one foregoing an inescapable, beautiful nothingness. I find myself often pondering what vile higher being found humor in creating such a nauseating and frivolous existence to precede nihility.

The sensation of pure terror I feel before strangers has always been a given part of my being. One would figure that one so familiarized with fear would, in due course, come to terms with it, but I am nothing if I am comparable to that of man.

Right now it must be approaching midnight. Setting out to head home, I advance through the next alley, passing a few lost gentlemen huddled under the dim flickering light of the nearby lamppost, their oddity comparable to the likes of moths to a flame.

I’ll never fathom how anyone could fear what’s left unlit. I’m certain that those who are so drawn to the light merely fear the accompanied obscurity of its absence, but the sensation is one I actually find to be quite consoling. The shadows that cast over the chilling faces of strangers shield me from the knowledge of their gazes, although I’m not quite benighted to them either: I know they’re staring. Most men would at least admit to themselves that they possess a hatred for the subjects of their disquietude, and I am no exception to that philosophy. I glare at others with the same disdain that they must have for myself, and I thus commiserate with their unease.

I am anything but mad: while my tendency for introspection does extend to my ever-screaming conscience, my awareness, if anything, makes me more human than most of man. Over time, the voices of my consciousness and the noises of the external world have come to blend together into an incomprehensible mesh of painful pandemonium and by now are almost entirely indistinguishable from each other. Given,

the voices are determinable by my understanding that there’s nothing else left to distinguish. I can understand those who’d declare my madness; most in my position would certainly be driven to insanity, but unlike man, I don’t bother to confuse my voices with theirs. Although now the sound of a human voice, I’d imagine, would only be the sound of caterwauling to myself.

I hear that caterwauling now. It’s paradoxical: the clear cry of a man facing a pure and unknown terror. It feels so distant, yet sounds so close. It’s beautiful, yet so indescribably tragic. I find my pace increasing, the noise driving my steps. I need to get home.

They must hear it too. I see their eyes shift between themselves, surely concerned for him, stepping back, as if he were in front of them now, screaming in their faces. I feel their eyes fall onto myself. Surely if I weren’t standing before them, they’d guess I were that tortured madman. Is it so confounding that one more than I can be afflicted in this close-minded town? My pace is increasing.

I feel the conflagration of curiosity burning within myself. The screaming gets louder, echoing into a gradual crescendo of nether worldly clamor. I’d guess the cacophony was of proximity to my destination, making my walk increasingly invigorating with each passing step. Passing wanderers express to me their horrors but dare not utter a concern. Eyes may be an extension of the soul, but the mind goes unchecked.

A few blocks from my quarters, the screech becomes a shrewd piercing. Even if it were never quite pleasant to the hearing, it’s more thundering now than I could’ve ever conceived it would resound, even in the very presence of that madman. Still, my strides remain brisk, the morbid curiosity consuming my mind.

I’m hastening now; within minutes I find myself standing before my very residence. I feel an eerie chill surface from the confines of my soul. The scream was clearly coming from the home, louder than gunfire... I uneasily pat my hand to the side, seizing a pistol concealed by my tarnished nightshirt. I like to think I’m reasonably cautious; I’d never dream of slaughter, but

I’ll admit I’ve been curious enough to envisage the feeling once or twice. I carry the pistol as my naivety excludes that of the dangers of this world; nihility, beauteous as it may be, will be my choice to behold.

I reluctantly turn the handle of the front door, only to find it locked by the intruder. I know as I never bothered to lock it when I’d wander about my city; even if I were to be robbed, that’s one less danger occupied away from the streets that I roam. Better they take my property than my life wherever I may stand, but what intruder would bother locking the doors of another man’s residence?

I creep over to my bathroom window. Peering through, I see the shadow of the madman through the glass. My heart racing, I disengage the safety of the gun in my right hand and take a shot at the window, shattering the pane. A piece of hurling glass lodges into my left arm, but I disregard it and carefully climb through the now-empty frame.

To my horror, I look up to see a man identical to myself, screaming so loudly my thoughts jumble into a complete disarray. Instinctually, with imprisoning fear shrouding my mind, I join him, our voices blending as one into an absent echo as we stare affrighted into the eyes of our own. I look down to see his handgun. The safety was off. He must have noticed mine as well, as we at once raised them to head level. The barrel of mine aimed at his head, as I noticed that his was also pointed at his own. Truly, what a madman. Adrenaline rushing, I glance down at the shard of glass that must have earlier lodged into his arm, and as I press my finger to the trigger, I hear the voice of a stranger also screaming behind our collapsing bodies.

A Busy Cafe

Casey Ann Drayer

My phone alarm blares loudly, telling me to leave. I finish zipping up my black leather boots and begin walking towards the little white table next to my apartment door. There’s a small babyblue bowl holding my numerous keys, some chapstick, and other random items. Next to it lies my phone. I pick it up and turn off the alarm with a quick swipe across the screen. The time reads 10:23, approximately 37 minutes before I meet my boyfriend, Levi. I smile and pull the phone to my chest, hugging it.

I haven’t seen Levi for a week. He recently got a very professional job that has something to do with money, and he has been so busy that we’ve barely talked. Luckily, today he finally got a day off, and I am going to ensure that we have the best time possible.

First, we are going to this adorable café a couple blocks away from my house. I am going to walk even though I do own a car, but New York is crowded, and it would take much longer. After I meet Levi at the shop, I am going to surprise him with tickets to his favorite sports team: the New York Yankees! He has been eager to go to one of their games recently, and I figured he deserved to go since his job has been stressing him out so much.

I can’t hold back my smile as I reach for my oversized, black fluffy jacket hanging on the wall. I tug it on quickly and grab the purse hanging next to it. Grabbing the keys to my apartment out of the baby-blue bowl, I open the door. I attempt to lock the door quickly, but I am so excited that I fumble a bit. Once it’s locked, I head to the elevator and click the down arrow.

This is my favorite time in New York. The cold, crisp breeze blows through my hair and sends chills down my spine the moment I step out of the apartment complex. I take a deep breath of the refreshing air. Some hot coffee sure sounds amazing right now. My stomach growls in anger. Maybe Levi

and I can share a waffle too. I beam at the thought of Levi and I sharing something, with him feeding me pieces of waffle romantically and wiping syrup off my face.

I tug my coat on a little tighter and step out onto the sidewalk. It hasn’t snowed yet, although the weather lady said we may get some later tonight. Levi and I could watch the snow fall down through the window of my apartment, and we could cuddle under the warmth of a blanket.

I hold myself up a little higher, anticipating what is going to happen after our little date. I even dressed cute for him: some fleece leggings that look see through, a short dark blue skirt, and a black, form-fitting turtleneck. Then of course, my long black fluffy jacket with a black beanie that has a little poof on the top. Levi loves this outfit, so this is perfect since we haven’t seen each other in so long.

The sidewalk begins to become crowded as I inch in front of the many stores sprawled out. It is a Sunday, so the streets are filled with tourists or people running errands, but I love it when New York is busy. It’s one of the reasons I chose to move here. People-watching is one of my favorite activities, as it’s so easy to get lost in thought while observing others.

My nose fills with the scent of coffee mixed with sweet pastries. My stomach growls again, which makes me giggle. The coffee shop comes into my view; it seems a little busy but surprisingly not too crowded. Walking closer, I notice a waitress standing in front of a podium. “Hello. I need a table for two please. Outside preferably.” I smile at her.

S he gives me a confused look at first, most likely due to the fact that I actually want to sit outside in the cold. But she accepts this and nods, signaling me to follow her. Walking around the small café tables scattered around outside the shop, she places me in the middle. I mutter a quick "thank you" while I sit down, and she disappears to serve others. I take off my purse and hang it on the back of my chair. I take my phone out of my jacket pocket to check if Levi is almost here, although I don’t have any messages from him yet.

I send Levi a quick I’m here text and I set my phone down on the small table in front of me. I look around the cozy area, finding someone for me to people watch. There’s a young mother and an adorable little baby who’s fast asleep in her arms. The mother is chatting casually with her friends. I find a couple a few tables away from me, holding hands and laughing. I wonder what they are laughing about. Or if they know they look adorable together. I wonder if Levi and I look cute together. I smile at the thought of other people watching me. Am I interesting to watch?

I am interrupted from my thoughts as the chair across from me scrapes against the stone flooring. Looking in front of me, I find my boyfriend, with his thick brown hair and those baby-blue eyes that I adore. I smile, “Hi Levi!” I go to stand up since I am desperate to kiss him, but he settles in his chair. Lowering myself back into my chair slowly and a little awkwardly, I notice his face is sort of tired looking. Maybe it’s because of work.

“Hi, Addilyn.” Levi responds, finally looking me in the eyes before he cowardly glances away. I frown; he doesn’t use my full name very often, nor does he not maintain eye contact. He takes a deep breath as he sinks into his chair. “Addi, we need to talk,” he says melancholily, his eyes still refusing to meet mine. My eyebrows furrow together in confusion. What do we need to talk about? That is never a good thing to say in relationships. Maybe he already knows about the tickets I bought, and he doesn’t want to go with me?

I open my mouth to respond, but I am cut off by the waitress returning with a smile on her face. “Hello, you two. What would you like today?”

I take a sip of my steaming hot coffee. It’s a morning where I can see my breath, but I still chose to sit outside in front of the coffee shop. I glance around at the others who chose to sit outside, and I notice that every chair is filled with gloves holding a steaming cup. I wonder if the inside is filled with people too.

“Addilyn.” A voice snaps, which draws my attention back to the boy in front of me. He looks upset; his dark brown hair is a mess. He needs a haircut, maybe we can go after our date. Or we could get him a black beanie that matches mine. He clears his throat loudly, pulling me from my thoughts again.

I shake my head. “Oh, yes, Levi?” I blink a few times quickly, trying to refocus on my boyfriend. I set my now-empty mug down on the wooden table in front of us.

He sighs. Why is he sighing? “Addi. I’m trying to talk to you—” An arm stretches out in front of him, and my eyes follow the arm to the person, a waitress grabbing my cup.

“Hello. Do you need more coffee, ma’am?” The waitress says to me, my mug now on her large tray with others awaiting use.

“ Yes, please. I had a caramel latte. Thank you.” I smile at the waitress as she nods and heads back inside towards the warmth of the café. My eyes follow her as she opens the door using her one available hand, and I notice that it is busy inside. I also hear the faintness of music; I wish they played music outside too.

L evi groans. I turn my head back to him; his head is now buried in his hands. He’s still upset with me. “I’m sorry. Please continue.” I reach out and touch his hand, and I drag it away from his face so I can intertwine our fingers together. He lets our hands fall onto the table as he drops his other hand from his face. He looks at me with his baby-blue eyes. I have always been jealous of those eyes, since mine are just plain brown.

He squeezes our hands tighter together. “Listen, Addi. I don’t know—”

“Here’s your latte. Enjoy!” The waitress exclaims as she sets my mug down on the table between me and Levi. I loosen my fingers from Levi’s grasp as I grab my coffee, eager for the feeling of the warmth in my stomach. The waitress walks towards another table away from us.

“That was quick. Did you need any more coffee?” I say, before taking a long sip. I shut my eyes as I feel the warmth snaking its way throughout my body. Opening my eyes again,

Levi is still staring at me. “Oh, right. You wanted to talk to me.” I clear my throat as I set my cup down, again refocusing on my loving boyfriend. “You have all of my attention.”

L evi rolls his eyes quite dramatically, if you ask me. “Okay. I’m sorry. But I think we need to—” A baby at the table next to us erupts in screaming cries. The poor thing.

I watch as the mother attempts to quiet the child, rocking the baby in her arms. Why is she crying? I don’t think the baby can have hot coffee. Oh, maybe the baby had hot milk! I frown as the child flails her arms around, fighting her mother. The mother holds the child close to her chest while quietly shushing her. My eyes wander around the other tables, who are now filled with people staring at the still-crying baby. The mother must notice, as she excuses herself from her apparent friends and takes the child away from the café.

“I wonder if the baby had too-hot milk.” I ask Levi as I turn my attention back to him. He is now on his phone, clearly shutting out this conversation. “Levi?” I poke his arm, and he looks back at me, although now he looks tired.

He sighs again, and I am getting annoyed with how much he is sighing today. “Addilyn, I’m trying to talk to you, but you keep getting distracted.” His eyebrows are furrowed in concern.

“I f you are trying to say something, then just say it.” I respond, picking up my mug again. I press it to my lips as I wait for him to continue speaking. Peering over the top of my cup, his eyes burn into my skin. I swallow and set my mug down quickly.

“Sorry, I am entirely focused on you.” I place my hands in my lap and smile.

“I think we need to break—” Glass shatters near us, and I squeal as I almost jump out of my seat. I attempt to find where the sound came from; I think it was from the two people who are now arguing. I frown; what are they arguing about? This is supposed to be a peaceful place where everyone can relax—

“ADDILYN.” I jump again as I glance back at my boyfriend, who is now standing up, his hands on the table and his body tense. His eyes are not baby-blue anymore; they look darker.

He must be really angry. “We need to break up,” he hisses.

I sink back in my chair, aware that the outdoor café is now silent. I scan the crowd quickly, noticing that now everyone is staring at me, even the people who were arguing before.

“L evi,” I whisper, locking our eyes together. “What are you saying?” My bottom lip begins to quiver, and my eyes start to sting with tears. Levi doesn’t sit back in his chair, but his body does relax as he takes a deep breath.

“ You heard me, Addi. We are don—” Another cup shatters, catching my attention again. The same people, although now it looks as if they are trying to throw the cups at each other. They shout loudly again as I see a waitress at the door calling someone on the phone. I wonder if she’s calling the cops.

“L evi, I think the waitress is—” I turn to face my boyfriend, but I stop abruptly as he’s not in front of me anymore. I stand up, pushing my chair back with a loud scraping noise. “Levi?” I say loudly, glancing around the crowd with worry. My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, so I grab it quickly, hoping it’s Levi.

My phone screen lights up under my touch, and the first notification that appears is a text from Levi reading, I’m sorry Addi; we are done.

Sirens wail loudly as they creep closer to the café, red and blue lights shining off the other cars and buildings. The shouting gets louder, but instead of watching the fight, I focus on trying not to cry.

Europa-13

Kendall Feal

All around me, I see stars. From the cockpit of my spacecraft, I soar through the cosmos, marveling at the distant balls of hot gas that shine through the black of space. My right hand moves from the yoke to the central console and dances over a red button in the center. Taking a deep breath, I press the button. An alarm sounds, and my body presses back against my seat as the ship’s thrusters kick into overdrive. The surrounding stars begin to blur as the ship accelerates. The thrusters howl, pushing the spacecraft faster and faster. My whole body shakes. I feel my eyes begin to close, the stars fading with every passing second. The stars. The stars…

My dream is interrupted by the commanding bark of my alarm clock. I slam my fist over it, stifling its call. Today’s the day.

I jump out of bed, quickly dress, and make my way to the kitchen. I’m too excited to even think about breakfast, but Dad will be pissed if he finds out I didn’t eat. I grab a protein bar, just in case. Leaving my quarters, I have to force myself not to sprint down the long, sterile corridors that make up the Europa-13 Space Colony. After what feels like ages of walking, I reach a familiar set of sliding doors. Above the doors is a sign that reads F-270 Hangar.

“This is it,” I say to myself. “A full year’s worth of training all leads up to this moment. Your fate lies just behind these doors.”

I tap my keycard to the doors’ digital lock, which rewards me with a beep and a flash of green light. The two sets of doors hiss as they slide open, and cold air rushes over me as I step inside.

The hangar is gigantic, at least a mile long and several stories high. A heavy, airtight gate at the back serves as a barrier between the colony and the emptiness of space. I walk

the length of the hangar, admiring the spacecrafts parked along either wall. About halfway down, I stop, turning to face the ship on my right. Her name is Lady Persephone. The F-270 Moonwing rests against the hangar wall, her crescent wings folded up. Painted on her side is her name, along with the Greek queen of the underworld. Standing next to Lady Persephone is her pilot, Commander Isla Nightingale, her hand resting on the ship’s nose.

“Nightingale!” I call out.

Nightingale turns to face me, and a smile spreads across her face.

“Hey, if it isn’t the girl of the hour!” She shouts back. “Come on over here, Kimi!”

I pick up my pace, meeting her in front of the spacecraft.

“I spent all yesterday studying for this,” I start. “I reviewed all the turns we went over, all the emergency procedures, acceleration, take-off, landing, you name it. I know every button on the central console like the back of my hand. Hell, I could probably fly this thing blindfolded if you’d let me!”

Nightingale laughs, and she pats me on the shoulder. “Atta-girl. You ready to take your first solo?”

“I was born ready,” I reply.

“Okay, then let’s—”

Nightingale is cut off by the emergency siren ringing throughout the entire hangar. I jump at the sound. The fluorescent ceiling lights go out, and they are replaced by flashing red ones. A voice comes over the loudspeaker.

“Attention, residents of the Europa-13 Space Colony. We are currently experiencing a Code Black invasion event by an unknown force. Please remain calm and proceed to the escape pod bay, located in–”

Feedback rings through the loudspeakers, making it impossible to hear the rest of the message. Nightingale and I both wince.

“Shit. Shit!” Nightingale hisses. “Kimiko, you need to get out of here. Find your dad; he’ll know what to do,” she orders.

I nod and, before I turn to leave the hangar, I see

Nightingale scale the side of Lady Persephone and jump into the cockpit.

My breathing comes in erratic pants as I sprint through the dark hallways, sirens blaring in my ears.

I just need to get to Dad’s office, I think, trying to keep calm. He’ll be there; I know it.

I tur n the corner, revealing a hallway with a large observation window on its side. Bursts of orange light shine through the window, slightly illuminating the hallway. Looking out the window, I gawk at the scene unfolding before me. One spaceship of indiscernible origin shoots at an F-270, which gracefully weaves around bullets and pieces of debris. It’s a dogfight. A real dogfight. Inspecting the Moonwing more closely, I notice the image of a woman painted on the side.

“Lady Persephone!” I exclaim.

I can’t help but laugh. Commander Nightingale is the best pilot this colony has; anyone who dares to get in her way is as good as done for. The enemy craft continues to open fire on Lady Persephone, and she dives, masterfully avoiding the attack. It’s almost like watching a dance. One ship advances, and the other one pulls back before circling around and continuing the cycle. I watch this routine seemingly for hours, eyes wide with amazement.

Suddenly, my trance is broken as another object cruises into my peripheral vision. Another one of the mystery ships enters the scene, positioning itself behind Lady Persephone. My heart sinks. After some adjustment, the ship readies the missiles positioned beneath its wings. I watch in horror as the missiles fire, taking out Lady Persephone’s thrusters and left wing. Smoke pouring from her tail end, she floats idly in space, unable to escape the inevitable. The enemy ship in front fires its missiles, and my vision is overwhelmed by blazing light as Lady Persephone bursts into flames.

Burning debris scatters across the dark sky. The bulletproof window shudders from the impact of the blast. Reality sets in as smoldering pieces of the ship float past my face. Lady Persephone is gone. Isla Nightingale is gone. For the

longest time, I’d figured she was invincible, but now the illusion is broken. She was human. Beautifully, horrifically human. And now she’s dead.

I can’t bring myself to do anything. I don’t scream; I don’t run. I just stand frozen, silent tears streaming down my face. I’m waiting. Waiting for the dissonant howl of my alarm clock to pull me away from this awful nightmare, but it doesn’t come. It doesn’t come because I’m not dreaming. I want my dad. I want to collapse in his arms and sob until I can’t anymore. I want him to hold my hands and tell me that I’m not alone, that I’m safe now and everything will be okay. My daydreams soothe me, if only a little bit. I wrap those thoughts around me like a warm blanket as I come back to my senses.

R ight. I need to find Dad.

I tur n away from the window, stealing one last glance at the destruction as I do, and start back down the hall.

The Adventures of Captain Sharkpuncher

Harrison Busbee

There I stood, on the deck of my ship, sailing through the great cosmos. Just to clarify, this ship on which I stood is the same kind of ship one might use to sail across the sea. This was not a “spaceship” as you barbarians know them. Though my ship was a space ship, wasn’t it? It was a ship in space. Just because it’s not what you savages call a spaceship doesn’t mean it’s not a space ship. Earth is a stupid planet anyway. You guys are always going on about “space suits” and “heavily fortified ships to keep you in and space out.” Just breathe the air in space, you cowards. It’s perfectly breathable.

B ut anyway, there I was, sailing across the cosmos, when I received a signal on my signal-picker-upper-inator™. As I reached for the button on my signal-picker-upper-inator™, a dumb spaceshark crashed into the side of my ship. Not only did it chip the beautiful paint job, it also knocked my omelette off the table! So, naturally, I had to turn the ship around, jump onto the spaceshark’s back, and start punching it in its stupid spaceshark face. After I had gotten my anger out, I hopped off the spaceshark’s back and floated back to my ship. It was at that point I remembered there was something that I was supposed to be doing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Oh, yeah, that’s it! I was supposed to be making another omelette! So I made another omelette to replace the one that stupid shark ruined. As I was eating it, I suddenly remembered that there was a signal on my signal-picker-upper-inator™ that I still had to listen to. So, I quickly finished my omelette and went over to my signal-picker-upper-inator™ to listen to the signal it had picked up.

I pressed the button, and it played the message. The message said, “Help.” No. I wasn’t going to do that. I didn’t have time to waste with helping a random person with whatever they may have needed help with. Was it possible they were in

a life-or-death situation? Yes. Was it equally as possible that they had just lost their favorite marble? Also yes. And I wasn’t going to go out of my way to figure out what they needed help with. I was very busy with things such as eating omelettes and punching sharks. However, that was when I noticed another message. Playing that message, I found it was a follow up to the first. It said, “Please.” Well dang it. They said please. I had to help them now, didn’t I?

So, I set a course to where the signal had originated from. This signal in particular happened to have come from the Planet of Pizza. It was an entire planet-sized restaurant. It was a glorious place. There was so much pizza there. It was amazing. But this time, I wasn’t going for leisure, but rather for a rescue mission. When I arrived at the Planet of Pizza, I located the person who had sent the distress signal. He was a little round green guy with anywhere between 3 and 4,567 eyes. (I couldn’t tell. I’m bad at math.) I approached him, and informed him that I received his distress signal on my signal-picker-upperinator™ and was here to help. He looked at me with relief in his eyes, and said to me, “That spaceshark! It stole my beer! Can you please get it back for me?” Surely this was destiny. It was meant to be. I was the best at punching sharks. They didn’t call me Captain Sharkpuncher for nothing. Why, I even punched a shark earlier in this very story!

I leapt onto the spaceshark’s back, and began punching it like my name implies I would. I punched that shark ‘til the cows came home. And when the cows got back, they helped me punch the shark even more! Eventually, after all the punching, the shark dropped the man’s beer. He rejoiced, and we all stopped punching the shark (after I got a few more hits in, at least). The man was happy, the day was saved, and the shark was punched. Eventually, I set sail back through the cosmos. At least, I did after I got some pizza. That planet has the best pizza.

Poor Judgment

Jackson D. Davis

In an old town named Proudhon, adjoined to a tavern from an age before steam, sat a two-story in a town of three-stories. It sat on the edge of the block; ground level was a divination shop that drunkards often wandered into, mostly inquiring into their chances with certain ladies, while upstairs was the residence of Ms. Mystic, whose mention was accompanied by laughter in any respectable conversation because of her eccentric outfits and ugly hair that rose up in the smoke of her “divinations.” Jacqueline loved her though, from the way that her dress flowed when she entered the door and her eyes sparkled as she looked at her crystal ball, to the way she laughed maniacally from the dark and danced on the lavender carpet that was always shrouded in darkness. She was like an angel.

But tonight was very different from normal. When she walked in and was greeted with the usual “good tidings, Madam Chariot,” Jacqueline had an important question to ask. While she appreciated Ms. Mystic’s peculiarities, she needed that barrier to be broken tonight. She needed Ms. Mystic to tell her what she meant, not a cryptic message. Yet, every response was through a tarot reading or crystal ball. And even though the decision was always leaning negative, if she wasn’t willing to give a direct answer, its importance to Jacquleine certainly wasn’t outweighed by Ms. Mystic’s apprehension. Ms. Mystic deserved justice.

“I told you Spirit’s shit, man,” Lugano said. His cigarette smoke slithered up the slick plastic of this old rotary phone. “This town’s living like it’s half a century ago. How am I supposed to fill my time ‘til you get here?”

Hardly audible crackles came back. “Just explore the town or something; there’s plenty to find.” The ghosts of the

pristine hotel room judged him as he wiped sweat from his stubbly face with an improperly fitted biker jacket amidst frustrated pacing. Lugano was sure of it. There was no way a place with purple wallpaper and candles instead of lamps didn’t have ghosts. Plus, he couldn’t find his damn phone. Maybe they stole it.

“Ight. Well, next time you pick the place, I pick the fucking airline. Don’t like this damn job anyway,” he said, putting the phone down. Next to the old thing was an ashtray. There was one benefit to this town living in the past.

L ugano really wanted a beer. So, he walked into the bar on the corner of the block nearest his hotel. The bricks had half-fallen out of their mortar, and it was conjoined to a freaky place with purple flashes refracting through crystals in the window, but wanting a quick walk overwhelmed any aversion. Aversion also to the wooden door frame with no door. He stood there for a moment, observing the dim lights illuminating the upper walls and roof of the claustrophobic space, with signed dollars hanging like vines over the bar counter. Behind them and the filled bar stools whirled a bartender who had captivated an audience. As Lugano walked in, he saw the ending of his magical performance. He did not see the full set-up, but it ended with a customer drawing a jack of diamonds from the deck. It spun in the bartender’s hand and transformed into a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

Lugano took the opportunity during everyone’s cheers to grab the single open stool. The bartender, who was dressed in a white collared shirt with a black vest and tie, took notice and asked what he wanted. Lugano showed his ID and a twenty, calling for one of the craft beers.

He looked at the clock—7:15—so he figured this place would be open for a good while, especially on a Friday night. It was best to get drunk and forget the wasted time between then and when Lumian arrived Sunday morning. He certainly didn’t like this place, but he trusted Lumian that it had something to offer.

C heers went up from everyone around, and Lugano looked around confusedly. The bartender gave him a mischievous grin and said, “Well, everybody. Didn’t think we’d have another trick so soon.” Lugano sighed and knew he should’ve asked around for where to go.

The bartender ripped the spigot off one of the myriad kegs. Lugano waited for the beer to splatter all over the floor, but it didn’t. Looking through the hole that was left, he could see the amber liquid inside magically stayed, seeming to flow, bubble, pop, and glow like a potion on TV, without ever breaking some invisible barrier.

C heers and toasts went up again, and this time Lugano cheered as well, clapping along. When it died out, Lugano asked, “Well, how are you supposed to get it out for me to drink?”

The bartender laughed and said, “That wasn’t the trick.” Lugano sighed. He took his face out of the glow of the beer to hide his frown. “Blow into the back end of this spigot, and it’ll tell you whether you’re an idiot or not.”

Now, Lugano wasn’t a fool. This was the same thing your friends did when they told you the ceiling had gullible written on it in the third grade. But he wanted to get his damn beer and faked falling for it. He grabbed the spigot, blew on it, and nothing happened.

L aughter went up, and he faked a little chuckle.

The bartender took a step back, put his hand to his chest, bowed, stood up, winked, and proclaimed, “You blew on the spigot, so you are an idiot!”

After a round of laughter that Lugano reluctantly accompanied, he asked, “So when can I try it?”

“Nah, man, if there’s a trick, you’ve gotta pay double.”

“Come on, I didn’t ask for a trick.”

“It’s house rules, man,” the bartender said, sticking the spigot back into the barrel after wiping it with a towel. The lady sitting next to him tapped him and pointed to a sticky note on the wall by the entrance. Straining his eyes, Lugano read the small cursive and rolled his eyes. Craft beers get a trick and are double. This had to be some kind of extortion.

“Fine,” he said, reaching into his wallet only to find he was short a dollar.

The drunkard next to him noticed and doubled over, laughing. “Try your luck with the crazy bitch next door; maybe she’ll bless you and you’ll find a twenty on the ground.” A few joined him, and then the back leg of his stool broke. Like a bottle from a shelf, he fell, hearing groans instead of shattered glass. Lugano imagined it to be magical karma.

He didn’t really know why, but broke and upset, he actually followed the man’s advice and walked out to turn into the divination shop. Its bell chime beckoned him into the kaleidoscopic arrays of light dancing through the smoke of this seemingly endless room. Walking forward into it, he blinked as the smoke got into his eyes. It smelled like bad coffee, the thought of which made him ignore the woman who bumped his shoulder on the way out.

He opened his eyes only to realize he was now sitting, staring into the pure black eyes of a middle-aged woman. She was across from him at a table; the tablecloth was golden, brown, and red with complex floral motifs that made a focal point of the crystal ball in the middle. It seemed they were in the eye of a hurricane of smoke that separated them from the outside world. He was terrified.

“ Who are you?” he asked.

“ What an odd question, for how do you know that being me makes me a true version of me?” she said, an odd tone to her voice, and all the terror Lugano had instantly disappeared. He was pretty sure he wrote that exact sentence in his thirdgrade English class, trying to sound deep.

“I… How about you help me find something I’ve lost?”

“Of course, my good man. Divination it is. In the realm of futures untold, which mystic art shall we unfold? Tarot, runes, or crystal ball’s gleam, choose the path to reveal your dream,” she said.

With a deadpan expression on his face, all he could think about was the moldy carpet. So, he just stood up and left. There wasn’t time for shit like this. As he walked out of the smoke to

where the door should be, he reappeared right in front of the seat.

“ Tarot it is,” she said. And he just stood there, dumbfounded. She pulled two stacks of tarot cards from the folds of her dress and shuffled each on the table, stacked them, drew two from each, and held them in separate hands. Holding them out to him, she commanded him to choose one from each hand. He pointed to the left and right of most cards. Then, she tossed the extras into the smoke like cigarettes out a window and placed the cards face up where they could see them: The Fool and the Seven of Swords.

“L oki’s blessed; a clown danced when the music wasn’t there. From–”

All of a sudden, the lady shifted in her chair and also in her countenance. The ridiculousness disappeared, and she spoke in a normal voice. “You’re from out of town.”

“ Yeah… yeah, I am.”

In the morning of a day with an important night, the Proudhon Herald was busy at work. The metallic clamor of their few Linotype machines against the stucco wall made it difficult to hear. Thankfully, it meant nobody could hear Jacqueline’s conversation with her boss, even though it was in the middle of the room.

“ What is it about you and answering the pager, huh?” he said, hands on his hips and hunchbacked. His tie hung too low.

Jacqueline had a file in hand, and while searching through it, she said, “I was busy getting some of my suspicions verified, and crashed when I got home.”

“Jacqueline.” He paused for a moment. “Put that down and gimme a minute of your time.” She complied, avoiding the annoyed look of the wide-glasses clerk who owned the desk. “Look, this paper is your baby. I understand that, but—”

“—But you’re usually the babysitter, and you’re scared I’m going to drop this child. I promise you, old man, that I can chew gum at the same time, even if that makes you nervous.” She turned around and strode to her desk, telling the clerk to hold onto that file.

“Jacqueline,” he said, sounding defeated. She could feel his presence following her luscious curls as they guided his clumsy, tripping self between the dozen desks and piles of paper crammed to make a labyrinth of an office.

“The problem is,” they stopped at her desk, “I don’t know if you’re chewing on gum or a bottle cap.”

“So, you’re revoking my reward?” she said, smirking.

“No… I just want to know what the headline is.”

“ What were your words again? Full control.” Then she broke her serious look and chuckled. “Or are you worried I’ll write about something too controversial for your lil’ ole’ small town paper?”

“That would be the bottle cap.” “ Well, that’s how I won in the first place. Is it not? You must’ve liked it.”

“At the cost of piles of complaints in my mailbox.”

With a smirk on her face, she said, “I don’t want you to know the headline because it relates to someone in my personal life. I tried to get their approval last night, but they were being...cryptic.”

“I’ve gotta have a newspaper this Sunday, Jacqueline. You’re telling me that you’re just not gonna publish it if they don’t like it,” he said.

Control isn’t easily rescinded, and trust not easily extended, especially after being the chief editor of every publication for thirty years. Jacqueline understood and handed him the paper she took from the file. “The information on the back-up headline is here. But don’t use it unless I say so.”

“There something wrong with not being from here?” Lugano asked.

“No, no, oh no. Here, give me a second.” Then she turned and called into the smoke, “Jack!” All of a sudden, the bartender and his gift-wrapped black vest, tie, and pants with a white button-up emerged from the smoke. His hands waited behind his back like a fanciful waiter. “He’s from out of town.” “ You want his help with something?” Jack asked.

“God damn it, what do you think? Not like we can do anything about it,” she said.

Jack just shrugged with a level of nonchalant apathy that made Lugano realize his exciting tricks earlier were just a front. “I wouldn’t mind going back another decade; the world knows we’ve been here too long.”

“Jack, I don’t have wrinkles yet and don’t plan on changing that anytime soon.”

In the little bit of silence, Lugano, still confused, intimidated, uncomfortable, and experiencing every other form of emotional discomfort, feebly asked, “Um. What are you talking about?”

“ We’ve been imprisoned in these buildings; our punishment is that I have to make sure the town hates me and act in a certain way toward its citizens. Jack is the same but has to make sure the town likes him. If that changes, the town goes back in time, and we go forward.”

Lugano just stared at them wide-eyed. If that magical moment hadn’t occurred, he’d have walked out, but he believed them. “And someone is trying to make the town like me,” Ms. Mystic said. “I can’t do anything outside this building or interact with anyone normally, so I need you.”

“ Yeah, yeah, but why would I help you?” Lugano said, sobering up a little.

Ms. Mystic raised an eyebrow and said, “You’ve got a friend coming into town for a business deal. I have ways of making sure it doesn’t go as planned—or I can make it go exceptionally well,” then she smirked and gestured to Jack with her head. “Or I could just give you to him.” Then Jack’s hands began to blaze with white flames.

Lugano gulped.

“Jack will tell you what to do. And here’s this. Lay it on the ground when it feels right,” she said, handing The Fool tarot card to him. He took it, feeling a sentimental throb in his chest and knowing a string hung between him and this card.

“I do have one condition,” he said. “I want a damn beer.”

“That can be arranged, Mr. Fool,” Jack said.

“Until then,” she said, reaching towards the crystal ball, “listen.” •••

“There, that’s better,” she said. Jacqueline sat in her third-story apartment, two blocks from her friend, situated in front of her vanity, and applied make-up. In memory of a hurricane from last year, she was lighting her room with many candles in remembrance of the experience and appreciation for the aesthetic. They lit her cluttered rooms, each wall with a different wallpaper adorned with cheap paintings perpendicular to a dark wooden floor smothered in rugs. Once everything met her standards, she headed down the stairs, grabbing a very important newspaper on her way out. Damp air stuck her dress to her skin. Reaching the door, she heard its bell clink as she closed it behind her, and the mid-morning sunlight warmed her skin.

“Ma’am, do you have any recommendations on a way to fill my time?” a random man on the street asked. Few who lived here wouldn’t know, so he was likely a tourist. Jacqueline had that thought, as though they had received many. He seemed a little older than her—thirties perhaps—and had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

B efore she could answer, an elderly man with crooked teeth, who’d clearly slept on the street the night before, stopped in front of her with a grin. She smiled back and said, “Jacob! How are you doing?”

“E h, great, great. Gotta see my momma yesterday, and ho oh oh. Here, have some candy,” he said. Taking his hat off his head, he took a bow and reached into his hat. Licorice came out, he handed it to her, and she dropped in a few dollar bills.

They wished each other farewell, and she turned her attention back to the tourist.

“ Yeah, of course. About two blocks from here, there’s a divination shop. Ms. Mystic can dispel any doubts about your future; I swear it,” she responded. She meant it, too. Deep down, she knew he would probably prefer to hear about the bar.

Her mind drifted back to when she first met Ms. Mystic. Just after moving here, she’d written a terrible piece for the paper and taken an ass-chewing from the boss, so she spent an evening alone at the bar. She’d stepped outside for a moment, projecting her thoughts to the full moon and wishing her life could be as easy and tranquil as its journey through the sky, when an old lady with too much hair spray called her into her shop.

The man scoffed. “I don’t waste time on swindlers; we’ve got plenty of them on the streets.”

It hurts to know you can’t save someone from the judgments of others. “She only takes tips, so try it anyway, man,” she said.

“I prefer an efficient use of my time. Speaking of which, I’ve heard y’all’ve got a great little newspaper around here. Recent national recognition for a story on small town homeless.” That felt oddly specific, considering who she was. She shouldn’t judge him, but that didn’t mean she had to trust him.

“ Yeah, I really enjoyed reading that. In fact, I heard a rumor that when her boss asked how he could reward the writer, she asked to have full control over a weekly publication. Final say on edits. Everything,” she said. He gave her a look like a crow on a perch, seeing through the lie and staring into her every thought.

“Hhm. Too bad someone with talents like that has to waste her talents here,” he said. “Surely she realizes there are better opportunities out there.” But Jacqueline loved it here. Why go to a larger paper where she’d have less relevance? She just didn’t believe in the higher-ups publishing what she wanted them to. This town was free and shouldn’t be valued less than any other municipality. Its size and unique culture could be difficult, but why complain? Truly, until that night with Ms. Mystic, she had a similar outlook on life. Every inconvenience overwhelmed her, and everything had to fit into place, but Ms. Mystic had told her a simple story based on a single tarot card that changed her life forever. But Jacqueline didn’t feel this man was willing to make a similar shift to what she did that night.

100 • Blackwater Review

“Perhaps she doubts her talents. But I guess you can see the story for yourself tomorrow morning. Until then, there’s a commemoration for relevant local figures today at the Aipotu Building by the lake. I assume you’re a tourist, so I don’t know if you have anything on your itinerary,” she said.

“I’m here for a business deal, actually. The Proudhon Herald is being sold to a larger paper out of Chicago.”

“Oh,” she said, “I need to be getting on my way.” Then she began to walk to the coffee shop and requested that they hold a table for her, thinking all the while about what he’d just said.

Lugano stood and watched her walk away, knowing he had achieved the first part of his quest by upsetting her. He walked to the Aitopu Building. It stood as a proud historical element to the small and dense town, wide and marble with Romanesque columns and an aura of high class. It overlooked a garden and a perfectly rectangular lake.

He called over one of the greeters and held out a hundred-dollar bill. “You know Jacqueline from the Herald?” He put the bill in his hand and said, “Make sure to give her a hard time, and point me to the boss of the Herald.” The man nodded and told him what table number to go to.

Inside, the freshly polished wooden floors held countless white tableclothed tables, and five large chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The far right had a raised stage with a podium and microphone. Arriving at a table close to it, he sat down right next to the man there.

“Hello, sir,” he said, sitting leisurely in the chair. “I’m here to talk about tomorrow’s business deal.” He reached over and grabbed a grape from his plate, popping it into his mouth as casually as Octavian on a couch.

“I thought we rescheduled for tomorrow. We, uh, we don’t need to be talking about this.” He looked around worriedly.

“Ay, don’t worry. Believe it or not, I’m good friends with Jacqueline, and obviously know she isn’t going to take this well. So, I figured when you get an opportunity,” he stopped to eat another grape, taking his time to pick the juiciest one.

“You could mention something she’d really appreciate. Something that pertains to what she wrote this week.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which was what?”

Lugano stopped for a moment and said, “Ohhh, she must not have told you. It’s about the importance of a sense of decorum to represent a community.”

“That’s uh…That’s quite out of character. I mean—”

“Think about it this way.” He leaned forward in his chair, face-to-face with the man. “When has she been known not to dress impeccably?” Lugano thought about the nice dress she was wearing when he approached her. “She wants better for the poor, not judging them for their lack of presentability because they aren’t afforded that opportunity. But,” he scooted even closer, taking time to enunciate his words dramatically, “imagine what she thinks of those afforded that opportunity who don’t take it.”

Lugano stood up and, before walking away, said, “Make a joke or something about someone in the community.” He noticed the understanding in the man’s eyes, who nodded thoughtfully and seemed to seep into thought.

He went back to a different greeter and said, “Memorize this. It’s got instructions for you,” and handed her a paper covered in cursive and another Benjamin. She nodded with wide eyes. “There’s this one too; give it to a woman named Kya,” he said, handing her another paper.

A nice table in the center called to him, and he went and had a seat. One where he could see everything.

Meanwhile, Jacqueline was walking to the venue, having just finished conversing with Holly, the owner of Tengieb Cafe. She’s helping her hold a seat by the gate.

The interaction with that man earlier shouldn’t have soured her mood; it was a big day for her. Yet as she passed under a balcony whose balustrade’s vines hung to the ground, rather than feeling liberated by the greenery, the damp air and dimmer light made her feel claustrophobic. So, she took a deep breath.

S he made two attempts to cheer herself up.

First, she thought of Ms. Mystic’s words in one of her

subsequent visits after that first night. She’d inquired into why she hadn’t combatted her poor perception when the lady said, “A bird in blue, a heart content, while others crave a fiery hue. No need to chase a different tint. True joy in finding feathers. Don’t force a blend or a muddled sight. Respect the wings that take flight. Let beauty sing in shades that please. Embrace the joy of birds’ ease.” She didn’t know what it meant, it probably didn’t mean anything, but she loved it.

Then, less nostalgically, she took some deserved pride in her appearance, elegant in a long black gown with gold accents as complex as baroque but sparsely placed. Her gloves matched well, too. Overall, she had a little more joy in her gait.

It didn’t last long. The venue for her event was before her. She was one to arrive exactly on time and had, but as a core element, the organizers wanted her there sooner.

“Hello, Ms. Haliburton, you will be speaking last after a commemorative speech by Mr. Halliday,” one of the four greeters said.

Another quickly followed up, “I’ll take that newspaper off your hands and return it after everything is said and done.”

S he pulled it away from his outstretched hands. “This is important to me today. I’d like to keep it.”

A different one continued, “Madam, part of the decorum for tonight is that everything must be concealed within a purse or pockets.”

“And what if I say it’s a key part of my speech?”

The first waved her in and said, “If you insist.”

S he nodded at them in a way that emphasized her frustration and walked in. She felt the newspaper tear from her gloved grasp. Turning around, the bossman stood behind her with it in hand.

“ You can’t have this in here,” he said, quickly handing it to the greeter. Jacqueline tried to tell him that she needed it, but he said, “Quiet,” and his large stomach guided her to the table.

Sitting amongst her colleagues, she said, “I needed that newspaper; it’s a gift.” The seats were unusually comfortable, so

Davis • 103

much so that they felt indulgent—frivolous.

“Honey, we print them tomorrow; it’ll be fine.” Kya said. There was an unfolded piece of paper in front of her that she kept glancing at. “Sit in that chair, listen to the speeches, make yours, and you can leave. As much as you think this is beneath you, it’s actually important to the rest of us.” She managed the printing and always seemed to insert herself in a way that made Jacqueline think she was jealous of her. But this was crazy. She wasn't this confrontational.

“I believe I’ll be sitting somewhere else,” Jacqeline responded. She looked at the bossman, who shrugged his shoulders in a way that said, ‘Do what you want, but you’re going to have an awkwardly long walk to the stage,’ and she left, ignoring the judgmental glare of Kya.

S he walked to the front entrance and said, “I need that newspaper.” Her loud steps and voice drew glances, which made the greeter obviously uncomfortable. “Ma’am, the commemorations are about to begin; please find a seat.”

Recognizing that their minds wouldn’t change, she licked her lips and looked for a place to sit. A police officer for security stood against the wall on the far-left side. He was likely there to escort someone out if need be, with a sour look on his face. Unable to find a good spot, she resigned to returning to Kya’s good company until she spotted a particular server near the officer. Jacob was serving some old men who obviously returned little courtesy.

“Jacob, you got here awfully fast.” Her homeless friend seemed to have landed a job, and she couldn’t help but smile for him. He’d changed clothes and everything.

“I know the back roads,” he said with a smirk. “Here, take a seat,” he continued, pulling out a seat at an empty table against the back wall. “I’ll get you a drink.”

“No, just sit with me.”

He declined, but she interrupted and said, “You’re a server, and this is how you can best serve me.” Agreeing, he joined her, but only after pouring them some fresh water. The best-case scenario would be if Ms. Mystic could join them, but

she’d sadly never appear at an event like this: the Proudhon Commemoration.

It began.

“L adies and gentlemen of Proudhon, we’d like to thank you for coming to our annual commemoration. Tonight, we will recognize those with the most impressive feats, those who truly benefit our community, and those who simply deserve it. Firstly…”

The mayor continued with his speech for a little too long, until finally the individuals were recognized. First, there was a speech from someone close to the honoree, and then the honoree themselves. After six people, Bossman walked up to the stage and started his speech.

“Good evening! Today, I stand before you with immense pride and joy. Our small town has produced a remarkable talent—a journalist whose dedication, passion, and unwavering commitment to her craft won her the American Mosaic Journalism Prize. She focused not on the broad strokes of our society but reported eloquently on the nutritional struggles of the working class here in our town.”

He paused, and she took a moment to appreciate his more formal tone; all the other speeches had tried to be too personable, in her opinion. There were few jokes or attempts to play off the seriousness. Because, truthfully, she was going to take her speech as an opportunity to speak on the profound impact a particular working-class person had made on her life, Ms. Mystic. In the next newspaper, the one she personally crafted from the ground up, it would detail the story she told her long ago when she needed it most. She’d finally receive the recognition she deserved.

He continued: “She is the kind of person who brings respect and perspective to Proudhon—a kind of person we need more of. The exact opposite of, well,” he smiled, and Jacqueline frowned, “some peculiar mystic we all know.”

C huckles like those of children pouring water on ant beds reverberated in her ear. Did they not read the article? Are they so naive? Every tiny inconvenience in her day began to

overwhelm her, pushing her to a boiling point she hadn’t met for a long while. Perhaps it wouldn’t have hurt so much if a man she trusted so much didn’t break the ice, but he did.

S he stood up, the chair making a grinding noise that only brought a quarter of the room to silence.

“ You imbecile,” she shouted. “Turns out baboons can speak but not read. Though, I guess I shouldn’t have expected more from a fat fuck like you.”

Everyone was quiet now and looking at her most with mouths agape, until that demon, Johnathon Halliday, said one word: “Security.”

Jacqueline’s heart sank when a hunk of a man contorted her arms behind her as she instinctively resisted. He began getting even rougher with her. She screamed out more curses as she was throttled into one of the side doors.

She was confused at first, but Jacqueline kept to herself, and nobody saw the face of the writer on the paper. Everyone from work was sitting too far away to see her face; she’d screamed the insults, so her voice was very different, and there were many girls wearing black gowns, so nobody knew it was the very person being commemorated that was being escorted out.

The security guard threw her on the dirt just outside, a rock cutting up her face. “Don’t come back inside,” he said, closing the door.

S he lay there for a moment, not crying but verklempt and choking on her words every time she tried to recite one of Ms. Mystic’s wisdoms. After a couple minutes or so, the greeter who first spoke to her approached her with her newspaper. He crouched down beside her, placing it in her hand and saying, “I know who you are, Ms. Halloway. I’ll let them know you had a family emergency and couldn’t stay for your speech.”

“Thank you,” she said, or rather, managed, and he helped her to her feet. Lugano, who had snuck out as soon as Jacqueline’s outburst occurred, stood at a distance, with a smirk on his face. She stood trapped in the net, face-to-face with someone acting on script. “Sometimes, you’ve got to accept that people won’t ever change,” she’d be saying. He wrote quite

the monologue. Of course, all this was only possible because of Ms. Mystics’ prophetic understanding of each of this town’s individuals’ psychology. Plus, it was Jack’s money.

But, just as Lugano reached his crescendo, he began to feel guilty. Using the vicissitudes of fate to trap her in a cage of circumstance was manipulative. He hated that. It’s why he hated being a salesman.

Then he saw Jacqueline and read her lips while she shook her head: “I don’t believe in that.” Then, she walked away.

S he trudged into town, turning where she’d parted with the tourist, and took the newspaper to Ms. Mystic’s shop. In front of the door, a blackboard sign displayed one of her daily trivialities: “Don’t enter with a wound—conduct potion research—blood interferes.” She grinned at that and left the newspaper right in front of the door, carefully placing it. She crossed the street, entered an outdoor cafe with abundant greenery, and asked the kind-faced barista for coffee and beignets. She sat near the gate, watching the door while sipping her tea.

Then the tourist from earlier sat next to her.

Lugano looked her in the eye, still feeling guilty. His plan didn’t work. “I’ve got something to tell you,” he said, then proceeded to go over every detail of his experience in Proudhon. It included his meeting with Jack, Ms. Mystic, their stories, and how he orchestrated her bad day. Her face slowly illuminated, showing splashes of incredulity, disbelief, and defeat.

“Obviously, that all didn’t work, so I need you to trust me,” he said. The finale.

S he looked at him for a moment and said, “I’m publishing that story.” There they sat, amongst hanging vines over brick walls with the residual scent of coffee, underneath the black gate with the Tengieb name: a garden of leisure. Lugano ordered a coffee. But Lugano expected her response because this charioteer pushes her horses full speed to the trough, ignoring their pleas to stop and drink from the pond.

“I saw that in the way you looked at that waitress, the contempt. It was the same when you met Jacob. I don’t even think you meant to do it. But you want me not to publish something, something with a message—a message you don’t understand. You are all the proof that it needs to be printed.” How dare he subject her to his whims and his decisions? Progress is a fight, and as much as fate might repress her, she’d continue to strive for liberation. She just can’t accept stagnation.

Lugano stood. He nodded. He walked away. Arguing was what he wanted. He was certain he could slip a lie in—tell her exactly what would change her mind. But, despite its foolishness, he continued with what he went there to do and was honest. Trusting fate might be a fool’s errand. If the alternative was self-righteousness, he’d choose it every time. With a giddy gait, he stumbled into a red telephone booth, called Lumian, and told him he quit his job.

There, he placed the tarot card he was given on the ground.

Luminance

Felicity Fox

Red flags littering the ocean shore

Holes and blemishes riddling the boat’s interior

Rain dropping from the sky like birds shot dead

And you, glowing in all your mundane glory

I study your face, right down to the bone

Memorizing flashcards of your expressions

Creating crude acronyms of your features

All in search of a sign that you too have fallen ill

But you are as intentional as you are up for interpretation

So I choose to kill the author and implicate my own meaning

That you, as brilliant as once perceived

May be as delusional as I know myself to be

As the water grows wary, the boat rocks

I grasp onto what was once you, as you dissipate

Your ashes flow like a freshly blown dandelion

And my lungs distend, burned and charred

I scream as loud as my organs will allow

A whimper in a sea of intoxicating nothing

That grip that you swore to never loosen

Now a memory, ever the recent

Ever the reason my heart teases me with sweet nothings

Whispering in my ear a vanishing tempo

Yet it turns bitter, as the metronome returns

An empty promise burning like a candle

Luminance, a yellow seen as white

Luminous, a solemn dark, broken by a light

Illuminance, imperceivable to the naked eye

In lunacy, every thought in my waking mind

Good Hunter

Wilborne Gottlieb III

A heartfelt reference to my favorite game–Bloodborne

Fear her and all her lies

Be not enticed by tales you hear

Fear the old Blood, and all its ties

Think not of her and her cries

Hunt through night, through moonlit tears

Fear her and all her lies

Do not forget to see through eyes

Have no sympathy, you see not clear

Fear the old Blood, and all its ties

We’re born as boys from bloodied cries

And though made men by bloody deer

Fear her and all her lies

You’ve yet to grow, eyes inside

And I’ll show you not the child here

Fear the old Blood, and all its ties

Love not what now refuses to die

Hate with heart, it’s love and dear

Fear her and all her lies

Fear the old Blood, and all its ties

Stories from L’Entre-Deux

Allie R. Saunders

Mornings in L’Entre-Deux before the rest of the kitchen staff arrived and filled the restaurant with chaos were some of my favorites. The first streaks of the 7 a.m. sun streamed into the kitchen through the skylights and provided the illumination the dimly lit kitchen craved. The light seeped into every corner of the kitchen and warmed me to my toes.

With precise, practiced motions, I buttoned my chef’s coat, tied on my apron, and pulled my hair up into a bun; it was quite a comforting ritual. I walked from the pantry to the cooking ranges to the cold storage for hours, or so it seemed, and carefully selected the freshest-looking produce, the most fragrant spices, while inspecting each workspace to ensure the absence of interruptions during the rush of orders throughout the day. I wrote out the newest changes to the menu— strawberry vinaigrette and blood orange slices were added to the salads and lobster bisque replaced the French onion soup— then made copies and distributed them to each station, even to the dishwashers. Organization, which was ingrained into my subconscious, was crucial for successful executive chefs according to my predecessor, Frederic. I tried to exemplify him in every possible manner and, more often than not, wished he hadn’t left.

I was startled by the incessant beeping of the time clock—it’s noon already?—and hushed conversations as workers began clocking in and flowing into the kitchen, which almost caused me to knock over my third croquembouche. It’s one of my favorite French pastries, even with its timeconsuming intricacies. If all went well, I’d manage to convince Pauline Sartre, the newest food critic in Lyons, to love it before the night was over. Of course, this dessert was one of the most common ones in patisserie windows, but, hopefully, I was enlivening it. I replaced the typical pastry cream with whipped

French meringue buttercream and paired the bourbon caramel with freshly dried figs.

I secured the final pastry puff to the top of the caramelcovered pyramid before someone begged to leave early for some frivolous reason—a music festival or a date were the most common excuses. Dedication has been scarce. It took most of my energy to infuse some degree of enthusiasm into the annoyed teenagers staffing my kitchen. I yearned for Frederic’s streamlined kitchen instead of pleading with idiotic interns to complete simple tasks. Still, I left my croquembouche and called my staff to attention, one of the few group tasks I enjoyed.

“Good afternoon, all! Today’s menu is identical to yesterday’s, except for a few additions to the salad and soup courses, all of which are detailed in your lists at each of your stations. Pauline Sartre is visiting tonight, as you all should remember, so, please, follow the proper procedures. That will be all!”

“ Wait, who’s Pauline Sartre? Is she someone important?” asked the newest intern, who, like everyone else in the kitchen, had repeatedly been told who Sartre was and why she was coming. I groaned and forced myself not to fling a head of cabbage at him.

“ Yes, she is Lyons’ newest food critic, and she’s notoriously harsh, especially on those who lack attentiveness to crucial details,” my sous-chef, Jean, replied before I could unleash a stream of curses on the careless intern. “So, I would suggest carefully reading and re-reading Chef Auclair’s changes to the menu to prevent the accidental addition of grapefruits and balsamic vinaigrette to the salads instead of the—anyone? What ingredients are being added to the salads tonight?” I was never more thankful for Jean than at that moment. He could maintain complete calm regardless of his circumstances, a part of his character that I’d always envied.

“Blood orange slices and strawberry vinaigrette,” I replied, since most of the staff hadn’t made it to their stations yet. “As I said before, I detailed tonight’s changes to the menu in a memorandum at each of your stations. Memorize them and get to work.”

• Blackwater Review

A symphony of the shouts between line cooks, the cadence of the knives, and the slam of oven doors rang throughout the kitchen as I raced about between the ranges and preparation stations to ensure the dishes were nearing completion. The various aromas danced together; nothing was burning, yet. Sartre would be arriving any second now. Jean and a few experienced line cooks were plating the dishes, precisely as I had taught them. I heard someone cry out “She’s here!” as the final garnishes landed on the plates.

I motioned for the waiters to pick up the dishes and follow me as I smoothed my apron and walked into the dining room. It was beautiful, as always, lit with chandeliers and the hints of the sunset. The floral centerpieces of grape hyacinths, tulips, and thin sprigs of lavender were gorgeous. I hoped Sartre would approve of the dishes, but, regardless of what happened, I knew Frederic would be proud

Under My Bed

Charlie

What’s under my bed?

You may ask.

Well I’ve got a sled And it goes really fast

I have a toy train And a model plane

I’ve got at least half Of Frankenstein’s Brain

I’ve got a box A couple socks I even have Some funky rocks

I’ve got a Lego Castle

Reaching all the higher And an “RX 3000 Golden Air fryer”

To get to bed, it is like a Mountain I must conquer And the best part about it?

There's no room for a monster

Dawn on the Horizon

Nate Hathaway

He knew what he was about to do was illegal. He stood there silently, his tattered torch-red cloak dancing on the frigid, biting January wind. The snow falling around him would have masked his bold, determined figure if not for his piercing eyes, which were fixed on the towering obelisk before him. Its marble façade was magnificent, and as he ran his fingers along its icy exterior, it reminded him of better times and all those who came before. The white marble bricks could almost reflect the man’s face back at him in the pale moonlight, and the scaffolding there for repairs would be the perfect unknowing assistant. His mind drifted again to his plan. Murals of any non-governmentsponsored form, let alone graffiti, had been outlawed for years. His eyes turned from the tower before him towards the city skyline surrounding him. The buildings, no matter how grand and utopian they appeared, could never mask the truth from those with eyes untinted, ears unimpaired, or hearts unclouded. The streets were paved carmine and reeked of copper. He was resolute in his decision as he pulled his long hair back into a messy ponytail and shook his tool of destructive creation. With one more glance, he scouted for authorities, but there, in the dead of night, not a soul was heard around him, so he scaled the scaffolding toward his fate.

Deftly, he began to paint along the stone structure, and nearly as soon as he began, his mind began to reflect. How long had it been? How long since the insurgency? One that shook the people to their core. How many years had it been? Five? Ten? He couldn’t remember how long, yet his mind drifted again to the days when the world as he knew it died. Not with flame as he would have thought, but with applause thunderous and celebratory for those who once had tried to slay Justice where she stood. Soon the powerful were able to take control, and the people were smashed under the foot of oppression.

Surveillance increased, neighbors were dehumanized, working hours increased for lesser pay, and the dogs of authority were sent on the dissenting. Many came to tolerate their newfound oppression, and life continued on. Even a young college student with dreams of one day educating the youth of the nation. He lingered on that memory. A time when hope drew breath in some form. A time when the young could dream, even in the growing shadow looming overhead. It was a solemn and cold memory.

A s he continued along the façade, his somber began to burn away. Each pass with his instrument became fueled further and further by rage. His heart became increasingly filled with the anger that had trapped him and his friends for years. His consciousness burned bright with painful memories, and before long, his memory fell upon the day Liberty died, Crimson Friday. He winced, his eyes welling as he began to think about it. After years of oppression, many grew to dissent against the federal authority for keeping them down. An organized group of peaceful protesters, 300,000 strong, marched together for better working conditions and a return to a less oppressive regime. The authority guard was called in. Shots were opened on the crowd; no shots were returned. All that mattered was sending a message written in the blood of the innocent. 160,000 were killed. Adults, children, and the elderly. Black or white. Gay or straight. From that day on, it was clear that compliance would be mandatory, and resistance would be met with severe, if not capital, punishment. The figure’s heart burned with the fire of a thousand suns thinking about it. The friends he lost that day. The screams haunted him like a banshee in the night. The thunder of the guns still rang in his ears. Lying on the ground pretending to be one of the many lost. It wasn’t until the aftermath that he was able to rise and see the destruction, to then weep for his loved ones who’d died. For years after that day, when he and so many others were labeled as rebels, he had repressed all hope. But there, in the quiet of the night, his heart bled out onto the canvas before him, and he dared to dream again.

There, in his emotions, the rebel lost all perception of time. To him, it didn’t matter. His pain, sorrow, anger, and fears imbued themselves onto the work before him as they adorned the monument of liberty with flaming hues of blue and red. There, along its west and north faces, he had left a mark for all others who had felt crushed under the weight of tyranny. As he then scaled down the scaffolding, dawn began to break, but before he could enjoy his work, the authorities spotted him and shouted at him to halt. Thinking quickly, the rebel broke the supports on the scaffolding near him and pushed it down to reveal his handy work to the world as well as to hopefully put some distance between himself and the law. But just as he began to smirk and rush away, a plasma bolt from an officer grazed his cheek. He winced in pain but had no time to stop as he rushed towards his hover bike. Releasing his hair from his ponytail and starting his bike, the rebel sped away from the monument westward, skimming along the long pool of water as the officers attempted to give chase.

With the wind in his hair and his poncho gliding like a cape, he quickly passed the monument of his forefather, who had fought for others’ freedom as well. He thought about how that great man, despite his privilege, fought for others and allowed them to live freely. The rebel looked at himself in the mirror of his bike and knew what his purpose was. He knew that the fight for a better tomorrow could not be one alone. He knew he would have to cut through the society that oppressed them and change it through revolution. He knew that, together, the oppressed were strong. It was time to rally. Weaving his way through the morning traffic and away from the authorities, the revolutionary quickly crossed the mighty river next to the city and, looking back, viewed his mural. Its vivid blues, reds, and whites evoked a feeling of pride and joy in the revolutionary as he sped away and eluded the authorities. In the morning sunrise, the mighty flaming phoenix upon the monument broke its chains, and to all who saw it, it symbolized the start of something new. The start of a fight for freedom. The arising of hope.

Hathaway • 117

Expectations

LaKeshia Stigall

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— with board-straight hair and plastic skin.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— with an impossible waistline and a painted-on grin.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— with a dream house and pink corvette.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— flawless and never upset.

Instead…

I will be imperfect.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— smooth ivory and blonde.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— silent, listening, never to respond. I won’t be your Barbie Doll— to dress up and control.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— empty plastic, hollow soul.

Instead…

I will be imperfect.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— fun to pass around.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— to drop on the ground. I won’t be your Barbie Doll— to hide away when you’re bored.

I won’t be your Barbie Doll— easily restored.

Instead…

I will be IMPERFECT.

I will be me. I will be free. I will be loud. I will be proud. I will be wrong. I will be strong.

I will be exactly what I need to be. And you…

You will not be my Ken Doll— just good looks and no brain. You will not be my Ken Doll— boring and vain. You will not be my Ken Doll— with your girls here and there. You will not be my Ken Doll— showing off everywhere.

You will be…nothing.

You will not be my Ken Doll— with expensive toys.

You will not be my Ken Doll— all demeanor and poise. You will not be my Ken Doll— slicked-back hair and smooth styles. You will not be my Ken Doll— loving expressions, but fake smiles.

You will be…nothing.

Nothing but a liar. Nothing I desire. Nothing to miss. Nothing to kiss. Nothing to see. Nothing to me. NOTHING worth my time.

I will not be your Barbie. You will not be my Ken. And we will not play your games, this silly pretend.

Expectations are a bitch.

120 • Blackwater Review

The Erlkönig

Matti Stigler

An elk approaches. It begins to speak.

“ You do not belong here. This is my domain.”

You begin to stutter, but it leans in, whispering

“I am the Erlkönig. I rule over this land. You are an intruder. I will decide your fate.”

You try to talk your way out of this, insisting that you were lost. The Erlkönig’s expression changes to that of anger as it reprimands you.

“Silence. This is not a place that you wander off to but that which you seek out. We do not want you here. I know your intentions. You came here to capture evidence of the Faye. Hoping to prove yourself, you drove here from the city to snap a picture on that phone in your pocket. You thought yourself clever when you rolled in the mud to mask the scent of gasoline, but it was to no avail. That was my mud. These are my woods.”

You inch away, pleading for forgiveness.

“ You should have started with pleading the second you touched this sacred ground. It is too late for you. The moment you see my true form will be your final moment. Farewell.”

The Erlkönig begins to convulse, its skin tearing, its bones twisting. You close your eyes, hoping to spare yourself. An inhuman screeching pierces the air. Then, an eerie silence. Thudding sounds like footsteps approach you. You’re startled by a warm, damp gust of air brushing past your face and then a second gust, pulling you forward.

“Open your eyes. It is almost over.”

You pathetically shake your head, attempting to stretch your lifespan by mere seconds.

“Do it. Now.”

You feel hard, boney hands grasp your shoulders.

“NOW.”

Your eyes slowly open. You glance up. You are met with

glowing, viridescent eyes. A mossy, tattered face accompanies the eyes, bits of a skull protruding underneath. A crown of antlers announce the presence of eldritch royalty. A skeletal grin opens to engulf your face. Somehow your whole body is swallowed up in this being.

You wait for an end but find none. Only a cold. A deep cold that penetrates your skin—no. Your soul. You hear the screams of the others. The multitude who have met the gaze of the Erlkönig.

The torture begins, and you join the chorus of screams for all eternity.

122 • Blackwater Review

turning time

colbea raybon

i’d like to think that in the vastness of the universe… there is an hourglass, to represent our time spent together.

as each word effortlessly leaves our mouths, & the conversation flows— so does what seems to be a never-ending avalanche.

each laugh echoing out, as specks of sand sink.

the stream will slow— eventually coming to a trickle.

hugs that already seemed to bring the world to a halt, are translated into devastating drops of dirt.

now, fleeting thoughts of you seem to settle like dust. as i find comfort in the idea of time being turned.

The Man Who Stole Fire

Wilborne Gottlieb III

Many years ago, a soldier named Alan stole fire from the gods and hid it for himself. With fire gone, it seemed that everything else in the world began to change. That year, the leaves began to change color early. Around early July every tree had become permanently stained a mix of red, orange, and yellow. The grass—now brittle and dry—had turned a bright gold color that seemed to reflect the sun right back into your eyes. And the world had been trapped in a perpetual autumn. Then, despite the fall season, sunflowers began to grow. Entire fields of flowers, which had always rotated their petals to follow the sun, would continue to do so. And when the sun diverted from its usual path, so too did the flowers, whose roots ripped themselves from the ground to follow the sun in circles. It was entirely possible, and happened fairly often, that entire fields of flowers would get up, weeding themselves from the earth, and begin walking, each strand of the roots standing on the surface and waltzing away to chase a star across the sky. Soon it was not just the flowers that had changed, but every aspect of nature shifted into a strange mess of fiction and whimsy. Baby horses were born with devilish horns and eight legs. Frogs climbed into birds’ nests and began to sing their songs, while birds descended into the ponds and lakes, croaking and bulging their throats like frogs. And we people had to live here, trying and failing to live in our own homes whose timber would often awaken, growing eyes and mouths and screaming out in pain, remembering and ranting about their past lives as leafy trees. We, the people who lived, struggled to grow, to live, and find food that would stay in our stomachs rather than evaporate and leave our mouths slowly through our breath. Struggling to find water that didn’t erode our teeth, despite having no other kinds of acid or creature invading it.

But now, after all my searching and all my struggle, I am

Gottlieb • 125 here. At my feet lay Alan, the man who stole fire, dead. Burned till he was nothing but bone. And in my hand was the fire that burned him. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. The ember swirled around in my hand in a myriad of colors. Blue at the base with thin purple lines stretching far into each flame. The flames themselves twisted and coiled into bright orange and red, with the smallest yellow glow illuminating everything near it. I wandered around the large, hollow space beneath a series of roots that Alan had called home. The ceiling had a hole in just the right spot to allow sunlight in regardless of where it was in the sky. As evening fell, the whole room was lit, the dull grey wood turned orangish-red by the light on the horizon, and the snow glittered, mixing in the sunshine with its own white tinge. Here, the grass was a beautiful green, and the flowers all stayed in their places. From the roots that made up the ceiling, water dripped as if it poured rain, but within a second of being in the air, each small drop crystallized into its own little flake of snow, each with its own pattern and size. The snow piled onto the ground in clumps with just enough to coat the floor white, but never enough to completely cover the grass. I thought back to my goal. To return the fire to the gods; to make a world of perfect order. In my world, everyone would live and die at the same age, all the trees will change at the same time, and every bird will sing in a grand choir in perfect synchronization at the sun’s first glimmers after an adequately long evening. I soon realized, however, that a world such as that was as boring and rhythmic as it now is chaotic and pointless. Senseful but meaningless, or tumultuous and still meaningless? I found myself faced with the same question that Alan must’ve faced when he first changed the world; the kind of question that is asked, and everyone is expected to answer, but no one has an answer to. As life is now, few things have real significance; sure, the occasional walking flowers strikes awe, but for how long? How long until you forget about that flower, or the one before that, or the one before that? Once you had seen one walking flower, you had seen them all. But the world I would create would have no walking flowers at all. The new children

would never get to experience the awe of seeing something that defies nature for the first time, and the new plants would never know the feeling of stretching their legs and seeing the world from a different field. As I thought, I began to climb the roots, stopping every few footholds to ponder the question more. When I reached the top, I felt as if I could see past the horizon. Every red leaf and golden blade of grass shining bright one last time, as if to say goodbye, knowing they would never shine this brightly again.

I thought back to the people, the ones burned in the woods by little butterflies, and the ones devoured by bulls with eleven eyes. In my hand, I looked at fire, still unsure of the world I should create, but confident in the one that I would. I held up my hand, staring over the horizon, fire and joy burning in my eyes as I let go of a single spark. I would not hold on to all of fire like Alan, nor would I set it in a place like the gods before him. No, I would only let go of a spark—a small bit but enough. Enough to let the seasons change, and enough to set the sun on its path and to have flowers stay in their places. A small spark that would burn in the eyes of all who open them. And with that spark that burns in their eyes, I left my words: “Come and find me. Change the way things are and become whatever it is you want to be, in whatever world you choose to be in. Come to me and find the man who stole fire.”

A Series of Repeated Interruptions

Allie R. Saunders

Strong coffee and shouting overwhelmed Lydia’s senses from the moment she stepped into a perfectly secluded meeting place, Starbucks, at 8 p.m. the day before finals. Every booth, chair, or table was crammed with students either hastily writing down last-minute preparations or frantically quizzing each other, trying to force their brains to remember the contents of the last semester. August was so long ago, wasn’t it?

S he brushed back a stray strand of her hair as she scanned the lobby for Jacob, who seamlessly blended in with the students, or any large crowd for that matter. He spotted her and motioned for her to join him. Before she could, a group of pre-med students leapt from their chairs and erupted into a heated dispute concerning the importance of the proper classification of endocrine system disorders. They shoved away from their tables, apparently readying themselves for physical combat. Lydia hastily scurried around them and slid into a chair next to Jacob. He looked at her, exasperated, as if this wasn’t the first almost-duel he’d witnessed this evening.

“So, did you receive my briefing of the meeting with Charles? He wants to expedite the process,” Jacob asked, not bothering to lower his voice, as it was muddled among the coffee shop’s chaotic patrons.

“ Yes, I read it, but, honestly, I cannot fathom how Charles expects us to expedite the process any further. I already have— seriously?” She sprung up from her chair with her legs covered in Jacob’s scalding coffee, which spilled across the table, thanks to a student furiously rushing to get back to his table before another frenzied student snatched it up. He glanced back at Lydia with a glimmer of sympathy, which did little to resolve the situation.

“I’m sorry, Lydia. I’ll get some napkins,” Jacob said as he walked towards the counter. She nodded to show her approval

“Here, Lydia,” he said, handing her the napkins.

“Thank you.” She blotted the coffee stains and tossed the used napkins on the table. “Well, as I was saying, I don’t know how Charles expects us to expedite the process any further. I already have eight agents in Atlanta and five more in Savannah. If I increase that number, it could alert our target.”

“I understand that, but Charles, who has never dealt with a situation of this magnitude before, needs to appear well-qualified and powerful to his superiors, and how do you presume he should do that?”

“By placing as many agents as possible near the target. He is the most idiotic, insufferable man I have ever had the pleasure to work with. What do you think I should do?” she said.

Jacob attempted to reply but was cut off by the sudden appearance of a gathering of impeccably dressed students— cheerleaders, most likely.

“Do you have a calculator on you?” asked the apparent leader.

“No, I do not. Neither does my friend, so please ask someone else,” Jacob said. The leader rolled her eyes and walked on with her group; they prowled the room in search of another table to pester. Lydia could not comprehend how they managed to select the most populated Starbucks in Augusta, much less how Charles expected her to increase the agents surrounding the target. She’d been studying the target for over five years, knew his every habit, and knew exactly how little he enjoyed social interactions. He would be on a one-way flight to the Dominican Republic if he sensed even the slightest presence of federal agents. Jacob sighed and looked at Lydia, desperate to finish their conversation.

• Blackwater Review and attempted to wipe off the coffee that hadn’t yet been absorbed by her jeans. Her favorite jeans, unfortunately. The black ones, with a tear in the pocket that she never bothered to fix because she never wanted to forget exactly how she tore them: falling out of a passenger train speeding up some mountain deep in the Alps, presumably to her death if Jacob hadn’t caught her. Just like he had many times before.

“I’m sorry, Lyd. I know you’re doing all you can to apprehend the target. Charles shouldn’t have gotten promoted over you; this entire thing is political,” he said. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Thanks, Jacob. The promotion doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is—”

Their table was suddenly picked up by a very muscular woman with glasses, who held it easily above her head. The manager looked over, her face lined with worry at the potential liabilities and lawsuits of the precarious situation.

“Could I borrow this? My friends and I need a table to study at, and all the others are taken,” she asked. Lydia glanced at Jacob, then back at the woman.

“No, that’s highly inappropriate to ask. We were quite obviously here before you, and that gives you no right to steal our table. So, I ask you, please replace our table and go disturb some other group,” Lydia said, standing. Jacob stood as well, preparing to use force if necessary, but Lydia waved him off. A diplomatic resolution was preferable.

“It’s a public building, bitch,” the woman replied, glaring down at them. Lydia narrowed her eyes at the woman, incensed by her inability to listen to reason.

“Fine, take our table. I hope your introduction to petty theft helps you pass your exams,” she said. The woman grunted and stalked off to join her group. Lydia turned to Jacob, who appeared even more exhausted than when they began their conversation.

“Jacob, just come to my car. I don’t know why I didn’t suggest this earlier,” Lydia said.

In lieu of replying, Jacob gently grabbed her hand and wove them through the throng of students toward the exit. He opened the door for her and followed her to her car: a sleek, black Audi A7. It stood out among the battered Honda Civics. He turned to face her, relieved they were finally out of chaos. Yes, he could handle international smuggling rings, but college students overwhelmed him.

“I’m planning on asking Charles to relocate the Savannah agents to Atlanta. That was the last known location of the target,” she said.

“That’s sensible, but you should consider leaving at least one agent in Savannah, just in case your last update was compromised,” Jacob replied.

“Fair point.” Her phone lit up with an incoming call from the object of their conversation, Charles. “Jacob, it’s him!”

“Answer it, Lydia!”

S he quickly answered the call and listened intently to every word spoken. She hung up, smiling.

“The target was just spotted in Athens! Get in my car; you’re coming with me,” she said, unlocking her car.

“Okay, then,” he said.

Lydia slammed her car into gear and sped off, in pursuit of her first lead in months.

Paul and Edna

Nathan Bloodworth

Paul liked Edna. She and her father would pick him up on his way to school in a very nice late-model pickup truck. He loved the fact that he didn’t have to use a crank to roll down the window. He needed considerable forearm strength to open his father’s dilapidated truck windows. No A/C made it mandatory in that rust bucket.

Edna’s dad was Paul’s dad’s boss, and the two families all got along famously. Paul’s dad used to say, “Al, the paper industry is going down, and it’s going down hard. I’m afraid we’re going to be looking for new jobs soon.”

Al would just snicker and say, “Welp, I wonder what the poor people are doing today. But you know what? Fuck ‘em; they’re poor!”

Paul’s dad used to belly laugh when Al said one of his off-color jokes, but not then. Paul knew then that his dad was pretty concerned about having a job. A week later, Paul’s dad quit that job and applied to the new Home Depot. He got a job as an early morning cargo mover. Within a month, he was the day shift manager.

Paul’s family didn’t keep up with Edna’s family much after that. Once the mill closed, most of the former employees went to retail employment or farm labor. Paul asked his dad what Edna’s dad was doing for work these days. He said to Paul, “I don’t know son,” but the way he said it told Paul that he really did know, but he didn’t want to say. A few days later, as they drove to school in a truck that had buttons that let the windows down, Paul saw Edna, her mother, and her father, picking up aluminum cans on the side of the road.

slow fall

Matti Stigler

as i fall, the warmth leaves; as i fall, the cold settles; a downward spiral, followed by a soft thud. as i lay, the tears come; as i lay, they don’t fall; an imprisoning feeling, followed by a numbness. as i get back up, the ground sinks lower; as i get back up, my foot slips; i guess i’ll lay here for a little longer.

A Chance Encounter: Graduation Day

Allie R. Saunders

My mortarboard cap and gown were surprisingly uncomfortable for all the exhaustive effort it took to gain them. My purple stole kept slipping off my shoulders. I thought it’d be a relief to walk across the stage and finally hold the sheet of paper I’d poured years of my life into, to see the look on my father’s face as they called my name: “Sloane Laurier, Valedictorian.” I dedicated a section of my speech to him, just as my brothers had done, despite how undeserving he was. I refused to let myself look around for him as we filed into our seats. I knew Jared and Henry were there; they always found time for me. They proofread as many of my papers as they could. They never understood why I tried to please our father, though. He saw them differently than he saw me, regardless of how deeply I drove myself into the ground just for him to acknowledge me. They let me rant about how terrible Avery was and promised to fight him if I let them, but he wasn’t a problem anymore. I started dating Adam just before spring break, out of necessity and admiration.

I spent my last spring break writing three extra-credit briefs and polishing—embellishing—my resume. I pulled at least three all-nighters at Adam’s apartment proofreading and revising my essays. Jenn was in Acapulco, and Adam didn’t mind if I stayed with him; I didn’t mind the burden of being his girlfriend. I’d snatched the valedictorian ranking from Kennedy Powell at the last second. I relished the indignant look on his face when the final class rankings were released. I had finally gotten job offers: one from the Los Angeles firm where Jared worked, one from a firm in Nashville, and one from the most prestigious firm in Boston, Kirkland and Ellis. Honestly, that offer surprised me. But did my father offer any sort of congratulations or guidance on which offer to accept? No, none at all.

After the opening address, as they called me to the stage, I was exhilarated. I thought this would be the moment he finally smiled at me. The moment when he would be proud of me. I hoped he would see that all this work was for him. I took my diploma and looked across the crowd with some irrational hope that my father would be there. I don’t know why I bothered. I knew he wouldn’t be there. He was on the front row at each of my brothers’ graduations and even gave them standing ovations. Of course he couldn’t bother to attend mine. I couldn’t let it get to me. I had to bury it deep within my subconscious, like every other emotion attached to him.

“Good afternoon, my fellow graduates. I am honored to be recognized as Valedictorian of the Yale Law School Class of 2007, and I congratulate each of you on your incredible work over these past three years.” I looked out across the crowd of my classmates smiling up at me—except for Kennedy, which I expected. I smirked in his general direction and hoped he knew how great it felt to be standing up there in his place. “I have to offer some thanks to my father, without whom I would not be here today. He’s always pushed me to better myself in every way possible.”

The rest of my speech progressed extraordinarily quickly. After I finished, I stepped down from the stage and walked towards Jenn, who was already running toward me, and Adam, who was trying to keep up with her. We hugged each other for what felt like ten minutes, none of us able to believe that we'd graduated. We made it. I was about to suggest a trip to Bernie’s, when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I disentangled myself from them and turned to face him, my father. My heart rose into my throat, and, for an idiotic moment, I thought he was about to congratulate me.

“ Valedictorian was the best you could do, Sloane? Not even Class President?” I opened my mouth to protest, but he wouldn’t let me get in a single word. “And don’t even get me started on your so-called job offers. They’re bullshit. There’s absolutely no way you have any, much less from Kirkland and Ellis. I’m not convinced you didn’t just sleep with the Registrar

to get bumped up to Valedictorian.” He leaned in close enough that I could smell a faint trace of whiskey on his breath and could see his bloodshot eyes. “You’re no daughter of mine.” He stalked away without giving me a second glance, and the moment he was gone, I felt blood drip down my fingers. I didn’t realize I’d clawed my nails deep into my palms. It felt like his words were choking me, and my vision became blurred. I repeated a mantra of “I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry” to myself, over and over again. I couldn’t let him know how deeply his words scarred me. I couldn’t even look at Jenn and Adam. I was barely conscious of her embracing me or of his hands enveloping mine, but there wasn’t anything they could do. I was a complete and utter failure. Nothing could change that.

I Don’t Know Why I Bite

Eliza Ridge

“I’m not a violent dog. I don’t know why I bite.”

- Spots Kobayashi, Isle of Dogs

I didn’t mean to bite him. Well, I didn’t mean to bite him that hard. It was a nip, a warning nip at first and then I’m not quite sure why…why I wanted to crush my jaws tighter. It wasn’t to feel a crunch or to hear him cry.

I remember feeling a thump and a kick in my heart, adrenaline that made my ears pin in reminder of all the drivel they had heard. Something or other in terms of a memory flashing through my skull, little whispers reminding me of being kicked and prodded and poked. Ghosts of giggles taunted me, remembering their curled lips of disgust when I spoke.

“Shut up!” they groaned.

“Shut up!” I scream. I’m muffled by the bicep in my mouth. I don’t realize what I’m doing. I don’t realize the sharpness of my fangs.

All I want is one time, once, to win.

For him to admit he lost, once, for once, one time where he admits he was wrong and I get to be right through my words instead of repurposed and mangled through his. I’m tired of flowers and charades, all the fucking roses stuff up my nose but don’t do anything to blur the message on the card of what he’s saying, and my own words look me in the face.

Even when I’m right, it’s not through my voice.

He protests, and I don’t care. He bleeds, and I don’t care. I know that he bleeds easy, but in the adrenaline I don’t hear or taste anything except every man who has told me to shut the fuck up. To be quiet and palatable.

I know better than to bite, and I do it anyway and I even shake to make it hurt. I’m seeing so much red that I don’t even recognize whose blood I feel warm on my tongue; all I know is that it’s blood and that maybe it’s a sign the owner of the arm will fold.

He jerks away, and the way he looks at me makes me feel funny. I don’t feel bad all at once. My heart is still thrashing and my lungs are still heaving. His blood dripped down my jaw. Oh, how novel that a girl fights back and it makes him uncomfortable. It was just a nip anyway. It was just—Just his blood. Dripping down my chin.

My breath is barely calm and he’s already gone with his tail between his legs. Scared. Of me. A couple seconds ago that would have curled my lips up with a scoff of pride, but, instead, I’m blank-faced.

Then I’m pulled back by my scruff. Barks of confusion and frustration and anger are loud.

I’m not a violent dog.

~

I walk back into the room. It’s silent. I can hear their eyes on me. My ears pin, and I swallow, gripping my wrist tight. My chest constricts tighter. That funny feeling in my stomach has flipped and tossed into something fully blossomed, sickly roses in my gut and shredding my stomach into pieces. My tail tucks between my legs. Hot shame heats behind my eyes. I swallow a hiccup—I don’t want to be forgiven through pity, not that I’d receive it with the metal cage around my snout. I glance at him.

He has a cone and a bandage on his arm. He won’t look at me. I open my mouth to say something, any kind of apology that could help fix it, that could kill these roses in my gut that keep me up at night and make my cry from the thorns. The glint of my teeth makes everyone flinch. An arm comes up to cover him.

He got the cone cuz his bite got infected. I feel a scrape of a thorn and the prickle digs deeper when I think my true thoughts. I bit him, but he didn’t lick the wound. He howled and hid and the bite got infected and so he got to have the cone. Sick dogs get cones. Animals get muzzles. And it hits me that that’s how they look at me.

I leave the room. They don’t want me there, and I’m smart enough to know that much. Apparently not smart enough to know how sharp my teeth are.

I avoid the mirrors in my room, but I know what I’ll see anyway. I know what they see.

A dumb fucking excuse of a coyote trying to be a dog.

Hello Mother, Goodbye Father

Krista Laviolette

Lilly missed her father. It was the constant thought that went through her brain, settled there, lived there. He was her biggest supporter, her voice when she was silent, her strength when she was weak, and the encouragement she got so little of anymore.

“ Why is this not A?”

S he looked at her mother’s face, mad and disappointed, hands-on-hips, leaning in to get “on her level.” It was simply another lecture. It will pass. Her mother meant well; she only wanted the best for Lilly, but she showed it in rough ways.

“I apologize, Mother.”

It was the safest answer. She waited as her mother blew off her steam, lecturing until her long black hair started coming out of her bun and her mother’s face was pinched and tired. Lilly, a little duplicate of her mother, let her own long hair loose to pour down her back. It was the only thing she had freedom of choice over in her middle school’s strict dress code and uniform policy. She already hated the plaid green and white design of the pleated skirt and matching vest. It was itchy, and it bothered her.

“How will you be doctor? Lawyer? Engineer?”

Her mother wanted Lilly to be the best. At everything. It was the first B that she’d ever had; this lecture was simply a warning not to continue to slip up. She stared at her black clogs and thick wool socks, full of remorse. She had only gotten the B because she had gotten bored of her history class. The class her dad had constantly told her not to worry about. Do not worry my Lilly-Pad. It is hard for me too. She had daydreamed her conversations with him often.

Her mother lectured until it was time for her flute lessons. She liked her flute, probably only because she had so many memories of her father and the flute. Her mother wanted her

to be the best at the flute, but her father just wanted to hear her doing something she loved.

B ecause she had loved it, at first. Then her mother pushed her to be the best. She had gotten so frustrated; they had gotten to the point where chair placements were available. She had worked so hard and attempted to be the greatest, to be chair one. She came home upset and crying then was fussed at for a while by her mother. Second place was first loser.

S he’d already been upset, and then being subject to her mother’s criticism had her in even more tears. She had thrown the flute in the trash and run to her room, where she had planned to reside the rest of the evening. As she remembered it, when her father had found her, her pillow was soaked through, and her hair was a mess.

“ Why?” he said simply, placing the flute on the bed.

“I am not the best.”

“But music is your joy.” Her father sat on her bed then and removed her from the wet mass of pillows and blankets, gently making her face him.

“I am no good.” Though she was forced to look at her father, she refused to look him in the eye, to see his disappointment.

I don’t deserve the joy from my failure.

Then he asked to hear the audition that got her second place. He waited as she relented, hearing the sweet melody of some classical era, scales that have probably seen better days, and arpeggios that were on beat when they weren’t impatient. But each note was clear, concise, confident, and rung through the room in such a way that downstairs even her mother was proud. Though Lilly’d know only years later that was the truth.

“B est I know.” Her father smiled proudly.

S he never quite saw what her father saw in her all the time, but her flute reminded her. It was her best recollection of him. The silver always glistened the same way on stage as when she played for him. Every note rang with the same clearness it had always rung for her father. She was never afraid to play for anyone because she was always playing for her dad.

Her mother dropped her off at her lessons like she did

S he pushed open the heavy door to the room where her instructor was waiting. The elderly lady she took her lessons from had white wispy hair, smile wrinkles, obnoxious pink glasses, and all that you’d expect from an eighty-somethingyear-old woman. She looked up gingerly and smiled, beckoning her in.

“Ah yes, my most talented student. Welcome.”

Lilly opened the mailbox door hesitantly. Would she be accepted into the school of her dreams? Would she be denied? Would her mom be ok with her decision even though she didn’t clear it with her first? The letter of either acceptance or denial was supposed to be in the mail today, but there’s always the chance that the mail got held up. She really hoped that she was accepted. It was only the most prestigious school in her chosen field.

S he’d wrapped the edge of her favorite sweater around her hand so as not to burn it on the metal box. On such a hot day, the bright blue of her sweater was warmed significantly, adding to her increasingly sweaty self. She reached in and pulled out a stack of mail: a bill, another bill, junk mail, and a letter from Juilliard.

S he hurriedly opened the letter and skimmed the contents. She jumped up and down squealing like a child for a minute before rushing inside, absentmindedly crushing the rest of the mail under her arm. She hurried up the steps, almost tripping over the loose porch nail as it snagged on her jeans. She flung open the wooden front door and rushed through the doorway. She ran through the house, looking for her mother, finding her in the kitchen.

140 • Blackwater Review every week. She walked down the hall of the building, past other kids waiting for their instructors—an animated individual in black talking excitedly to a frustrated-looking girl in red holding a violin, a jock wearing his green team jacket with green taped snare sticks, and a nerdy-looking kid with a golden saxophone. All nodded, waved, and acknowledged her in turn. They were about the only friends she knew, other than her instrument.

“Mom, I got in!” Lilly jumped up and down and placed the letter on the kitchen island.

“Harvard?”

Her mother turned around from cleaning the dishes, setting the plate she was cleaning in a drying rack next to the sink. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned around, eyes bright with pride. Lilly was trying to figure out her next move; she would have to smooth it over.

“No, Mom, they haven’t responded to me,” she lied, “but another college has accepted me.” She never even applied to Harvard.

“ Yale accepts you?” She gasped and went in to hug Lilly, but Lilly uncomfortably held her.

“Uh, no, but I got accepted into Juilliard!”

Instantly, her mother pulled away and put her at arm’s length. She pinched her lips and squinted her eyes at Lilly. Lilly was trying not to squirm. She was analyzing Lilly; her stare was piercing her soul. Her mother knew; she knew that Lilly had never even applied to those schools. There was no way she knew, but she had to; the look said it all.

“Apply for Harvard.”

“No, Mom, I’m going to Juilliard. I’m not going to be a lawyer.”

“ You ruin your own life!”

Something inside Lilly broke; her mother may have been mad, but, at that moment, Lilly was madder. Her mother had ruined her life, not her. At the very least she controlled every aspect of Lilly’s life. Her mother was the one who had Lilly dump her first boyfriend, a good kid who had good grades and was really kind and sweet to Lilly, all because of his name. She’d done as her mother had wanted, graduated at the top of her class, had the best grades, only brought around friends whom her mother approved of for big events and then never hung out with them otherwise because she was constantly studying. She’d lost most of those friends that way. Lilly had wanted to cut her hair, but her mother never let her because her mother didn’t want her to look like a boy. It was all compounding in her head.

S he yelled at her mother for the first time. Why was she so upset; was she ashamed? Ashamed that her daughter has goals of her own and a career field that she could succeed in? She had always shown off Lilly’s musical success until now. How could she now be disappointed? How could she now be ashamed?

“I f you be musician, then you not my daughter!”

“Then I guess I’m not your daughter!”

Lilly was so mad she stormed to her room and slammed the door. Never had she done that before, but she was so angry. She began packing up her room immediately, she wouldn’t be moving to New York to live on campus for a while, but she didn’t care. Hot tears streamed down her face; she couldn’t see what she was trying to pack up, but she didn’t stop. She stomped around her room for hours in a wild frenzy.

Downstairs, her mother sank to the kitchen floor and cried.

G raveyards bring a truckload of regret and sadness. Lilly walked the long walk from her car to the pair of graves in the back of the unmarked, and unnamed, grave site. It was old, forgotten,the grass and weeds were overgrown, and it smelled like mildew. The graveyard was abandoned. The only reason her mother was even buried there was because that was where her father was buried, in the only gravesite her mother could afford when he died. Lilly was certain she was the only one who visited the place.

The leaves crunched under her feet, and the grass tickled her legs. She was dressed in all black, not only because of her sadness in visiting her parents’ graves but also because she had a concert later. She was doing her best not to dirty herself, but she was going to properly visit her parents. When she found the pair of graves belonging to her parents, she sat down and presented the only two things she brought with her.

S he placed flowers on her mother’s grave. She was filled with so much sorrow, and so much regret. If only both she and her mother weren’t so stubborn, they both did things that they regret, things that kept the tear between them wide. She’d never gone home after she left for college. Her mother never

came to her graduation. She also didn’t go to her wedding or any of her concerts, even when she was playing for her mother’s favorite plays. Lilly had been so mad at her mother that she never went to visit her mother in the hospital, when she was on her deathbed and calling for Lilly to be by her side. She didn’t even go to her mother’s funeral.

S he felt she had never even gotten to know her mother, and now it’s too late. She wished she could start over, go back. Anything to walk back through the doors of her childhood home and just say, “Hello, Mother.” But she couldn’t. So instead, she tried to get to know her mother in the afterlife, asking people who knew her what she was like and trying to understand who she was. So, when she visited her parents, she tried to pretend she was a bigger part of their lives.

S he sat by the graves and chatted to her parents. She told them about her kids and her husband. She told them about how proud she was of them and all their accomplishments. She told them about her career and how successful she was. She was so excited to play in The Nutcracker, and she wished her parents could’ve been there. She wished they could see their daughter play and their granddaughters dance.

Then she turned to her father’s grave and took out her flute. She played a little bit from each song in The Nutcracker, trying to show him a little of what he was missing. From the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” to the “Waltz of the Flowers,” the songs rang through the graveyard for the next hour, dancing through the chilly air. When she was done, she placed her hand on her father’s grave, put her instrument away, and said goodbye to her father. She had a concert to get to.

This year, Blackwater Review is launching our new website, which will allow us to feature a greater variety of student work online. For the first time, we were able to accept short film submissions, and we are happy to publish three films. Please visit nwfsc.edu/blackwater to view these films and more.

Animation

Kate Beliaeva

While working on this project, Kate was inspired by the graphic festival at Alys Beach. She's always enjoyed creating for people and seeing their reactions. This was her first attempt at frameby-frame animation, using Photoshop to hand-draw each image and carefully put all the small pieces together. The process was both challenging and exciting, but most importantly, it made her realize how much she loves bringing illustrations to life.

Vestige

Noah Camden

When creating this experimental short film, Noah sought to visualize the feeling of being lost in thought. Through the haze of VHS imagery, he portrayed the liminal sensation of wandering through the shifting landscapes of one’s own mind, evoking the surreal tension between memory and imagination—echoing the stillness we find within ourselves and the spaces we leave behind.

Pulse

Susan Swain

This dynamic choreography video blends contemporary and ballet en pointe. Set to beat-driven music that builds, climaxes, and falls like a heartbeat, the piece explores grounded movement, swirling momentum, and expansive floor coverage. Fluid yet powerful, it embodies the rhythm of life through intricate footwork and sweeping motion.

Contributors

Anonymous is a writing student at NWFSC and also writes in her free time. She recently lost her uncle, and her story is based on true events.

Paige Bamborough is an art student currently focusing on charcoal drawings and cityscapes that deal heavily with perspective.

The first time he saw snow, Cayson Barreto took the chance to capture some photos of wildlife in the unfamiliar weather. Cayson loved the snow, but does not enjoy talking in the third person.

Since Kate Beliaeva loves drawing and likes to tell the story from the picture, she found herself in animation, where there is no limit which can stop her from creating.

Nathan Bloodworth was told there would be snacks.

Bonez is an ambitious, yet very tired artist. Refusing to let their disabilities hold them back, they continue to dive head first into their passions. These range from math to anatomy to art, and they hope to pursue watchmaking in Switzerland one day.

Ty Borschel likes cats. He is at a loss for words and has no clue what to write for this part.

Isabella R. Bradley is a young aspiring author and actor who uses her works as a means of evoking thoughts and feelings from the audience that they may not have experienced otherwise while also trying to connect with those who have. While she certainly still has a long way to go on her journey to becoming the next big hit, her stubbornness, tenacity, and resilience will aid in making sure that she gets there.

Harrison Busbee is just a deranged lunatic who likes making people laugh. He loves worldbuilding and making wacky characters, and he especially loves when his work is able to put a smile on someone’s face. When not writing "Captain Sharkpuncher" or any of his other stories, he can often be found drawing and sculpting his characters or just any random horrific monstrosities that pop into his head.

Contributors • 145

Noah Camden is a 20-year-old artist living in Niceville, Florida, whose work often explores the intersection of memory, absence, and the surreal. Fascinated by anemoia—nostalgia for a time never lived—he seeks to capture the drifting stillness of spaces both real and imagined, and explores the intersection of memory, reality, and the surreal. Through his various pursuits, he crafts images that feel both familiar and otherworldly, blending emotion, aesthetic, and the echoes of forgotten places.

Charlie likes Shel Silverstein. He thinks he is funny. So, he writes like Shel Silverstein. Because Shel Silverstein is funny.

Jackson D. Davis is a dual-enrolled student from Walton High School. In the fall term of 2025 he will start his adult life at FSU, where both of his parents and most of his family have attended, getting a dual major in English and political science. His main hobbies are spending time with friends and watching sports.

Casey Ann Drayer is a student who is unsure of what the future holds, but she knows she will forever love reading novels, creating stories, and photographing the beautiful world around her. She hopes to one day pursue a career in writing or photography and show the world her artistic abilities.

Alyssa Early is a sophomore at NWFSC and is vice president of Raider Writers. She is entering the elementary education program in the fall and hopes one day to share the love of the written word with her students. Special thanks to Dr. Temple, Dr. Holmes, Eliza (meow), and every Raider Writer for their part in advancing her writing career.

Kendall Feal is a junior at Collegiate High School. She has been writing stories for as long as she can remember and mostly enjoys the sci-fi and fantasy genres. She is eternally grateful for the support of her family, friends, and peers, and she is excited to continue writing in the future.

Felicity Fox is a student at Northwest Florida State College, which explains why she submitted to Blackwater Review. She loves to write and she also loves her friends.

Although it’s usually dead, Luke Franklin and his camera have seen a lot together. He makes it a point to always have it on him for whenever creativity might strike, hence the dead battery. He enjoys taking photos and capturing a moment in eternity while making sure he is present and here in the moment. A photo is like a souvenir, and he never wants to forget it.

Wilborne Gottlieb III is an 18-year-old senior at Collegiate High School. He loves writing, movies, music, food, and video games that aren’t Fortnite. He’d like to thank his parents, Alauna Gottlieb and Wilborne Gottlieb Jr., for their unending support of his weird hobby, as well as Dr. Temple, his good friends from high school—because who needs enemies when you have friends like these—and any living person that isn’t his sibling?

Baleigh Hannah’s favorite subject is science, but she also loves to write poetry. She takes pride in her achievements throughout the years in various poetry competitions. Baleigh would like to further her love for poetry by eventually writing her own book full of her best poems.

Amanda Hargrave was born and raised in Smithfield, Virginia, and now resides in Fort Walton Beach. Currently majoring in Graphic Design Production, she is pursuing her passion of graphic design. This photograph is of a place that has grown near and dear to her heart since relocating to the Sunshine State.

Azaan Haris is a student trying his best to make it through school. He works hard on things he likes and is low-key—just a chill guy.

Bryce Harper is a student at NWFSC. He enjoys long walks in the moonlight and silly pairs of socks.

Nate Hathaway is a 20-year-old, third-semester student at Northwest Florida State College. Born in wild & wonderful West Virginia, he moved to Florida in 2016 and is now actively pursuing an education in the humanities. In his spare time, Nate is an avid reader of comic books, a musician, and an artist in ceramics & drawing, and he enjoys watching comedy and fantasy movies.

Angelina Skye Kouchnir is a dual enrollment senior from Destin High School. She aims to be a writer in the future; this is one of her first stepping stones.

Contributors • 147

Krista Laviolette has a great love of music; therefore, it only makes sense for her characters to love it too.

Kat Martin is a lifetime resident of Okaloosa County with a love of all things fantasy and fae. They love games of all kinds from classic Monopoly to Final Fantasy.

Kalyn Mckinnon has lived in the Florida Panhandle for twenty-two years. She wishes to travel in her future and dreams of visiting Korea. She loves flowers and crocheting.

Gabrielle Moore has the mind of an artist. They enjoy finding new perspectives within drawings, poems, stories, and ideas. Her imagination takes her art to many places.

Jude Peck is a Collegiate High School student hoping to make something of himself. His greatest motivators in life are his brother and his cat.

Dustin Alexander Poulnot is a 21-year-old who finds solace in the world of music and art. With a passion for writing song lyrics, poetry, and playing guitar, he expresses himself through his creativity. Quiet and introspective, he enjoys moments of solitude, often drawing inspiration from the peaceful silence around him.

colbea raybon has always loved writing as a way to express herself. She believes every person should at least own a journal—and attempt to use it once a month.

Eliza Ridge is a creature of many definitions. Some would kindly define her as a perfectly normal and alive human person with no peculiar traits warranting suspicion whatsoever. Others would maliciously define her as an uncanny creature of the night with behavior bordering vampiric in nature. The consensus is inconclusive.

Anna Robinson is an NWFSC student with an appreciation for horror and gothic literature. Unfortunately, she's also 5'3".

Allie R. Saunders lives in rural Walton County with her family on a quaint hobby farm. She loves to read and create stories of her own. She plans to become an anesthesiologist and open a surgery center that serves rural Florida and Alabama.

148 • Blackwater Review

Jeremiah Sexton has been practicing his form for about a year. He has found his style through the use of large vessels with additional elements added to it, highlighting natural and unnatural forms.

Art had always been a hobby for S. Stearman until she realized that her creations could serve as a conduit for open dialogue. Through her work, people could engage in meaningful conversations about the piece without fear of disagreement causing tension or offense. To make these discussions more approachable, she infuses her art with whimsy and playfulness, inviting viewers to explore complex ideas in a lighthearted and engaging way.

LaKeshia Stigall is a multifaceted creative with a deep passion for storytelling in all its forms. A nursing student with a sharp intellect and a compassionate heart, she balances the precision of medical studies with creativity and seeks to preserve what often goes unnoticed. Her artistry delves into the complexities of human emotion, weaving themes of resilience, introspection, and fleeting moments of beauty.

Matti Stigler is a student at Northwest Florida State College. She loves to read, write, and watch horror. She also loves poetry, Lady Gaga, Lego, and Spider-Man. Matti hopes to one day be a creative writing teacher at a community college.

Krista Sundberg is a student who truly adores the beauty of nature and and fully strives to capture its essence. She has a fondness for reptiles, bugs, and ice cream.

Susan Swain is a dual-enrolled student and is graduating with her Associate of Arts degree this semester. She has been painting for six years. She has danced for fourteen years and is performing/choreographing in the college’s Dance Facets this year.

Cecilia Verworn is a junior at Collegiate High School who has loved making creative stories since she was young, but only discovered her passion for writing in recent years. While she often struggles to sit down in write, she loves having it as a creative outlet for all of her ideas.

Contributors • 149