Castings 2023

Editor’s Note

Castings is the undergraduate journal of literature and fine arts at Christian Brothers Univerity in Memphis, TN. We publish fiction, poetry, nonfiction essays, humor, photography, fine art, cartoons & comix by CBU students from across the university. We also host an annual Castings Awards competition and reading series. See our submission guidelines for details. ©2020 Castings is an in-house academic publication and does not claim first serial rights to the submissions. However, art, poetry, and prose cannot be replicated except for limited classroom use without the written permission of the contributor. Front matter and graphics are the property of Castings and may not be reproduced without written permission from Castings.

Table of Contents

10 Things I Hate About Soup

Chris Wright

Dia A Dia Sanya Arrendondo

United We Stand

Andrea Garcia

Drunken Mistakes and a Lackluster Breakfast

Andrea Garcia

Gas Station Oscar Zenteno

New Beginnings Sydney Ritter

Six People You Inevitably Meet at the Gym Josey Chumney

Untold Truths

Bria Dyer

Finger Guns

Grace Guetschow

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10 Things I Hate About Soup

Chris Wright

I hate that I only have soup as an excuse to eat bread.

I hate it that I should’ve gone and got a sandwich instead.

I hate the way that I can’t decide if what I am doing is eating or drinking.

I hate that soup always ends up staining my microwave’s ceiling.

I hate how soup burned her tongue on our first date.

I hate how you couldn’t comfort her and how you made me wait.

I hate cold days and the way your warmness makes me feel.

I hate it that it was you that was our last meal.

I hate the fact that you are no longer balanced on my lap in your bowl, But mostly, I hate the fact that I don’t hate you, not even French onion you, not even miso you, not any soup at all.

Dia A Dia Sanya Arrendondo

United We Stand

Why is the world so different? Why always criticize? Why care of the color instead of each other? Why destroy a kid’s dream because of his ethnicity ? Do you have no empathy? Why destroy the hopes of a little girl in her face? Instead of cheering her on like it’s a big race?

I’ll do what I want I’ll say what I want Know thee can never control me

I’ll fight for them too Together united we stand in front of you Those that have fallen rise Together we’ll love instead of despise Just love no hate

We’ll be treated equally no more gates No more hate No more violence

No more criticizing

We’ll be known as one which is the human race Then a little girl came to me and asked What does thee see in me?

I answered I only see the sorrow that grows and the pain that does not go She looked at me with sadness in her eyes listen to her rhymes Never fear what you cannot hear Never see what cannot be

Do not hate what you cannot bait but only love the one that almighty and great From that point in I opened my eyes just to see the greatness of life What I cannot understand was how that little one knew that I despised what was not great and full of hate

Because of her these words shall be heard I shall not rest until we fix this mess To communicate with one another To be united as one and to never just run Together we can do this Together we can overcome

Andrea Garcia

Drunken Mistakes and a Lackluster Breakfast

Andrea Garcia

Scene: a way too busy dinner on an abnormally loud Monday morning

Characters:

Myself- dying from my first real hangover, and uneasy from the night before.

Little Brother- My best and first friend I made in college. He is in love with me.

The R.A.- The boy I have a major crush on, who is also Little Brothers closest friend since high school.

Purpose: Brunch with my two favorite guys in hopes of mending the rift that arose from the actions of the previous night

To the outside perspective we were just three average college kids, obviously too hungover to talk from a night of debaucheries. Most likely skipping our morning classes. That’s only half right… well it’s all right, but only half of the story. Sure, as we chugged our coffee, and we wished for Tylenol. We were praying that the greasy hash browns were magic and would soak up the rest of the liquor in our stomachs. Each of us pleaded with our god for the miracle of sobriety. We were not talking; our heads were pounding but that was just a good excuse. If we broke our silence, it would shatter the illusion of last night didn’t really happen. It would thrust us into facing the shame head on, and that

was out of the question. Our heads were going through enough right now. That was the whole reason we agreed to go get burnt coffee and bad eggs at the ungodly hour of ten thirty in the morning. It was meant to be a reset. Little brother is the only one of us who drinks regularly. The R.A and I tend to get our kicks from other vices. However, we will drink occasionally. Last night was one of those occasions (and boy were we all regretting it now). That breakfast was a lot like watching an old person falling in slow motion. It was the funniest thing if you didn’t know them, but if you knew the old person, you would (A) not be able to look away, (B) have a pit in your stomach the size of Cuba, and (C) pray that everything will be okay even though you know it probably won’t be.

Little brother and R.A. are both Catholic, so they were taught from a young age how to handle their liquor. I, being from New Orleans, am expected to do the same. I cannot. A fact I am not proud of and do everything in my power to avoid.

I don’t know why I am ashamed of not being a super experienced drinker. As the daughter of an alcoholic, it should be a good thing that I saw the worst aspects of drinking and made a choice to not go overboard. But now as I attend dumb frat parties, -having never

acquired a taste for beer-, I find myself lying. I say I “pregamed a little too hard” so that’s why they don’t see me with a red solo cup in hand.

It is no secret that alcohol turns people into an emotional wreck. The last time I drank tequila, I ended up crying on a roof wondering why everyone I love leaves me. This is why I don’t drink very often. Also, children who have a parent who struggles with alcohol have a much higher risk of becoming an alcoholic themselves. My mother refuses to let my brother and I become a statistic. But every once in a while, the boys could convince me to let loose, celebrate the end of finals, (or just a really hard week) and party with them. My boys and I went too deep in a bottle and no one liked what they found there. The things that were said still hung in the air and stung worse than the Gin. I hurt my two closest friends and now were sitting across the table from each other barely able to look them in the eye. I wasn’t only guilty party in this. Fingers had been pointed and drunken accusations rang far too true in the harsh sunshine on the new morning. I didn’t regret what had been said, just how it had been said.

Little brother has had a crush on me since the first time I knocked on his door by mistake. I knew he did, but I did not pay any attention to it, which was my first mistake. My second, was falling for his best friend. Although I don’t see how I couldn’t have. It took a couple of shots of gin to get us, and a few friends, to play Truth or Dare. NEVER

PLAY TRUTH OR DARE, nothing good ever comes out of it. The short list of events that night is stripping, crush telling, crush kissing, the boys promising to not go against bro-code by being interested in me, and finally me and the R.A. hooking up in a closet. (I know: Really Classy). Oh, and I almost forgot the best part: a boxing match for who got to finish the bottle of gin. (My freshman, Essence, won! I’m such a proud Big). Alcohol has a way of doing that to you: making you say things you want to say—your darker

thoughts. Of course, it always comes out in the worst possible way. I sit across the table from my two favorite men. I know I’m going to have to pick a side. I stare at them desperate to catch a glance, but all I see is them glaring across the table from each other trying to stay on their best behavior to not fight again. I already had to stuff one bloody nose last night. They both used to be such great friends. Friends way before they ever meet me, and now I seem to be the thing that will drive them apart. I can’t let this happen. I won’t I hope.

I got up from our deathly quiet table, threw twenty bucks down and left. I see both of them around campus every once in a while. We smile politely, wave at parties but that was the end of our run. I lost Little Brother and the R.A. They, as far as I know, don’t speak anymore either. Not only did I ruin my own relationships, I managed to take another down with me. I lost two of the people closest to me, and I drink more then I used to.

*Four Months Later*

After several weeks of avoidance, and awkward classes, the R.A. and I grew closer and eventually started dating. But our friendship with Little Brother has been severely damaged we can both still hang out with him, just not at the same time. I’ve decided its best to limit my interactions with him, and that breaks my heart, but I just don’t love him that way. I never will. I do love him, but I know that he will not be cool with that for a good while. I’m willing to wait I just hope he can forgive his best friends.

Gas Station

Oscar Zenteno

New Beginnings Sydney Ritter

Six People You Inevitably Meet at the Gym

Josey Chumney

LeAnn (The Snake in the Grass)

“Excuse me hun, do you mind showing me how to turn on this machine?

I keep hitting the play-pause button, but nothing is happening.” LeAnns are always in their mid-to-late 50s. Very perky, very vocal. They choose machines immediately next to other females so conversation can flow more easily. However, when desperate, males are sufficient enough. To initiate conversation, they employ clever sarcasms like “I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I am a little too young and pretty to be at the gym,” or “If only exercising my mind counted as exercise. Then I’d really be cooking with grease!”When these rousing topics go on deaf ears, LeAnns employ their secret weapon: asking for help. They know, once the eye contact is made and the help is given, they will be impossible to ignore. In order to survive an encounter with a LeAnn, it is best to smile, nod, and leave your machine as soon as there is a break in the conversation. If there seems to be no end to her desperate ramblings, pretend to be winded, hop off of your machine, and move to one that works out your biceps. She will be intimidated by this “macho”switch (her word, not mine) and focus her attention on a Stacey three treadmills down.

Stacey (The Wannabe)

“Some do good by researching the cure for cancer or going green. I tone my body for the ‘Gram. Everyone has their own part to play.”

Staceys are young, but not too young, and look at least six years older than their actual age. They are never seen without their knock-off Hydro Flasks and coordinating athletic wear from last season (Nike and Lululemon are the acceptable brands). Staceys are only ever on treadmills, stair-steppers, or in the squatting zone. Even after exercising for an hour, Staceys always look photo ready. When asked about how they combat sweat, one Stacey replied, “Oh, I never sweat. I only glisten. It’s my natural highlighter.”

Brian (The Ninja Turtle)

“No, no, yeah, you’re right. Bros who skip leg day are definitely pussies.”

Brians are men in their 30s who definitely skip leg day. Their shoulders have shoulders who have more shoulders. Brians are confident and proud of their bodies. They want you to notice them. They like to sprint on the treadmill directly in front of Staceys, but never LeAnns. Brians believe this masculine display of virility will cause Staceys to immediately strip their compression shorts and jump their bones. Brians also think they are crafty. They like to leisurely jog behind Staceys, but never LeAnns, to check

out their asses. The Rachels all know what they are doing. The Staceys know but choose to_ ignore it in hopes the Brians will approach them and offer to bench press their body weight (#gymlove, #meetcute, #GOALs).

Rachel (That Tired Girl) “…”

Rachels vary in age. Some are in their 20s and feel peerpressured into meeting society’s standard for beauty. Some are in their 30s, have a stable job, and feel peerpressured into meeting society’s standard for beauty. Others are in their 40s, have had a divorce, have a stable job, and feel peer-pressured into meeting society’s standard for beauty. All are very perceptive but sad. They don’t say much. Only the incessant gasping can be heard from their direction. LeAnns are a Rachel’s worst nightmare. The stress of speaking paralyzes them but the fear of being rude is stronger, so they try to carry on these meaningless conversations. Usually, they go something like this:

“Hey, there! Don’t mind me, I’m just going to park my tush in the seat next to yours. Hope that’s fine. You must come here often. There’s no way I could pedal that fast. I can’t even ride a bike! Can you imagine, me, a woman of my age, (and don’t you try to coddle me, dear, and say I look 25 because that’s a lie and we both know it), riding a bicycle up and down a lane? That would be so silly! Did you learn when you were a child? Or are you as uncoordinated as me? It’s okay if you are. We can be uncoordinated and unwanted together! Well, thankfully, my husband wants me. Or at the very least my cooking! Are you married, hun?” “…wh..ell…..uh.”

Cliff (The Mansplainer)

“Sweetie, sweetie, let me help you with that. What you want to do is lift with your back, like this. See? Your back.

Yes, that’s right. You want tension here. Mhmm. I know, I know, it hurts a little, but you’re a tough cookie, right?”

Cliffs come in all ages. The way to spot a Cliff is to see if there is a man who hovers near equipment but never uses it. That is a Cliff’s tell. He likes to be close to the weights so that he can help a woman who is “struggling”. He often has to defend his territory from other Cliffs or Brians when Staceys get lost in the weight section on their way to the squatting zone. Ways to ward off Cliffs include, but are not limited to, mention your hemorrhoid, mention Ellen, mention your affinity for witchcraft, mention drag queens, mention your collection of sock puppets (don’t forget to say their names), or mention any topic related to feminism or female empowerment.

Jo (The Bitch)

“Fuck everyone here. Fuck the gym.”

Jos are badass women who see through the bullshit that is the gym. Jos use whatever machine they want with no regard to who is around them. When Cliffs swarm at the leg press to comment on their form, Jos send them backtracking with colorful phrases like “Who the fuck called you over, Ron Swanson lookin’ ass?” or “I’m sorry, did my headphones, lack of eye contact, and complete disinterest with your existence seem like a cry for help?” LeAnns sometimes try to engage with Jos but they quickly realize that they can’t be hooked like a Rachel or a Stacey. Jos simply drown out their chatter with the sound of their feet hitting the treadmill and Kendrick Lamar. When asked why she even goes to the gym, one Josey questioned, “Why do you?” and continued her way towards the elliptical.

Jo (The Liar, The Author & The Rachel) “Sorry.”

Untold Truths

Bria Dyer

I’m stuck in the in between I’m either too nice or I’m way too mean I’m oh so dirty But let me come clean I wanna let off the pressure Let off the steam I’m not green with envy But I got some jealousy

The love I got for you ain’t never no fallacy You’re everything I could want Baby you a fantasy

But in the end you’ll probably get a man And I’ll be stuck with me, myself, and a pen. You got a happy ending and I got The End.

Finger Guns

Grace Guetschow

Literary Arts Magazine