Sans Merci Volume 44 by Sans Merci

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cover art and graphic design Molly Henry // mollysocks.design

faculty advisors Professor Kristin Kaineg, MFA // Professor of Art Professor Carrie Messenger, PhD // Associate Professor of English

please direct inquiries to Sans Merci, Senior Editors Department of English and Modern Languages Shepherd University P.O. Box 5000 Shepherdstown, WV 25443 Sans Merci is funded by the Student Government Association

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L i t e r a ry E d i t o r s Senior Editors Andrea Monsma Fiona Tracey

Literary Editors Allison Brashears Rebecca Brown Marilyn Creager Ashley Hess Linnea Meyer Lena NuĂąez

Assitant Editor Madalaine Fleming

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Art Editors Senior Editors Mackenzie Coleman Skyla Heise Alizah Lathrop Nevada Tribble

Art Editors Karla Arrucha Khalil Covington Charlotte Puttock

Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s Literature: Section I Chariots of Stardust and Rocket Fuel // Andrea Monsma__________

Shadow Wings // Linnea Meyer_______________________________

I, Achilles // Abigail McClung_________________________________

Cherry Blossoms // Rebecca Brown____________________________

Flower Breath // Zoe Nicewander_____________________________

Feathered Memories of You // Andrea Monsma__________________

Bible Belt Lovers // Marilyn Creager___________________________

[softness is] // Fiona Tracey__________________________________

Making Myself Small (This Poem is for You) // Ashley Hess_________

Fly Catcher: A Janitor’s Log // Marilyn Creager___________________

Art: Section I Stratified Simulacra // Alizah Lathrop__________________________ 27 Karla // Emma Dooley______________________________________ 28 Don´t Complain // Skyla Heise________________________________ 29 EXC – Being – Reflection // Jason Fischetti_____________________ 30 KARMA POLICE // Danielle Knott______________________________

New Growth // Sophie Cochran______________________________ 32 Sueños – Reina // Renzo Velez_______________________________ 33 Grit // Khalil Covington_____________________________________ 34

Literature: Section II The Home We Made for a Moment // Katreena Stracke____________ 35 Subconscious Messages // Chevelle Whichard___________________ 36 you didn´t See, but I did Say // Mattea Hastings__________________ 38 Smoke Break // Lena Nuñez__________________________________ 40 still falling // Fiona Tracey___________________________________

Bioluminescent // Katreena Stracke___________________________ 43 Albuquerque, New Mexico // Ashley Hess______________________ 44 July 24 // Marilyn Creager___________________________________ 45 Here or There // Rebecca Brown______________________________ 46

Summer Trips // Chevelle Whichard___________________________

Stars Blinking Out // Abigail McClung__________________________ 54 Canning // Marilyn Creager__________________________________

[My shoes were soaked] // Lena Nuñez_________________________ 57 21 Years of You // Zoe Nicewander____________________________ 58

Art: Section II Recycled – Regulations Relating to Labor // Kaleb Aurand_________ 59 Front Porch Recollections // Nevada Tribble____________________ 60 Abandoned Summer Day // Alyssa Lewis_______________________

Extra Napkins, Please // Leighann Hengemihle__________________ 62 Fairy Dance – Eruption // Rebekka Hudson_____________________ 63 European Tour Poster // Devyn Shank_________________________ 64 Audré // Elizabeth Wirts_____________________________________ 65 Desecration of Venus // Karla Arrucha_________________________ 66

Literature: Section III Consciousness After Natasha Tretheway // Fiona Tracey____________

Blooming Light // Bethany Kaetzel____________________________ 68 In the Morning // Rebecca Brown_____________________________

what lingered there // Fiona Tracey___________________________ 78 For the Crabgrass // Marilyn Creager__________________________ 79 I Spent My Childhood Protecting You // Ashley Hess______________

RESTRICTION // Danielle Beauclair____________________________ 82 The Black Room // Ashley Hess_______________________________ 90 Heaven, and Where I Really am // Abigail McClung_______________

Stuck // Zoe Nicewander____________________________________ 92 Gardening // Rebecca Brown_________________________________ 94 Beach Life // Lena Nuñez____________________________________ 96 3:26am // Chevelle Whichard_________________________________ 98 Hope Parts One and Two // Abigail McClung____________________ 99 to hold the silence we have made // Fiona Tracey________________ 100 About the Contributors_____________________________________ 101

cong r a t u la t i on s

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B est P o e t ry 21 Years of You // Zoe Nicewander

Runner-Up I, Achilles // Abigail McClung

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Best Prose Summer Trips // Chevelle Whichard

Runner-Up Blooming Light // Bethany Kaetzel

Best Art EXC – Being – Reflection // Jason Fischetti Extra Napkins, Please // Leighann Hengemihle

C ha r i ot s o f S tard u s t a nd Rocket Fuel

Andrea Monsma

We float weightless— we fly in chariots of stardust and rocket fuel— Apollo and Diana— we have become— gods. Our holy prerogative— to live forever. And yet— The old world keeps tying itself in double knots around your throat— radiated shoelaces— you dangle from Zeus’s fizzling power lines, a pair of broken winged shoes. We don’t wear shoes anymore— that analogy will die— it’s only a matter of time. Cronus is dead. Didn’t you hear? We killed him— with progress and the cold blade of reason. You know we can’t go back— But it doesn’t stop you from wanting to go there— Nostalgia, a drug that you can’t get enough of. I keep pulling you back into my arms— but you tell me— the future isn’t worth this. Of course it’s worth it— would you rather die when we don’t have to? We drained the Styx— there’s no need to be afraid anymore. The old world is gone— we used it up— our broken cocoon. We were born anew with wings— Narcissus enchanted by his own reflection— You— captured by the receding husk of empty earth. Is that what you want to become too? Turn your head forward— embrace Neptune, Mars, Jupiter. The old gods are dead. Haven’t you heard? We replaced them.

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S ha d ow W i n g s

Linnea Meyer

I’ve been carrying this little kid through the sky for the past three days. His name is Jeremy. I don’t know where his parents ended up. He’s been sleeping for the last two hours, but he’s starting to wake from his nap, black lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. I’m cradling his impossibly curly head as gently as I can in layers of blankets that protect him from the cold wind. Jeremy is mine now and I have to take care of him. He’s so tiny, maybe two and a half, and he doesn’t understand why we’re flying across the sky so urgently. He was crying before he fell asleep because I wouldn’t let him climb onto my back and grab my wings. I almost cried too. He’s just a kid. He should be allowed to play, not confined to the safety of my arms. Yet I have other responsibilities to worry about. My dad hovers beside me, carrying my mother. I can hear his labored breathing as he tries to keep his wingbeats steady. The thousands of others filling the sky behind me are all carrying their own burdens, their own family, and their own heavy hearts. The sound of our wings creates a thrumming that fills my head even when we rest. I keep waiting for our wings to snap, for them to fade back into intangible shadows, for all of us to plummet into the sea. So far, no one has drowned. But I never forget that our wings are new. I remember too well the years when they weren’t real. I used to be the only one who could see the wings. When I was a small child, I questioned my parents relentlessly about the wings I saw around me, and they told me over and over that there were no wings. My friends couldn’t see the wings either, although sometimes they pretended they could. When I was fifteen I overheard a woman on the street talking to an astrology expert who told her she had wings, then asked her to picture them. The woman said that her wings were black. But they weren’t. She had the most beautiful swan-shaped wings. The frame was made of polished and carved mahogany, and was filled in with curling vines and tiny white flowers, and had iridescent birds peeping out of it. I wanted to tell her about her vibrant green living wings so badly. I didn’t. That was before the world ended and the wings bloomed from their shadows. When the earth tore itself apart and slid under the ocean, all the wings I saw around me popped into being and we lifted off, instinctively taking to the sky as the ground melted. Now everyone can see the wings. The survivors follow me because I saw them before they existed.

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Even though I’ve seen wings surrounding me since I was born, I’ve never seen two people with identical wings. My wings are made of crystal, so fragile that folded they will shatter at an unkind touch, yet so strong that unfurled they can bear the weight of universes. They are clear enough that light shines through undimmed, but when they do reflect the sunlight, rainbows flash from their depths. They are thickly prismatic near my shoulders and then fractal out into perfect feathers, just like frost on a windowpane. Other people have more beautiful wings. I’ve seen wings made from steel knives, wings made from stretched denim, wings made from burnished wood, wings made from flower petals, wings made from strange bones. I’ve seen wings of all shapes. Bat wings, bird wings, beetle wings, butterfly wings. Some people’s wings are broken. Some people’s wings are faded. Some people’s wings are burned or fossilized or falling away. Some people don’t have wings. It’s the ones who don’t have wings that worry me. We must carry them with us. My mother doesn’t have wings, and I can hear how much effort the rhythm of my dad’s great sleek stone wings costs him. How long will he be able to carry her? Jeremy, squirming now in my arms, wants his mommy too. I don’t know how to tell him that his mommy most likely never left the ground. The people who follow me believe that I know a place for us to put down our burdens forever. I don’t know how to tell them that I don’t have a map. I’ve dreamed about it. I carry Jeremy, my parents, and the thousands of my people toward a city I’ve only ever dreamed about. I believe my dream. It feels true. Yet I am afraid to trust the weight of my universe to my wings. My people follow me because they think I see the future and they think I’m prepared. I was unfazed when the wings arrived. I must be equally unfazed by the bizarre death world we live in now. They don’t know how close I was to running when the shadow wings became real. They can’t see the panic in my eyes when they ask where we will stop for the night and I look down at the endless ocean below. They don’t hear the voices of the people I couldn’t save. My people believe I can carry universes. I know I can only carry one small boy. I recognized Jeremy when I first saw him in his father’s arms. We had found a smattering of rocks jutting out of the ocean and were dropping out of the sky as night fell. The man stood there with his son and watched us calmly as we set down our family members and our parcels of food. He offered me a fish he had somehow caught from that

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barren archipelago. I told him to keep his fish, and I gave him half of my meagre supper. I watched his dark-eyed little boy eat as if food was a new invention. My people rested, and when the morning came, they picked up their burdens and headed into the sky. The man approached me before I could shrug on my heavy pack. “Take us with you,” he said. My heart sank. I dropped my pack and faced him. “We can’t.” The food we were carrying had to last us until we reached my dream city. I couldn’t ask my people to carry strangers instead of food. “I can’t carry you.” He looked at me. He knew what I was saying, the choice he was forcing me to make. “Then take Jeremy. He’s light. You can carry him.” I looked at his little boy, at Jeremy, at the curly-haired child whose face I’d seen in my dream. Jeremy was part of the journey. I had to take Jeremy. I bent down and pulled half the food out of my pack. “Maybe this will last a few days,” I said as I strapped the lighter sack across my chest. He nodded. He must have seen the look in my eyes, because he whispered, “You can come back for me.” I knew, and he knew, that he wouldn’t be there when we came back. I took Jeremy from his arms. Father and son smiled at each other, identical brilliant smiles in the harsh sun, and Jeremy reached for my wings. “So pretty,” he said, then squealed with delight as I unfurled them and jumped into the air. He wrapped his arms around my neck as I beat upwards. I saw his father leaping from rock to rock underneath us until finally the rocks disappeared into the sea and the clouds stole away our breath. I hold Jeremy and I fly toward my dream. I cling to my dream as proof that the sacrifices we’ve made and the horrors we’ve survived are meaningful. It’s the vision of the city I’ve dreamed that pulls me forward, that keeps me in the air. Before the end of the world, my sleeping self found her way to in a city in the sky. In this city there are no streets because everyone can fly. The buildings are anchored to floats and are carefully crafted out of the lightest possible materials. Even the wingless, who are few in my dream, have little sky boats with which they navigate the city, and all the many colors and shapes of wings flash and glisten in the sunlight. Whole gardens are held in the sky with floats filled with carefully balanced gasses. Children dart and swirl through the parks and avenues, careless and laughing while their parents soar more impassively on their way to work. I recognize faces. I recognize wings. I see children of the people I grew up with dancing in the marketplace, wings of their mother’s feathers in their father’s hues.

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It’s this city we are flying toward. It’s for this reason I urge us onward after we rest on the bits of desolate rock that break the interminable ocean. The sky city I have seen is as beautiful as the wings that I saw before they existed. My people believe that this city, too, will exist. I haven’t told them how the dream ends. I stand in front of the tallest tree in a city in the sky, wing tips shattered and throbbing, with a horde of bloodstained people behind me. A small boy with dark eyes is in my arms. Before me is an old woman in white who looks at my wings as if they hold some meaning. She has been expecting me. Her own wings are clear, rainbows flickering from their surface. My people mutter as they realize her wings are identical to mine. Nobody has identical wings. Who is this woman? The dark-robed people behind her stand silent and look to her for guidance. Whoever she is, she has the power to deny me and mine entrance to the city she’s begun. I tell her we have nowhere else to go. I gesture behind me to the exhausted, the wounded, the dying. She looks us over. She points to the wingless and tells us they must stay behind. She says this is a hard decision that must be made for the greater good. Her city doesn’t have streets. She holds out her hand to me in welcome, but her eyes hold bitterness as she glances at my wings a second time and at the child clinging to my neck. I look her in the eyes and tell her I have made many terrible decisions. I tell her I understand her reasoning. Then I tell her that we leave no one else behind. Not the wingless, not the damaged, not the injured. If she does not want them, she does not want me. This is where the dream ends. There are so many things I don’t know. I do know my matching wings are somehow important. Although I do not know why my wings should matter, I am willing to barter for my people. I try to believe that the woman in white will accept my ultimatum. In my imagination, I see her eyes flicker as I stare her down. I picture her glancing at me, at the horde behind me, then at the silent figures standing behind her. They nod in unison. She steps aside. I try to believe it will be this easy. Easy or not, I will not leave my people behind. If we don’t get into that city, I will build one of my own. It’s possible. I dreamed it. Jeremy is proof that my dreams exist. When I begin to doubt myself, I look down at my beautiful wingless boy and hold him tighter. We fly over the endless ocean towards the day when I can set him down on safe ground. Every time we rest, he smiles at the rocks we land on. His eyes light up when he can run. When we walk into my dream city, wherever it is, Jeremy will be the first to run through the gates.

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I , A ch i l l e s

Abigail McClung

Achilles, fallen. Blood and ichor trickling over the battlefield, staining everything red and gold. Me, underneath you. Splayed out over soft sheets, breath coming in short bursts. I can’t help but draw similarities. I, Achilles, have been conquered. It was no accident. I bared my weak heel to you and gently, you took it into your hands and sliced it cleanly. As blood pools around us I sigh happily, hands gripping the blankets. Gently, you take my body into your arms and assure me everything will be fine. Gently, you brush the wild hair out of my face. Gently, you raise my face to yours and kiss me. I, Achilles, and you, Patroclus. More than friends, surely. You have taken everything I thought about myself and set it ablaze, every awful thought twisting and shrieking as it goes up in smoke. I, Achilles, and you, Patroclus, above me. And I thought I was the great warrior. You run your fingers over my scars, and it feels as though I am healed. You know I cannot be fixed, because you are just the same. You are just the same, Patroclus, and I am so thankful. I, Achilles, am floundering. I stare up at you and when your eyes meet mine, I am at a loss for words. I want to tell you what I feel. This feeling inside of me rages, a titan imprisoned. I quell it. Instead of saying anything, I kiss you again. I, Achilles, and you, Patroclus, have been skirting around this for some time now. I, Achilles, have grown weary of it.

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Cher r y B lo s s om s Rebecca Brown

The cherry blossoms fall in step; Chronological time day to night. Soft, falling love letters— How long can they go on? The wheat that flows; highway fields— They don’t speak. Yet I hear their whispers existing in syllables, dancing softly in sunlight as we all pass them by. & I wonder: Are they afraid to die? If this is the only way to be, will we have our chance again? Again, before the house smells of summer linen and thyme Again, before the sun kisses stained French doors Again, before you forget the feeling of hot pavement on your callused feet

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The wind keeps singing in waves; & I think the clouds do not mind when steel sunlight cuts through paper skin. Perhaps because, they already know what’s up there beyond the sky—

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F l ow e r B r ea t h

Zoe Nicewander

Catching monarchs on gloomy days. The way they swim in grey skies, worried about no ladybug in sight. I wish I, too, could be as beautiful and as carefree as the butterfly but I never dazzled inside the cocoon. Stuck with you, I am Your lips taste like lilies, each bud watered by our pecks. And we sit in silence as a bouquet of loose lilies blossom in our laps.

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F ea t h e r ed M e mo r i e s o f You

Andrea Monsma

The wind picked up, whipping behind me and swirling through the ashes as I poured them out into the brilliant blue water. They danced over the shifting waves, spiraling and spreading out, exploring the world. You were as fearless in death as you were in life. I wiped the tears from my cheeks as the captain steered us back towards shore. I kept my gaze behind me as we left, finding patterns of your face in the wind. I heard the call of a seagull, and I looked up. A white bird circled far above me. *** I told him to keep going out into the ocean until the wharf behind us was small enough to ignore. He cut the engine and pulled out a trashy romance novel that he stuck his nose into, giving me the illusion of privacy on the small boat. I went to the front of the boat and stood there with your urn in my hands. They wouldn’t stop shaking, now that I had come this far. I didn’t want to let you go. I wanted you back. I felt tears slipping down my cheeks. They splashed down into the light gray powder of your remains as I lifted the lid. This is what you wanted, you always wanted to be free, and I loved you too much to keep that from you. *** It was warm when I stepped off the bus, the breeze from the ocean smelled of salt and brine, and I heard the desperate calls of seagulls above me. I made my way down to the wharf and found a man who agreed to take me out into the ocean to pay my respects. He wore an old sea captain’s hat and seemed like he typically gave joy rides to tourists in his little white speedboat. I gave him the money he asked for, and he helped me into the boat. It bounced and jumped against its ropes, excited to set off on an adventure. *** I was dreaming, so I kissed you. Your bright hair twisted around my fingers like spider webs as I held you close. And you turned into a bird, white feathers sprouted up and down your arms. Your wings beat against my chest and you struggled free of my hands. You flew out of my window, up into the moon. My fingers grasped at the moonlight

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desperate to feel you again. I woke up then, on the bus, my hands searching through my handbag for a tissue to wipe my eyes. The trees along the road parted and the ocean came into view, so blue, blue like the sky, blue like your eyes. *** Why don’t you stay with me forever? I really wanted to ask. We could craft an island out of my quilts. We wouldn’t have to grow apart; we could grow old together. The light of the moon through my window made your blonde hair glow. You were an angel, crouched on the corner of my bed, ready to take flight once more. I almost kissed you then. And now I forever wonder what would have happened if I had. Would you have stayed? Would I still have you? Or would you have run away even further? Would you have forgotten our promise? *** The night you ran away I couldn’t sleep. It was like I knew that something bad was going to happen ahead of time. When you knocked at my bedroom window I wasn’t even surprised, though my room was on the second floor. You dropped through my window and onto my bed, your shoes and coat on, leaves stuck in your hair from climbing the oak tree to the roof. “I’m leaving, Dorothy,” you told me. “I’m going to the big city and I’m never coming back.” Your presence filled all of my senses. The lavender scent of your shampoo, of you, made my head reel. “Why don’t you stay?” I asked. *** I took a bus to the ocean, sitting by the window with your urn in my lap. My purse was full of butterscotch candies, since they were always your favorite. I’m sure they had other candies in the big city, new flavors that you liked better, but I liked the way the sweetness reminded me of the days you stayed for dinner and we had butterscotch pudding for dessert. You always said that I made it better than anyone else, even though it just came from a box. I would have made it every night for you if you asked, even if you didn’t ask. I would have done anything for you if you had stayed. I offered some butterscotch candies to the young man sitting next to me, and he took two with a smile. Watching the scenery blur past into a haze of green and gray made me nod off, thinking of the way your smile always made me lose track of everything else.

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*** I didn’t remember falling asleep on the couch, but I woke the next morning with one of the thick travel books laying on the floor, opened to a stretch of ocean, endless and brilliantly blue. Changeable, filled with potential, and dangerously alluring, it seemed like the right choice for your free spirit. It was almost like you picked it. No one place was ever enough for you; the whole ocean would be your final resting place. An endless adventure. I showed the picture to your urn and I think you liked it. Elsie, you always had good taste. *** I went to the library as soon as I got back home, your urn under my arm. The young librarian with the big round glasses helped me find books and atlases. “Are you planning a trip?” she asked me with a smile. I told her I was. “A trip with an old friend.” I took them home and paged through them, pouring over exotic locations, searching for something that felt right. On TV, rich couples spent too much money on home improvement shows and documentarists explored the courting habits of bears in Alaska. With my quilt around my shoulders, and you next to me on the cushions, it almost felt like old times. I hoped you were comfortable with the extra pillows. *** We had agreed on scattering the ashes of whoever died first somewhere adventurous. We talked about deep romantic forests, about secluded towering mountains, or endless ocean waters. It hadn’t seemed to matter that much so many years ago when we were young and clear eyed, hopeful about the future. But now I had to be the one to pick. I always hated making decisions. I made you pick my prom dress; do you remember? You picked a butter yellow dress with puffed sleeves. I thought I looked like a banana, but you said I was stunning and I felt like a goddess. I remember yours was a pale ivory, trimmed delicately with soft feathers on the bodice. We ditched our dates halfway through to dance with each other. That night was heaven. I still have a piece of that yellow dress, sewed into a quilt. *** I sat your ashes next to me on the bus ride home. It felt almost like we were riding home from church together again in your dad’s busted pickup that bounced and jostled us around in the back with wrenches and empty beer cans at our feet. Our Sunday dresses with floral prints and checks mixed as we slid into each other around reckless turns. I’d spent the

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night at your house, and we’d talked all night. We kept talking during the sermon, passing notes, a game to see how long we could carry on a conversation until someone noticed and stopped us with a stern glare that we giggled at. The ride was quiet now. I wished you still had something to say. *** I never understood why you married him. He was not someone I approved of, but I honestly never approved of any of the men you dated. You liked the ones that lived fast. The wrong crowds, the adventure was addictive to you. The letters that you sent me for a while after you moved away always made them seem so luxurious, but I could tell you never really cared for any of them. The bus pulled away and I saw him wander from his sleek car into a bar. Elsie, you always made bad decisions when it came to relationships. *** I explained the promise that we had made to your husband. I don’t think he understood, but that was okay. We didn’t make that promise for anyone else but ourselves. He took me to a small deli that smelled like cigarette smoke and bought me a huge sandwich. Turkey and Swiss. He left me at the bus station with the sandwich half eaten and your jar of ashes under my arm. He thanked me for coming, but he didn’t mean it. I don’t think he could have meant it. *** Everything went to your husband, of course, and I wondered why I was there. All the way to the city for your last will and testament. I had never visited while you were alive. I should have, but I didn’t want to interrupt the life you were building for yourself. I was afraid of what I might become if I had followed you. Then the lawyer told me what you wanted, and I was shocked that after all this time, you remembered the promise that we had made that rainy day hiding in your little brother’s tiny treehouse. You were always one for adventure and I wanted to be a part of it. I thought I would be the one to die first, and you would finally take me with you. *** I went to the city. I took a bus, just like you did so many years ago. With your suitcase in one hand and your resolve in the other. I had neither of those things, just a handbag that I clung to desperately. The city was huge, terrifying, and covered in smoke and dirt. It crawled with activity and colorful people on their way to work and pleasure. I knew you must have loved it there. The world was so alive. I cowered at the bus stop

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among flocks of pigeons until your husband picked me up in a sleek black car that shone of wax and money. They read your will in a big room with a long mahogany table. There was one lawyer, and your husband, and me. That table was endless. A river of woodgrain sweeping me away from everything that mattered. *** The day began with an empty feeling, a deep sadness like a question without an answer. The phone call gave me my answer. At seven a.m. from a number I didn’t recognize. I thought it might be a telemarketer, but I answered anyway. These days were lonely, with only the friendly chirping of my songbirds to keep me company. A formal voice told me that you had died. At seventy-two, you were four years younger than me. Elsie, you died before me, but that was never the plan. I was told that I needed to come to the city. We hadn’t spoken in years. How could you be gone? Really gone, with no way to reach you even if I worked up enough courage. There were a thousand things I still wanted to ask you. I stared at a forgotten white feather that had drifted to the linoleum floor. Why did you leave me? Did you know that I loved you? Did you know that I always will?

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B i b l e B e l t L ov e r s

Marilyn Creager

I dream of my sweetheart who farms her flowers in a large-brimmed hat flopping over her ears so she can’t hear me calling from the front door. We live in the sweaty heat of Georgia, with a house running AC so cold our sweat chills us once we step into the linoleum entryway— a hoard of white daffodils in her dirt-covered palm. She puts them in a vase, scrubs the dirt from her fingernails, and gives me a dimpled smile. The daffodils smell like the sweet black earth.

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[sof t nes s is]

Fiona Tracey

softness is the blueness of a summer sky the pinks of Florida sunsets and the pale yellow of fireflies cotton sheets i rub my legs along until they touch your legs and feeling your lips cracked and bruised purple but still soft and hot water that scrubs it all away trying to get to soft trying in my actions to attain softness and in my words too wishing my smile to be soft as warm sunlight and my love to be soft like a duvet

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M a k i n g M ys e l f S ma l l ( T h i s P o e m i s f o r You)

Ashley Hess

Making myself small to fit through all the locked doors in my life to believe even for a minute that things might change is more or less astounding, or whatever it is that guy said in that song somewhere “Don’t call me at all,” he sang into a crowded room of people, and you were the only one who heard. and you heard me too the night you blamed everything on me so maybe you’re right (what happens if you aren’t?) but I can’t make you open the door you locked so many years ago and I will no longer make myself small to fit through the keyhole so don’t call me at all and don’t stuff it all down and stuff it all away— you are better than the narrative you have written for yourself.

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Fl y Ca t c he r: A J a n i to r ’s L og Marilyn Creager

Monday, April 28th Was called to unclog a toilet in the boy’s bathroom on the third floor. One-bathroom door was hanging off the hinges, third stall from left. Called maintenance to leave report. Took several minutes to fix the toilet. It was very clogged; was always the case with the boys’ bathroom. Today was burrito day for lunch. The kids all threw the plastic wrappers off their microwavable burritos onto the floor instead of the trash. Picked up wrappers. Caught a few kids skipping class. They were sitting around the table in the student common area near the cafeteria. Mopped for a while to overhear their conversation. Went something like: “Macey Kester is a babe, huh?” “Yeah, I’d be surprised if her virginity lasts the year. Girls like that never really last that long in high school.” “Who do you want to bet on? Dalton or Carter?” “What about them?” “Who do you think she’ll sleep with first? They’re always the guys that get the freshman.” Stopped listening then. Reminded of times spent in high school gym locker room, talking to friends about girls. Shooed them away back to class and wiped down tables. Left behind their cigarettes, two in a pack. Went on break to finish them. Regular tasks rest of day. Collected paper towels from girls’ bathroom floor. Refilled paper towel dispenser. Sink looked as though someone had washed their hair in it, girls’ bathroom always looked like that. Hair everywhere. Found it in socks after work. Disgusting. There was a cigarette butt in the bin for the sanitary napkins. Didn’t have anything to fill sanitary napkin dispenser, no one used it anyway. Went to the auditorium to clean but was driven out by disoriented flies falling from the ceiling. Stayed late to finish mopping science wing floors. Loved the quiet. Tuesday, April 29th A piece of ceiling tile fell on top of a set of first floor lockers in the night. Nothing exciting in fallen ceiling. Cut hand on piece of wire on top of the lockers, not sure where it came from. Nurse Callison bandaged

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injury. Looked sad today. Asked for her number. Looked taken aback but gave it anyway. Stowed away for safe keeping. Found Macey Kester’s track team locker bag in boys’ bathroom on third floor. Someone had taken it from the top of her locker during the day. Contents on floor. Picked up and examined each piece. Nothing but clothes. Tampons and other pieces tucked away. Found a note in one pair of pants, from someone to Macey. Macey, I am so sorry that people are treating you so badly. I wish I could do something to stop it. I just don’t think that I can say anything because I just don’t know how my parents would react. I hope you understand. I love you so much and I don’t want to risk it. Call me. Kirsty Zipped up bag and returned to the top of her locker. Debated on calling number on bathroom stall before removing it. Felt that the risks outweighed the rewards but took picture just in case. Stayed up late to clean up theater floor after play. Was attacked by the disoriented flies again. Spent too much time watching them fly upside down in circles on the floor. Would float down from the ceiling, then plummet at the end of the fall. Then swirled on the ground for minutes at a time. When one seemed to right itself and fly upwards, another plummeted from the ceiling onto the floor, and resumed the circles. Over and over. Will have to come up with solution, but the cycle was relaxing. Wondered why Macey Kester was in everyone’s imaginations recently. She had never come up before. Intrigued. Wednesday, April 30th Couldn’t find a ladder tall enough to reach ceilings of theater building. Need a very tall ladder for fly strips, as ceiling is very tall. Went to projector room to get a better look. Found two girls alone, undressed, and kissing. Tried to identify but faces fortunately not visible. Stayed for one more minute deciding what to do, then fled. Will have to report. Went to principal’s office, could not identify girls. Principal considered calling an all-female assembly like police line-up but remembered the last time he had called all female assembly. Principal suggested to move on and forget about it. Could not forget. Spent most of afternoon cleaning cafeteria and imagining scene over and over to try to find a suspect. Eyed each girl as she walked through the halls for clues. Dared to venture into projector room later. Found underwear shoved under table while vacuuming. Light purple. Size small. Small

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bow on front. Lace all the way around. Macey Kester’s? Kept them safe for identification purposes. No other evidence in projector room. Lots of dust. Evidence of failed janitor. No other excitement throughout the day. Plan to text Nurse Callison and ask her to dinner. Thursday, May 1st Heard Macey Kester skipped school today. Was the talk of the teachers in the teachers’ lounge. Her name was unavoidable these days. Were wondering how she would fair missing practice. Tried not to overhear conversations but couldn’t help it. Counselor said she had some family troubles and needed a few days. The coach said she would lose conditioning. Took Denise’s chips off counter. They were salt and vinegar flavor. Caught by Nurse Callison. Gave her some chips. She didn’t seem to want any. Had to clean up trash and dust before pep rally the next day. Was underneath when principal called anti-bullying assembly. Students climbing bleachers sounded like thunder. Continued cleaning. Students settled down. Heard the gossip: “I heard this was about Macey.” “That dyke?” “Yeah.” “That’s the reason we’re losing lunch? Because of her?” “Leave her alone, okay?” Silence. “Girl on girl is hot.” Laughter. Stopped paying attention to gossip and paid attention to gum on floor. Found old shoes, old food, trash, and other uninteresting objects. Broom handle clanged on metal support, and students above fell silent. Snuck out before discovery. Spent some time with the flies, brainstorming. How to get rid of flies? One in hair, another in pant leg. Defeat. Friday, May 2nd Opened Macey Kester’s locker. Pretended to be fixing lock when Principal walked by. Principal mumbled hello, mumbled something in return. Found picture of Macey with a girl, certain it is Kirsty. Kirsty is blond, beautiful, with wide smile. Lots of writing on inside of locker. Things like Love you! and inside jokes that were indecipherable. Still unsure of cause of broken ceiling tile. Made note to call maintenance again, and to call about flies. Chalked up tile to hooligans, flies to the weather. Called for yet another clogged toilet. Knocked on door to make sure girls’ bathroom was empty. No reply. Called out before entering. “Hello? Janitor.” The stall was sniffling. Someone crying on toilet. Waited outside for girl to exit. Did not exit for some time.

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Girl finally left, red faced, in sweatpants. Was Kirsty, girl from Macey’s locker picture. Watched her recede down the hallways. Finally closed off bathroom. Found phone while cleaning bathroom. Buzzed several times. Screen was not locked, could see notifications. Macey: I know. Macey: Kirsty, I’m so sorry. This isn’t our fault. Macey: I just have so much weighing on me. I can’t just pretend this isn’t happening. I just love you so much, and I am tired of the way boys are talking about me. Macey: I just can’t do it. Macey: Are you there? Macey: Kirsty? Didn’t know how to silence annoying buzzing. Hid it with cleaning supplies. Kept hearing vibrations from cart. Wondered when Macey would give up. Turned it into lost and found later. Monday, May 5th The news was out. Students all talking about Macey and Kirsty, being together. Then breaking up. Then talking about lesbian porn. Saw many mocking recreations today to much whooping and hollering. Student body was relentless. Special themed lunch: taco salad. Cleaned up spilled tray. Beef chili was splattered across the floor. Looked very similar to vomit. Spotting Kirsty across cafeteria. Was eating with a few girls. Eyes transfixed on food, stabbing it with significantly less vigor than necessary. Went back to cleaning up vomit-like chili. Heard from table nearby that Macey was back in school, despite rumors. The cupcakes looked tasty. Tuesday, May 6th Had to clean up graffiti off of bench in female locker room midmorning. Chunky letters. Silver sharpie. Some slur about lesbians. Attempted several times to wipe off but outline of words remained. Could still read it. Would have to call maintenance if principal wanted the graffiti completely removed. Cleaned rugs near front office. Heard secretary and counselor discussing complaints, so wrote down: “John, I don’t know what you want me to do.” That was the secretary of the school. “I can’t keep having these girls claim that they’re uncomfortable using the bathrooms and the locker room. I’m backed into a corner. I’m not sure where to go from here. We already had the assembly.” That was the principal.

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“I’ll see if Mr. Lambert is busy. He can help you.” “Thanks, Carol.” “If I were those girls, I’d be uncomfortable, too.” Stopped listening. Cleaned the bathroom next to principal’s office. Couldn’t hear anything through the wall. Gave up. Finally got hold of maintenance about flies. Found tall enough ladder to reach the lofted ceiling. Hung fly strips for the rest of the day. Hoping the flies would be eradicated. Listened to their helpless buzzing as they got stuck to the glue and smiled. Wednesday, May 7th Ceiling tile fixed. School felt tense. Seniors will be executing their prank soon. Hope no trash is involved. Last year’s seniors had a slip and slide on the front lawn (somewhat acceptable). Year before they were nearly arrested for destroying school property (not acceptable). Called to clean up vomit near front office. Couldn’t stop students from gawking at spill. Crowd finally cleared after five or so minutes. Saw Kirsty and family arrive at office. Kirsty with tear-stained eyes, family with hard-set faces. Many grimaces. From all around. “We’ll end this stupidity,” the mother said. Kirsty seemed to have a small sob. Family was then greeted by principal, ushered into office and inside principal’s office. Finished cleaning up vomit, still not used to the smell. Spent some time in the projector room after school. Finally quiet, no more buzzing. Went down to seating, and scanned floor. No more flies flying in circles on their backs. No more dive bombs, no more flies in hair. Task completed, though victory felt hollow. Thursday, May 8th Walked around the school, felt aimless. Cleaned water fountains again. Felt like fighting a losing battle. Cleaned up bits of chips and streamers from office party. Found out Kirsty Smith was being removed from the school by her parents. Secretary said she was going away to her aunt’s for a while. Rumored that her parents were Christians and were sending her to gay conversion therapy. Wasn’t sure if that was true or rumor, chalked it up to rumor. Watched teachers gathered around copy machine with their cups of coffee gossiping. Said principal called her family because of bullying. Outed Kirsty to her parents. Angry conference. Kirsty would be leaving the school. Lots of mumbles about Macey Kester. “Will she be okay? There’s a track meet coming up soon.”

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“That girl is in line for a track scholarship. I hope this doesn’t stop her.” “Coach says she’s been doing okay, keeping her head on straight and running as fast as ever.” “Good for her.” Nurse Callison didn’t say a word. Tried to talk to her, she left the room. “I hear a rumor that Kirsty was going to gay conversion therapy. Is that even legal in West Virginia?” One teacher said. Wasn’t sure. “Yes, it is.” Saw Kirsty later that day with red eyes and a puffy face. Was hugging friends goodbye. Eavesdropped. “I’m so sorry, Kirsty,” said one friend. Tears. “Me too. I am so scared.” Kirsty said. “I never thought my parents would react like this.” Friends hugged her tighter. Macey walked out of gym and did a 180. Saw the pain in her eyes. Kirsty did not notice. Friday, May 9th Used maintenance’s rented ladder to clean up fly strips. No more living flies. Swept up any dead fly bodies that were left. Took extra strips up to projector room, just in case. Found Macey Kester hugging her knees on the floor. Looked terrified. Did not enter room. Returned to the fly bodies. Discovered more graffiti in second floor girls’ bathroom. More slurs. Did best to remove them. Overheard gossip while cleaning. Found out Macey “outed” Kirsty on accident when the boys wouldn’t leave her alone. Talked to principal about graffiti. Said he couldn’t do anything, stopped cleaning it. Losing battle. Monday, May 12th Checked fly strips again. Job was done, truly were no more flies. Tried to work in the school, but students were too vicious to listen to. The world was talking about Macey Kester. Told to clean out Kirsty Smith’s locker. Found nothing of interest, just strips of paper and old food. Found papers with A’s written on the top. Washed off sharpie notes on the inside of locker. Made note to repaint lockers over the summer. Covered with graffiti, found a few Cummins logos and dirty words. Saw Nurse Callison, tried to convince her to speak. Did not do so. Tried to kiss her, did not go well. Not sure where relationship went awry. Tuesday, May 13th Normal day until lunch. Caught girl in the act of writing homophobic slurs on bathroom wall. Was required to take her to principal’s office. She was swiftly suspended. School seemed to buzz for several hours.

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Saw someone whistle at Macey Kester while she was getting books from her locker. Saw look on her face, felt sadness for her for a moment. She ran into the office. Tried to follow her discretely. Heard her attempt to be forceful with the secretary. “Please don’t suspend anyone else. I don’t need you to fix this for me.” “I’m sorry, dear. We have to do everything in our power to punish those who break the rules. What else would you want us to do?” Secretary showed little sympathy. Secretary returned to her computer. “Do you want me to put you in with the principal? He might have more ideas to help you.” Macey looked grumpy, but not yet defeated, and turned away. “No. Thank you.” Saw more vandalism on Macey’s locker. Many crude drawings of female anatomy. Whenever she walked down the hall, saw students ogling her. Many wolf whistles, a few comments of “where’s your girlfriend? I can help you get over her.” Saw her snap at a few, to just some Oooooo’s and Bitch!’s. Tried to clean off drawings with no avail. Macey mumbled a quick thanks and a quick “excuse me” to get into locker. Saw tearstained picture of Kirsty placed over writing inside locker from earlier. Wednesday, May 14th Students were uncontrollable. Day before track team left for the state meet. Pep rally scheduled for end of day. The team bus would leave right after. Principal’s office was unusually full of student offenders. Found students skipping class all over the building before lunch. No cigarettes this time. Found some girls looking sad. A few talked amongst themselves about situation. “I just feel so bad for her. Everything that has happened to her is so miserable. I can’t even imagine...” one student said. “I hate this school. I wish someone would just stand up and do something,” another said. “I would totally do something, but I don’t want anyone to say anything to me about it all. What if they think I’m a lesbian?” “Yeah, me too. I’m just not attracted to women, you know?” All girls nodded. School was plastered in unapproved flyers after lunch. Macey Kester’s face photoshopped onto a lesbian porn star, mid sexual act with photoshopped Kirsty Smith. Covered lockers, hidden in stalls, watching from the walls. Heard it was also posted online. Was uproarious laughter

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from a big group of the school. Administration and teachers teamed up to remove flyers as fast as possible. No sight of Macey Kester. More were put up as they were being taken down. Vice Principal spent all day looking at video cameras. Majority of senior class put up posters. Principal in a bind. “We can’t suspend the entire senior class. We’ll have to find another way.” Felt like something more should be done. Teacher suggested students who hung posters would not be able to walk at graduation. Others felt this would be unfair since those students had worked hard for their diploma and deserved the chance. Administration divided. Many teachers rallied for punishment. Still no word from Macey Kester. Pep rally rolled around. Principal made announcement, about how whoever organized the event would pay for it, etc. Seniors laughed, and nothing happened. Bus pulled up out front, track team piled on. No Macey in sight. Thursday, May 15th Investigation still ongoing. Another anti-bullying assembly. Sat in on assembly. Presenter had very little control over students. Lots of mumbling about yesterday’s incident. Students sure it would go down in history. Heard a few students arguing. Macey had many allies from track and choir. A lot of talk about God’s intent for marriage. Nurse Callison filed sexual harassment complaint. Received verbal warning, but able to continue working. Was the talk of the teachers once they got tired of talking about Macey. Principal finally decided to suspend all who were caught hanging flyers for one week. Seniors turning it into senior week to go on trip. Spent rest of day cleaning bleachers. Scraped gum. Swept up trash. While there was no food allowed, someone always found a way. Found a hoodie. Mossy Oak camo. Pink logo on the front. Returned it to the lost and found. Pens, pencils, all articles of hatred. First day of the state track meet. Unsure of Macey Kester’s participation. Didn’t hear about the results. Friday, May 16th Final day of the state track meet. Issue of senior prank was dropped after the seniors were suspended. Heard that they would be traveling to Virginia Beach for three days. Teachers mumbled in disapproval in the teachers’ lounge. Administration seemed resigned. Saw Macey Kester’s parents enter office to talk to principal. Mother looked just like Macey. Larger. Rounder. Friendly features. Looked dejected and in pain. Wondered why they weren’t at the track meet. Overheard

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the secretary chat with parents over track. Downtrodden eyes turned just a touch brighter when discussing Macey’s achievements. Monday, May 19th Places of the track team announced over intercom during morning announcements. Hear college track team recruiters were present. Many teams placed second, third. A few first-place medals. No Macey Kester. Watched her return to school. Saw her walk to classes, jostled. Went missing over lunch. Saw her disappear into theater building. Tuesday, May 20th Teachers gossiped again in lounge. Cleaned out refrigerator. “It’s such a shame that she didn’t compete.” “She didn’t?” “No. She didn’t show up to the meet at all. The team was all upset.” “All that hard work for nothing. Teenagers are cruel. It’s awful she couldn’t finish out the season.” “She was so driven. Such a shame. She could have had such a future.” Left just in time to see Macey and parents cleaning out her locker. She didn’t bother to hide the picture of Kirsty in her backpack before her parents could see, and there was so much defiance in her eyes. Never seen it in her before. She finally threw away the Belvita wrappers. Saw her crying silent, angry tears. Returned her books. Dumped everything unimportant in the trash. Walked out of the door for the last time, with purpose. Asked secretary where she was going. Secretary shrugged. “Private school, I guess. Nowhere else to go around here.” Was told to clean out her locker. Couldn’t find anything else interesting in locker. Just wiped away the old notes and changed combination. Returned to the principal’s office. There was no more progress after incident. Punishment was punishment, and nothing else to be done. Continued cleaning the school. Nothing else to do. Flies were taken care of, and no other projects had appeared since then. Macey was done, had left the world of her pain behind. School began to settle as both girls disappeared from the minds of the students now that they were gone. Hung up a fly strip in the janitor’s closet with some of the flies, for brainstorming purposes. Hoped for a clogged toilet call, but none came. Instead, began the long task of cleaning the cafeteria floor, just for something to keep the mind busy until something else happened. And so it was.

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S t r a t i f i e d S i m u l a c r a // Alizah Lathrop

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K a r l a // Emma Dooley

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D o n ’ t C o m p l a i n // Skyla Heise

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E X C – B e i n g – R e f l e c t i o n // Jason Fischetti

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K A R M A P O L I C E // Danielle Knott

N e w G r o w t h // Sophie Cochran

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S u e ñ o s – R e i n a // Renzo Velez

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G r i t // Khalil Covington

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T h e H o m e We M a d e fo r a M omen t Katreena Stracke

The warm sweet scent of vanilla coils voraciously around the edges of open air. Black tendrils of cat fur magnetically attach themselves to every surface in sight stranglingly. Mounds of pillows and extra fuzzy blankets overtake the bedroom in a fluffy infestation While your cinnamon roll parasite hugs are set to a scheduled timer of anytime I’m with in latching distance Fingers run through my normally knotted hair so softly that tension retreats from the foreign assault And for now, the rusty razor blades and crumpled suicide notes are stuffed in the shabby cardboard box in the closet, out of sight.

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Subconscious Messages

Chevelle Whichard

Rain tapping leaves of generic bushes outside The window, a woman dressed in a neutral toned blazer enters walking Her cat, ambling across the room before me as I sit in a folding chair in the center of the carpeted floor Beside the bedframe that deteriorates by the weight of a bare mattress adorning saltwater stains in spite of its distance from the window As the strange woman exists the Other Woman, who was ever present unbeknownst to me, Her braids sliding down her shined copper shoulders down her back glowing as if the sun has been stowed within, inches her sparkling full lips close to the nape of my neck, her shadows swelling upon the closet door beside me. She hums the harmony of a song not yet imagined; Her vocals smooth like the slick black coat of the leashed cat that I perceive so long ago walked Through this apartment bedroom. Cutting through the omen’s path,

You. Voice of a fallen angel coolly enter The front door never making a sound, so I know my subconscious had you awaiting

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With plush unbalanced lips to my ear, the Other Woman draws back seating herself on the wet pane disturbed by neither the chill nor the way it drenches her small cotton shorts, your Fingertips to the small of my back responding to the recoil of my neck from your icy hot breath In my ear canal pouring tranquil liquid thoughts causing hypoesthesia to the stimuli of sirens and warning tones in both the back of my mind and the assumed existing living room Many shoes litter the floor staining with grime and the soaked carpet under the window makes a concerning thip muted by my pounding brow Irritated. Burning warmth and comfort in the hard fold chair, six legs imprinting through to the floorboards. Melting into the damp carpet sticky in your hands. Orange walls dimmed. Imagining the amber it once was. When it matched your honey eyes. Dark grey clouds static like the television set. Thipping of the rainwater on the carpet of the old apartment room of my subconscious where dreams are played, and the messages encrypted.

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you d id n’ t S e e, bu t I d i d S a y Mattea Hastings

Today I thought about you it’s been a long time since, you know, it happened. the day I had to tell you that something, well someone was growing inside me and it wasn’t yours, obviously. I know it had to have been confusing I was confused too but for different reasons ones too hard to tell you, so I didn’t. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was and forever will be that you deserve more and I should’ve been able to give, give you more. but I was 19 with spiraling depression and anxiety through the roof I couldn’t even see it, how I used you. I found comfort in you but I knew I didn’t love you not in that way at least we were great together, in photos.

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you put up with me which is a lot, for anyone always without a protest because that was you, seamless. I could say everything everything that is amazing about you but that would be too many things and I would probably sound, I don’t know, crazy. so today I sit thinking about you and I cry, just a little because the memories are too much, and I just can’t cope. I apologized though for the first time today two years too late and I hope you read it, my sorry. it probably doesn’t mean anything to you but it does to me it shows I have grown I think, hopefully.

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S moke B r eak

Lena Nuñez

Breaks with Sable used to be my favorite part of work. We sat out back by the large green dumpsters, gossiped about our coworkers, and watched the bugs crawl across the ground. They were a lot like customers, picking crumbs of food off the ground and scampering back to wherever it was they nested. Though unlike the customers, the bugs did not mind the two of us commenting on the oddities of their behaviors and appearances. We liked to do this until our manager called for us to stop wasting time, forcing us back into the exciting world of customer service. But these days Sable silently gazed up at the sky and burned the minutes away as if I wasn’t even there. I adjusted my scarf to cover my red nose and lamented the passing of November, back when it was marginally warmer, and before he relapsed back into his smoking habit. Now it was so cold that there weren’t even bugs to watch flit across the pavement of the alley. He hadn’t been the same ever since December. It killed me not knowing why. He wouldn’t tell me anything either; he barely talked to me. At first I wrote it off as Christmas blues (after all, he always hated the holidays) but now Christmas had come and gone, as did the beginning of the New Year. It was late January. The magic and cheer of the season expired like the holiday treats on the grocery store’s shelves, but Sable’s friendliness did not return. Those treats rested in peace inside the dumpster not far from us. “Hey Jay,” Sable rasped, blowing smoke into my face as his lips parted. “Hmm?” He caught me off guard. I wanted to smile but my nose crinkled at the smell. How he, or anyone else for that matter, could stand breathing it in eluded me. “Yeah?” “Didn’t your mom ever tell you it’s rude to stare at people?” He flicked flaky white ash off the end of his cigarette, onto the ground. “Well… Mom told me lots of things. It’s hard to keep it all straight. I’m not good at keeping things straight,” I joked. As I choked out a laugh, desperately hoping to ease the tension between us, vapor drifted from my mouth. Not giving me as much as a pity chuckle, he stared in my direction with dull eyes. It was then that I realized how grey this space had become. The store’s concrete brick walls, the dented door to enter, the faded asphalt beneath our feet, the smoke spilling from his lips, and even his black

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hair that had lost its shine. It was as if once his colorful personality left, it took all the vibrancy from the environment with it. I felt grey too. I changed the subject. “I was just thinking. Can I have a cigarette too?” I didn’t know what I would do if he gave me one; I had never smoked in my life and the thought of it made my lungs feel tight. I’m not sure why I even asked. Maybe part of me thought things would be normal again if we just did something together, like we used to. He shook his head. “Smoking will kill you, Jay.” “You’re smoking,” I retorted, a little more indignant. He laughed softly. “Yeah, I guess I am. You should go back in.” “Sable…” “You’ll catch a cold,” he continued while I thought of what else there was to even say. “I’ll join you in a second.” He wiggled the dwindling stub between his fingers as if to say it was his only reason for staying outside alone. Then he turned his gaze back to the sky. It was grey too. No, I wanted to say. I wanted to say that I wouldn’t leave him, that everything would be fine. We only had a minute or two left for our break, and I didn’t want to leave him alone with whatever was in his head that hurt him. But I didn’t say any of that. I mumbled a feeble “alright, yeah,” and retreated for the door. I glanced over my shoulder and watched him puff one last cloud into the air. It floated above his head and disappeared.

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s t il l fal l i ng

Fiona Tracey

i hope the snow’s still falling when i wake so i can trace the path of each snowflake and bring my pale hands to the windowpane and watch you in your Carhartt, going out again i’ll remember certain days stick, like honey in my mind sugar sweet, cause you were so fine i’ll remember

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B i o l u m i ne s cen t

Katreena Stracke

The stream warbles modestly to the moon reflecting onto it with a soft caress of light letting the water trickle along with the impression of glowing omniscient-ness Carrying its realized reverence to any river, lake, and ocean the small stream could bring itself to reach. The bestowed gift was one of true mystics for the wafting waters moved gently in allowing it’s viewers to watch the spectacle of a light show. The wind may carry the scent of crisp cut grass and long minty pine needles through its path. Flames may crackle and smoke with fumes of yuletide and searing chocolatey marshmallows. Everything grasped sunlight unto their forms But few could truly hold onto the lit moon.

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A l buq ue r que, New Mex i co Ashley Hess

Sometimes I need to learn when to let go and carry on When to close my mouth turn my cheek take a breath And feel my whole sense of self up pulling me Grounding me—filling me in a way no one else ever could because I am the flower of the lemongrass spiky and green and deceivingly powerful I have the vibrance the crisplightcleansweetcirus scent to turn my mind around to feel the peace within me to let go of all the guilt and judgement ofmyself-ofothers-ofyou and to just, for once, let myself float peacefully like a hot air balloon towards the sun, (who is my sister) towards the moon, (who is my twin) and finally, oh finally, be free.

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July 24 Marilyn Creager

Do you remember the melted tube of lipstick I kept in my car? It got hot and sticky outside right before I met you. I thought it would be beautiful when I kissed you and your lips would turn pink too. Instead, the lipstick melted in my glove compartment, trapped in the summer sun, and you complained when it got beneath your fingernails.

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Here or T he r e

Rebecca Brown

Somewhere, an artist brushes memories into the sky. And I’d like to believe that they only appear for me, as I’m going 70 down I-95. But the birds that swoop down across my filthy windshield say You´re already dead. And how can I argue with a being that has seen the world as it comes? —goes on. I must have missed the stub that was on sale 23 years ago in the empire state building; some name translated in French. But I knew I could never exist— A lens that only captures the darkest hues of the sky. We are already dead. Along a trench dug into the Earth beside the cracked asphalt of 55 runs a stream that has no meaning except to exist. How wrong of me to say I am full of envy for deep static of a miniature world. Could I be a leaf, or a pebble, a clay bead, or an earthworm? Left to revolve around a new place in the Universe. An ocean, cold and forlorn frozen in time, between the hills of 55. If this world must come to end, and it will, could you at least remember: take the kettle off the stove? ✦

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S u m me r T r i p s

Chevelle Whichard

I fuckin hate sitting in the middle seat. Although I am vertically the smallest person in my friend village, I am not the smallest horizontally, and it always ends up that my hips are used as arm rests for the people sitting on either side of me. We had only been in the car for twelve minutes but having my hip fat being pinched between my hip bone and sharp elbows was starting to really irritate me. Thinking of how my temperament will inevitably end up if I let this get to me this early, I decide I shouldn’t let this light my fuse. I must be as agreeable and laid back as possible as to not end up ruing this day or accidentally fucking dying. The radio begins a little commercial break, a Jimmy John’s skit. It makes me giggle for a second but the impatient uber driver quickly switches to another station and honks a long beep of his horn at the huge dump truck that confidently swung its big ass right in front of us. I think for a moment, should I put my seat belt on? I look at the driver’s phone displaying the map of our trip. ETA, just six more minutes. Six minutes more of uncomfortableness before we spend an entire day at the city’s annual black art festival. My hands compulsively go straight to my fanny pack, opening up the biggest pocket and pulling out my AirPods. I look over the rest of my “Trip-kit” for the thirty-sixth time this week to absolutely make sure it was all there. My AirPods, favorite hand lotion, a couple protection stones, various hard candies, Chapstick, sunglasses, and my medical insurance card. I take a Werther’s coffee swirled butterscotch out of my bag and pop it in my cheek. “DamnShit, I know I’m plushy but goodness, can y’all get your elbows out of my hips?” Honest lifts her arm up and leans her left side on my shoulder which almost is even more uncomfortable than her elbow grinding my ilium. She smiles down at me, her big eyes looking a touch terrifying, but her perfect pearly white mouth bones, with the little gap she refused to close hit me straight in my heart. I bitchily smile back and roll my eyes dramatically. Honest is gorgeous. An undeniable goddess, all lanky but full figured. Built like a damn volleyball player or a Dora Mailaje, with absolutely none of the grace, coordination, or reflexes. Her coils were picked out to their full potential, adorned with little gold stars and sparkles. A golden ring from where the sun kissed the ends of each strand circled her afro like a halo.

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It was like Ayde did not even hear me because her elbow did not move from my flesh. Ayde was also a magnificence, her long locs were up in two elaborate buns, folded and pressed into two flowers with gold wire running through the petals, structuring the locs while also resembling the flower’s veins. Her eyes were low, and her expression deadpan. Her head remained turned towards the window, watching downtown pass by. My irritation flared, burning an itch behind my ear. “You know what, can we just take it now?” Once we started talking about the good goods, Ayde lifts her arm, the bells and beads around her waist clinking a bit as she shifts her whole body to face Honest on the other side of me. “I guess we could,” Honest snickers. “You guys have any last-minute questions? I am to be your guide today, and I want to stress that if you feel uncomfortable for any reason at any point to let me know so we can get you to a location with less stimuli and calm you down before the trip turns bad.” Ayde and I looked at each other and at Honest, as we continued driving into the better parts of the city, the buildings getting newer and taller, and the traffic starting to get thick and more reckless as we get closer to the festival site. “Nah, I’m good,” Ayde tuts. “This ain’t my first-time playing pool with Minnesota Fats.” I scrunch my face at Ayde and hold my hand out to Honest for my serving. In the center of my palm, she places a little square of paper, with a little smiling crescent moon printed on it with a rainbow background. As I place it under my tongue, I peep her give Ayde two and I speak without thinking, driven completely by my need to be one of the cool kids and do everything they do. “Aht-aht, I want to be on y’alls level too. Gimmie another also.” “No no, Nas, this is only your second trip. I feel like another would be too intense for you. Sensory overload could cause–” “Yupp, yupp, mhmm, a bad trip. I’ll be fine, I haven’t scrambled my brain cells as often as you two, but I have my kit here with everything I need to take care of myself if it’s too much. I’ll be fine” I feel like I am begging my parents for an extra cookie for dessert which burns my irritation fuse just a bit more. I am the oldest of my friends, but they treat me like a baby. I keep eye contact with Honest, waiting for her to break. She breathes in deep, and I can tell she is doing her little counted breaths thing. She goes in her own trip-kit and grabs the extra square and slowly carries it between her long sharp white nails to my palm. “Pinche pendejo!” The driver shouts and punches his horn. I look forward to see a large SUV pull in front of us, trying to run the red light

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and turn right into our lane. We are inches from ramming into right side of the vehicle when the Uber driver slams on the breaks with all his strength, throwing me halfway into the front of the sedan, knocking the wind, and my butterscotch out of my mouth. My heart feels like it is hitting the front of my ribcage it’s beating so hard and fast, but everything else around me is suddenly slow motion. Ayde yells “oh shit!” and Honest flails her arms trying to hold me from flying completely out of the windshield. My skull pounds with every heartbeat, like my veins are straining at capacity. “Nas, you okay?” Nostrils burning, I inhale deeply filling my chest, and slowly raise my aching head. “Nas?” I almost collapse into Honest’s lap from the wave of pain from my head. “Nastasia!” Honest is almost screaming into my ear. Which is NOT helping. “I’m good, I’m good Honest, I just got a headache from the whiplash.” “I am so sorry, the drivers out here–” the driver starts but Ayde already has her door open and is swinging her mini book bag onto her back. “Yea, nah, we’ll get out here. You can go ahead and end that shit.” When we all make it safely to the sidewalk, we embrace, and check each other out for injuries. We laugh a bit at our horror and talk about our lives flashing before our eyes. Ayde says she saw Zendaya and her getting married on the beach. Honest said she saw her favorite flowerpot that she knocked over, back on her windowsill, mended with gold, and lilies thriving in it. I could only remember the splitting headache I got as soon as my body launched into the center console of the car. “Well, at least we all survived.” Ayde walks coolly, her gait casual and confident, stretching her legs out before her, the sun hitting the sparkles of the body lava she soaked herself in this morning. Honest skips happily holding my hand and trying to grab Ayde’s but she’s too cool for it. Honest chatters about us sharing food insisting the acid would make it so our body would have no need, not hunger or thirst and we would have to remember to take bathroom breaks because it could sneak up on up on us. After walking for a good bit joking and bringing ourselves back to good spirits, we round a corner and instantly hear the buzz of people and the loud throbbing beat of music. We all put our sunglasses on. A shield between us and the other attendees of the event, as the slightest invasive thought that someone knows of our altered state of consciousness could freak us out. With the sunglasses we don’t have to worry about looking completely fucking spaced. I sniff my lotioned hand, focusing on the earthy scent to steady myself and calm my senses before all the sounds, sights, and smells rush me.

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There were more people walking around than I felt like I have ever seen in my life. The spectrum of skin tones, the variety of people, outfits, THE COLORS. I gasp at the colors. They look more vibrant than anything I have ever seen, and I know instantly that the drugs have kicked in. Flowy African print skirts, elaborate costumes with silver sequins, breasts covered with flowers and paint, bright neon’s and delicate pastels, all strangely harmonic while individualistic. Women and men with afros, twists, locs and braids adorned with jewels that sparkle and flowers that look to blossom before my eyes. I felt we were all connected as we all somehow dressed ourselves in a cohesive manner, as if a letter was sent with our tickets saying “Hey niggas, the theme of the year is deities. Or 90’s cause there’s always room for a lil black 90’s era nostalgia.” The clouds spun in circles and swirls although the air down here on earth was still. They spun and shrunk like when soapy water goes down the drain after a self-care bath, until they vanished, and the sky was a bright pink. Everything was pink. The grass is neon green. The entire park and the immediate streets surrounding are decorated with vendors selling various foods and treat, arts of all mediums, and little stages with every genre of music black people had a big hand in. Which is all’um. Ayde pulls my hand and the three of us giggle like harlots and skip over to the nearest art tent to trip over some paintings. The first one I see looks like it is still wet, the paint glistening and appearing to be blending together, making it more abstract than it probably was in actuality. I must touch it. Right when I do, I am filled with both rage and pride, a tear falling as I experience at once the beauty and emotion and hope. We touch painting after painting until I am almost overwhelmed with too much energy. I step out of the tent and carefully walk through the crowd, like I am wading through water. I get a sharp pain in my forehead. “Nastasia.” I turn quickly, but all I am met with is the sea of people continuing with their back and forth wave. I try to focus on a face I might recognize but the colors are melting together the more I try to focus. I enter the current again, turning up the music in my headphones. Looking back up at the pink sky, I see big black crows fighting midair. I stop to watch the altercation, fascinated that they almost match the rhythm of my music. The crows land on a tree, snatching something out of each other’s mouths, their squawks and gags become voices saying words. “wAAke Up. Waaake. UP. WAKe UUUUUUppppppppp.” I stare, paralyzed. I hold the back of my hand up to my nose, but the lotion scent is gone. I smell burned rubber instead and it burns my

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eyes. Okay okay. Inhale, one two three four. Hold. Exhale one two three four. I shut my eyes and focus hard. Pushing out the crows’ gibberish, convincing myself it’s just the drugs. I control this. I control this. My feet turn and I go back the way I came, and march behind the vendors. Inhale, one two three four five. Hold. Exhale one two– “Nastasia?” “Whaaa” I turn to an empty path. I need Honest. No. I did this. I wanted this. I can handle it. Annoyed at my own thought of helplessness, I sit in the grass and close my eyes. I am fine, nothing is going to hurt me. “Nas. Are yoooou okaaaYYY Nas. Nas. Nas. NAS. NASTASIA.” A hand on my shoulder makes me jump. I stand and turn simultaneously, which makes me dizzy for just a moment as the grass waves up and down like waves in the ocean. No one is there. What are the odds I imagined that? High. As am I. So, I brush myself off and try to find my way to a place to sit and wait for my trip buddies. I go sit on a bench and turn my music to something calmer and more soothing. Some Blood Orange. Right on theme and beautifully calming. “Naaasssss” I turn. I pull an earphone out. I scan the crowd, but it still looks like one of those sped up videos of crowds walking down a city block, arms and legs just quick color stripes as they pass. “Wake up, wake up, Nastasia.” I see one body that it not moving and is facing me. The voices appear to be coming from the figure, but I couldn’t be sure. The uncertainty sticks me to my chair, I fiddle with my braids. The figure walks closer as I hear my name whispered repeatedly in the breeze. “Come with me, hun-bun.” The figure is my high school best friend, Reeses. Dressed in lilac, his favorite color. The outfit he was buried in. His cut still fresh, his lips sparkling with a fresh coat of Fenty Gloss Bomb. “Nastasia Butterfly, come come.” I feel my blood go cold. In the corner of my eye, I see his reflection in the windows of a nearby business. His head caved in on one side, his lilac fit turned burgundy with the dark blood. I almost make out two lights in the reflection, the headlights of the truck that smacked into him, killing him instantly as he wandered across the street that night after we had a fight over something stupid that forever left my mind the exact moment of impact. He continues to walk towards me creating a 2-mile radius of coconut and mangoes warmth around him, holding out his hand, mangled in the window but lotion smooth before me. I can’t breathe. My surroundings began to swell and recede simultaneously, and I felt the sensation of us drifting backwards. My ears stopped up and my breath turned into slowed whispered breezes as I tried my best not

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to blink or twitch my eyes in the slightest so that I could convince my cerebellum that I was stationary. But it felt like someone had replaced the grass with a treadmill. I turn around and speed walk to I don’t know where. The absolute worst trip ever known; I swear I will never again in my fucking life do hallucinogens. I breathe only enough to pass air in and out of my nose but not enough to fill my lungs. My head feels light. I feel like I’m dying. And as soon as that thought pops into my head, my body reacts with pain. My mind and body have split. An astral projection. Trying to talk my body down and make it obey my mind and stay calm, but my mind is also freaking out. I watched my body half sob, half screech at a low volume trying not to draw attention to myself. Rocking back and forth on the bench my head pounding. I watch Honest and Ayde come out of the wall of eyes and colors and Honest grabs my shoulders. “Fuck. Nastasia, can you hear me? Can you walk? We need to get to that building over there, the bathrooms should be empty and quiet. Just don’t look in the mirror until you are stable.” I nod but don’t take my eyes off of my shoes. I let Honest and Ayde half carry me to a nearby building which surprisingly has no one around it. We go into the elevator and I close my eyes the whole way up as the voices return to my head. Ayde’s voice. “Nas.” I look up at Ayde. Her lips never parting, her face just as deadpan as in the car. Tears coming from beneath her Aviators. “Nastasia. PleeeeaaasseeeeEEEEEE.” I shove Ayde against the elevator doors. “No! Shut up, Shut up!” “Hey, bitch! I’m here to help, it’s me Ayde. It’s Alexis Dean, Butterfly.” As she said Butterfly, it echoed through the elevator like it was coming from every crack and became wails that only aggravated my migraine. “Please, please PLEASE, Shut the FUCK UP” I sob. Both my body and my mind howl in agony. “Please wait here, I will take her.” Honest whispers to Ayde flatly. I wonder how she can stay calm even though she is just as high as me. Honest carries me into a fancy but stale smelling bathroom, my mind entering last. She sits me up on a little couch, sits beside me and wraps her arms and robe around me, swaddling me. “Butterfly baby, my little Nastasia. Breathe beloved. Remember when we used to swing at recess? Remember my love, when we would swing so so high, and the wind would feel so good, we felt like we were flying!” I did remember. I loved the adrenaline rush it gave me to swing too high and put my arms on the outside of the chains, risking flipping out of the swing and on to the splintering mulch below headfirst. I pulled my

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arms through the chains to the front of my body and out like wings as my beads clanked against each other and the butterflies flapped wildly. The wind hit my face so hard that I could hardly exhale. I closed my eyes and tilted a little more forward. My heart thumping with excitement and freedom and fearlessness. I lean further. And Honest’s voice hits me like a six-inch icicle falling from a skyscraper into the crown of my head. “NOOooooOOO, BuuuuuTTERFLYYYYY” she screeched like a wailing banshee, her voice going in and out like she was moving around even though I still felt her around me. She was still counting to me. I pushed her away, all of my calm that was achieved shattered and the panic rising again. I stumble to the sink and retch blood. In the middle is a little moist square of paper with a crescent moon and a rainbow background. I reach a shaking hand and pick it up on my finger. My astral body, my mind or soul or whatever I am, is stuck. Without any of my control my neck lifts my head up, and my eyes slowly look up too, into the mirror. “Nastasia! No, Nas-Nas-Nas- No, no, no NastasiiiAAAAA pleasEEE” echoes in both Honest’s and Ayde’s and faintly Reeses’ voices. In the mirror half of my face is slack. My screams caught in my chest, my eyes blood red, like all of the vessels burst. Tears of blood pour down my frown and into the half that is open in sheer terror. My white crop top stained all the way down the bell sleeves. More blood comes out of my mouth and ears. As I reach my hand up to touch my sagging right side, I feel something poke my palm. I look down to see another little square of paper, completely clean and dry. A little smiling reaper with a dark interpretation of the rainbow through colors of blood and excrement as a background. My body drops, and everything goes dark. My astral projected body stands paralyzed in the darkness, as the echoes of my friend’s sobs and wails swell and muffle. Suddenly I am outside the back-passenger window of a black Toyota Camry with an Uber sticker in the back windshield. People are walking over from the sidewalk with panic and confusion in their eyes. Cars all around the Toyota honking or swerving to go around but rubbernecking at the scene. The driver, a middle-aged Hispanic man, is outside the car praying. Inside is two gorgeous weeping black women, with a limp body between them. I look into my own soulless eyes, a trickle of blood dripping from my ears, the whites of my eyes filled with blood. Drums and singing melodies, scents of coconut and mango surround the four of us. The city, the cars, the onlookers all fade away. Honest and Ayde fade soon after. Remaining is just me looking into my own blank eyes. I crumble to my knees and silently scream.

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S t a r s B l i nk i n g Ou t

Abigail McClung

I met you in my nineteenth year, at a rock concert in a venue I was too young to be in. We were both near the stage, dancing to a band no one had ever heard of, and I smiled at you. I didn’t think you would, but during the first song you looked at me and smiled back. When I first heard that song, I felt like I’d heard it a thousand times. Perhaps it was just that I had lived it as many times or more. I knew when I met you, and when I heard that song, I was going to live it again. Still, I craved the sound of it; I craved you. And later, when we spoke your voice was plush and soft, wrapping around and enveloping me in a mind-dulling blanket. I was too stupid to let the familiarity of it all frighten me. Perhaps I was frightened, but you made me so happy that I didn’t care. You told me your name, and I told you mine, and I slept in your bed that night. Something inside of me still feels shocked, shocked that you left as quickly as smoke on night wind. We were sitting on the hood of your car when it happened, on the top of a hill where only we went. I looked over at you and you looked up at the stars. Your skin was sprinkled with moonlight like pale freckles, and you looked so unreal I was afraid to look away for fear that you would not be there when I turned back. You exhaled and the smoke drifted away from your lips, stark white in the moonlight. It dissipated as if it were never there, and that’s how quickly you left. Then there I was, a candle snuffed, alone without your starry freckled face.

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Ca nn i ng Marilyn Creager

I. I haven’t felt my toes this winter. Sometimes I think I should check to make sure that they’re still there, but I’m scared I’ll look down and they’ll flee this time. II. I always get fooled by a thorn apple with my eyes pinned down looking for morels in the roots. Apple-raisins from my neighbor’s crab apple tree; we threw them like bombs at each other in our apple-raisin war. III. Can you even make dogwood fruit jam? We tried once, but it got no further than the pot. They looked like pale rotten raspberries in your lips.

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IV. It’s blue outside. I might go back to church this week. I miss the potluck meatballs drenched in grape jelly. V. There: in the jar on the green shelves near the green beans your grandma never threw away, I pickled them for you so you could never forget the day they detached from my feet.

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[My s ho e s we r e s o a ke d ] Lena Nuñez

My shoes were soaked For hours that day Because you wanted us to walk in the rain. I was so cold, chilled to the bone, But I didn’t care Because you looked so beautiful With droplets in your hair

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21 Y e a r s o f Yo u

Zoe Nicewander

Translucent ocean skies she loved every muscle, every vein cursing her lemon-shaped, lifted face. perhaps she wanted the worse for you? Your heart beats ever so often skipping beats like cherries skip seasons. There is no reason for all that glitter in your eyes, no reason for the poison in your jaws. Imagine, dream of electricity, thunderstorms, tornadoes—one, two, three birthdays, all, which have passed. It has been 21 years of words floating around this room and I never wrote those words for you. The words you wrote me, I flushed them down the toilet and watched as they melted away. I needed tangerine to save me. 21 years of marveling in ash. We pick up the pieces of crystal wedged in between our custard teeth.

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Recycled – Regu la t ion s Rela t ing to La bor // Kaleb Aurand

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Front Porch Recollections // Nevada Tribble

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Abandoned Summer Day // Alyssa Lewis

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E x t r a N a p k i n s , P l e a s e // Leighann Hengemihle

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F a i r y D a n c e – E r u p t i o n // Rebekka Hudson

For more information, contact Dr. Coltrin - ccoltrin@shepherd.edu. https://www.efcollegestudytours.com/2172953ud

E u r o p e a n T o u r P o s t e r // Devyn Shank

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A u d r é // Elizabeth Wirts

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D e s e c r a t i o n o f Ve n u s // Karla Arrucha

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Con s c iou s nes s

A f t e r N a t a s h a T r e t h ew a y Fiona Tracey I was awake while you were dying. I watched each day of your decline, behind you on your bed straddling your sturdiness. And your knowing left no room for lying so you were ruined by the brilliance of your mind unmeasured, but the measure of a man nevertheless I told you we would go down together, burning in that moment when I made you mine. So let the early morning hours from our bonds undress. So let the early morning hours from our bonds undress in that moment when I made you mine I told you we would go down together, burning Unmeasured, but the measure of a man nevertheless you were ruined by the brilliance of your mind and your knowing left no room for lying. Behind you on your bed, straddling your sturdiness, I watched each day of your decline. I was awake while you were dying.

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Bloomi ng L ight

Bethany Kaetzel

In the early hours of the morning they traipsed through the moors, light feet barely gracing the ground. The fog obscured their lights so that they appeared only as glowing orbs, fairy lights, dancing and drifting over the hills and valleys. Shining brightly for one moment, lighting the way for lost travelers, and fading away to nothing in the next. Humans that got close to them would meet with forms not unlike their own. Tall creatures, lithe and glowing, wearing long dresses and flowing robes. Despite their human features, they were utterly otherworldly, with skin as smooth and transparent as glass. Their hearts were spheres of light that radiated throughout their being, each with a unique color. They consumed no food or water, but were drawn to the hidden light in every human breast. The lost humans willing to get close enough to see their serene faces would quickly disappear into the fog, taken in by their fervent glow. But even as these creatures consumed the lights of others, they all knew that their light, too, would one day go out. Aster was found on a cool morning, underneath a willow tree. She sat with her back against the tree, hair collapsed in ringlets around her shoulders, a sheer dress hanging loosely over her frame. The willow’s tendrils drifted around her, sometimes parting like a veil, at other times obscuring her completely. Only her faint amber light led Æsc to her. Æsc approached her slowly. His pale lavender hue blended with the early morning sky, still throwing off the azures of night. Æsc had known he would find her like this. He had been with Aster for over a decade and had seen the signs of her dimming. Human souls fed them for a time, but eventually their vessels could no longer sustain the light. When Aster had failed to return before morning, he knew it was time. In her youth, she shone like a small sun, the amber glow lighting her up like molten glass. Now, her body filled with fog. Her light had been growing fainter every day, finally reduced to a small candle. No amount of human life would be enough to rekindle her now. She slept peacefully, each breath coming slowly, unsure which would be the last. Looking at her sleeping, pallid form, Æsc knew she would never wake again. At Æsc’s side stood a woman with a honeyed yellow glow, a shade nearly identical to Aster’s. Calanthe had been like a sister to Aster, nearly inseparable from her from the moment of Calanthe’s birth. Over the years, as Æsc and Aster’s relationship had blossomed, the three had grown to be

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as close as family. When Aster failed to return, Calanthe had felt her absence as strongly as Æsc. Now, as they gazed at Aster, Calanthe reached for Æsc’s hand. “We knew it was coming,” she said softly. “I know,” he answered. “We knew it was time.” Releasing Calanthe’s hand, he knelt by Aster. He lightly trailed his fingertips across her cheek, brushing her translucent curls from her eyes. Years ago, when their relationship had started, her light had lit up her hair like liquid amber. Seeing her grown so pale, it was hard to believe she was the woman he’d loved. Watching him, Calanthe finally said, “It’s time to go back.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, reassuring him, “We’ll carry her together.” Æsc didn’t immediately look up. The contact felt strange to him. He started to reply, but his chest felt tight, unwilling to produce sound, and so he simply nodded. Carefully Æsc pulled Aster to him. Her body was cool, seeming to demand the warmth from his own. If he could have given it, if his color had fallen near hers on the spectrum, he wondered how readily he would have given himself to her. Patiently, Æsc waited as Calanthe gathered Aster’s legs. The three of them had been together for so long, it felt right that they should make this trip together. The walk back to their village was silent. They walked towards the heart of the marshlands they referred to only as “The Fens.” As they moved further in, mist rose up from the ground to blot out the sun. Once the mists had grown so thick that only the lights of their cores could be seen, they broke through the veil, entering the village. Passing through the barrier, the mists cleared, revealing a small village of stone and living wood. A spectrum of spectators crowded at the village’s entrance, whispering and watching them with sad eyes. Stately women with almond-shaped eyes and irises like twin moons. Lithe androgynous men with high cheekbones and a feminine curve to their cheeks. Their bodies were liquid light, each with a unique hue. As Æsc and Calanthe approached the village, the crowd parted, and he heard the phrase they were whispering. “The sun has dimmed.” Walking through the dirt streets, he hung his head. As much as he wanted to remain steady, his light was burning weakly in his chest. He didn’t want to hear their consolations, to see them looking at him with those eyes. A red woman stepped in front of him, blocking his path, repeating the assurances that had been told from the beginning of time, and that were just beginning to turn sour in his ears.

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“Æsc, you look so solemn! This isn’t a time for grieving! It’s a wondrous occasion. Your dear Aster is finally returning to the Light of the Earth. She will soon be born again!” The red woman, Primula, practically bounced with religious zeal. Æsc nodded mutely. They were born from the light, and they returned to the light. That was how it was meant to be. Keeping his head down, he tried to move past her. Stopping him, the red woman placed a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I know you will still miss her, but you shall meet again. She is only waiting to be reborn, so that she may return to you, bright and reinvigorated.” Æsc’s grip tightened, fingers pressing into Aster’s shoulders. Calanthe stepped forward, pulling Æsc with her. Calanthe’s eyes formed twin specks of gold, staring into the red woman. “Thank you, Primula, for your kind words. But we really must move on. You wouldn’t want to delay the ceremony.” Her tone, though polite, cut through the crowd. Frowning, Primula released Æsc. She stepped aside. “Of course. The sooner Aster returns to the Light, the sooner she may return to us.” The path cleared, and the two sped towards the mortuary. A tall stone building, its sides were supported by live ash trees growing up from its corners. Inside were scarce furnishings. A single stone table signified the building’s purpose. On the back wall a wide window let in early morning sunlight. And the defining feature of the room, lining the walls from top to bottom, were rows upon rows of flowers. Planter boxes lined the walls, filled with an assortment of flowers bred in colors across the spectrum. The saturated tones of the room reflected dully against Æsc’s eyes. They rested Aster’s limp form on the center table. Gently Æsc spread Aster’s curls to rest in cascading swirls around her. Strands of her hair slipped through his fingers, as translucent as spiderweb. She had grown so pale. Calanthe softly placed her hand over his. Her color was so similar to Aster’s it was almost cruel, to see that slender sliver of the sun resting against the cool lavender tones of his being. He could almost imagine it was really her. He would look up and it would be her soft eyes staring back at him. Only the ghostly form on the table before them broke the spell. “Maybe Primula is right,” Calanthe murmured. “Maybe she will be reborn in our lifetime. There’s no way to know—” “There’s no way to know, because it’s never happened,” he cut her off, speaking quietly but forcefully. “We see the same colors born

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again and again, but they bring back no memories. Their personality is gone. Even if one with the same shade of the sun was born next week, it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be her.” “You think she’s gone, then?” Calanthe’s voice was so soft that he barely heard it. When he looked at her, she avoided his gaze, eyes fixed intently on the hand that covered his. A few moments of silence passed between them, before she finally looked up. “But even if it wasn’t her, would you still love her?” Æsc said nothing. He drew his hand away from hers. “If a woman was born next week,” she continued, “With the same color and features as Aster, wouldn’t you love her? Wouldn’t you love any semblance of her, no matter how she came to you?” He turned away. He fought to keep his voice restrained. “You should leave. I need to prepare for the ceremony.” Even without looking at her his thoughts lingered on her face. That same sunny hue. “I should do this alone.” “Æsc,” Calanthe began, “Aster is… She was important to me, too. I know, she was yours, I know I have no place… But, I thought we would do this together.” Æsc kept his eyes trained on the table, on the dying light of his lover. “Calanthe, you need to leave.” He heard the sharp intake of breath as he said it, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He only waited in silence until he heard the soft sounds of her retreat as she left the mortuary, pausing at the door, and closing it quietly behind her. The stone walls towered around him, the green vines threading them encroaching on his vision. His breath burned brightly in his chest. He was finally alone. He looked down on Aster’s sleeping form, the candle of her life flickering weakly. This was the last private moment they would have together. Once they left this room, he would have to let her go. Standing there, trying to shut it out, the burning in his chest only flared brighter, lighting up the room as he tried to contain the sharp heat crackling inside. He felt as if he were glass. He felt as if he had been dropped and left splintering on the ground. Only a thread held him together, tightly wrapped around his frame, chanting, she’s not gone. What had once been an assurance as strong as iron became brittle and frail in the face of her cold body. Even as he felt the cracks spread through him, part of him welcomed it. This is the time, alone with her, out of sight of Calanthe and the rest of the village. Now was the moment he could break down and let it in. For just this moment, he could let go.

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But nothing came. The light in his chest burned lower, his breath steadying. A breeze flowed in the window, blowing the blossoms in their planters so that they swayed gently. He watched the flowers as they bobbed back and forth. He decided to get to work. Sifting through the bushels, he pulled up sunny daisies, yellow chrysanthemums, all the warm and yellow flowers. Weaving strands and stems, he braided the colors back into Aster’s hair. He dressed her in vibrant colors, so that when he stood back, he could almost imagine the flowers’ lights were hers. Finally, he selected a single flower from a small planter in the corner of the room. It had thin, long, lavender petals. The center was yellow, made up of a hundred teardrop stamens. He placed the flower gently in her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and smiled. Aster. Looking out the window, he saw it was nearly afternoon. He turned to the door of the mortuary, the wood of it fresh and green enough to still be part of a living tree, seeming to grow and sprout leaves as he watched, signs of life that reminded him they would always live on. Nothing truly died here. But it was time to go. The village would be waiting for him, eager to start the ceremony. Looking back to Aster, he leaned towards her. Softly, he placed a kiss on her forehead, his lavender curls giving her, for just a moment, a soft purple glow. Straightening, he lifted her in his arms one last time, and carried her to the door. As soon as he opened the door, the people of the village flooded around him. He sought out one face in particular, and soon found her. Calanthe rushed to join him. She pushed her way to the front, her stoic face as she glanced at him betraying no hint of the conversation they had shared in the mortuary. Calanthe gazed at Aster, before turning back to Æsc. There was a strange determination in her eyes he hadn’t noticed before. She turned abruptly, walking slowly down the dirt road. Taking her cue, the crowd quickly parted, aligning themselves on either side of the path. After a moment, Æsc followed after her, and the procession began. They walked solemnly through the village. The crowd, made up of every soul from the village, followed them along the sides of the street. Many carried bouquets and garlands, and they showered them on the path as the group proceeded. As they walked, Æsc tried to talk to Calanthe. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to be there every step of the way. It was just something I needed to do alone.” Without turning, Calanthe replied, “I understand. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

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Æsc stared, but she said nothing else. As they steadily made their way towards the center of the village, it slowly came into view. Positioned at the heart of the village, towering above the buildings, stood the gleaming monolith that gave them life. The Light of the Earth. Dazzlingly bright, it stood higher than any of their buildings. Rounded and smooth at the bottom, it tapered to a point at the top, a beautiful white teardrop. It reflected the light of the sun, shimmering iridescently. It was where they were born and where they returned, the pure soul of the Earth, protected by them and the mists from ever being tainted by human sight. Stopping at the edge of the clearing, the crowd fanned out around its circumference. Calanthe placed her hand on Æsc’s shoulder. “That’s far enough. Place her down.” Æsc stilled. “What do you mean? It’s time. The Light is ready to take her.” Calanthe shook her head, looking somberly into his eyes. “Not yet.” Æsc stared at her, trying to read her. “Calanthe, what are you doing?” She gave a pained smile. “Æsc. I want to believe it, I do. I want to believe that one day, weeks or months or years from now, she’ll be there, miraculously returned to us. But that isn’t how this works. It won’t be her. If she returns to the Light, she will never be the same.” She watched Æsc carefully. “And so it is time for me to return in her place. Human souls aren’t enough to wake her again, but mine is. We’ve always been connected. Our hues are so close, they’re nearly identical. If my light can revive her, then it’s worth the sacrifice.” A murmur went through the crowd. Taking the light of one of their own wasn’t done. Theirs was a more potent force, but it was akin to cannibalism—and it was pointless. They all went to the Light in their own time. There was no reason to try and prolong one’s life when they would soon be reborn. Even in cases where a light was rekindled, the person was seldom the same. Their memories remained, but their being was fundamentally changed, forever altered. For Calanthe to suggest it was profane. Æsc’s chest felt full, light billowing inside him. He shrugged off Calanthe’s hand, stepping forward. “It’s not an option,” he said, voice hard. “It is an option. It’s the only option that brings her back to…” She paused, considering her words. “To you. I will be happy knowing I’m part of her, knowing that you both will be happy together. Put her down, Æsc. Let me do this.”

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Æsc’s voice softened a bit, his eyes still fixed straight ahead, at the Light. “I know how you feel, Calanthe, but it isn’t right. I’ll be okay. I’ll move on, and she will be—” “I’m not offering for you, Æsc.” Æsc turned back to her. She calmly met his gaze, jaw set. He still couldn’t read the emotions behind her composed face, but her light flared inside her chest. “This is the only way I can meet her again. It’s the only way.” Sparks of light brightened at the corners of her eyes. “Please, Æsc. Let me do this for her.” For a time, Æsc said nothing. The crowd around them looked on, holding their breaths, lights simmering and coiling as they watched. Looking back at Calanthe, her eyes brimming, Æsc felt his grip on Aster loosen for just a moment. Then, briefly closing his eyes, he turned, walking towards the Light. “Æsc!” Calanthe hurried after him, voice rising in pitch. “Æsc stop, this isn’t right. I said stop!” She pulled at his shoulder, trying to pull him back, but he moved steadily forward. A few people in the village gasped at the display, and whispers crept along the edges of the circle at the emotional display. And yet none stirred from their place. The Light shone as Æsc and Calanthe approached it. Peeling back from its center, the petals of the bloom opened up on to the ground, revealing a white bed of tufted stamens. Calanthe ran in front of Æsc, forcing him to stop. “I won’t let you. I won’t let you let her go.” As he moved to walk past her, she reached out, this time for Aster, trying to lay her hands on her, to reach her light. Shifting his grip, Æsc grabbed Calanthe’s wrist. Holding her away from him, he pressed Aster to his chest with one arm. Dragging Calanthe along, he continued forward. “Stop it, Æsc! We can’t do this! We can’t let her… We can’t let her just disappear!” Stepping along the outstretched petals, they stood at the edge of the bed. The stamen waved cheerily at them. Orbs of light drifted up from the bed, shining in a multitude of colors, rising up and disappearing into the afternoon sun. Æsc released Calanthe’s wrist. He looked into her eyes, the bright amber overflowing from them. “Calanthe. It’s time for her to rest.” Somewhere across the clearing, a woman in red perked up, taking her cue. She stepped into the circle, intoning in a solemn voice. On this day, the third of Spring, we return our beloved Astereae to the Light. Calanthe blinked, sparks splashing out from her eyes. “I want to go with her.”

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She was a sun in our lives, and though she has dimmed, we know we will see her Light again. “I know,” Æsc whispered. “So do I. But we are still burning.” With a last glance at Calanthe, he stooped, gently laying Aster down on the bed. He brushed the curls from her eyes one last time, fingertips lightly grazing the purple bloom in her hair. To the sun of her light, Æsc was the moon, and with his blessing will she be brought back to our Earth. Taking Calanthe’s hand, he stepped back from the light, leading her with him. Calanthe tumbled backwards, eyes wide, locked on Aster’s sleeping form. As the Light takes her in and preserves her, so shall we preserve her memory, burning her light within our own. As they stepped away from the Light, it trembled gently, slowly furling back in on itself. We say but a brief farewell to you, Astereae, and wait with bated breath for your return. Through the cracks in the petals, they could just see Aster’s body as it began to dissipate, her being filled with white, eliminating the outline, the traces of her cheek, the curl of her hair. For now, Good Night, and may you soon be reborn in the Light. Closing completely, the Light stilled, dimming the clearing as it engulfed the blinding glow within. As the sermon ended and the silence stretched, finally, with a gasp like cracking glass, Æsc fell to his knees, pulling Calanthe with him. His chest heaved, head falling into his hands. Gently Calanthe wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She reached for his hand, and this time, he squeezed it back. And in the midday sunlight, a gentle spring breeze blowing through the village, Æsc and Calanthe held each other, their cries pouring sun and starlight into the air.

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I n t he Mo r n i n g Rebecca Brown

Soft sun shines meadows only in brightest yellows. Wheaten warmth waning only for the prettiest petals. Do not speak up the cardinal is silent in singular flight. Autumn brings oranges suspended soft cream Cracked shutters, one broken screen. The peeling paint, only lead if you taste. Wind blows children leaving the mighty Oak. Is she sad spending winter alone? “If you need a break someone will take your place”

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The mountains hold the city along their hips Spruce, Fir, clover Will-o-the-wisps. Can they hear our thoughts? Do they know what we do in the dark? While the willow sways I find the want to live in her place. I find the want I find the want Stuck in multi-frame time A dimensional oneness. This is all an illusion (allusion)

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w h a t l i n g e r ed t he r e Fiona Tracey

i burned my skin in that new Gulf sun, bleached the color from my hair and let the tide wash over me – to wash your touch that lingered there. sapphire blood flows in your veins, blue as the ocean and the sky. the tide left salt upon my lips your words that bled my soul near dry as if i could strip my identity, i stripped the pigment from my hair. i could never be yours again, so i washed your touch that lingered there.

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Sans Merci

Fo r t he C rabg r as s

Marilyn Creager

Today was blistering, like the kind of heat from the open door of a preheating oven, when you lean in and your eyes feel the heat before your face does. Candice and I sought comfort on the cement floor in the garage, right next to the old fridge that buzzed and whirred like someone had kicked it around a few more times than it could handle. We drank Corona at noon with whatever citrus we could find in the bowl of withered produce baking on our kitchen counter. We sat there for a while, together, before the paper boy rode up to the house on his blue bike. We saw him tossing the papers. Left. Right. One to each house, and finally one landed and skidded toward us on our sidewalk. The way he threw those papers felt vicious. There was some kind of malice in his eyes. It felt like some malice of mine. I have still failed to find a job. I can tell Candice is disappointed in me in the way that she eyes me up sometimes. It felt like nothing I could do would make me hirable or someone she could be proud of. Maybe they didn’t like the sweat stains under my arms and on my lower back. Or maybe it was the fraying cuffs on my dad’s suit jacket. Dry cleaning was expensive. Or maybe it was the yellow stains on my fingertips. Candice has started taking the Saturn to work. She has been cleaning houses for the time being to pay the rent. I get to sit at home, confined by the run down chain-link fences and stained vinyl siding. Without the car, I am trapped. After she got home from work the next day, Candice leaned in to kiss me with a cigarette burning in between her fingers and stuck straight out behind her. It was like a delicate bow, a performance especially for me. She sighs. “The cleaning job will take a few more days,” she said. “I’ll need the car until then. Will you be alright?” “Sure, I’ll be alright,” I replied. I went to bed that night feeling like an anchor holding her down from success. The next morning, Candace kissed my forehead and wiped the sweat off of her lips. She didn’t even try to hide it. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “Don’t waste your day.” She eyed the beer in my hand. I waved her off, and she pulled away, the car clunking and sputtering. It was cool enough that I could sit out on our porch and feel the sweat dripping from my temples at a more

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reasonable rate. The paper boy ran his route again, with a new, gleaming bike, tossing the paper at the railing right in front of me. It fell into our wilted flower bed of weeds with a smack. He didn’t even spare a second glace. I was angry for our lovely bed of crabgrass in its blue green glory. I poured the last bits of the bottle into the grass smashed by the paper as an apology and wiped the grime off my hands on my pants. I creaked out of my seat and walked after him. He peddled with purpose. I lost him, but I saw him turn onto Turner Street with an empty basket. I paced up and down the road once or twice, looking at all the houses with their manicured lawns and American success spelled out on each brick. One day, I hope to give Candice a house like that, with a few kids and maybe a few dogs. Now we just fed a few stray cats that came around our back patio. There I saw it, gleaming in a front yard near the end of the street. The house was lovely brick, with painted shutters that didn’t have streaks underneath them from the weather. The lawn was cut away from the sidewalk, and the concrete looked freshly poured. That family had nothing to worry about but the heat. It belonged in the neighborhood of brick houses, wood siding, mailboxes that didn’t hang open like they were gasping for breath. There was the bike in the yard, and it looked like it had been thrown haphazardly into the grass as the owner ran into the house for a glass of sweet tea from mother Karen. Mocking me. I popped open the gate, walked in, and peddled out. The race home before anyone noticed the bike was gone was like pure glee. I laughed for the first time, and air rushed into my mouth and dried the back of my throat. I peddled right back home and leaned that bike against the wall of the dirt garage for safe keeping. I suited up, shaved my face, went out, and hopped on a bike, applying first to the hardware store, then to the local general store, and then the few other places I could find before peddling home. When Candice got home, she and I leaned against the empty fridge. It still sputtered, cooling nothing but the air inside of it. She eyed up the bike leaning against the wall as it shimmered blue in the evening sun filtering through the doors. Her eyes had questions. “Where did it come from?” she asked, her voice dripping with curiosity. “It was a gift from a friend,” I replied, lying as best as I could. “Well, maybe you can take it to work,” she said. “Yeah,” I said. “That would work.” There was a pause. “Did you shave?” she said, eyeing me up. I nodded. I saw a slight grin develop on her face, and she reached out for my hand. We sat like that until the sunset painted that dazzling blue bike in deep orange.

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Sans Merci

I S pen t My C h i l d hood P r o t e c t i n g You

Ashley Hess

I spent my childhood protecting you From the things you so loved And the things that would take me away from you you away from me The air was suffocating me when I Knew the police were at our home And I hid all the bottles of pain In the windowsill Too afraid To erase them permanently And the night you left and you were gone for three days I was scared That I’d never see you again And I saw daddy put a straw in his nose As I asked him where you were And you came home as you always did And fell into bed and had a nightmare And you were screaming for me to turn the light on In the room with the black walls Forgetting That the light switch was on the ceiling Forgetting That I was only eight And could not reach. And on my ninth birthday Grandma sewed Molly’s eyes shut and Glued on false plastic ones To replace the buttons our dog ate And I cried For the first time, I cried.

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R E S T R I C T I ON

Danielle Beauclair

There is a rundown pavilion by the side of the road. The grass around it is overgrown, however the area is more cement than wildlife. PEREZ sits on a bench within the gazebo. She looks dazed. She has a pack of unopened cigarettes in her hands, but more for the purpose of fiddling than actually smoking. The radio she has receives inaudible signal every now and then. She absent mindedly lowers the volume half way through. (Enter JAGER with two energy drink cans. She stops just short of the gazebo and takes a beat before approaching PEREZ.)

JAGER. Hey, you doin’ alright? PEREZ. (Sharply) Fine. I’m fine. JAGER. Oh… alright. (JAGER sits next to PEREZ, but not too close. She obviously wants to say more. There’s a moment of awkwardness between the two.) You smoke? PEREZ. (Stops fidgeting and puts cigarettes away) Sometimes. JAGER. Funny. PEREZ. What? JAGER. Huh? PEREZ. Why is that funny? JAGER. I mean, I guess it’s funny because it’s a lie. PEREZ. How long have you worked here? JAGER. I’m not saying you’re a liar, I just— PEREZ. (Interrupting) Like, three months?

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JAGER. Seven months. (Pause.) Seven months on shift with you. And I’ve never seen you smoke. PEREZ. Didn’t know you paid that much attention to me. JAGER. What? No, I— PEREZ. (She interrupts once more) Calm down. It’s our job to pay attention. I pay attention to you, too. JAGER. (Giddily) Oh, really? PEREZ. I heard you did good in Defense Training. JAGER. (Flatly) Oh. That. Yeah. PEREZ. (Doesn’t notice JAGER’s change in attitude.) It was the same with me! No one expects girls to do good on DTs. God forbid better than the boys. JAGER. I didn’t have a lot of competition, I guess. ‘Sides. One outta five ain’t the same thing as one outta twenty-five. If all the inmates in a section decided to gang up on me, I’d be a goner. PEREZ. (Scoffs) Why the fuck would you think about that? Don’t think about that stuff! Ever! You’ll get all kinds of fucking anxiety. The anxiety’s what kills you faster than anything here! JAGER. You can’t just… I dunno. Not “think” about shit. PEREZ. You can try. (Beat) JAGER. You seem like you got anxiety. PEREZ. I’m working on three hours of sleep. Of course I seem a little… (PEREZ motions with her hands) JAGER. Y’always seem to be workin’ on no sleep. PEREZ. That’s why I drink coffee. Fuck, could I use a coffee.

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JAGER. Do y’wanna talk ‘bout it? (PEREZ looks uncomfortable.) We don’t gotta talk ‘bout it. PEREZ. There’s nothing to talk about. JAGER. See, that’s a lie. PEREZ. All due respect, Jager, the bigger your mouth is, the worse this job is. JAGER. I like this job. PEREZ. Now who’s the fucking liar? JAGER. I never said you was a liar, yeh? I do like this job. Like it just fine. (Pause) Being an officer ain’t easy, but I guess it beats bein’ on the other side. I really thought that’d be where I end up. PEREZ. You don’t seem like a person who’d wind up here under any circumstances. JAGER. Who does? This place… it’s very dehumanizing, don’t ya think? Long shifts, no holidays, no emotions. The first day of DTs, they told us that every day behind those bars could be our last. I can’t even imagine the type a’ stuff inmates deal with. PEREZ. You’re contradicting yourself. You say you like this job, but then you say it’s “dehumanizing.” JAGER. I do like it. Even though shit happens sometimes, I like to think I’m makin’ a difference. Even if it’s just a little one. PEREZ. That’s bullshit. We do more harm than good. JAGER. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it’s a job someone’s gotta do and that no one wants to do. I guess I’m proud that I can do it and I don’t hate it. PEREZ. You’re going to burn out.

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JAGER. People been sayin’ that. PEREZ. Because it’s true. You’re not special. JAGER. It’s all about mindset. I try t’keep mine positive. PEREZ. Do you realize that people die here? Real, human people. Like all the fucking time. And you! You probably don’t even have to be here! You probably had a million other options. Some of us have had to deal with this shit our entire lives and you just walk in and say, (in a mocking tone) It’s all about the “MINDSET” (PEREZ realizes she’s getting worked up. Even worse, she realizes JAGER realizes. PEREZ stands.) Fuck you. JAGER. When and where? PEREZ. You’re not funny. JAGER. Mmm, yes I am. I just have bad timing. PEREZ. I don’t get you. JAGER. Okay. PEREZ. How could you possibly be joking around right now? JAGER. Well, I thought it might— PEREZ. Someone fucking died tonight. JAGER. (gently) I know. (JAGER cracks open one of the energy drinks and extends it to PEREZ.) Kinda seems like you wanna talk about it. PEREZ. I’m sure there are a lot of other officers who would love to have your attention right now. Go bother one of them.

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JAGER. If you don’t wanna talk, we won’t. But I don’t wanna talk to anyone else right now, so if y’don’t mind, I’m gon’ set up camp right ‘ere. PEREZ. Why— JAGER. It ain’t coffee, but I got this fer you. (PEREZ hesitates, but takes the drink. JAGER opens her own can and drinks from it.) I wanted t’talk with you ‘cause you were the first to respond. PEREZ. You need info for the report? JAGER. No, ma’am. My report is written and turned in and, well, look, I knew what I was in for when I took this job. We’ve all seen a couple bodies… but what happened tonight isn’t—it’s not normal. And it’s not your fault. PEREZ. That’s your thoughts on it, huh? JAGER. Well, yeah, cause— PEREZ. I’m interested to see how it all holds up in court. JAGER. You couldn’t have known, P. He didn’t tell anyone how he was feeling. The other inmates were just as clueless as the officers. PEREZ. They’re always “clueless” when it’s inconvenient. JAGER. They might be criminals, but they’re not demons, Perez. A lot of guys in the section were really torn up over this. PEREZ. The system is shit. JAGER. I know. PEREZ. People get arrested for dumb crap. All the time! And if you’re brown, you’re fucked. JAGER. I know. PEREZ. People can get arrested for having a suspended license they didn’t know about and then they come to this dirty ass shit hole just to wind up dead-

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JAGER. (They speak over each other) I know. PEREZ. —All because the officer handing out bedsheets gave you an extra when you asked. (Pause. JAGER moves towards PEREZ) I didn’t know he was going to do that with it. JAGER. Perez— PEREZ. (PEREZ retreats) I hate this! I hate this shit place where shitty things happen! I hate dealing with the bad inmates and I hate it even more whenever I have to deal with a good one who shouldn’t even be here! And I hate myself for just being another flaw of the system! (PEREZ takes a breath. She sits on the bench once again. JAGER sits next to her. They are shoulder-to-shoulder and PEREZ puts her head on JAGER.) PEREZ. I’m going to quit. JAGER. Yeah? PEREZ. No, probably not. (Silence.) You ever think about quitting? JAGER. Every time they call me in fer that mandatory overtime. PEREZ. If it’s my day off, I let it go to voice mail. JAGER. I started doin’ that, too. Are you really gon’ quit? PEREZ. Nah. JAGER. Why not? PEREZ. Who the fuck could say? I have three years under my belt. I have a steady income for the first time ever, and my friends that work here get me… (PEREZ looks at JAGER, who looks just a little too enthused, and inches away.) Next time the position opens up, I might apply to become a supervisor. I have enough time. Volume 44

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JAGER. Positions are always openin’ ‘nd closin’. You could be a supervisor next week if you felt like it. (PEREZ does not make any attempt to respond.) Do you feel like it? PEREZ. Well, no—I mean—yes? (She gives up) Maybe. (PEREZ sits and looks at the energy drink in her hands. She’s hardly touched it.) JAGER. Time stands still here. I jus’ realized I can’t see my breath no more. All that ugly black snow’s gone, too— PEREZ. I’m pregnant. (Long pause.) JAGER. Fuck, man. PEREZ. I didn’t think I could get pregnant. JAGER. Is that… good? I mean, I know we ain’t teenagers and that accidental pregnancies ain’t the end of the world, but… will it get in the way of your testing? PEREZ. Probably. JAGER. What are you going to do? PEREZ. I don’t know. I really don’t. (JAGER’s radio releases static before a voice on the other line is heard) RADIO. Foxtrot Tower to Foxtrot Rover; we have a security check comin’ up in ten minutes. JAGER. (Into radio) 10-4, bud. (JAGER stands, turns to leave) PEREZ. Hey! JAGER. Yeah?

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PEREZ. That’s it? You don’t have anything else to say? I can’t even get a, “bye?” JAGER. Why would you? I’ll see you later, right? PEREZ. Right, but— JAGER. Don’t worry. We’ll talk more later. (JAGER exits promptly. PEREZ takes a moment and leans back. All seems peaceful for a moment. She turns her radio back up and listens for a moment. Many calls can be heard over the radio. It is unclear whether they are real or a memory.)

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T he B l a c k Room Ashley Hess

I missed Thirty six Days of school In the third grade And found myself Watching your crazed mind Search for what wasn’t there And I saw you burn The comforter With a fiery Cigarette Because You couldn’t Keep your head Up straight. Because You burned a hole in our only comforter and you spilled milk All over the bed and you Got so mad at me When I said Your name Over and Over So afraid That the next Time you wouldn’t Yell “what do you want” So afraid that I could lose you at any second. So I made myself Needy and I knocked On the door to the Black room until You’d let me in, Until I could Save you.

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H e a v e n , a nd W h e r e I Real ly am

Abigail McClung

If there were a Heaven, mine would be a wire fence around the perimeter of the yard, keeping frustrated chickens inside. My Heaven would be a tall house atop a hill, with the red paint of the shutters flaking off. Not too much. Just enough to be charming, capable of saying, “I could be your everything.” My Heaven would be my everything, inside and out. From the trees peering in through the window from outside, to the tiny bodies and eager, grubby hands pressed up against the window while blue eyes peer back from the second-floor windows. But demons take things from you, things like Heaven. And I won’t have that peeling paint or those tiny bodies with blue eyes. Or at least, their eyes wouldn’t be blue. “My Heaven would be bliss,” I think as I sit and write this, alone here in Hell.

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S t uck

Zoe Nicewander Manic, self-diagnosed. Iron flowing like the red river. I burn myself every time I cook because it’s the only thing that makes me feel. My words, ice and yours golden. I don’t know how it feels to tremble and shiver. Forever broken, unnoticed, lack of focus. For me, nine lives mean one. For you, two eyes see none. No toast to be toasted, no boast goes unboasted.

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Like shattered glass, I am useless. You left me with unsourced bruises. Peeling back the layers, I have seven faces one for each day. Monday, Wednesday, Friday I am great. Tuesday, Thursday a mistake. Sunday and Saturday don’t exist. Nothing can make me. No vision can tame me. My brain, purgatory. Screaming at my conscience the same words, they echo repeatedly even after I’ve recycled them.

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Garden i ng Rebecca Brown

Let us plant seeds within others gardens so that we may see the growth of our own souls. Let us uncover the veils sleeping upon aching hearts so that we might not bleed too deeply upon tattered sleeves. Does it frighten you when I say, life is a mere plaything? Counting blocks Connecting dots Lines arranged; a portrait of breathing landscapes— soft, frozen breath floating up towards the sky.

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I am planting seeds within a verdant garden knowing fully, that each virgin bud is promised nothing. Tick-tock says the clock: are you afraid to die? Drop, drop, falls the seed: shall you experience life? For now, I continue gardening.

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B each L i fe

Lena Nuñez

Despite living in an ocean side town all my life, I never get tired of the beach. Sometimes I like to go there during the summer and watch the tourists. I see all types of people; mothers and fathers with their kids, couples both young and old, college students who came to party, and everything in between. People come from all over the world to see the beach; as I wander down the shoreline, I hear many languages, though I can only understand the English and bits and pieces of Spanish. I suppose I’m lucky to live here. These people came from far away to enjoy something that I just have to step outside the house to experience. Not that I think they’re very grateful to be there. Many of them leave behind trash when they go, littering the white sands with soda cans, discarded toys like plastic buckets with tiny toy spades, and popsicle wrappers. Beer cans too, despite the fact that alcohol is prohibited at the beach. No one enforces that rule, I guess. Sometimes after sundown, when most of the tourists have retired to their hotel rooms or to bars, I bring a trash bag on my walks and clean up what I can, but usually it’s a useless gesture. There’s far too much; one man lacks the time and the strength to carry it all. But I try because I believe that trying is part of what makes us human. And, despite the garbage, I still love walking along the beach at night. Usually, I light my path with a small, blue metal flashlight I got when I was nine. Now that I’ve had it for almost a decade, I think I would be quite sad if it broke but I’m expecting it to at any moment, since I got it for only a couple of bucks. When that happens, I’ll probably keep it anyway to remember the good times we’ve had together, like when I was a high schooler going through my rebellious phase. I used it to light up the night while I did graffiti on the sides of buildings in town. Some nights I don’t even need the flashlight. The full moon on a clear night lights up the beach in a way more dazzling than the sun can; moonbeams shine down from the sky and bounce off the water to bathe the world in its cool light. It feels like a spotlight just for me. I feel big on nights like this, as if life’s a stage and I’m the lead actor. And I wonder: what would a drama about my life be like? Would I be a sympathetic hero that people adore? Would people really care about a man who’s spent all his life in one place, waiting tables for living and drifting aimlessly when he can? In my heart, I know I’m more of a side

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character, but it’s nice to dream. Ethan Álvarez, a hero. Maybe if I really was a hero I wouldn’t be all alone on my nightly walks. I’ve never done a heroic thing in my life. At least I have the beach. Sometimes I think about how the story would end. The ocean’s been calling me for quite a long time, its waves singing to me like a siren as they coyly brush the shore and ebb out again. I like to stand in the tide, to feel the water on my ankles, and to dream about what it would be like to just walk forward and never look back. I like to imagine I could walk forever. But I know that the further I go, the harder it would be for my feet to touch the ground. Water would cover my neck, then my mouth, then my nose. And I could float, if I want to, but why would I want to? I love to walk on the beach more than I’ve loved anything in my life. With the sand beneath my feet, I can go anywhere. And someday I might. The water would then reach my eyes. It would sting.

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3:2 6 am

Chevelle Whichard

I sleep on the side of the bed closest to the window so that if an intruder enters our bedroom, he can fight them. I also like to be awakened by the sun. He sleeps facing the door and that’s okay because his back is soft. I dream about my other lives more than my own. In this one I never went natural, but my bob looks healthy. I look like a bitmoji. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and only the eyes are mine. He sighs and rolls over. I feel 23. Maybe 25. But this house is too nice for me to be so young. This body feels happy, And I miss that feeling. Or, Maybe it’s the first time I’ve felt it genuinely and completely. The blinds are open, but the sheer curtains are closed. He’s either more passive than me, or we agree often. The cat takes my place, and the dog places her head on his leg. I am jealous. I am scared. I am hopeful. Lay back in bed, my preview of her life is coming to an end. This might be my favorite reality thus far. She looks forward to tomorrow and I can’t tell what day it is. Our eyes close. My eyes open.

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Ho pe Pa r t s O ne a n d T wo

Abigail McClung

So, this is what they call hope. A text from someone you haven’t seen for months. A milkshake shared with someone you see every day. A book, late at night. Not one I have to read for class. A smell so familiar it sends a shock through your spine. A call. A familiar voice. “I love you.”

And this, this is what they call fear. A text from someone you love, one you don’t know will be the last. A meal vomited up because your stomach is too anxious to handle it. A book nervously cast aside because it reminds you of something in your life. A feeling of knowing something is wrong. Not knowing what. A call. A familiar voice. “It’s not me, it’s you.”

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t o h ol d t he s i l ence we ha ve ma d e Fiona Tracey

to hold the silence we have made – lately i’ve been ruminating on how to do just that i saw you on the street last week, wanted to run after you ask you how you live now wanted to quiet that screaming crimson press the backs of my cold hands to your ruddy cheeks and cool your tired eyes wanted to make the world go all cerulean with oceans of time in which our love might swim but i held back and now i’m still left wanting wanting to hold the silence we have made

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A b o u t t h e C o n t r i b u t o rs Ka r l a A r r uc h a Karla Arrucha is a junior painting major at Shepherd University. Her work explores ideas of femininity, her culture, and the recollection of memories. She creates oil paintings of human figures and events from stories of her childhood while paying homage to women. Her work is meant to show playfulness in the everyday world and evoke nostalgia to other´s personal experiences.

Ka l e b Au ra n d Kaleb Aurand is a senior painting student at Shepherd University, who loves showcasing his digital objects and process. He is often left detached from his art because of his fascination with method in a fragile internet age. Through painting virtual landscapes and their relation to the natural world, he discusses this duality.

Danielle Beauclair Danielle Beauclair is currently in her second year at Shepherd University. Although she was originally majoring in Psychology, her love of performative arts and writing helped her to become a Theater major. She can be found procrastinating with her friends and enjoying a good book on any given day.

Rebecca Brown Rebecca Brown is a senior majoring in English: Creative Writing. She enjoys working in poetry and fiction genres. When not at school, she enjoys spending time writing and lounging with her two senior labs.

Sophie Cochran Sophie Cochran is a senior at Shepherd University. Her work incorporates a variety of processes that reflect fluidity and movement. Her experimentation with methods of painting and printmaking coincide with her use of natural and repurposed materials to build on her own experiences. This piece is part of a series in which she uses methods of transferring images and patterns of wood, by experimenting with processes and surfaces that speak to the organic beauty that exists within nature.

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Khalil Coving ton Khalil Covington is a sophomore at Shepherd University. His work employs form to create dynamic portraits. These images are centered around encasing a person in an environment and the occasional use of studio settings. KhalilÂ´s love for the arts and fashion fueled his decisions in pursuing fashion photography. The gradual shift in colors or the small hint of a complementary color, are the subtleties that define his work.

Marilyn Creager Marilyn Creager is a new graduate of Shepherd University as of Fall 2019 and majored in English: Creative Writing with a dual minor in Communication and History. Marilyn is a self-proclaimed poet and short story writer. She has a fierce love for birds, nature, Appalachia, and crocheting, which make their way into her poetry and fiction very often. She is also a poetry editor for Sans Merci.

Emma Dooley Emma Dooley is an emerging artist from West Virginia currently completing her Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in painting at Shepherd University. Her work depicts portraits that convey the beauty and importance of the modern woman in contrast to societal standards, while exploring the relationship between the natural world and an abstract space. She uses both acrylic and oil, stylistic brush strokes, and exaggerated color to emphasize her portraits, drawing attention to the significance of the figures.

Jason Fischet ti Jason Fischetti is a fifth year student at Shepherd University who has been working in photography and digital media for about eight years. His work deals with anonymity intertwined with personal self image.

Mattea Hastings Mattea Hastings is a senior majoring in English: Creative Writing. She writes to show people that words can be simple, yet relatable and interesting. She uses her writing to tackle topics that are close to her heart, and aims to show everyone that it is possible to create something beautiful with the little things.

Skyla Heise Skyla Heise will be graduating from Shepherd University in spring 2020 earning a B.F.A. with a concentration in Graphic Design. Her skills in

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Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop have allowed her to branch into more programs such as Adobe XD, Premiere Pro, and After Effects.

Leighann Hengemihle Leighann Hengemihle’s work focuses on consumerism and femininity. When creating her sculptures she further distorts the already exaggerated forms of mannequins, while also embedding social stereotypes about women. This compounded exaggeration gives the work a dream-like quality with a sense of humor.

Ashley Hes s Ashley Hess is currently a junior pursuing a major in English and a minor in Psychology. She has a few great loves in her life, including literature, beautiful scenery, her nephews, and anything to do with expressing gratitude. As a result, much of her work is inspired by these things.

Rebekka Hud s on Rebekka Hudson is a junior at Shepherd University and her emphasis is on photography, alternative processes, and sculpture. Much of her work is focused on life and death in nature and finding unique ways to portray and apply it artistically. She enjoys experimenting with historical photography techniques combined with modern technology and exploring the area for found objects to include in her artwork.

B e t h a ny Ka e t z e l Bethany Kaetzel is a new Graduate of Shepherd University as of Fall 2019. She majored in English: Creative Writing and minored in Modern Languages. In addition to writing and starting doomed craft projects, she spends most of her time playing video games and caring for her growing army of stray cats.

Danielle Knott Danielle Knott is a junior painting major at Shepherd University whose work is mixed media with a focus in illustration. She explores the balance between humor and reality in her sketchbook with a whiplash effect from page to page. She also discusses gender, sexuality, and human connections through documentation of everyday life.

Alizah Lathrop Alizah Lathrop is a Senior Painting major at Shepherd University. In her work, she explores process and varying modes of imagery which

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interweave together in colorful, funky, overstimulating, and feminine complexity. She focuses on color and pattern, and enjoys instilling a material problem into her works at the beginning, which she can later solve. The goal in her work is to find beauty from puzzling together broken pieces.

Alys sa Lewis Alyssa Lewis is a junior at Shepherd University. She is a photographer who mainly takes pictures of nature and landscapes. She has loved being outdoors ever since she was a little kid, which helps her get inspired to capture the natural environment in her images. Using natural sunlight, she takes images of anything she can, just to capture memories to remember.

Abigail McClung Abigail McClung is a sophomore at Shepherd University studying Creative Writing. She writes often in her spare time and her short story, “Painting the Sky” was featured in last year´s issue of Sans Merci. She works as both a writing tutor and a programmer on Shepherd University´s Program Board.

Linnea Meyer Linnea Meyer is currently an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Biology. Her interests run through such diverse areas as microbes, fancy cloaks, and music. However, books have always claimed the largest portion of her time and enthusiasm.

Andrea Monsma Andrea Monsma is the Senior Prose Editor of this volume of Sans Merci. She is a new graduate of Shepherd University as of Fall 2019 and double majored in English: Creative Writing and Communication: New Media. Andrea is passionate about finding new experimental ways to tell stories. When not writing she enjoys drawing, listening to podcasts and playing Dungeons and Dragons.

Zoe Nicewander Zoe Nicewander is a senior majoring in English: Creative Writing with a minor in Journalism. She has previously been featured in Sans Merci and The Capulet, a literary magazine filled with young, women authors. Zoe is the daughter of Daniel and Diana Nicewander, who inspire her write, continuously. Her work in this issue is part of her future collection of poems, “Paint me Tangerine.”

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Lena Nuñez Lena Nuñez graduated in December, 2019 with a B.S. in political science and a B.A. in English: Creative Writing. She was published in Sans Merci for the first time in volume 43 and is now a prose editor. She enjoys all types of creative writing and her play Charity, Cubes, and Caroline has been performed by the Rude Mechanicals.

Dev yn Shank Devyn Shank is a senior at Shepherd University. Her work frequently takes inspiration from warm color palettes and vintage influences. She often explores hand-lettering and illustration in her design work.

Fiona Tracey Fiona Tracey is the Senior Poetry Editor of this volume of Sans Merci. She is currently a senior pursuing an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and minors in Psychology and Spanish. Fiona is also a member of Sigma Tau Delta, an intern with the Society for Creative Writing, a writing tutor, a waitress and a singer with the Masterworks Chorale. She has a passion for literature, music and all creative endeavors.

Nevada Tribble Nevada Tribble is a senior at Shepherd University. Her work explores the interactions between the human world and things that make up the landscape—both natural and man-made. The work is influenced both by climate change and by anticipated changes in her personal life, and reflects a mixture of uncertainty and comfort.

R e n z o Ve l e z Renzo Velez is a Peruvian artist based in Shepherdstown, WV. Renzo was born and raised in Lima, Peru until the age of 16. Lima is where he realized art was going to play an integral part of his life. He grew up inspired by the growing street art movement in Lima, rich Peruvian culture, and the beauty of a small South American country. In 2006, Renzo´s family moved to the United States and settled in West Virginia. Ever since, the beauty of West Virginia, a very different landscape and culture, and the friendships formed during this stage of his life, have inspired his art. He currently attends Shepherd University in pursuit of a Graphic Design degree.

Chevelle Whichard Chevelle Whichard is a senior pursuing a major in Psychology and a minor in English. She has merged these two passions by writing a collection

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of short stories and poems about dreams, the effects of drugs on the brain, and other psychological phenomena. Chevelle loves to mix humor, horror and suspense in her writing, playing with the senses of her readers. She attempts to make each reader feel as if they are in a dream—or nightmare.

Elizabeth Wirts Elizabeth Wirts is a sophomore from Charleston, West Virginia, and is currently studying painting. Her piece featured in this year’s volume of Sans Merci is a painting that inspired a body of work she will create over the 2020 spring semester. Her work aims to capture the unique features of individuals across campus, and allow them to see themselves as beautiful works of art.

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Ka r l a A r r uc h a Ka l e b Au ra n d Danielle Beauclair Rebecca Brown Sophie Cochran Khalil Coving ton Marilyn Creager Emma Dooley Jason Fischet ti Mattea Hastings Skyla Heise Leighann Hengemihle Ashley Hes s Rebekka Hud s on B e t h a ny Ka e t z e l Danielle Knott Alizah Lathrop Alys sa Lewis Abigail McClung Linnea Meyer Andrea Monsma Zoe Nicewander Lena NuĂąez Dev yn Shank Fiona Tracey Nevada Tribble R e n z o Ve l e z Chevelle Whichard Elizabeth Wirts