Spawning Pool—Prose 2025

Liminality

Prose Spawning Pool Spring 2025

SpawningPool Prose Chapbook “Liminality” Spring 2025

Shippensburg University

SpawningPool is a literary arts chapbook published at Shippensburg University by a small and dedicated team of undergraduate students. It is composed of prose pieces submitted by undergraduate students at the university.

SpawningPool accepts rolling submissions throughout the year, and we publish our chapbook every spring semester. SpawningPool is a publication of The Reflector, which also accepts submissions year-round, and is compiled each fall semester.

Contact us: spawningpool@ship.edu Submissions and inquires: reflect@ship.edu SpawningPool Prose Chapbook, Spring 2025 Text set in Times New Roman Printed by Shippensburg University Layout by Hailee Rauch and Shawn McGuigan Cover Photograph by Cole Pearson

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Prose Editors: Hailee Rauch Shawn McGuigan

Prose Committee Members: Annikka Stangil

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Letters from the Editors Dear reader, With the theme of liminality, we wanted to express that feeling of being between two places at once, whether that be physically or mentally. We not only wanted to explore the nightmarish aspect of liminality, but we also wanted to capture that unsettling and confused feeling that comes with everyday life. Thank you to all the writers who made this possible. I really enjoyed reading all your stories and putting this chapbook together, and I’m really grateful for the opportunity to do so.

Thank you to Shawn McGuigan, my amazing associate editor, for all his help throughout the process of setting up this journal. Thank you for responding to all my last-minute texts. I couldn’t have done it without you.

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Thank you to my absolutely amazing and dedicated Editorial Board, Jenny, Kylie and Gretchen. Thank you for always keeping us on task. Your leadership will be greatly missed.

And thank you, reader. Without your time and support, we wouldn’t have this publication. I hope you enjoy this edition!

Sincerely, Prose Head Editor Hailee Rauch

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Dear reader, People are often changing, with life taking many twists and turns dragging us to the future. Liminality refers to a state of change, a fleeting transitory moment of life where things may not be what they seem to be. Life is full of confusing change, especially when we’re forced to make a choice. When I fell into this position, I wasn’t sure if I made a good choice. Looking back now, I can safely say I regret nothing. So, I ask this of you, the reader: As you move forward, I ask that you all keep striving for progress and to be the best “you” that you can be.

I’d like to thank every writer who submitted to the spawning pool. The dedicated care you put into your writing, and the courage you had to submit, are equally admirable. I am honored to have had the opportunity to read your works.

I would also like to thank the lovely E-board for granting me this opportunity to have worked on this chapbook. If it weren’t for them, I would not have taken part in such a -6-

novel experience, nor would I be quite who I am now. While I am sad to see you go, I am happy to have contributed to something great with all of you.

I’d like to give a special thanks to our Prose Head Editor, Hailee Rauch. Without her guidance and leadership, I would have been lost in my position, and the amount of care and passion she put into this spawning pool is an inspiration of its own. I’m happy to have collaborated with such a talented individual.

And finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader, one last time. Thank you for taking the time to read our chapbook and thank you for your care.

Sincerely, Prose Associate Editor Shawn McGuigan

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Table of Contents Acier Lovely

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Alyssa Sheriff Massage

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Benjamin W. Zacharias February 13th, 2004

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Elias Frey Passage of Life

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Hayley Diehl Train Halfway

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Jean Stinchfield HEAVEN

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Karen Zola The Water’s Scream What is Honor?

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Katie Waite Luminous

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Lou James Inside

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Luke Rosenberger Beat of the Heart

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Beat of the Heart She awoke to darkness. A penetrating and looming darkness that seemed to thump to its own rhythm. She sat up and stared into that darkness and noticed it truly did pulse to a steady beat of some kind. She placed her hand to the floor to stand, but it slipped and landed with a wet thud as her shoulder slammed onto the ground. Her breath escaped from her in the suddenness of the impact. The pulse of the darkness seemed to quicken at the excitement, but just as quickly vanished.

The strong smell of iron overwhelmed her senses as she reoriented herself. Trapped in the darkness of the room, she followed the smell to the floor and found the strange wetness was the source. She placed her hand to her face and began to panic at the recognition. Blood surrounded her. Pools upon pools of sticky crimson trapped her within its waves. She felt the darkness’s rhythm quicken once more and hoped it would return to its calm origin, but -10-

it never steadied. Instead, it forever increased in its booming rhythms, slamming itself into her head. In an attempt to escape from the ocean of blood, she crawled so as not to slip again.

She did not crawl for long before she hit something in the room. With a lack of visibility, she placed her face closer to the object and discovered a face trapped in anguish. Where should be eyes housed snuggly in their sockets, there was nothing but scratched walls. Those walls were sunken slightly into the figure’s skull and seemed to be wide in either fear or pain, she was not sure. Its mouth sat crooked in a long and agape way far passed what should be possible. The gray stretched skin allowed for no room to hide its skeleton. Before she could crawl away, she felt the “eyes” lock onto her. The gape of a mouth began to groan longingly in the darkness before it through itself toward the woman. The creature rushed in a broken mass of elongated limbs that seemed to grow as it moved. The young woman attempted to -11-

crawl backwards, but the slick blood caused her slip more than she prayed. The creature mounted her and placed its face to hers; it held there for an eternity.

A faint groan croaked from the abyssal mouth that grew and grew until it was all that was heard. The shape grabbed her and slammed the woman to the ground, splashing the blood around them in a wave.

The slams became quicker and quicker as the creature’s wail grew into a chorus of voices. The young woman screamed until her voice joined that chorus, disappearing into its haunted song. All the while the darkness pounded its world-shaking rhythm.

As the noise reached a crescendo with a final scream, she awoke to light.

Luke Rosenberger -12-

Luminous She hung the stars in the sky with such grace and care, each one unique. Her fingerprints were visible with close inspection, and they weren’t exactly the same size. Some stars were curved, others caused the sun to blush with their elegant shine, and others were allowed to fly like burning phoenixes, but each one was special to her. All of her creations were equally loved.

One evening, as she waltzed on the steps of the Milky Way, she found one of her children weeping in the cold of the night. The star’s light was dim and she was quite small, especially in comparison to Saturn’s vibrant rings which she resided near.

“Child,” whispered the goddess as she laid her worn hands onto the star’s back, “what is troubling you?”

The star wiped her tears with her arm, her meek voice reaching the high -13-

goddess’s motherly ears, “I’m so far from what I know, mother. I’ve doubted my worthiness to even be close to Saturn,” she stammered as she looked wearily on at the rings of the planet, “I am not as bright as them. I’m not as recognizable. I am a face in the sea.”

The goddess dabbed away her daughter’s tears with a handkerchief as she drew her into her chest, “Oh, child. There, there,” quickly thinking on her feet, the goddess smiled down at her child, “My dear, do you know what the rings are made of?”

The girl, puzzled, simply shook her head. Her mother continued, “They are made of countless particles of dust, ice, and rock, all harmonizing to create the alluring scene you sleep beside. Just as Saturn has crafted herself, I have crafted you physically. You, child, have crafted your individuality, your spirit. You are unique, just as each and every one of your sisters are unique.”

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Finally, the star cracked a smile. Her shining tears seemed to dry as her mother tenderly kissed her forehead, “No matter what your fears may tell you, you are not a mere particle of dust. You have your place here. I will always come when you call. You are my star, and you Is will be.”

The girl and her mother embraced, entranced by each other under the watchful eye of the adorned planet.

Katie Waite -15-

The Water’s Scream When I was a young girl, around six or seven years old, I almost drowned. I remember how the cold, salty water easily slipped into my nostrils and how I tried to scream for help, but nobody came. Closer and closer to death I suppose, I began to hear things that I suppressed down, down, down into my soul. I saw my old stuffed bear and my old Barbies. I loved to play with them every day until I came home from school. I don’t remember the day I stopped picking them up or the day I stopped remembering them, though this day, the water’s rage jogged my memory. I saw my mother’s face and her cold eyes staring at me. Her silky-smooth voice pierced my memories: “Don’t go into the water, if you don’t know how to swim!” she said coldly grinning. Well, I guess I showed her, I said to myself.

Karen Zola -16-

February 13th, 2004 The hum was gone. That otherwise imperceptible sound of fluorescent lights, electric heaters, and television static fell away as the power went out, but the 24-hour gas station was lit in gentle green light from the lottery machine. Ruby, the young professional, had just opened the door to the cold winter evening. Jonesy the clerk had just changed the channel on his portable television. Daryl the trucker had just turned on the coffee pot. There they were, 1 am, in total darkness, save for the light of the Pennsylvania Lottery vending machine.

Ruby was the first to move, pulling back inside but cautiously away from the men. Jonesy reached for the phone on the wall and put it up to his ear. He dialed a local number, then another, before 9-1-1.

“Lines must be down,” he said.

Daryl had been flicking the coffee machine off and on before asking “where’s your breaker box?”

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“No,” Ruby said. “All the street lights are out. It’s more than just us.”

“And my television. It’s battery powered.”

“How come the lotto machine is still on, huh?”

They all looked where Daryl was pointing. He moved over to the machine and poked at the different options. “Insufficient Funds” popped up on the LED display. The trucker patted himself down and found four quarters to insert into the machine. When he slammed Lucky Clovers, the ticket dropped out the bottom.

“This one’s a winner,” Daryl said.

“Two-hunnurt dollars: max prize.”

Jonesy walked out from behind the counter and offered the machine two dollars which it gobbled greedily. He got a Lucky Clovers and a Valentine Hearts.

“Win… and win,” the clerk said.

“Twenty dollars, and two-hundred dollars.”

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“I guess there’s only one max prize for each,” Ruby said. “May I-” “Let’s go for the big one,” Daryl said. “What y’all got in your pockets?”

The group fed the machine their loose cash, a collective fifty-three dollars.

Ruby bought the pricy Jeopardy Millionaire ticket which fell out just before the electric lights of the machine flickered and extinguished.

Jonesy found a spare candle to light behind the counter, and the group huddled around as Ruby read aloud.

“One in thirty-one chance of winning. Three… Oh wow, three-milliondollar grand prize.”

Daryl smiled a toothy, greedy grin.

Jonesy leaned back a little and averted his eyes; a bead of sweat formed on his brow.

Ruby made the mistake of backing up. Daryl moved toward her, arms out apprehensively.

“Where ya goin’ hun?”

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She screamed; Daryl grabbed the woman. Jonesy reached below the counter and cracked Daryl across the head with a wooden bat. Ruby shoved the cash register into the clerk which fell on his ribs with a snap. Ruby ran out the door and locked herself in her Honda Civic. She dug a quarter out of her purse.

The hum was back.

Her dashboard clock flashed 01:26, and the interior lights of the gas station beamed through the windshield. Ruby scratched off the ticket and the color drained from her face. It was a dud.

Benjamin W. Zacharias -20-

Lovely Kicking and screaming; Holding my head above the raging water; It holds me down by my shoulders; Pushing and pushing. Punishing.

Drowning.

So blinded by my own rage and emptiness, I can only force out anger. I don’t want to die feeling nothing.

Empty.

Drowning.

I can at least feel water: filling my shoes, filling my lungs: Alive. Angry. Alive.

Empty.

I scream and nothing comes out but a dark void, choking on blackness.

Emptiness.

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Surrounded by the void I hear it whisper. It must be talking to me, but it doesn’t call my name, maybe someone else is here too? Suddenly, I feel a cold presence, then a soft hand caress my cheek.

“You are lovely in this moment,” it whispers.

I wrack my brain thinking of what it means by this. I think the void can read my mind.

“Stay like this, Lovely.”

The only thing that comes to mind is anger. Why should I stay like this?

Anger is not lovely.

I am not lovely.

The cold hand leaves my cheek, almost as if it did not agree with me.

“Lovely, why are you lying?”

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The void says it soft, like a mother kissing her baby for the first time. It’s a shock to me, “I’m not lying.”

“Lovely, you are empty, not angry.”

There’s a pause, because what do I even say to that. The void continues, “Lovely, I like you empty.”

I think to myself, too scared to say it out loud: You are selfish.

“Lovely, I am void, I cannot be selfish.”

Still boiling with rage I scream, “Stop calling me Lovely.”

It’s not like a name, like a word defining a person, but immediately I regret how awful I’ve been. I don’t know what came over me, but I found myself whispering to the void:

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“Void, you are the most lovely, I’m sorry I didn’t realize it.”

“Lovely should be your name.”

The hand comes back to my cheek, but this time it’s warm. Warm like love through the touch, I can almost understand. I can be lovely. But who I am is not the definition of lovely, anger and emptiness are not the same as lovely. Now with confidence I ask: “Do I have to wake up?”

Void lets out a sigh and releases the warmth from my face, “Not technically, but Lovely, it’s not good for you to stay.”

I think the void can feel my disappointment.

I want to stayI want to be lovely here.

“You have to swim,” -24-

Void breaks me from my thoughts. I remember I was drowning, someone was pushing me down.

“Do you know who was drowning me?”

I ask as if it would know“It was me, Lovely, we had to meet properly so you could understand.”

I don’t understand it. How is something so lovely so violent? But still, my feelings towards it won’t change.

“Will I remember you?” I say, almost ignoring the previous answer.

“No.” “No?” “No.” Something terrifying grows inside of me“I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper.

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Almost too scared to say it, not wanting to know how the void will take it.

“I’ve always been there, Lovely, you just hadn’t realized.”

Flipping through hazy memories, trying to recognize the void frantically, “Where? When?” pleading with the void.

“In your shadow on the street, in the wind when it caresses your cheek, I’m cold nights and wintertime, I am everywhere, and everywhere is with you.”

“Can I stay with you a little longer?”

I didn’t mean for it to sound sad. I feel that comforting coldness in my cheek again.

“Oh Lovely, you have to go back. It has already been too long.”

Out of desperation, I ask: “Promise me, you’ll stay with me?”

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“I could never leave you, Lovely.”

I wake up to water in my lungs and sand sticking to my skin. I can feel a cold presence on my cheek. The water on my skin mixed with the wind: that must be it.

Acier -27-

What is Honor?

I stared at the woman’s shoes and then I stared at her black cat-lady glasses. I held my breath just so that I could hear my name on her list.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, you’re not on here.”

A pang hit my side. I almost wanted to cry.

“Could you check it again?”

I said loudly, unaware of the attention I have caused.

The woman’s brows furrowed, and her dry, cracked lips tightened.

“I’m sorry, honey, this is the list that they gave me.”

I turned around in defeat, a thousand eyes were on me as the once-bustling hall grew eerily quiet awaiting my next move.

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What was the matter with me? I had a great GPA. I heard their silent cackles all day as I went home after graduation practice. I envied their golden and red stoles that said they were honored. Were my tears and anguish all for nothing? Was my honor so pitiful that it didn’t deserve praise? Was the decision not to leave high school a wise decision to make?

I envied them. All of them. I hated their rules and their dumb pep rallies. I screamed at my pillow the moment I came home. I tried to scratch the unscratchable thought on my mind. I wallowed in my pity.

I draped my white cap and gown on a chair across from me and stared at it until 3:30. I forced myself to put it on and looked into a mirror. I felt naked and much shame entered my body. Why was this happening to me?

What did I do wrong? Was it because of going online and not in person? Because I valued my health, my achievements had to pay the price.

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I walked on the stage that night at exactly 6:10 p.m. I remember the cheers of the people throughout the stadium. I sneered to myself as the rich, popular valedictorian girl was talking about going to Harvard.

Perhaps to make more nepo-babies.

The whole thing was a sham. It was all upside down. People who used to pay me to do their homework were now wearing stoles glistening across their shoulders that I so badly wanted to rip off with every fiber of my being.

I still have some traumatic distress about that day, how it awaits in the shadow of my grades, or behind my professors’ smiles, just waiting to dash my pent-up hopes and dreams.

But one question lingers: what is honor? Why do we put honor on a stole?

Why do we measure honor by symbols, colors, and net worth? Why do we label ourselves honorable and yet afraid to take responsibility for our actions, thoughts, and emotions? It seems silly to me now, how I -30-

put my faith in a piece of cloth to tell me how smart I am. I know I am smart. Millions of kids out there without access to education would sell their right leg to sit in these seats that I sit in every day. What is honor? Honor is the evidence of perseverance in reaching a goal seen as unattainable; to never give up in the face of adversity, even when that adversity is you.

Karen Zola -31-

Inside Stella didn’t know how she got here, or rather, she did know, she just couldn’t believe it.

She had been rafting, and her boat got caught in a storm. The whole scene reminded her of when Geppetto was swallowed by the whale in Pinocchio. The waves rose and fell, until suddenly they rose and rose and…stopped falling. God, they stopped falling.

Stella had never seen a whale in person until she was being swallowed by one, and, she had to admit, it was absolutely terrifying. How do you fight something like that? This whale, Bessy, she had taken to calling it, was massive, and it almost completely blended in with the sea.

She only caught a glimpse of it, really, but as it faced her head on, opening its mouth to swallow her whole, she felt like a goldfish being flushed down the toilet -32-

during its funeral. This was her funeral, and it was all her fault.

She was supposed to be on a company retreat in Mexico, but had somehow worked her way to the coast, looked out at the December Sea, and had rented a boat. She only had a little sailing experience, but certainly not in a West Coast Winter Ocean.

In the moment, when she swiped her card at the boat rental place, she felt like she was making the right call. It was almost like the ocean had been calling her, summoning her out into the waves. Turns out, it was a giant whale.

Stella couldn’t even describe where she was now. It was dark. It was spongy.

Logically, she knew she was somewhere inside the whale, Bessy. She hoped it was a girl, anyway. Somehow it grossed her out more to think that she had been swallowed by a he-whale. Really, she knew she was just distracting herself from what had just happened here.

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Stella wasn’t ready to die, she knew that much. Bessy’s insides, wherever in her digestive tract she was, were routinely filling with water. It rose and fell, just like the ocean waves that had brought her to this moment. It was steady, and for a while Stella had been using it to count time. Every three minutes it rose, and thirty seconds later, it fell. Stella could hold her breath for thirty seconds. It’s what she had to keep telling herself.

Every three minutes, she slid a little bit further down into the whale, thirty seconds worth. And, during the next three minutes, she would try, desperately, to crawl back up.

Now, in the present, the next thirty seconds arrive, and Stella holds her breath.

When the water falls, a sob escapes her mouth in the place of a breath. She’s been trying so hard to stay calm. She wants to survive this. She has to. Post sob, she forgot to count seconds, and suddenly the next wave was rising up, quickly filling the -34-

section of whale Stella had sunken into. The wave carried her deeper and deeper in the next thirty seconds.

It falls, another sob escapes her mouth, followed by more and more. She’s freezing, and has fallen so deep that all light is gone. She is in complete darkness, shivering on and off for three minutes at a time and drowning for thirty seconds in between. She couldn’t tell if she was crying, or rather, if tears were actually falling. She was already dripping wet, so really what difference would it make if she was?

In this darkness, inside Bessy, Stella felt like something other than a human, almost like she was an abstract thought, not flesh and blood. She had completely lost all sense of time. Minutes, seconds, who cares?

She was floating in nothingness, a spongy black abyss. And it’s just so cold. She’s probably somewhere far under the ocean by now. That whale had swallowed her on the surface and dove back into the deep.

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It definitely felt like she was deep.

She could feel the pressure, almost like she had been buried six feet under cold, wet soil packed neatly above her. And her tombstone? Well, her tombstone was Bessy, obviously. Across the whale should read, Here floats Stella, gone, and most certainly forgotten. Somehow, Stella found this reassuring. She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed, but she tried to press them shut anyway. She curled into a little ball.

She tucked her arms in between her chest and her thighs, and she waited for the next swell of water to come crashing through her little space.

Something dawned on her just then, while she waited. Was this what it was like to be in a womb? Or maybe she had never left her mother’s womb in the first place. All of this, her life up until now, the trip to Mexico, the boat: it was all just an illusion.

A dream from in utero. Was her name even Stella? Stella means star, she feels she knows this for sure. So, maybe she’s really a star up somewhere in the vast night sky.

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None of it really matters, though.

Where was she, again? She wasn’t sure. She was just so cold, and she was wishing her mother, if that’s really where she was, would crawl into a hot tub or something.

The next wave rises up, carries her somewhere. It doesn’t fall. Why isn’t it falling? She wasn’t sure about time anymore, but she knew it didn’t usually last this long. She couldn’t hold her breath forever, but something was telling her not to try. The darkness was consuming. She found it so comforting to be consumed.

She inhaled. She couldn’t exhale.

She let herself fall, deeper and deeper, breathless, airless. Finally, consumed.

Lou James -37-

Passage of Life From a pale gray sky, falls small snowflakes. Alone, they are fragile and melt upon impacting the small road that runs through the alleyway. Together, the snowflakes encompass the ground in a white void that blankets everything. Disrupting the perfect sheet of snow are a pair of trails about to intercept. A woman quietly asks, “sir, are you alright?” From underneath layers of raggedy dark coats, an old man scowls and simply grunts.

He keeps walking, ignoring the woman as she tries to insist the question. His toes felt numb. The cold was biting his skin.

Every breath caused a sharp pain to shoot up his lungs. But he kept walking, ignoring the woman as her voice grew more distant. Then it was gone completely. The cold that enveloped him before was now gone, replaced by a vaguely warm feeling. His fingers no longer felt numb, and he actually felt lighter than before, as though he were full of energy he lost long ago.

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But it wasn’t just him that was different, Erik noticed that the whole alleyway was… gone. In its place was a white void, and a bright light in the distance.

A double take, and even a triple take was not enough for everything to return to where it should be around Erik. Even the texture of the ground was strange. It wasn’t smooth, but it wasn’t showing any signs of friction either. Was his feet even touching the ground?

At last, a voice pipes up from behind him. “Take your time, its totally not like I have a job to do.” The figure wore a pure white suit, a set of glasses resting upon his face. He was flipping through a folder, not even looking at Erik.

“Who are you? Where are we?”

The figure sighed. “Names, so unnecessary for my job. Right, I suppose you would call me Huxley. As for where we are…” The crinkle of a paper emanated from Huxley’s palm, as he monotonously read “I am sorry to be the one to break such news to -39-

you, however you have unfortunately passed away. Give them a moment to—” “Excuse me? No. No, no, no I don’t think I’m going to believe you.” “…You may ask me any questions you have, blah blah blah…” Huxley began to trail off, sick of whatever was written on that page.

“Hey, I’m talking to you! Give me an answer, you—” “Sure!” A sarcastic smile forced itself onto Huxley’s face. “Your name is Erik Marshal. As you know, you died of old age at 93 years old in a cold alleyway. You are also clearly a spiteful old man who has not taken the time to try and understand his situation. Any questions of substance?”

Erik hesitated. Huxley’s eyes held an almost depraved hunger in them.

“No? No questions at all then?” He teased. “…Am I really dead?”

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“Yes, you are. Next question.”

“If I’m dead, then this is the afterlife, right?”

“Yes and no. This is an in-between to decide where you’re going to be placed for your afterlife. Anything else?” “…No—” “Great. Now I can get this job done with.

Walk with me, we’ve got a long way to go.”

With a wave of his hand, Huxley began to lead Erik towards the distant light.

Though it was difficult to discern, Erik could tell that they were actually approaching the light, and not some mirage.

The afterlife… Erik never believed in it, but he didn’t have the leisure of processing this fact as Huxley then fished a bundle of papers out of his folder.

“Alright, I think you are going to like this, I need you to tell me your life story.”

“What for?”

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“For my job. I have to hear out what your life was like, then I have to submit a case and fill out a form to get you placed somewhere.”

“Are you supposed to be some kind of angel? And do angels even get to make decisions like this?”

“Your time for asking questions has passed. I need you to answer my questions now. Luckily for you, this is the easy part: Tell me about your life. I don’t care about the order of events, just give me whatever you can recall from your life in that empty head of yours.”

“Why you—” “Tick tock!” Huxley teased, “You have until we reach the light to tell me your story.”

My life… I… don’t want to end up worse off than I was before. I need to find a way to convince him to place me somewhere good. He clearly doesn’t like me already, but I just need to convince him.

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He’ll just have to see what a saint he has with him.

“My life wasn’t an easy one. From older age, I was caught by misfortune, which would eventually lead to me being forced to roam the streets. That was 7 years ago. Prior to that, I was in a retirement community. I was spending my time making connections with other folks and having a hell of a time.”

“Uh huh…” Huxley was lost in thought. “When did you enter this community?”

“Around age 70. I was there for close to 15 years.”

“Interesting. Proceed.”

“Prior to that I was…” Erik froze.

“You were...?”

Erik remained silent. It’s not that he couldn’t remember that time, it’s that he didn’t want to. Anything but then, anything but then…

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“In college I was studying architecture. I had a group of buddies, and we would throw the most stellar parties.

Even after I got a position in our field and they didn’t, we remained friends for years after. It was also when I first met her—” Erik stopped. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. Huxley looked uncomfortable.

“Proceed. And get a grip already.”

“Right, uh…I worked in that field the vast majority of my life until my retirement. In my childhood, my parent were kind and showed care. They raised me well.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, I have a question for you now.”

Uh oh. “What’s your question?”

An impact slammed against Erik and sent him rolling to the floor. About him stood Huxley, his face a cold menace staring down at him from behind the frames of his -44-

glasses. “Do you take me for some kind of fool?”

“What?”

“I KNOW you’re lying.”

“No, I’m not!” Erik contested, rising to his wobbly feet.

“Yes, you are!” Huxley held up the folder. “Contained in here are photographs and minor reports that are meant to help jog the memories of those that read them. From what I have heard you tell me, these reports are not accurate, but that is simply impossible. So, I am going to ask you now: why did you lie?”

“I…” Erik felt small. Weak. Like a frail old man who once walked through the snow desperate to reach a free laundromat on the other side of town before the cold would overtake them, Erik was ready to collapse.

“Speak. Give me your true story, and I may be able to turn things around for you.

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It is obvious why you would lie, you are not the first to do so, but you are foolish enough to believe that you could get away with it.”

Erik remained silent.

“Well?” Huxley hushed his voice, as he said “If you refuse tell me the truth now, we will reach the end of the line, and I will be forced to make your case with a faulty story. They will see through it instantly. I need you to be honest. Please, just help yourself. Let me, and the rest of us understand. Tell us your story again.

Whatever you will give me.”

Though tears had built up in the back of his head, Erik refused to cry. At long last, he looked at Huxley.

“When I was a child, my parents were my most dreaded duo. They would constantly fight, verbally, and at times, physically. I didn’t have a childhood like the other kids around me. Their parents would all smile with them, while I was forced to smile along with mine. They would say, -46-

‘stay away from Erik, dear. He’s no good,’ or ‘No parents again Erik? Serves you right.’

Eventually, it resulted in me hitting a kid across the face. He ended up losing some teeth from my wailing and was sent to the emergency room. All my parents did when they saw me was yell and direct their anger and hate at me. We moved elsewhere soon after, but the problem seemed to follow us, even if it was at a distance.

“Years later, I survived high school and entered college through some generous scholarships. I wasn’t lying about the architecture, nor was I lying about my buddies. Nor did I lie about the parties. I omitted, however, the part where we all got drunk and drew graffiti on several dorm buildings, while I also stole the mascot costume and burned it in a bonfire. This caused a major outcry, and the next day the police were scraping through everything and everyone, trying to figure out who caused the fire. At the time, I claimed it was for the good of the group, but looking back it was just for my sake. I ended up claiming it was -47-

my friend. When the police searched his room, they found lighters, alcohol, and the charred mascot eye. All of which was planted by me. I betrayed him, and he lost everything because of that.

“As for my older, retired self, I simply spent my time alone. You know the details of my death, but I bitterly spent my time in isolation until I couldn’t afford it any longer. I only lived as long as I did through the sympathy I extorted from others.”

Erik finally went silent. Everything was out there. His life summarized. Hatred, lies, and anger. Nothing left to mention.

“What of that last thing?” Huxley asked, carefully yet quickly, writing down every detail.

“What last thing?”

“That thing you omitted. That ‘her’ you mentioned.”

“Right. I didn’t want to talk about it, but I supposed I have to. I met her back in -48-

college, long after my betrayal. She was different in my eyes. She was funny, inquisitive, and had a way to make even the most monotonous tasks interesting. After college we moved in together, dating off and on for years. Until came… the day.”

“What happened?” “…I can’t bring myself to recall.”

“I see. Then let me help you” Huxley reached into the folder and pulled out a photograph of an apartment stairwell. As though he were sucked into the photograph, everything became clearer for Erik. The blue and purple striped wallpaper, the creaky wooden floorboards, and at the end of the hall, the argument held behind the door.

Voices were raised, higher and higher, until finally a woman ran out, tears welling up.

The man on the other side only held a face of shock, as the door soon blocked the hallway off from him.

The woman ran past Erik, sat on the top step, and began to cry.

-49-

“Go on,” Huxley motioned, “speak with her.”

Erik stepped forward and sat next to her.

“Are you alright dear?” In response to his question, the woman jolted back, surprised by this old man’s sudden appearance.

“I’m sorry to bother you sir” she muttered, wiping away her tears.

“It’s… alright. What’s wrong?”

“I… it’s just… I can’t keep doing this anymore. I love him, but I can’t stand him. It’s as though he doesn’t even see me.

He’s too focused on that job of his, and that vague idea of ‘it’s for our future together’ even though we haven’t even wed. Even when he does notice me, most of the time he’s just barking orders at me as though I were some machine. Then there’s his living conditions and his inability to hold a job… I just can’t take it anymore.”

-50-

Tears streamed down her face, as a sob she struggled to hold down began to choke her. This is what she felt. I’m sorry.

“I just,” she continued, sniffling, “I want to be with him, but I don’t know if I can keep withstanding this. I’m barely providing for both of us, and it’s not going to be enough to pay rent this month. I hate him, but I love him. I just don’t know what to do…”

“You know what I think you should do?” Erik posed. Her watery, red eyes were filled with curiosity. “You ought to rid yourself of him.”

“But… I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to. He neither respects you, your property, nor the effort you have been putting into this. You need to leave him, it’s what he deserves.” It’s what I deserved.

“I… I don’t…”

-51-

“Give it some time, and you will begin to heal.” Erik rose from the step and began to walk away.

As he rounded the corner of the stairwell, a faint “thank you” found its way to his ear as Erik stepped back out of the photo. Huxley looked straight at him, a sad expression on his face.

Silence filled the air between the two, until Huxley asked, “How do you feel?”

“Awful. Like a monster. I don’t think I deserve an afterlife.”

“Yes, well not everyone can have what they want. Is there anything you want to add?”

“Nothing could help my case now.

Whatever punishment is coming, is something I deserve.” “…Do you feel guilty?”

“Of course. You saw what happened there, you’ve heard what I said.”

-52-

“Then you’ve at least made a move toward redemption. I may be able to argue a case for you due to the troubles you faced in your life, but I need to know what you want.”

“Whatever my fate is, it whatever is given to me. I’ll let you decide what happens to me. You know me maybe better than myself by now. You’re at least blunt enough to be honest with me.”

“Right.”

At long last, they were at the foot of the light. At the epicenter of the light, there was a gate. The source of this beacon.

Beyond it, it was impossible for Erik to see.

“From here on, it’s all on me to decide your case. I must ask that you wait here, as this will only take a few moments.

And Erik?”

“Yeah?”

“I, at least, forgive you. Whatever happens, good luck in your afterlife.”

Elias Frey -53-

HEAVEN When you finally meet God, you call him “Dad.” He’s balding, freckled, and as always, his face is static- unreadable. He nods, and you sit at his feet.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you tell him.

“You should have,” he says, and he’s right. “God” and “Dad” have always stood over each other’s shoulders, stretching and shoving for space at the back of your mind. God puts a hot, heavy hand on the nape of your neck, and as his fingertips dig into your tendons, you can feel the torn and weak edges of his chewed fingernails. You got that habit from him.

Your head sinks. “Did I disappoint you?”

“Why do you care what I think?”

“Because-“ you scramble for the words. “You’re my father. You’re God.” -54-

“You didn’t care what I thought when you were a teenager. You never listened to me. Why now?”

God releases you, leaving your neck cold. You got your warm blood from his stone. You stare at his hands, sun-spotted, wide, scarred. You know the crescent shaped scars come from his mother. Your grandmother’s nails were always long and perfectly manicured. You wonder why she would ruin them on a little boy’s hand.

Maybe she knew he was God, and he could take it.

“I did care,” you confess. “I still prayed to you. Didn’t you hear?”

“Guess I didn’t listen to you either,” God says. He does not look back at you.

And you become a pillar of salt instead.

Jean Stinchfield -55-

Train I run down the subway stairs and onto to the train, just before the door shuts. I feel the train jolt under my feet as it begins to chug along. I look at my watch, I'll be home in around twenty minutes. I sigh with relief. I want to sit down, but of course there are not seats. My favorite game to play is people watching. I make up stories in my head about where everyone was or has been, then where they're going. Everyone is on their phone, except for one mother who is wrangling her two young children. I smile at her, though she doesn't see me. I begin to write a story about her, about how she returns home after going to the park and playing all day. She is tired from having such a good time with her kids. I close my eyes to begin to imagine more vividly.

The chatter stops; it's silent except for the train noises. I open my eyes to see everyone staring at me, looking at me with blank expressions and empty eyes. My heart sinks. I turn around in a circle and no ones -56-

eyes shift off of me. I try to smile, and fix my hair, but they don't look away. The train doors open, and a man beside me roughly pushes me out. The doors shut quickly, and I stare into the train, everyone has gotten up to look out the window closest to me. They dont stop staring until the train drives away.

I look around. I'm at a train station, the walls lined in cinder blocks and painted white, they're moist with groundwater. There is a dark green bench in the middle of this stop, where there is a woman staring at the tracks.

Against the wall there is two men, leaning against the concrete, one on their phone, another with their eyes closed and head down. There are no signs or maps on the walls, and it's almost completely dark except for one light above the bench. I walk towards the woman.

“Excuse me, what stop is this?” I ask her kindly. She doesn't move, continuing to stare at the tracks.

“Excuse me miss, I got off at the wrong stop, do you know where we are?”

-57-

Once again no answer. I look to the other two people for answers and they have not moved. I walk over to them, first the man on his phone.

“I'm sorry to be a pain, but I’m not sure where I am,” I say to him, no answer. I go to the man beside him and ask the same question. This man, as I begin to speak, his eyes snap to mine. I gasp out of surprise, he doesn't look away from me. I chuckle.

“Sorry, you startled me, do you know where we are?” I ask, plastering a big smile on my face, though my heart begins to beat faster and faster. He slowly returns his head to its previous hung position, not answering my question. I walk backward from him, and stand more closely to the bench. I look at my watch, both hands are rapidly circling.

I tap it with my fingers, trying to fix it. I feel the tears in my eyes begin to grow.

The light goes out. I scream, there is no noise except occasional shuffling. I walk towards where I know there is a wall, with my hands out. Before I reach the wall, I feel -58-

cloth. I jump back as the light goes back on.

All three people have been replaced with other people. Two women are now sitting on the bench, one with their head on the other's shoulder. And a child by himself, playing with a toy dragon in the corner. And a woman I have accidentally touched, staring right at me. My breathing is rapid.

“Please, does anyone know where I am!” I scream out, no one moves. I move towards the wall where no one is standing. I press my back against it, trying to slow my breathing. I fall to the floor, beginning to cry. Tears cloud my eyes as I beg in my mind for a train to come. I wipe my tears and see the woman who was staring at me beginning to take steps towards me. I get to my feet, but they won't move. She is close now.

“Please, I'm begging you, I'm sorry don’t hurt me.” She's only a few inches from me now. Everything is silent. She quickly moves her hand up and tries to grab my face, but I finally allow myself to move and dive -59-

away. I look around. I have fallen on the tracks. I get to my feet just in time to see two bright lights coming from the tunnel.

It’s too fast for me to move, and my body braces itself. I shut my eyes tight.

I feel nothing, and start to hear human chatter again. I open my eyes and find myself back on the same train car I had been pushed off of. I must look scared because a woman taps me and asks if I'm ok.

I nod my head, tears streaming down my face. The woman gives me a sympathetic nod, and goes back to scrolling on her phone. A light pings, as I see my stop. I ran off the train and up the stairs to freedom.

Hayley Diehl -60-

Massage “Asshole,” Phoebe yells after a taxi swerved into a puddle, leaving her new massage scrubs soaking. Being kept awake through the night from the sounds of speeding cars outside her apartment window, the hour or so of sleep she did get carried her through her alarm… again. Phoebe jogs across the trash-littered street, doing her best to avoid the water-filled potholes, and finally reaches the front door of Knead to Relax Spa and Massage Studio before spilling the entire contents of her purse on the floor.

“Did the rain pick up again? You’re soaked through,” her coworker, Rowan, asks while helping Phoebe clean her scattered materials. “Go dry off, you have 10 minutes until your first client.”

Even through the absolutely shit morning, Phoebe couldn't help but feel a sense of calm upon entering her place of work. The building blocks out the chaos of -61-

New York City and fills her head with the calming instrumentals and birdsongs that play over the speakers. It reminds her of home. She remembers the woods of Palo Alto, Pennsylvania during Autumn. The fallen leaves that littered the forest floor.

The smell of neighbor’s bonfires. The thrill of exploring the train tracks even after her mom told her not to. Knead to Relax always cured her homesickness during her 8-hour shifts before she had to reenter into the heavy city air. Where the comforting quiet of nature was drowned out by the voices of thousands of self-absorbed people.

“Your 10:00 is here,” Rowan said, peeking her head in the door.

Taking one last look in the mirror, Phoebe leaves to meet her client in the spa therapy room. Mr. Clint is a regular of hers and already has himself face down on the table. Phoebe has come to the understanding that Mr. Clint enjoys a silent appointment and tends to avoid any unnecessary small talk. A lot of her regulars are like this and -62-

they trust that Phoebe will allow them their hour of quiet during their busy weeks. She takes pride in being able to help Mr. Clint and other clients like him. The quiet appointments provide a comfort for Phoebe as well, allowing her mind to return to wandering the streets of Palo Alto with Evee, her childhood best friend.

By the time Phoebe leaves work, the rain has stopped, allowing her a drier walk home alongside her girlfriend and coworker, Elena. As Pheobe and Elena happily talk about their days, Phoebe receives a text from Rowan.

“Dead Rabbit Bar @10?”

“Obviously,” Phoebe responds Pheobe and Elena rush to Elena’s apartment and excitedly get ready for the night. Two young couple spend their time laughing as they sneak small kisses in between touching up mascara and changing into their “going-out” tops.

-63-

Phoebe is wearing a silver, scoopneck top that gives Elena a small peep at the birthmark on her upper breast.

“What do you think of this top,” Phoebe asks.

Elena grabs Pheobe’s waist and pulls her hips closer, “It’s perfect,” Elena responds as she puts her lips to Pheobe’s neck.

Through small giggles, Phoebe gently tries to push Elena off her body.

“Honey… please… I don’t want a hickey. I’ll have to change my top.”

But Elena only holds on tighter, her fingers imprinting themselves into the meat of Pheobe’s hips. She’s just being playful, don’t let it bother you. Phoebe eventually gives in, allowing Elena to continue and then opts for a backless black top with a slight turtle neck to cover the mark Elena left. Chappell Roan pours through Elena’s portable speaker as she spins Pheobe back into her arms for a dance. An open bottle of -64-

vodka is knocked over as the couple moves to the upbeat rhythm of “Femininomenon” and they take that as their queue to head out to the bar.

Phoebe and Elena enter the bar, hand-in-hand, and see their coworkers, Rowan and Gene, sitting across the bar. The girls have already ordered a round of shots for the group. Phoebe takes in the printed photos lining the ceiling and the dollar bills covered in Sharpie drawings stapled to liquor shelves as she and Elena claim their shots.

After the group is a few drinks in, they start to make up stories about the people in the photos— a common drunk activity of theirs.

“Do you see the way that guy is looking at the girl with red hair? I bet he stole the rest of the margarita next to her and then punched her square in the nose,” Rowan says..

-65-

“That doesn’t even make sense, he’s obviously about to kiss her,” Gene responds through giggles.

“You always go for the love story Gene, pick something new for once,” Rowan replies.

The couple doubles over in laughter at Gene and Rowan’s bickering and promptly orders another round of shots.

Phoebe takes in the atmosphere as Elena snakes her arm around her waist and plants a kiss on her cheek before heading into the bathroom. Phoebe takes this moment as an opportunity to go om a quick walk and get some air from the stink of drunken cigarettes in the crowded bar.

Pheobe walks through the city with liquor warm in her stomach and head fuzzy with giggles that she’s unsure of the source of– all she knows is that life is feeling really funny. For once, the city lights look so, so pretty. They reflect on the puddles from this morning's muggy downpour. What was once ugly is turned beautiful by the reflection of -66-

fluorescent traffic lights and video billboard advertisements. Pheobe observes her fellow drunk twenty-somethings childishly splashing in puddles and watching mud seep into their designer heels. I wish the city always felt like this. It reminds Pheobe of playing with Eevee under rainpipes and racing popsicle sticks down streams created on the road by the summer rain. The children laughing and yelling, “Again,” when a neighbor’s car splashes them with a rain puddle. Phoebe thinks of the phone call she received two weeks prior from Eevee– her sweet voice pouring through the phone and gabbering on about some beauty studio she’s going to open.

Phoebe suddenly hears a faint ringing from across the room as she sits in the living room bing-watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory. Who the hell is calling me right now she thinks as she scrounges through her overfilled purse to find her phone. Evee?

-67-

Phoebe hasn’t heard from Evee in two years aside from the occasional text asking how life is going. Even when they spent every day together, Evee always hated picking up the phone.

“Hello,” Phoebe questions, half expecting it to be a butt-dial.

“Hey girl, how’s it goin’,” Evee says in her typical cheerful voice.

“It’s, uh.. Not bad. How about you?”

Phoebe responds.

“Pretty decent,” says Evee.

A pause rings out for a second too long.

“So, I know this is sudden and we haven’t talked in a while, but I have a proposal for you,” Evee continues, “I bought this old property on Savory Street that I’m hoping to turn into a cosmetology studio.

Y’know, like mani-pedis, hair services, facials, the whole shebang. I want to add a -68-

massage studio as well and was wondering… if you might like to run it.”

“Oh…but I’m in New York,” Phoebe says.

“I know you have your big city job and you’re probably living it up there, but I’d love if you would come visit, even if it’s just to check the place out. Just think about it and give me a call back when you decide,” Evee responds before saying her goodbyes.

Phoebe stares at her blank phone screen for a moment. As much as she misses Palo Alto, she has worked so hard for her life in New York. Hell, just finding a decent apartment was an event worthy of a nervous breakdown. She can’t throw that all away for some small business that she doesn't even know will work out. But something in the back of her mind rings out, I miss home.

The thought of this phone call causes her to forget Elena, Rowan, and Gene at the bar and follows her home as she tangles herself in her warm bed. She considers -69-

calling Evee at that moment to tell her that she’ll do it. She’ll move home and leave all the success and friends she found in the city just to reconnect with her childhood days…

But then she remembers her parents and their wishes. Phoebe’s mom and dad were wonderfully supportive of her moving to the city before their early death. All they wanted was for Pheobe to live in New York in a beautiful home, with a wonderful job, and making great money. The way they planned before Grandma got sick and Momma got pregnant with Pheobe. They said goodbye to their big dreams and lovingly passed them to Pheobe who is now living them out. Pheobe glances at the white vase adorned with delicate blue flowers that, if you look from a far enough distance, look like tiny cracks.

Her parent’s ashes sitting together in their collective space– entwined in each other for eternity– just as they’d wanted. I can’t give up all that they wanted for me. All that I wanted for me. To leave New York would be to abandon her parent’s unfulfilled dreams.

They didn’t want the small-town life for Pheobe because it was too, well, small.

-70-

Phoebe wakes to a dark bedroom.

Bed sheets tangle around her legs, restricting her movement, and reruns of Full House quietly play on her TV. 23 missed calls from Elena.

“Shit,” Phoebe breathes.

Taking a deep breath, Phoebe answers call number 24.

“Where the fuck did you go? I turn around for one second and you’re gone,” Elena's voice is already at that high octave it hits midway through a fight and Phoebe knows that she’s fucked.

“I’m so sorry Elena. I needed some air and then–” Phoebe is cut off by Elena.

“You needed some air and then decided to fuck off with another girl, right.

Who was that phone call from? Your other bitch?”

“No! It was just–” Phoebe is cut off again.

-71-

“You’re such a slut…” Elena continues to tear into Phoebe for the next hour while Phoebe stares at the “end call” button. She could just press it and be done.

She doesn’t have to listen to her girlfriend berate her like some child. But she doesn’t end the call. Phoebe sits on her bed, curling into herself while fighting back tears, and keeps listening.

The weekend rolls away in a numb flash and Monday morning arises. Phoebe stands in front of the mirror and gags over the sink while trying to brush her back molars, pushing so hard that she feels the plastic base of the toothbrush grinding on her teeth. Elena hasn’t spoken to her since Friday night. But Rowan called earlier to ask if it was okay that Elena requested to work the same shift as her. Phoebe said yes, wishing to reconcile with her girlfriend. She rinses the frothy toothpaste from her mouth and heads toward her front door. She Places her hand on the cold, cylindrical doorknob, but doesn’t turn her hand. Pheobe stares at her right hand, frozen around the cold -72-

smoothness of the doorknob, and then looks at her left hand, holding her phone, which has lit up with a message from Evee.

“Have you thought more about visiting yet?”

Phoebe takes one more glance at her right hand before releasing the door handle and replying, “Yes. Be there in three hours.”

Phoebe pulls into a dirt path on Savory Street in Palo Alto. The path leads to a cottage-style building, the sage green paint still shining through despite the layer of dirt that has settled on the walls. The scattered trees have thin wires holding rocks that spiral down the trunks and there’s a set of pastel-colored tea cups and saucers piled on the grass, appearing to have been thrown out by the previous owners. There’s no way.

This property was Phoebe and Evee’s favorite place to hang out as kids. The two used to dream of living in it with their future partners and children.

-73-

“Phoebe!” Evee pulls Phoebe into a hug, “I’m so happy you came. I’ve missed you.”

Phoebe remains in the hug for a moment longer, trying to absorb the scent of Evee: the scent of childhood.

“Our dream house…” Phoebe trails off, astonishment overruling language.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Evee responds.

Evee leads Phoebe inside. “I’m sorry it’s so dark. The electricity isn’t working yet.

As you can see, she needs a lot of work.”

Phoebe glances around at the pink wallpaper, lined with roses, that is peeling off the wall, and at the splintering wooden floor.

“How long will it take to get this place up and running,” Phoebe asks.

“I went over some of the logistics with the contractor and we’re thinking about -74-

three months. I’m planning the grand opening for November 1st,” Evee responds.

“Wow, That’s fast… Really fast. Are you sure that you’ll be ready by then,” Phoebe says.

“I don’t know, but that’s part of the fun,” Evee nudges Pheobe with her elbow, “What do you think? Wouldn’t it be amazing to fix this place up together?”

Phoebe and Evee arrive at Mama Mias– their favorite pizza place.

“I’ve been so caught up with business talk that I forgot to ask how your life’s going,” Evee says before taking another bite of her pepperoni pizza.

“Life’s been, well, interesting. I love my job and my coworkers are amazing. I just struggle with the city. It’s too crowded and loud. I miss how quiet it is here,” Phoebe says.

“Even if you decide not to move back, we should plan more visits to get you -75-

away from the city for a few days… Sooo… any love interests I should know about,” Evee says.

“More like love interest. My girlfriend, Elena,” Phoebe responds.

“Oooh, and how’s that going,” Evee asks.

Phoebe’s voice drops, “It’s okay I guess.”

“You guess,” Evee questions.

Phoebe scratches at the back of her neck. “We had a fight recently is all. I guess we have a lot of those. She blows up and accuses me of cheating on her. She’ll scream for hours and ghost me for a few days. Then she comes back like nothing happened. One time she got so upset that she threw my Winnie the Pooh figurine at my head. She missed, but Pooh shattered. She can be a lot sometimes.”

“Holy shit. Phoebe, that’s not okay.

What if that figurine had actually hit you?

-76-

Why are you still with her,” Evee says, her voice raising in pitch.

“She’s not always like that— only sometimes. It’s not a big deal. Really,” Phoebe quickens her speech, trying to backtrack on what she’s revealed. A heat rash rises on her chest.

“Maybe you should stay here for a bit longer. You can sleep at my place. Take some time away from her,” Evee says.

Phoebe sees her phone screen light up with a text from Elena.

“Hey love, how about dinner tonight?”

Not even an apology.

Phoebe texts back, “I’m sorry. I’m not in town right now, went to visit home.

I’ll try to make it back for dinner.”

“That’s alright. Can’t wait to see you. XO,” Elena responds.

-77-

Evee peers at Phoebe’s phone, “You’re not going to confront her about the fight?”

Phoebe ignores Evee’s comment, “I should probably head home. It’s a long drive.”

“You could spend the night, I really wouldn’t mind. Please don’t go back to Elena. She didn’t even apologize,” Evee says.

“I appreciate the business offer, but I can’t leave Elena. My life is in New York,” Phoebe responds.

“You don’t even like New York. I’m concerned about you and Elena. I understand if you don’t want to join the business, but please don’t go back to Elena yet,” Eevee pleads.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to be concerned,” Phoebe says.

-78-

“Please. Just stay for a few more–” Evee is cut off by the sound of Phoebe’s chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m full. Let’s head back. I want to be home by dinner,” Phoebe says.

Evee complies with Pheobe's request and follows her out of Mamma Mias. The friends silently pile into Evee’s car. We’ve barely spoken in two years. How dare she act like she knows anything about my life.

“You missed the turn,” Phoebe grumbles at Evee.

Evee doesn’t respond as she continues to drive further away from the future cosmetology studio. Phoebe stares out her window a while longer before realizing where Evee is taking her.

“Evee, no. Please. I know what you’re doing.” Phoebe’s voice wavers.

-79-

“You haven’t been on your parents’ street since they passed. You’ve avoided them for too long,” Evee responds.

“I don’t want to see my childhood home empty. Please… just turn the car around,” Phoebe says.

“You won’t listen to me Pheobe. I don’t know if this will help, but you deserve more love than what Elena is giving you.

Maybe seeing this will remind you of that,” Eevee says.

Phoebe’s eyes water as the car stops in front of her childhood home. She takes in the white paneling lining its walls and the yard that leads into the mountain. You can still see remnants of the chimneypieces that fell from the abandoned neighboring home which left a crater in the wall during Pheobe’s sophomore year of high school.

Her dad spent multiple days repaneling the house after the wall was replaced.

Phoebe’s memories are interrupted

by Evee’s voice.

-80-

“Look at the two little girls on the swings. They remind me of us at that age– always trying to climb to the top of the swing set.”

Pheobe silently watches as the girls swing back and forth, kicking their little legs with all the strength they can muster. It’s too much. Phoebe misses her parents and her home too much. She has to go back to New York– it’s what they wanted for her and the pain of coming home to a town that no longer holds their warm, wrinkled faces is too much for Pheobe to handle. She steps out of Evee’s car and, without saying goodbye, walks a few blocks to their dream house and gets in her car.

The further Phoebe drives down the highway, moving by in a mind-numbing blur, the harder it is to not think about Elena, Evee, and her parents. Against her will, Phoebe’s mind wanders and she reflects on her situation in New York. Something about seeing her home and remembering the life -81-

she had with her parents shakes her understanding of her parent’s wishes. Would my parents really want me to stay in the city if they knew how much I hate it? I have the home, the job, the life they wanted for me.

The life I wanted. But I’m not happy there.

Phoebe begins to realize that, maybe, her parents wanted her to live in the city because they thought that would make her happy.

Her parents wanted her to live a fulfilled life. Location shouldn’t matter. Tears form in her eyes as Pheobe realizes that she doesn’t actually have to stay in New York. Her realization makes way for the acknowledgment of how Elena has affected her. She never allowed herself to think for too long about their relationship. Never took the time to feel her emotions, preferring to push them into a dark part of her unconscious mind. With the highway being oddly empty and her music turned down so low she could only hear soft murmurs, these repressed emotions flood her mind. Phoebe feels her face go numb, starting at her nose and spreading through her cheeks and creating a tightness in her forehead. The -82-

numbness finding its way down her arms and creating pinpricks in her fingertips. The world fades around her like the walls of reality are falling away. Her car begins to swerve into the left lane until the blaring horn of a car brings her vision back enough that she can veer her wheels into the right lane and pull over on the side of the highway. Phoebe stares out her windshield, observing the darkness that is only momentarily interrupted by the blur of headlights driving by. She grabs her throat as she feels it tighten, restricting her breath.

Her body begins to shake and the first sob erupts from her stomach. Guttural cries that she is no longer in control of. The world spins around her and she feels like she’s drowning. Choking on the snot and tears draining from her nose and eyes.

Phoebe remains a sniffling mess for half an hour before she’s able to slow her cries enough to blow her nose in a crumpled-up napkin she found in her glovebox. She sits in silence for a few moments before grabbing her phone and -83-

opening Elena’s contact. Phoebe looks at the profile photo of herself and Elena– the couple smiling at the camera on Duck Beach, North Carolina. We look so happy here. I wish we still loved each other the way we did that day. She hesitates before pressing the “block caller” button and again when hitting the confirmation button.

Phoebe’s head suddenly feels so light that it could float away like a balloon and her shoulders release a tension that she didn’t know was there. It was like getting a massage without anybody actually touching you.

Alyssa Sheriff -84-

Halfway I've been running. I don't remember when or where I started, but my legs do not stop moving. Not until I reach a tall house.

The house is Victorian, painted in crimson red and black trim. The house is tall, almost abnormally tall, and skinny. It looks as if it would collapse with one strong gust of wind. I step up the stairs to the porch of the house and gaze upon a ginormous wooden door. It is black, or maybe a dark brown, and almost three times my size. My legs begin to move once again, towards the door. I must go in. I push on the door with all my might, and it moves, with a screech. I brace myself against the door as it slowly opens. I fall inside.

The door shuts, and I hear a lock click. I slowly raise my head up from the floor, and all I see is a house. It looks normal, there's a couch, some chairs, a fireplace, and paintings lining the wall, almost too normal. The inside perfectly matches the outside's aesthetic of an old, -85-

vintage-looking interior. I begin to stand up slowly; my whole body hurts. As I get to my feet, I notice the scuffs on the floor from where I landed.

‘Did I scuff the floor when I fell’ I thought to myself. There is no way, I'm not a small person, but not big enough to damage the floor. I set my eyes on a painting of what looks like a wash of colors. Greens and blues and reds; it looks like it was just thrown onto a canvas. But it wasn't. I can see the brush strokes, this was intentional.

There is a figure in the middle. It has 3 legs, attached to the ground, and it is painted in all pinks and reds. It looks like a person's innards before they are clothed in skin. I place my fingers on the figure, I can feel the paint on the canvas. This painting isn't finished. I look back to the couch; there is a thick layer of dust on the cushions, but the cushions are not padded. In many places, it looks as if the cloth is cut out, and the springs and stuffing are exposed. There is half a couch skirt, and in some places, it is pinned up. The couch is not finished. As I -86-

spin around looking at the room, nothing is finished.

The paneling on the wall is half torn down, the cushions on the chairs are the same as the couch, and even the fireplace is half painted a bright lime green. There is a bucket of lime green paint sitting next to the fireplace, and there is paint splatter trailing up the stairs. I follow it, walking up the wooden stairs. The bansiter is unfinished, as is the dark brown staining on the orange wood. The lime green paint stops when I reach a balcony. Pushing the door, I walk outside. I half expect to see a monster or some kind of particle in the sky, telling me I'm in a different world. This world feels lighter, I feel as if I could jump and touch the top of this house. I am wrong. The outside is dark, no houses around, just trees, and here are lights lining the driveway of the tall house. The driveway connects to a road.

Everything is once again too normal. I almost wish to myself that there was some indication of something, someone around. I -87-

wish something was wrong, that something felt wrong, but it doesn't. I look at the driveway and see a lime green splash right in the middle. Someone is here! I rush back down the stairs and to the door. I try to push on the door, but I feel a force pushing back.

I bang on the door with my fists, my panic and desperation increasing. Time passes, and I sit on the ground, staring at the huge door.

It seems as if it is beginning to grow bigger.

Tears come to my eyes, but I can't put my finger on why. I'm in a daze. Am I in a dream? Where am I? Is any of this real? I begin to stand again and walk back up the stairs, I want to see the outside; I want to get fresh air. I walk onto the balcony, tears almost freezing on my face from the cold wind. I place my hand on the banister. As I look down, I see the driveway covered in lime green paint splashes.

Hayley Diehl -88-

Acknowledgements The Prose Committee would like to greatly thank everyone who made this chapbook possible: To our Executive Board; Jenny Russell, Kylie Saar and Gretchen Lambie: Thank you for all you do for this journal and for this club. “Club” doesn’t feel like a strong enough word to express how much The Reflector means to me. With your talent, time and kindness, you have truly made an impact on all of us. Words cannot express how grateful I am for all of you.

To our committee members: Thank you so much for your constant support throughout the ranking process and through the process of putting this chapbook together. Your input was greatly valued.

To our writers: A huge thank you to everyone who submitted their work to this book. Your creativity and enthusiasm for writing is inspiring. We wouldn’t have this journal -89-

without your hard work and amazing talent.

We are so honored to publish your stories, and we know that all of you will go on to produce more great works.

To Kim Hess: Thank you for working with us to create the perfect chapbook. We greatly appreciate your assistance in all the behind-the-scenes aspects of this journal, such as binding and paper colors. All of this would not be possible without you.

To Professor Neil Connelly, advisor of The Reflector and Spawning Pool: Thank you for your constant support throughout this entire semester. Your help and guidance are what made this journal so successful.

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