Unmoored
Prose Spawni ng
Pool Spri ng 2026
SpawningPool
Prose Chapbook
“Unmoored”
Spring 2026
Shippensburg University
Spaw ningPool 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 Inquiries: reflect@ship.edu
SpawningPool Prose Chapbook, Spring 2026
Text set in Cascadia Code
Printed by Shippensburg University
Layout by Morgyn Thomas and Shawn McGuigan
Cover Photograph by Shawn McGui g an
Prose Editors:
Morgyn Thomas
Shawn McGuigan
Prose Committee Members
Kylie Saar
Annikka Stangil
Lindasy Smith
Sarah Burrows
Letters from the Editors
Dear reader,
Choosing a theme for this year’s Prose SpawningPool proved to be a much greater feat than anticipated; after all, there exist few emotions which can be summed up in a singular word. However, “unmoored” was an adjective we felt everyone would be able to relate to. With this theme, we wholeheartedly wanted to convey a sense of disconnect, that lost, confused, completely overwhelming feeling of disconnect from the world around us . We fel t this is a universal experience for everyone, at one time or another. “Unmoored” is about a sense of detachment and the void it leaves in its wake, the one which can often feel difficult to confront. This wonderful publication would not have come to fruition without the talent displayed by our courageous authors. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading each entry and continue to be indescribably grateful for your dedication.
I’d like to give a huge thanks to my wonderful associate editor, Shawn McGuiga n . With this being my first year working on The
Reflector , I genuinely could not have gotten to this point without you. Thank you sincerely for all of your help and support in the creation of this chapbook. It has been my privilege getting to know you and working with you this year.
Thank you, as well, to the amazing E - Board for always supporting the genre editors in all our endeavors. Your dedication to these publications truly makes all the difference, and I believe it is because of you that they are even possible.
And, of course, thank you, reader. Without your bravery to submit your works, there would be no book to publish at all.
Best of luck in all of your future writing endeavors!
Sincerely,
Prose Genre Editor
Morgyn Thomas
Dear reader,
The theme of unmoored was a complicated journey for us to explore. We wanted to explore that feeling of release, that cathartic moment of letting go, but we also wanted to explore the hollow moment that comes after. Unmoored allowed us to pursue both these ideas through the emotions and actions present in everyday life. The creation of this spawning pool would not have been possible without all the brave writers who submitted their brilliant works over the past year. I am grateful to have been able to read your stories and work to commemorate your efforts. As you all continue to work towards your dreams, I hope you never lose sight of the passion you’ve shown in this journal.
I’d like to thank our Head Prose Editor Morgyn Thomas for her amazing work and leadership for this project. This publication was made possible through your sheer dedication and effort. I’m grateful for the opportunity to have collaborated with you on such a stellar publication.
I’d like to thank our wonderful E - board for their passion and commitment to the spawning pool and reflector as a whole. Your constant encouragement and drive is an inspiration to us all, and I’m glad to have worked alongside you all.
Lastly, I would like to thank you, my dear reader. Without your interest and support, this publication may not have been possible. I hope you enjoy this year’s publication.
Sincerely,
Prose Associate Editor
Shawn McGuigan
Table of Contents
Benjamin W. Zacharias
Journal of the Rift Crosser - 9 -
Pilgrimage to Lake Erie - 31 -
Kylie Saar
Helping Hands - 12 -
Kayla Do The Boat - 29 -
Rebekah Garrido Mirror Image - 34 -
Sarah Sprague I Only Know Him Because - 52 -
Journal of the Rift Crosser
There’s this screwdriver hidden under my chair. Someone must have left it when they were building this spacecraft. I found it a week ago. It’s my secret. Something my copilot doesn’t know.
I just can’t take it anymore I am completely shut out. We talked at first, but there is truly nothing out here. We’ve been in this cramped cockpit for, God, I can’t even tell how long. I sleep in the bottom bunk of a bed four inches shorter than me; I eat food synthesized from my waste flavored with chemicals from my urine; I sit in my chair, the damn chair that pinches my tailbone and I look out into empty, black, lifeless space. Worst of all, he’s there. He sits right next to me. He sleeps above me. He ea ts with me. Our shit. Our piss.
We used to talk about the mission, collaborate on asteroid mining, and plot a course through these hundred empty parsecs. After a month there wasn’t anything new to say about that anymore. They packed us with movies too, to watch and discuss. That only
works until you’ve seen a hundred films and already know each other’s opinions. We’d talk about our lives and childhoods: who was waiting for us back home, what our dreams were. We’ve confessed sins to one another we won’t take to God. And when all those s ecrets were spoken, we ran out of things to talk about altogether. After the second week of silence, I changed my sleep shift to be during his awake hours, but even that can’t eliminate the eight excruciating hours of failed conversation a day.
Last night I had a dream. I was scanning asteroids and caught a glance of myself in the cockpit glass. I was looking from behind his eyes, wearing his face. Now I can’t even escape him in my sleep. A few times, I’ve turned the ship around for a few minutes and located my home star. I’ll gaze at it and recall the dog I had when I was a boy. I remember my first kiss outside the diner on that long desert highway. I imagine the smell of cinnamon from my mother’s pumpkin pie.
No, my mother hated pie. It was his mother who sprinkled cinnamon in uniform vertical columns on the pies, and I hadn’t learned the name Alphonse before this mission. Why did I think my dog’s name was Alphonse? I’ve never liked dogs.
He’s asleep now, probably dreaming of asteroids, or more likely recalling the taste of my Melody - Jane’s lips on that cool desert night. I’m twisting that screwdriver in my hand as I think of it. Tonight, I’ll stab him with it. That’ll give us something to talk about.
Benjamin W. Zacharias
Helping Hands
Hot coffee poured into Lillian’s mug, the strong scent of coffee grounds wafting up towards her nostrils with the steam. She heard a door slam to her left and looked over to see her boss hurriedly putting on his jacket and slinging a bag over his shoulder. His face furrowed with frustration as he directed his attention to the department secretary, Carla.
“I’m off to my cardiology appointment that I should have been at…now.” He checks his watch and glares back pointedly at Carla.
Carla reddened as she looked back at him.
“I’m so sorry Jim, it looks like I didn’t have that appointment in your calendar or else I would have reminded you” She hurriedly says.
Lillian scoffed under her breath. Carla was the department secretary, not Jim’s personal one, though Jim didn’t seem to know
this, and no one had the guts to tell him that.
“If the appointment was in my calendar you wouldn’t have to remind me” He rolls his eyes as he makes a beeline towards the door, passing Lillian as she reaches for her mug.
“She’s lucky she’s still young and attractive, she’s not good for much else.”
Lillian freezes, wondering if Jim intended her to overhear his mutterings.
Anger pricked in her chest. Just as it did a small, green vine sprouted slightly below where the sleeve of her jacket met her skin, near her wrist. Her eyebrows shot up and she rus hed to put the mug down, tugging her jacket over her sleeves before dashing into the nearest bathroom.
As the door swung closed behind her, Lilian began inspecting her body in search of any other vines in the small, dimly lit bathroom mirror. A small voice spoke in her head.
Why do you try to hide us? We’re only here to help.
A small laugh escaped Lillian’s lips before she quietly muttered her response.
“I really don’t see how green vines sprouting out from my body any time I get even slightly angry or upset is supposed to be helpful.”
Lillian waited for a response but there was none. She locked eyes with herself in the mirror and began box breathing the way her therapist taught her. After repeating the steps for a full minute, she rolled up her sleeves and checked for the small vine. T here was no sign of it, just a slightly greenish hue to the veins that shone through her skin.
Lillian walked back out to the coffee bar, picking up her mug before returning to her office. She placed her coffee next to her monitor and took a deep, steadying breath. She closed her eyes to soak in one last peaceful, calming moment, just as her coeditor, Noah, popped his head in.
“Heyo!” He loudly called, startling Lillian. She wondered why he felt the need to project his voice in such a small space.
“Hello.” Lillian flatly responded. Noah and her had been working closely together for the past month, editing a new collection of essays that analyze contemporary horror novels and their use of magical realism.
Noah stared at her, as if waiting for her to say more. Lillian stayed silent, waiting for him to explain his sudden presence in her office. He pulled out a proof copy of their book from behind her back and placed it on her desk.
“Ta - da!” He cried emphatically, adding celebratory jazz hands.
Lillian’s eyes lit up in excitement at the sight of the proof.
“Oh my gosh I didn’t realize the proof was coming today!” She exclaimed, running her hands over the cover. Her excitement was briefly overcome with slight confusion. “Wait, I thought we were going to sit down
and discuss the edits together before sending it off to the printer.”
Noah shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another before responding.
“Yeah…I thought so too, but you were supposed to send me your edits last week…and you didn’t. I thought that meant you were happy with the last round of edits you did on your chapters.”
Lillian stared at him, a mix of confusion, anger, and panic rising in her chest. She automatically tugged at the sleeves of her jacket in response to the feeling.
“But I did send them, I finished them two days before I was supposed to send them to you, I remember sending them to you because I was late to get lunch with a friend because of it” As Lillian spoke she pulled up her email and began scrolling through her “sent” folder. “It should be right there!” She gestured at the screen.
Noeh leaned over her shoulder, hand on his chin, brows cinched together in concentration.
“Aha” He quietly says, and points to her drafts folder.
There, Lillian saw the number 1 and clicked on it. The email she thought she sent to Noah over a week ago sat there, staring back at her.
Shit. Lillian thought to herself, glancing at her jacket sleeve. She could swear she felt something moving, though she could not look to confirm how many small vines were extruding from her arms.
“Why didn’t you email me or mention something when you didn’t get the pages? You see me almost every day.” Lillian looked over at Noah, arms clutching her wrists in an attempt to seal off any exits for the vines.
“Hey, it’s not my job to be your keeper. If I had to clean up everyone’s mistakes every time they messed up, I’d never get anything done around here.”
Anger once again flared up in Lillian's stomach. The words “you messed up” fell on her ears and dropped inside her like stones. Her nostrils flared as she huffed a response.
“I didn’t mess up, I just didn’t hit send. I’ll fix it, just send me your edits and I’ll have a new proof ready to be printed before we’re in the office tomorrow.” She could feel herself getting flustered, which made her panic more. She caught a glimpse of a small green leaf on the back of her right hand and quickly stuck it under her leg.
Noah shrugged. “Sure if that’s what you want. More work for you, I’m not complaining.”
Lillian shoved the physical proof back into his hands. “Yes yes, that's what I always want more work. Can you send it to me now so I can at least get started though…and have some alone time this morning?”
Noah raised his hands in surrender and grabbed the proof before walking away.
Lillian closed the door to her office and pulled the shade over the windows. She frantically shed her jacket and was met by dozens of twirling vines protruding from both of her arms.
Hello again Lillian. They called. Nice to see you, and so soon. Twice before noon? I think this is a record.
She scrunched up her eyes to try to silence the voice, and she began to box breath again. Thoughts of Noah putting together the proof, not double checking with her, telling her she messed up swam through her head, making it difficult to calm down, to get rid of the greenery surrounding her. She lifted her mug to her lips and focused on the rich taste of the coffee wash over her tongue, trying to find the notes of chocolate and earthy florals.
When she opened her eyes again the vines were gone. She shrugged into her jacket once again and got to work on the next proof.
That night at home while editing, Lillian’s mind wandered to the comment her boss had made about Carla this morning.
She’s lucky she’s still young and attractive, she’s not good for much else.
She wondered, is that how she was viewed too? When Noah didn’t even check in on her after not receiving her edits, was he thinking the same thing? Or was he just thinking that she wasn’t good for much, wondering why she was hired?
Lillian knew she should not have been surprised at the comment, it was a well - known fact across campus that Jim was a womanizer, and had more title nine cases open than he did golf club memberships. She was just thankful his snide remarks haven’t been dir ected towards her, at least, not that she knew of. She considered how Carla probably did not hear the comment Jim made , and suddenly doubted that she’d never been the topic of one of Jim’s crude comments.
A mix of sadness and anger once again washed over Lillian. In the comfort and safety of her own home, she did not attempt to cover up the now sprouting vines, yet she still did not welcome or accept their presence.
Somebody has been quite angry today, haven’t they? The vines taunted in her head.
“Well since that’s the only time you care to show up, and seeing that you’ve shown up three times today, yes, yes I have been. Thank you for that groundbreaking observation.” Lillian felt angry with the vines, but immediately attempted to squash the feeli ng, knowing that it would just make them stronger. They were quiet for a beat, but Lillian could sense they weren’t done talking.
Cautiously, the vines asked Why don’t you let yourself feel?
Lillian sighed, laughing slightly at the question. Why didn’t she?
“I don’t let myself feel anger for a lot of reasons. I’m afraid of being labeled as an ‘angry woman,’ I’m afraid of being accused of being on my period, I’m afraid of turning into my father, but most importantly, I’m afraid of people seeing vines sproutin g out of me like some freak of nature any time I get even slightly frustrated, and throwing me into some experimental lab.”
The vines were quiet for another moment, considering.
But don’t you think we’re beautiful?
Lillian actually laughed at this, a short, loud singular laugh. Her anger dissipated, and the vines began to retreat. Just before the last one disappeared, she heard the vines speak to her quietly, their voice disappearing along with them.
If you let us in, we could help you. We just want to help.
Lillian giggled at the thought of this.
“We’re here to help,” she repeated out loud. “And I’m here to become queen of the vines!” she sarcastically exclaimed. She wrapped herself up in a blanket and continued working on Noah’s and her proof, sending it in just as the clock ticked to show 11:59 p m.
Lillian was late to work.
She ran into her office and threw her bags on her desk. She only had 15 minutes before her next lecture began, and needed 150 print outs for what she had planned to work. Her feet broke into a half run, trying to respect the unspoken rule of no running in the hall at the university.
Barging into the department suite, she passed the coffee machine on her way to the printer, glancing longingly at the grounds just ready to be turned into delicious coffee.
“No time,” she said under her breath. Just as she was about to swipe her card to begin printing, she heard her name coming
from Jim’s office. She rolled her eyes as she began to walk towards it, until she realized that she wasn’t being called for —she was being discussed. Lillian’s feet froze under her, should she listen? Her feet refused to move, forcing her to tune into the c onversation.
She recognized the other man’s voice to be Noah’s as he vented.
“I thought working with Lil would be great, I mean I’d get another edited collection with my name out there and lot’s of control over the project as a whole. I feel like she’s been dragging me down though, first she didn’t get me her edits, and she failed to tell me this until I had our first physical proof out. Then she redid the whole thing herself and sent it over to the print shop last night and only cc’ed me —she didn’t even send it to me for me to check first!”
Lillian could feel anger beginning to rise up her throat at the hypocrisy.
Jim chuckled at Noah’s complaints.
“Listen, I know situations like that can be frustrating, but look at it from my perspective: she puts in more work after hours, accepts a lower pay, and is a hell of a lot nicer to look at than you are. You’re just going to have to figure this out between the two of you.”
Lillian saw red. She could feel the vines writhing beneath her jacket.
Let us out. Let us out. Let us HELP.
Lillian did not know what they meant still by help, but she didn’t care. She was livid. She stormed into the office and slammed the door behind her. The two men turned to her, registering the rage present on her face. Lillian opened her mouth to speak at t he same moment Jim did, but before any words could come out her jacket was ripped to shreds, vines bursting forward, towards the two men.
The vines wrapped themselves around Noah and Jim’s arms and legs, binding them to the chair.
“What the fu - ” Noah tried to ask, but before he could finish speaking the vines entered his open mouth, wrapping themselves around his tongue. Jim’s eyes widened in horror and he clamped his mouth shut, as if attempting to avoid the same fate.
Lillian could see the vines wrapping themselves around Noah’s tongue, tightening until the tip of it turned a deadly shade of purple. Suddenly, and without warning, the vines violently exited Noah’s mouth, taking his tongue with it.
Noah’s eyes filled with tears and disbelief as blood poured from his mouth, onto his shirt. Jim screamed at the sight of so much blood. The vines acted quickly, taking the opportunity to weave themselves around his mouth and excavate his tongue in the sam e manner.
Lillian stood in a daze, staring as the two men in front of her profusely bled from their mouths. Noah’s eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp, Jim followed shortly after. Both men sat unconscious in their chairs as the vines slithered around
them. Lillian noticed that the blood was seemingly disappearing. When she looked closer she could see that the vines were absorbing no drinking the blood. She looked at the bundle of vines surrounding what were Noah and Jim’s tongues and realized that they were not only drinking the blood, but they were breaking down and eating the tongues of her co - workers.
The sight made her snap out of her daze as she exclaimed “What the fuck are you DOING?”
The vines immediately responded, their voice louder than it ever had been before.
We’re helping! We’re eliminating the source of your anger, feeding on it to make us stronger, to make you stronger.
Just as they said this, Lillian felt a sudden boost of energy. She felt fantastic, she didn’t need her coffee, why had she ever thought she needed coffee? She couldn’t even remember what it felt like to feel tired. She was as light as a feather, felt like she could run a marathon with no prior training.
Then she heard a strange gurgle coming from somewhere in the room, and her attention snapped back to reality.
The noise had come from Jim’s direction. She looked at him as the vines continued to squeeze him, more blood pouring from his mouth like a ketchup packet. She looked at his face and the realization hit her. She looked at Noah's face. She felt cold. Jim a nd Noah were officially dead.
The vines began moving even faster than they had before, winding themselves around the deceased bodies, encapsulating them until Lillian could not see the two men anymore. In a matter of minutes, the vines retracted. Lillian was shocked at what she saw. W here the two men had previously sat were two empty chairs, spotless. There was no sign of what had just occurred.
She stood there stunned, not sure what to do, suddenly curious. She wondered to herself what else the vines could do. The vines responded, reading her mind. We are capable of so, so much more .
Kylie Saar
The Boat
My Grandmother’s Perspective
The old fishing boat made travels before, and this was going to be a long one. The men at the front of the boat barked fast orders. Get in! Sit down! Quiet! They pushed my daughters and I in the farthest corner; it smelled of pure death. Other families, strangers and old friends, were packed against us. My seven daughters held onto each other, tears spilling down their cheeks as they cried for their father and brothers. I struggled to keep a brave face, imagining how the soldiers had separated us. My husban d and three sons were taken, forced to take another way out of the country. I struggled to sit still. My legs ached. I could not sleep though; I had to watch over my daughters. Even at sea, we women were not entirely safe. I removed all but one piece of je welry, and placed it onto a small pile. As a few of the men had moved to our section of the boat, I offered them the gold rings and diamond earrings. Why? It was better to offer money than be raped.
As night fell upon us, I felt my sanity leaving my body. Time slipped away from me, and jumping into the cold sea seemed possible. Ma, stop it! My eldest daughter had grabbed my wrist, stopping myself from chewing on my wedding bracelet and skin. Although my daughter had stopped me momentarily, my delusions did not leave me. I imagined the dead bodies of my husband and sons; the dread and anxiety of not knowing their fates, at the time, were killing me. I had my daughters by my side, but how could I protect them? I am just one person. The fear of the unknown had replaced my anger over the war. Where were we going? Would we be safe? Will we be able to return to the place we once called home? I continued to chew on my bracelet, until the metal and my blood tas ted the same.
My grandmother, mother, and aunties, would reunite with my grandfather and uncles at a refugee camp. They would then arrive in the United States, and become U.S. citizens.
Kayla Do
Pilgrimage to Lake Erie
I think I left my soul out on the water.
I first came to Erie for college. It was so far away and a long enough trip by car that I knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t visit. My first pair of semesters went well; I worked as a cleaner in the rec center at night to pay for the classes I took during the day. On occasion, I would find the time to catch some shut eye between. It was a hard bargain, but it was the one I made. At the end of the spring term, I realized that I would need work and lodging over the summer if I wanted to continue avoiding home.
The work came from a ship called Deepnight. She had a license to do some fishing during the day, but her captain, Dorris Ulsh, liked to fish a little after the sun went down as well. The illicit work’s pay was premium and included a bunk in a warehouse jus t by the docks. We woke every day at sunset to the smell of oatmeal, ate, then smuggled ourselves aboard Deepnight while she was unloading that day’s (first)
catch. On deck we’d wrestle slime - slick nets into the lake and then struggle against the waves and water to get them back. As we drew the nets onto deck, the fish flopped and jerked for breath.
A week before the fall semester started, we went out onto Erie as a small storm was brewing. An hour later, it came to the ship like a stumbling drunk, throwing itself into the hull in a stupor. We got to witness firsthand the towering walls of water that abraded the ship and the currents that brought us down in their wake. I was pulling a steel line attached to a net when an undercurrent ripped it down so quickly that the tips of my index and middle fingers were sliced right off. My blood was rapidly becom ing part of the water of the great lake. I ran for something to wrap up my hand when the ship fell out from under us. A wave taller than God swelled and crashed into Deepnight, pinned me to her, and pushed us down. It was euphoric: the full power of water pressed against me, a battering as a reminder of its power and love.
School starts tomorrow, and already I have a letter from home. Maybe Mom saw about the storm on the news, or maybe Dad’s mad about the copay for stitching the nubs of my two fingers shut. I don’t really care about either. When I sit in class learning to wr ite with my left hand I’ll be thinking of the rain. When I walk to my dorm I’ll be matching my breaths to the rhythm of the waves. Just as I had been taking from Erie, so too had she taken from me. I understand her and the price I have to pay for her love. I’m withdrawing from college and going to speak to Dorris today. Surely she still needs crew .
Benjamin W. Zacharias
Mirror Image
There were eight hundred dollars left for expenses that month. It was already the 23rd. Jacob spent roughly a hundred dollars on groceries a week, but even being conservative, he would still have to keep taking the checks his father sent to him. On the bright side, he wouldn’t have to ask him for anything more, which meant he wouldn’t have to talk to him at all. He didn’t want to keep taking handouts from the bastard, but he knew that if he denied him even that sliver of contact, the leash around his ne ck would reappear. If he was dragged back, he didn’t think he would be able to escape again.
Besides, it was the least his father could do for him. And the least he could do for himself. Game testing most certainly wasn’t a career; it was a freelance side hustle at best and that was for people who had a main hustle.
Even when he grinded throug h his projects and picked up others, it was barely covering a fraction of his apartment’s rent.
It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t hold down a typical job. Michelle made sure of that.
Before Jacob left for the grocery store that morning, he’d opted for a hoodie and jeans, clothes with straight lines and swallowed his skinny figure whole. As soon as he moved out of his father’s house, he burned the clothes he’d been made to wear his whole life; clothes that exclusively came in pastels and with cinched waists. Now independent, he opted for clothes colorless and shapeless.
He’d attempted to pull his hair back in a ponytail, but a few face - framing layers that Michelle insisted upon curled around his face. He held back the strands by pulling a baseball cap low over his eyes. He purposefully kept his face black and unreadable ; smiles were invitations and he didn’t have any of those to spare.
He hadn’t wanted to leave that morning. He had woken up, exhausted and naked in bed with his lips stained red. Michelle must have visited in the
middle of the night. On days post - Michellevisits, it was better to just barricade himself inside, but today was Saturday and Saturday meant trips to the grocery store.
Jacob was leaving the grocery store. A tedious but constant errand that forced him out of the house. He walked down the same mundane path he always did to get home. As he approached the apartment complex, there were flashing lights. Blues and reds and glaring white that left spots in his vision. Jacob squinted his eyes and lowered the brim of his cap before walking through the boisterous crowd. There were murmurs and whispers abound, a level of intensity that Jacob had never experienced from the town . That was why he had moved here to begin with.
“Excuse me,” an officer in a blue uniform said with a hand dangerously close to his chest. Jacob staggered back, but he still felt the ghost of warmth from the officer’s palm. It made him shudder. He tried not to think of what Michelle would have done if the officer had managed to touch
him. “Only tenants allowed. There’s a crime scene inside. No loitering.”
“I do live here,” he said, trying to bite back the desperation that was no doubt creeping into his voice. “My name is Jacob Crawley. I live in apartment 306.”
“Apartment 306?” The officer’s eyes widened, a suspicious glint that made Jacob’s stomach churn. He should have just complied and taken his chances outside. “Does that mean you’re Kyle Hopkins’ neighbor?” the officer asked.
Kyle. The name pierced through his chest and lodged itself right into his heart. Stolen glances behind doorways or when getting their mail, hands side by side. Human interactions that Jacob tried to avoid but craved in an inexplicable way he had only experienc ed a handful of times before. Interactions that made his heart hum and his bones ache with longing when they were over. He’d heard of people fantasizing about scenarios before —whether they be altercations with witty comebacks or completely improb able if not impossible
romantic encounters but he’d never been one of those people until Kyle.
Until Michael, too, but that had only lasted until Michelle got her hooks into him. That was two years ago in Jacob’s last apartment. He’d moved out the second Michael was out of the picture.
To his horror, Michelle had accompanied him. Michelle would always follow him; they weren’t just blood, but everything in between.
“Yes, I know Kyle,” Jacob replied. “But we’re just neighbors. We’re…We’re not that close.” The brutal truth made his heart sink. They had been getting close to something more, their lives skirting on something genuine and bordering on intimate. They had just moved past subtle, suggestive glances to purposeful grazing of their hands as they stood next to each other in the elevator.
“There’s a few questions I want to ask you. We can talk in your apartment, if that would be more comfortable,” the officer
offered, as if his forceful tone left room for that. It wasn’t more comfortable, but Jacob didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to himself by protesting. But the idea of having a stranger in his home made his skin feel too tight and like his brain was about to burst within his skull. His apartmen t was private. Only he and Michelle crossed through its doors, and if Jacob had a say? He wouldn’t let Michelle in, either. She may as well be a carbon copy of his father: controlling and invasive, crawling into all the spaces Jacob tried to keep to him self and settling herself in like termites in a wooden foundation.
Before they went into his apartment, Jacob paused in the hall. The yellow tape across Kyle’s door frame was impossible to ignore; gaudy stripes across the doorframe that led to Kyle’s apartment. Jacob had only imagined being invited beyond those bounds. Based on the unconcealed blood that spilled across the scuffed wooden floors, Jacob would never have the opportunity.
He caught a glimpse of an arm strewn across the floor. Against his will, his eyes followed the lines of the flesh. The arm led to a shoulder. Then a bruised neck, wrung out like a soaked dishcloth, and finally Kyle’s flaccid face. His eyes, previously a blue that glistened like sapphires under the white lights of the apartment, were now flecked with speckles of red that clashed with the purple tinge of his skin. All of him seemed duller, diminished, a discarded doll left strewn across the floor.
Jacob placed a hand over his chest. His heart was thumping so loud, he could feel it all across his body: in his head, across his arms and legs, all the way down to his fingertips and toes like they had been crushed and were now throbbing under a cinderb lock. Every heartbeat became stronger until he was sure that pressure in his head was going to make his eyes pop out of their sockets.
He looks, Jacob thought, just like how Michael did.
The officer guided Jacob through the open door of his apartment with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. Michelle wasn’t going to like that.
“Mr. Crawley, how well did you know Kyle?” the officer finally asked once they were sitting across from each other in the minimalist living room. Jacob had tried to delay the inevitable with offers of beverages and snacks, but the officer had shut him do wn with a steely glance. Even though they were five feet away from each other, Jacob could swear he felt the officer’s stale breath on his face.
“We’re neighbors.” Jacob scratched the back of his hand until he noticed nail polish partially smeared across his nails like someone had given up halfway through in trying to remove it. He tucked his hands inside of his sleeves. “We see each other when we get our mail. Sometimes when I come home from the grocery store. But that’s the extent of our relationship.” Not entirely a lie, but also not quite true. But the officer didn’t need to know about the small
flirtations that had briefly begun to be exchanged.
The officer looked Jacob up and down. Jacob’s hand shot out from his lip and tugged at one of the locks of his hair that had slipped out of his ponytail and was now brushing against his cheekbones. He hastily tucked it behind his ear and pushed back as many strands away from his face so his features weren’t softened by the gentle curves of the face framing pieces. He hoped the officer noticed the contours of his jaw and narrow browbone. Anything to make his features sharper, harsher, less like Michelle ’s.
The officer opened up the notebook he had been toting around. Jacob hadn’t until now noticed the edges of a photograph protruding from the edges. “Your neighbors said that Kyle has been seeing a woman recently. Would you happen to know who this is?” T he image was of a woman in a flowy tea - length dress with her shoulder length hair coiffed into innocent curls. The camera only caught a glimpse of her profile, but she
had defined features offset by daintily applied makeup; full lips shaded pink, shimmering blush low on her cheeks to give her the plump face of a school girl. She was tall, almost as tall as Kyle was, as the camera captured him tucking a curl behind her e ar.
Tears automatically flooded Jacob’s eyes. He hated that, the sign of weakness that immediately appeared the second Jacob became the slightest bit overwhelmed. He remembered how he’d cried the first time he’d seen Michael, bloodied to a pulp at his feet, and he had sobbed in heaves over his corpse.
He blinked away the tears and swallowed. The walls of his mouth were dry, rubbing against his tongue like sandpaper as he talked. “Yes,” he said. How would he straddle the line of this lie? “She’s —She’s my sister. Michelle.”
The officer held the photograph up and once again examined Jacob. Probably checking for a family resemblance. He’d find them everywhere; he and the woman in the
photograph had the same color hair and eyes hair like spilled ink and eyes the color of honey —and may as well have been born from the same mold. Both their bodies had a coltish build and sharp lines. Jacob wished he could pull the cap of his hat down low er without seeming suspicious.
“Twins?” the officer asked. Jacob wanted to cry again, but this time his body loosened as relief suddenly flushed his system. He nodded to the officer.
They ran through the normal questions
Same last name? Where does she live? Where does she work? to which Jacob gave as little information as possible. Yes, he and his sister shared the same last name. No, he didn’t know where she lived or worked, but she did stay over at his place sometimes. If they searched his apartment, it would explain away an y of the items he himself had forgotten were there: the makeup and nail polish and carefully folded dresses Michelle always managed to squirrel away.
“Do you know where she would go if she was in trouble?”
Jacob shook his head. He really didn’t know where Michelle went. Where would Jacob go if he was in trouble?
Definitely not to Father. If his father knew about Michelle, he would probably love her; Michelle was the child he always tried to make Jacob in to with his proclivities for lace and rouge on a girl not a woman, as that became clear when Mother left in a disgusted fit. His father would probably trade Jacob for Michelle in a heartbeat.
The only difference was that Michelle would have the strength to get rid of his father, unlike Jacob throughout his whole childhood. His father had wanted a girl, and his disappointment in Jacob swallowed him whole. To survive, Jacob succumbed and pleas ed and coped by agreeing to follow any whim. Part of Jacob had been relieved when Michelle showed up; she liked the pretty decorations and trappings, undertaking those tasks for Jacob with ease and a pleasant smile. It had been a relief, until father had inevitably broken her. Now she fought all the time, even when she did not have to.
What had they done the last time Michelle had gotten them in trouble? They ran.
“Well, if you see your sister? Make sure she doesn’t leave town.” The officer produced a card and handed it to Jacob. Jacob plucked it out of his hands before he could catch a glimpse of the remaining polish stains on his nails.
He ushered the officer out in a frenzied manner that he hoped would be chalked up to the anxiety of residing across from a dead body.
There’s a man in the house. The words rushed through his head as sharp and quick as a needle prick. Most of the time, he didn’t see what Michelle was doing. It was always the aftermath of her that Jacob cleaned up, like when she had murdered Michael and now Kyle. There would be ga ps in his memories up to days at a time, but as long as nothing dire occurred, he could leave Michelle to her own business.
But right now, he watched her as she carried their body to the bathroom. He watched as she pulled out the drawer under the sink and reached into her hiding spot. Michelle withdrew her cosmetics bag and flicked her fingers through her arsenal. She remo ved Jacob’s baseball cap and feeble hair tie before scrunching and twisting his Hers? Theirs? hair into faint waves. It was a far cry from the ringlets she had in the picture with Kyle, but it would have to do.
Michelle began patting her lips with a stain that left her lips plush and pink. She smacked them together until she was sure the color wouldn’t fade or smudge. She rubbed in a bit of blush to give herself a rosy flush — nothing gaudy, but enough to hide s ome of the pallor of her skin. There was no time for foundation, but she hid some of the eyebags with a dollop of thinly applied concealer.
“Men are dangerous,” she said softly into their reflection in the mirror. Jacob wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself, to
him, or to both of them. Was he even still here? “We keep our distance from them..”
Jacob had thought that, too, for a long time. The only man he had seen had been his father. For years after, he saw his face in every other man —the shared stubbled jaw and eyes as flat and dark as a shark’s. That’s why Michelle was such a comfort in th e beginning. She knew how to handle the men, what to do with them.
But then he let Michael get close. Michael with his eyes the color of clovers and hands that had caressed him kindly and carefully without the expectations or entitlement his father’s hands had held. Jacob let him into the safe sanctuary of his apartment and let himself be vulnerable, his skin bare and exposed under the dim lights of his bedroom for Michael.
That had been his first mistake.
“I think Kyle really liked me,” Michelle all but sang to herself as she packed up her makeup bag and tucked it away into the deep pockets of Jacob’s oversized
hoodie. “He already really liked Jacob, too. That’s the problem. Bad men like Jacob.”
Michelle put Jacob’s baseball cap back on and put her hair back in a ponytail. Straightened then slumped her shoulders. She was mimicking Jacob, trying to put on the mask of his cowardice. Michelle was smart; she knew that as long as she acted like Jaco b, even with her dabbles of makeup, people would see what they wanted to see. She walked out of the apartment with that shy, slumped walk.
The police were questioning the other tenants. Michelle was smart enough to know how to lift her eyes to greet them. She waved and the neighbors barely spared her a passing glance. Michelle was magnetic, but Jacob was inconsequential. That was why she was walking as him —Jacob didn’t matter to these people. Not even the police were questioning him.
Was this how she had escaped the last time with Michael? Hiding in Jacob’s skin,
counting on his isolation to make him invisible?
Michelle walked down the street and to their car. She got into the driver’s seat and pulled down the vanity mirror. She tossed the baseball cap on the passenger seat while her other hand was already starting up the car.
There was nothing in the trunk or the backseats. Wherever they ended up, they were going to have to start all over again. Jacob had managed to rebuild himself; before he would cobble together a feeble excuse to Father about why he had moved and needed hi s checks forwarded to a new address. He would have no trouble continuing his freelance testing, so he didn’t foresee any problems with reestablishing himself in a new city. Things would all be the same: an isolated existence in a small town where people barely acknowledged him. In that town, Jacob would be alone. His memory would be solid and intact.
Until someone new caught his eye. That was when the gaps always began. After
meeting Michael. After shaking Kyle’s hand.
Michelle started driving. Jacob didn’t know how long she would be the one in charge. The last time, he surmised it had been a few days, at least until the initial heat of Michael’s murder had simmered down. Michelle adjusted the rearview mirror and chan ged the position of the seat; they were the same height, but the way she carried herself made the position Jacob kept his car’s seat and mirrors ungainly to her. Jacob had never had to change the position of his car back to normal after Michelle drove it.
She took the makeup bag out of Jacob’s pocket and set it on the passenger seat. She had taken one thing out of the apartment and it was hers.
Rebekah Garrido
I Only Know Him Because
I only know Mr. Mustache because my math teacher got the flu in sixth grade. The immediate abandonment of all educational focus upon walking into a classroom and seeing a substitute is a universal law, as true and reliable as Newton’s. My friends ran over, prepared to do jack - all for that period, printed packets shoved aside on desks and rainbow looms deployed. But Mr. Mustache was prepared. He gave each of us a dry - erase marker risky and asked us all to draw him something on the sprawling whiteboard. He le aned back in his chair, green dress shirt tucked into his pants, comically large belt buckle tying together the ensemble. We got to it, endless energy and chatter. Halfway through the period he joined us at the board, replicating his ash - grey handlebar mus tache on a far larger scale. Then he drew two brackets extending from the center of the mustache to each outer edge, writing - 1, 0, and 1 on top of the lines. “That,” he said, “Is absolute value.” He had tricked us! Into learning! How dare he? Except this was a tad bit of fun. We went through each classmate’s
drawing and sketched absolute value over them until even the most un - math - enthused peer understood. I am nineteen now, and I still understand absolute value. Mr. Mustache died a few months ago. When my old classmate sent me the obituary, I thought about ab solute value. I thought about how we are all a distance away from something, in a negative or positive direction. We are older than our past hard times, and younger than our future good times. We are soon to face our toughest battles, or we are putting dis tance between the present and our old troubles. Absolute value: the magnitude of a value respective of its relation to other values.
Sarah Sprague
Acknowledgements
The Prose Committee would like to express the ir sincerest appreciation to everyone who made this chapbook possible:
To our Executive Board , Katelyn M ader, Emily Brewer, Tomi May , Annikka Stangil :
We can’t thank you enough for all the hard work you put into The Reflector . Your dedication does not go unnoticed. This organization wouldn’t be possible without your suppor t, enthusiasm , and devotion to spreadin g student literature across campus. Once again, thank you for all you do!
To our committee members:
Thank you so much for all your commitment throughout the ranking proces s and support throughout the creation of the chapbook. It was greatly appreciated by all.
To our writers:
We are so thankful for every author who submitted a work, both to the chapbook and to The Reflector . Becoming a published author is
no small feat, even in our publication . It truly speaks to the talent of each and every one of you that we are even able to make such a publication , and for that, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
To Kim Hess:
Thank you for your help in creating such a wonderful chapbook. We truly couldn’t have done it without all of your hard work behindthe - scenes , such as binding and paper colors. All of this would not be possible without you.
To Professor Nicole Santalucia, advisor of The Reflector and Spawning Pool :
Thank you for all your support throughout the year. These publications are truly a success because of it!