Spawning Pool—Prose 2023

SpawningPool

Prose Chapbook

“Odes to the Loved and Lost”

Spring 2023

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 of the university.

SpawningPool accepts rolling submissions throughout the year, and we publish our chapbook every spring semester.

SpawningPool is a publication of TheReflector , which also accepts submissions year-round, and is compiled each fall semester. Contact us:

Submissions and inquires: reflect@ship.edu

SpawningPool Prose Chapbook, Spring 2023

Text set in Baskerville Old Face

Printed by Shippensburg University

Layout by Jenny Russell and Hannah Cornell

Cover Design by Gretchen Lambie and Hannah Cornell

Prose Editors

Jenny Russell

Hannah Cornell

Prose Committee Members

Tomi May

Isabella Brignola

Hailee Rauch

Trevor Dixon

Annikka Stangil

Letter from the Editor

Dear Reader,

Every year is filled with highs and lows, good and bad, love and loss. It is during those moments that we turn to what we know will heal us. For some, it is putting paint on a canvas, for others it is physical activity. For many, it is the simple act of putting pen to paper. To write is, at the heart of this publication, to work through the hardest moments of our lives. To put them on paper is like breathing fresh air after a long month in the city. There is something to be said for all forms of coping. This “something” is contact, a physical manifestation of pain in a productive and creative light. Through the pain there is at the same time creation, whether it be a story, like you will see in this journal, a muscle or technique, or a physical work of art. I’m not saying that pain is beautiful, inspirational, or something to yearn for. Instead, I am saying that pain, loss, and disaster, are a part of our lives, and the beauty comes from how they are overcome. The contact and the creation .

I have a job for you, dear reader, and it is to read each story contained within this journal as a form of contact, and as a creation deserving of recognition. Each story tells a complex tale of its own, each one no less

worthy to be told than the last. I ask you, also, to consider these stories to be odes, tributes to whomever or whatever they were written for, and to consider the truth in every story.

I am so thankful for the writers of this edition of the Prose Spawning Pool. It takes courage to write about the parts of ourselves that feel destroyed, but it is truly amazing to share what you have written with your peers. I am thankful for their stories and for their willingness and eagerness to share them. This publication would not exist without these fabulous writers.

I would also like to mention the team behind the scenes of this publication. Mostly, I would like to thank my wonderful Associate Editor Hannah Cornell for all the help she extended to me, a first-year student. She and I worked vigorously to put this journal together, the whole way from collecting submissions to selecting the perfect font and cover design. I would also like to thank the Executive Board members of TheReflector , Megan Gardenhour, Emily Dziennik, and Alaina Conaway, who inspire me every day with their dedication to this journal and to every student writer on campus. It feels right to also extend a special thank you to Gretchen Lambie, who hunted down an old typewriter and made it a special mission to photograph it for this journal. Truly, I could not be more grateful for everyone who contributed to this publication, who poured hours of work into making this journal as wonderful as it turned out.

To close, I will reiterate three simple things. Each story is a tribute . Each story creates contact. Each story creates. Remember this while you read. That is all I can truly ask of you, and every other person who read this publication, but perhaps not this letter.

Sincerely, with pride and love for this journal, Jenny Russell

Cold Pasta

I had my first legal drink on a trip to Canada over winter break

It laid a warm and bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth, and it was way too expensive

and although I was in an entirely different country

Something in me searched for you inside each and every bar we went to

You were there with me when I got coffee in my hometown with my best friend

I can’t wait to introduce you both, you two would get along so well

I can’t wait to show you all the places I would frequent growing up.

There’s this sandwich place on main street that would blow your mind.

Oh, and my professor said the weirdest joke the other day

The whole class was so confused, you would have died!

I actually got that job I was telling you about,

It’s super stressful, but it’ll look good on my resume, so I think I’ll manage.

My friends and I have this hilarious inside joke that we’ve tossed around for months

You probably wouldn’t get it, But I’d love to let you in on it if you’d give me the chance.

I finally got my first tattoo

like I said I would

See how I live up to my promises?

On Christmas day I couldn't help but wonder

If you got what you wanted

My family and I ate dinner at this super upscale restaurant in the city

But when your favorite song came on over the dining room speakers

I stabbed at my risotto as I tried to pinpoint

The exact moment when you started to get tired of me.

I see you in the most beautiful things

And carry you with me to all of the happiest places even though

I can hardly look you in the eye anymore.

Sometimes I forget I’m completely out of your life

But you're not completely out of mine.

I know I was probably just a momentary blip in your story

But to me you were it.

I am having such a great time nowadays!

I feel like there’s a glow about me lately,

It’s probably this new skincare routine I’ve been trying out.

I ice-roll my face nightly

And I’ve perfected the arch of my back in the reflection of my bathroom mirror

I’m getting a lot better at pong, I can’t help but feel like you’d be proud

I thrifted this pair of jeans that make my ass look great

I design myself to be desirable

And it works every time!

I love posting photos of myself on the internet

reading the comments I get

“Beauty”, “sexy”, “pretty pretty girl”

I am electric when I walk into a party

Oh my gosh, Wolf of Wall Street is like, My favorite movie!

No, I’ve never heard of Quentin Tarantino, who’s that?

Did you know I can make a whole room laugh?

I get all the attention I wanted

I even brought someone back to my dorm the other night

But it just felt wrong.

Do you want to know the truth?

Sometimes on weekends when I’m dancing

I stop and hope your double shift went okay

I hope you got good tips

I wonder if you got enough rest

Or if you’ve found someone shinier

Or if you’re happier

But I don’t want to bother you.

Instead, I patiently wait for you to clock out

and return to the home I built for us inside myself

With the brick and mortar of your promises

Even though it was a weak foundation, I’m still waiting by the door

I turned on that show you always talked about,

I’m on season three

The door’s unlocked, the table is set, I can take your coat

Dinner’s ready

I made you my world-famous pasta recipe, it’ll warm you right up.

The bed is made

We can have coffee in the morning and love in the afternoon

So much has happened since you fell off the face of my Earth

And I can’t wait to hear about your day.

Or- your life.

I’ve been waiting here for a while.

Did you take a wrong exit?

Did your GPS break?

I’d hate for you to get lost while you’re finding yourself out there.

I’m not mad anymore

I’m just afraid

Because I can be in a roomful of people who love me

And I’ll still wait for you to come home.

(Your pasta’s getting cold)

The truth is, I only love the sunsets and jokes and dancing and skylines

and

lattes and books and pasta and mountains

and snow falls, all for just a brief moment

But all at once, I hate them when I remember

You are not coming back.

And although I know we are no longer together

There are so many places I take you with me.

Madi Shively

The Woman I Want To Be

So far in my life, the woman I’d like to be has taken on two forms.

She used to wear expensive sweaters

And consume acai bowls

She set trends, though she never wore the same outfit twice

She believed in ethically made clothing

And wore pearl earrings from Tahiti

She attended exotic music festivals to see bands that either I’ve never heard of

Or I’ve heard of far too much

On her summer vacations, she practiced yoga on beaches

I will most likely never be able to visit

She’s dating the star quarterback, but that doesn’t keep your boyfriend from wanting her

You could feel her dazzling presence flutter through you when she walked past,

Once glance at her and you wondered what you're doing wrong

A miraculous toss of her silk hair sent shockwaves throughout the universe

Her magnitude could compel you from the other side of the world

She gloated about the amazing rough sex she just had before class

While her ponytail remains perfectly intact

Her skin was soft and she had a hidden tattoo that turns guys on

Her voice was made of gold

And any thought she so charitably cared to share with us down below

Was a blessing from up above

I thought at one point she would go away

But I am never free from her.

Because now there is a new girl I want to be

She skips classes to go thrifting

She indulges in $9 coffees with oat milk

And, in the evening, a cheap screw-top cherry wine sings her to sleep

She celebrates her cats’ birthday

She’s funny

She runs a niche Twitter account with thousands of followers

And gets stoned before painting her nails and falling asleep at 9pm.

But worst of all, she is supportive.

She is kind and gentle and mysterious

She is contempt and resilient

And quiet when she wants to be.

Her smile feels like a sunbeam

She writes from a delicate point of view

And while her world is not on display,

It only draws me in further to dream of being a part of it.

I fear her successor is different than before

I used to see right through her like her cheap sunglasses

And now she's proudly transparent

The girl I was jealous of before is now who I want to become

The hatred has subsided like waves washing ashore

Because now I love her

But it's better kept as a secret

Broke(n) Love(r)

Time and time and time again, the clock keeps ticking out of rhythm. If time’s the most important currency we have, and the clock tocks a wonky way, if only time is the most important currency we have. If. But if is such a relative term. If then, if when, but what about now? There are no ifs in now. No ifs in the now, of how much I love your broken mosaic shards. How much I love you. Time feeds progress, but it does not always heal wounds. But that’s okay, because in the right now of time, I love your entire broken self.

The shards you have neglected, the broken pieces sharpened by all the horrific experiences time has beaten you with…they don’t scare me. Not one bit, because that was then, and this is now. Every moment a new opportunity to grow. We may not heal every painful prick, scab, laceration, scratch, or wound we carry but that does not mean we have to be bound to the past. You are rooted in the present, and your presence my dear, is such a gift. Not a poison, but an elixir of something different. I can taste it when we kiss. Time may give you more wounds than you think you can handle but does not mean you are bound to them. The only thing, all ifs ands and buts aside, the only thing that wonky kooky clock has on us is now. I may not be able to heal all your lacerations, pricks, and bullet holes, but I can love you through them all. Love does not always heal, but the compassion I have for you…I will do my damnedest to support you through it all. My heart beats for you and cares

for you, and all you can be consumed by is the now when I hold you. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to express those ugly and filthy emotions you buried inside of yourself.

You are strong. You are capable. And by Gods, above and below, within and around, you are whole. Broken, shattered, reglued, but whole, nevertheless. You are a mosaic of all that is you, your perspective, your voice, your skin, your heart, your experience, and your soul. All that pain you feel consumed by, is just but a fraction of who you are.

I love you in all your broken glory. Please, my love, never forget that. April

Dear Daddy

(2014) Dear Daddy,

I came upstairs after playing the Wii in the basement and you weren’t there. Mommy looked sad, frustrated. She didn’t know what to say, how to explain what was happening. We all cried. Wyatt, Lucy, and I were confused, angry. Why didn’t you say goodbye? I wanted to sit with you and watch the Pirates play. I wanted to eat dinner as a family, the five of us. At the very least I wanted you to tuck me into bed and tell me goodnight. When are you coming home? Mom said she didn’t know.

(2019) Dear Sperm Donor,

I am hurt. I am angry. You were my favorite. I looked up to you. How easy was it to begin a new life with a new woman and new kids? How easy was it to slowly let us fade into the background. Mom is pissed. I think Lucy hates you. I hate that I love you so damn much that I can’t hate you. You abandoned us all. For what? At what cost? But yes, I did say sperm donor. That’s what I feel you are right about now. The giver of life, and that’s about it. Why am I unable to utterly despise you after all of this? A PFA. Alcohol abuse. Gambling addiction. Begging my mother and the judge to see your son. Asking my mom if at least my sister would want to see you. What about me? I’m the only one who gives a fuck about you, but you really don’t seem to care

whether or not you see me. Despite it all, despite your lack of concern for me, I still feel as if I will always strive to once again be, “Daddy’s Little Girl”.

(2023) Dear Dad,

Despite it all, the highs and the lows, I love you. I am glad I went out of my way to repair our relationship. I am proud of myself for having the guts to be straight-forward with you. Things are looking up for us. Growing up I often would envision different men walking me down the aisle because I didn’t think you deserved to give me away. Now when I dream of a wedding you are beside me, as I walk into the next stage of my life. I know it is not unlikely that you will let me down, but I am not going anywhere. There are no excuses for the things you’ve done, but I can understand where you are coming from. There are no excuses for leaving your three kids for a woman. I know now you were unable to parent young kids. I know your parents didn’t raise you the way every child deserves to be raised. I understand why you still stay with that awful woman. You have no one else. No mom. No dad. All your friends moved away. But I’m here, Dad. I’m right here.

BEAUTIFULLY BROKEN

You broke me. Bad.

It hurt like hell, but that’s okay. I’m okay.

It took time. A long time, but that’s okay.

Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say? That you’re okay even when you’re not.

Hurting made me realize that I feel. Everything.

I’m only human, and that’s okay.

I don’t blame you, but I should. Shouldn’t I?

For hurting me so bad that I blame myself. But I want to thank you.

Thank you for making me the person that I am today. Happy. Proud. Loving.

It took time for me to love myself. Love the beauty and the beast. Love the sun and the rain. Love the birds and the bees. But it took time.

It took time for me to realize that it’s okay to not be okay.

There’s beauty in it. In growing. Growing to be someone who knows that life sucks sometimes, and that’s okay. If life doesn’t suck sometimes would you really be living? Or just surviving?

I’m not mad. Not anymore.

I got tired of being angry. I got tired of hating you. I got tired, and that’s okay.

You made me realize that you’re not worth all of that time. All of the time I could spend smiling. All of the time I could spend loving myself for who I am. For who I truly am.

Beautifully broken, and that’s okay.

If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t be the friend that I am. I wouldn’t be the daughter that I am. I wouldn’t be who I am. I appreciate that. I appreciate who I am.

The person who looks at life as an opportunity. The person who looks at the stars and wants to follow them to find something new. The person who wants to love someone so much that they don’t feel broken.

I can handle it. I can handle the brokenness, but I don’t want anyone else to.

It hurts. It hurt.

I wouldn’t want anyone else to go through that pain. That longingness for your love. For your attention.

But who knew. Who knew I didn’t need it. I didn’t need your love or attention or approval. All I needed was me.

Was me knowing that I am beautiful. That I am broken, and that’s okay.

It’s okay.

Haylee Holsopple

Survivor

Her arms are wrapped around me, entwined with mine, as I turn to face the other side of the bed. I slowly slide out of her grip, being careful not to wake her, as I step onto the cold, hardwood floors of her bedroom. She notices I have woken, the slight creak coming from the floorboards gave me away. She moves slightly to pull me back into her grip, but I swiftly jolt away from the messy bed and down the steep stairs of her bedroom to the bathroom. I hesitantly close the door, listening to it click shut as the others in the household wake up full of yawns and good mornings. I place myself in front of the dirty bathroom mirror, admiring my early morning grogginess within my messy hair and gross breath, but reminiscing on the events of the night before as a large bruise above my eyebrow stares back at me.

I slide the wooden drawer open and pick out the foundation bottle, moving suddenly quicker than before in hopes to conceal the clanking of other makeup products in the drawer that aren’t mine. I run my foundation-covered fingers along the grotesque, purple, bruise trying not to push down too hard on the wound. I wince softly at the first point of contact, remembering the knuckles that enforced this pain belonged to the love of my life whose snores were seeping in through the crack at the bottom of the door. I replaced the foundation before turning to leave the bathroom and face the foredoomed events that were ahead. I spun around and noticed she stood in front of me, “You seem to have gotten

that covered, good, now try to behave so we won't have to experience that again, yeah?” I lower my head and agree with a soft sigh and a head nod.

After swiftly dressing, I move to head downstairs for some cereal in avoidance, but am abruptly stopped by a threatening arm that reaches for the rail by her bedroom stairway. I try to slide her hand away, but she is clings onto the railing like a leech, leaving me no way to escape her suffocating hold. She wraps her other hand around my wrist slowly, getting tighter and tighter in her grip. I begin to panic, “hey hey hey, please let go, I didn’t even do anything this time, why-” her grip tightens, “don't you dare try to tell anyone about what happened last night, I swear I’ll deny it, my family will think you're crazy.” I began to rapidly nod because the words I wanted to scream all day, all night, as soon as her fist struck my face, got lost in the void. Lost as easily as they did when her leg slammed between my rib cage last week, when her fingers interlaced around my neck last month, and when she attempted my death last year.

She released her grip on me before giving me a glare and vanishing out the door. I begin to feel the warmth rise in my cheeks as I drop to my knees and begin to sob, tear after tear leaving my sleeve a snotty mess and my shirt now a drenched piece of cloth. As soon as I gather myself, and change out of my soggy t-shirt, I return to the top of the steps with some of my belongings in a ripped grocery bag. My feet slide across the glossy, wooden, floor as I debate with myself.

I jump at the sight of someone standing lopsided in the doorway, it is one of her family members confused and glaring at me. “Are you okay? Do you want me to let her know you're headed out?” “No no, that's okay, could I talk with you for a second though? It’s pretty serious.” She replied with a nod and waved for me to follow, I made my way to her bedroom and began to sweat when she turned to me with a nervous smile, does she know somehow?

My mind begins to race, she’s asked me what’s going on, but the words are stuck in my throat like gum. I’m pacing, hands fidgeting out in front of me as I beg God for the words to come out. She looks confused and even more worried as I back and forth so many times I could burn a hole

in the floor. Eyes wide as I look at her with that dang bruise, foundation smudged and all. Her expression turns to horror as I state, “I need to leave, I can’t keep being treated like this.” She goes silent, like the words I once were choking on, she’s now choking on too.

I retreat to the bathroom one last time, hoping that this will genuinely be the last time. I see myself in the dirty, stained, mirror I’ve passed over a dozen times before and smile as I sweep my things off of the counter and into my grocery bag. I make my way down the stairs and around the corner peeking into the dimly-lit kitchen hoping to possibly see the little ones once more. Pausing before sliding open the back doors that suddenly held so much hope, saying my silent

goodbyes to these strangers who inadvertently became my family. I slide into my compact vehicle, feeling like a convict on the run, I evacuate the scene of the crime with a sharp breath and a returning tear.

Eden Brewer

At the Shoe Store

He’s sitting there looking at her. He’s thinking he knew her, maybe, a while back, and when she turns her face far enough to catch the fluorescent department store lighting, he’s sure. Her hair is different, more silver blonde than gold now, but it has to be her. It has to be her, he turns and says to his friend, because he recognizes the way her feet turn in when she walks, and he remembers making fun of her for it. You see the way the soles of her shoes are worn down at the insides? I was making fun of her because she was telling me that she wanted to buy this pair of designer shoes, that they were an investment, you know, like buying a house, but she could wear them before she sold them. And I told her nobody would want her old shoes, not because she didn’t have good taste, that she wouldn’t pick the right shoes, but they’d be so warped by then that they wouldn’t fit on anyone else’s feet.

Though, apparently, people do buy warped shoes, if they’re old and rare enough, so she said it would be more like buying a piece of fine jewelry and wearing it for years, and passing it down through the generations until one of your descendants goes broke and decides to sell it for a load of money. I guess, when something is old enough, nobody cares if it’s a little warped. So I asked her why she didn’t buy

jewelry instead and just do that, and she said she doesn’t like wearing jewelry. See, she’s not wearing any now, not even earrings. But she likes shoes, even though she’s really bad at wearing them, and those flats she’s got on now? I’d bet they cost at least $500. No, I’m serious, that’s the kind of money she likes to spend on shoes and I never told her to stop, and she hates wearing socks and the feeling of fake leather, so I’m telling you, man, those are definitely real leather and they’re definitely expensive.

Of course, obviously, she could’ve changed her mind or gone broke or something, but I really just can’t imagine that she would’ve stopped buying nice shoes. I mean, she doesn’t look broke to me. I remember when she bought the first pair, those heels with the red bottoms, you know? Mayrse wore a pair for our wedding and she told me they were like $200, and I said yeah okay that’s fine, but I knew that was a lie because I remember it took her five months working at the movie theater before she could buy the ones she wanted, and she made $10 an hour there.

So we went to the shoe store in the city, and she was all dressed up, I mean literally wearing a cocktail dress to go shoe shopping and I was so embarrassed of myself because I was wearing jeans and this ratty old leather jacket that I thought was really hot at the time, but looking back, I was

probably dressed more appropriately than her, because who wears a cocktail dress to the shoe store? Anyway, it was this big, white room with a crystal chandelier in the middle and it had real candles lit on it. Eighteen of them, I remember, because I sat underneath it and counted while she was trying on the shoes. And it took forever, because she literally went through the entire wall of shoes, and they had them all arranged in color order along the wall in these built-in shelves, so she would come up to me every few seconds with a different pair of shoes on and ask my opinion. And she got mad after a little because I didn’t even realize that she had a different shoe on each foot, cause they were the same color.

But eventually, she’d tried them all on, and she was sitting on this little white loveseat with me, head in her hands, freaking out cause she couldn’t decide and if she couldn’t decide, didn’t that mean that maybe she shouldn’t get any shoes at all? And I’m telling her no, no, it’s okay, you’ll figure it out, you’ve been saving up for these, it’ll be fine. And the attendants are looking at us a little crazy, like, just pick a fucking pair of shoes already, because they’d pulled their entire stock out for her to try on.

I guess that’s the one thing I do like about online shopping. Cause yeah, it’s annoying when shit looks different than it did in the picture or you get the wrong size and you gotta pay

to ship it back, but I’m thinking it might've been easier to pick those shoes if she’d just bought them online. What’s crazy is, in the end, she bought the plain black pair. Literally just a plain black pair of heels and I remember thinking if I wasn't in love with this girl, I’d probably kill her. A whole wall of shoes and she picked the black ones cause she thought they were the safest choice, that she’d get her money’s worth out of them. And she pulls her money out to pay, a huge wad of cash, cause her parents wouldn’t let her get a credit card, and her debit card had a $300 daily limit. So she hands the cashier this thick stack of cash, and he looked ready to quit because she’d just made him pull out every shoe in the store and now she was making him count like a thousand dollars worth of cash. But she just smiled at him, fucking oblivious, cause she was on top of the world.

When we left the store, I started talking about her crooked feet and she got mad. But I really wanted to know, like why would she pick the shoes that she would wear the most, if she knew her feet were gonna ruin them. I guess I just didn’t understand why she would consider that an investment, you know? And she said that she’d already explained it to me, maybe I just didn’t understand, and even if she couldn’t sell the shoes, they were an investment into her future self, and maybe her kids would have fucked up feet and they’d be

happy to get a pair of free designer shoes that were already broken in.

After that, she started buying shoes pretty often. Every couple months, there was some new occasion that she needed shoes for, and she’d always give me a fucking speech about why she needed, not wanted, the shoes she picked. She bought these silver heels with open toes for our college formal because they were classic and they’d always match with a black dress. Every shoe she bought always had to serve some greater purpose, and I guess that’s kind of silly in a way, but she was dropping two weeks’ salary on each pair, so I didn’t mind listening. Half the time, I was the one rationalizing her purchases, like Oh my God, this one time I actually wrote a pros and cons list of buying a baby pink pair of platform flip flops that she’d seen in a store window. I was saying things like, they’ll match the bikini you just bought for family vacation, you’ll be tall enough to look me in the eyes, I’m pretty sure Hillary Duff wore the same ones on a magazine cover.

Yeah, it was corny I guess, but she helped me pick out shoes too a lot, and I remember my parents were happy I started caring about my appearance. It was fun anyway, like it was something to look forward to ‘cause we’d always make a

really big deal out of it. Like the whole day would be set aside for shoe shopping.

But…yeah.

A week after we broke up, she posted this picture on Facebook of herself at a party. I remember thinking I should’ve been upset she was at a party, smiling, while I was sitting in my bed alone, but all I could think about were her shoes. They were blue and sparkly and I couldn’t get over the fact that I didn’t know why she picked them. I mean, with other girls, you wanna know why they picked the guy they start dating after you, like what does she see in him that I wasn’t giving her? But all I cared about with her were those shoes, ‘cause I thought they were weird. It’s so embarrassing, man, but I was searching it up on the internet, like what does the color blue mean? And there were about fifty different answers, but this one, it said blue was the color of freedom, and I just remember it made me kind of sad. Like here she was, dancing with people I didn’t know in these shoes I couldn’t figure out why she bought, and she seemed really free.

I didn’t understand, because for some reason, I’d started to think that buying shoes was something she only did with me. Because it was something I only did with her and I didn’t

even buy myself a new pair of shoes for a year afterwards, which, okay, okay, yeah, laugh at me if you want, man, whatever. But in the back of my head, I was thinking maybe she would just stop buying shoes too. Like it would make her sad to do the thing that was our thing without me. But I just kept seeing her at a shoe store somewhere, alone, or with some other friend of hers, maybe, seeing those blue shoes and buying them because they’d set her free from me.

I guess I could ask her now, I mean, I’m sure she’d answer me. She’s really nice like that, even if she just got married. I think it’s kind of funny her husband’s not here, cause she’s obviously gonna buy a pair of shoes…she’s not really the type to leave without getting something, you know? I wonder if he knows that.

But…no, no, I’m not gonna ask her man, I’m just thinking about it. You think I should get the brown shoes? Or the navy…

Maggie McGuire

High School

I close my eyes, and for a moment it’s all real, and I live in a world where cute boys carry my backpack and drive me home from school, and I get ice cream with my friends on Friday nights after the football games, and I run through the hallways after everyone has left the school and I spend the nights under the stars in the warm air.

Cora Patterson

It’s not straightforward.

My left hand grips the wheel at ten while my right meets her hand on the center console. Our fingers interlock as the lines in our hands match up like puzzle pieces, and an unspoken knowingness lies within our palms that we have something special. It is so rare that we must hide so it doesn’t get torn away from us. The sun shines in my 2013 Maroon Highlander and heats up the leather seats, the warmth flowing throughout the car. The windows are down as we blare Taylor Swift while driving through the small-town streets. The river shines an oceanic blue, which is rare because most of the time it is an unattractive shade of murky brown.

“Have you ever driven past here during Christmas time?”

Abby asks, curiosity lacing her voice letting me know she genuinely cares about my response. I shake my head no. “It’s beautiful, we’ll have to do it sometime. The whole place is decorated, it looks like a little Christmas village.” As we drive past the small trailer park we are discussing, I take a moment to glance over at Abby. Her golden blonde hair catches the sun and illuminates her with an incandescent sheen. Her green eyes shine like stained glass as they glance into the horizon, taking in images of the small town we feel like strangers to. Her mouth opens in an unmistakable smile as the first few notes of “Dancing with Our Hands Tied” explode from the speakers. “This is my favorite song!” She exclaims, her excitement making her look more beautiful

than before. Our hands separate for the duration of the song so we can dance. Our limbs flail out of the sunroof as the wind provides resistance, the breeze making us feel infinite.

I put my right hand back on the wheel and take a sharp left turn, which leads back to the main road. Houses identical to each other line the street as the car shakes from unmistakable Pennsylvania potholes. We aren’t strangers to clandestine moments in my car, where the blissful naïveté of not knowing what was coming paints our faces in hues I never knew I could wear. As we approach her house, I silence the radio and knock the stupid grin off my face. My emotions become stagnant just in case her dad is glancing out the window. We don’t permit ourselves a goodbye kiss because it isn’t worth it. Instead, we smile, wave, and shout a brisk, “I love you!” as she walks into her house. I pull away and sing to myself the whole way home. The music will never be enough to block out the voice in my head that pleads please be straight Caitlyn, please be straight.

As my car cruises at a cautious 35 mph, I stare at yellow lines and reflect on how much I grew. My freshman year of high school I’d allow myself to look at girls, but I would never entertain the idea that I like them. My first confession that I like women was slurred in late night hours to my closest friends. They didn’t mind, of course, and they’ll forever mean the world to me for that. I drive up my rickety, unpaved driveway and brace myself for what is about to come. It’s not that my parents are evil, it’s just that they

aren’t good people. I can villainize them all I want, but at the end of the day, painting them in I true colors won’t change the fact that they are mom and dad, so I might as well be grateful that they give me a bed to sleep on and a warm dinner every night.

I unlock the front door with my crooked key and greet my dog—the only one who says hello to me. “Hi baby,” I tell him as he wags his tail at a rapid rate. I glance over to the raggedy couch that serves as my mother’s throne to see her scrolling through her Facebook feed. She tilts her head to me and whisks a brief, “hello” in my direction after my eighthour absence. No other words need to be spoken. These days, we’ve been drifting I, and it seems neither of us have the energy to hold on. I retreat into my bedroom to sit in comfortable silence. After a few hours of mindless social media scrolling, I exit my room to see if my parents have decided what we will be having for dinner.

My mother is still in the same seat she was earlier, but this time her cheeks have a red flush and her eyebrows are furrowed. “This is disgusting,” she spits, anger and hatred decorating her voice in an unflattering manner. “Who do these people think they are, this is not natural and not the way God intended it.” Her words aren’t directed at anyone, but since I’m the only one in the room, there is a suffocating pressure to respond.

“What are you talking about?” I innocently ask, knowing the answer is going to shove me further into the closet I’ve barricaded myself into.

“These men proudly posting about I marriage, I mean, it’s disgusting!” She gags as the words leave her mouth. “This is unholy, and they are going to hell. There is no such thing as ‘being gay’ it’s a mental illness. These people need serious help, I mean yuck.” Her words burn me like acid, the sting bringing a salty stream to my eyes. I don’t dare to let the tears fall, because if I do, they’ll act as a confession and I will not fight my own mother for her acceptance, not today at least. I don’t argue either because it won’t change her viewpoint. Instead, I walk back into my room and sit on my childhood bed, wondering what I did wrong in my past life to connect me to my mother through blood. My sexuality feels like a curse, something I’ve willed to leave many times before but never has.

As the evening rolls by, I become more bitter with who I’ve allowed myself to be. I think of Abby and how amazing she is and how she makes me feel, but I also contemplate if falling for her was worth the conversation I’ll inevitably have with my parents. It’s easy to be myself at school or when I’m with my closest friends. They don’t see me as a burden or as waste plaguing the planet. They aren’t ashamed to be seen with me or know me. When I’m with them I get to exude a confidence I solemn get to.

Being bisexual has its perks, however. It’s easy to manipulate yourself into thinking you are straight when you are already partially into guys. If I really wanted to, I could ignore my feelings towards women. My whole life I’d live with the guilt of suppressing who I am, but at least when the time comes my dad will proudly walk me down the aisle and my mom will sit in the audience and wipe away tears of joy, both excited to hand me off to a well-rounded man.

But why should I lie to myself? Years of wishing a piece of my identity away has only reminded me that my bisexuality is irrevocable. No amount of self-loathing will make me straight. I can lie to my mother and not announce this discovery I’ve made about myself to anyone else, yet it will still live inside me. When I look in the mirror, my reflection will speak words I’ve begged her to ignore. These words won’t come with malicious intent but rather a concrete knowingness that the girl who stands in front of her is queer and she should be proud of that. I shouldn’t lose the warmest bed I’ve ever laid in or pretend I’m something I’m not to please others. I pick up my phone and let my fingers dance on the keyboard in my conversation with Abby. I crack a joke about my mother’s remarks and await her response. The screen lights up with an endearing, “I can’t wait to go to hell with you.” As I read her name, I can’t help but feel my heart stutter, almost like someone planted an orb in my chest. She feels like home, more safe and secure than the four walls I hide in now have ever felt. At school I’ll still cover up my pride bracelet when the redneck men are

sat next to me in the unfortunate seating chart roulette, and I’ll still resent my mother for the support she never gave. Maybe the people who gave me my genes will wish I was different, but I won’t. I will not apologize for being who I am.

Caitlyn Shetter

To You, I’ll Never Know

We met when I was first born in a little hospital room with my mom and dad introducing me. I don’t remember it since I was a newborn baby, but I know if we were to chat today you would tell me all about that day. You would describe my tiny hands and how they would curl around your finger, and how you knew you loved me even before I was born. I wonder if you would say I was the best birthday gift you could’ve received as yours was less than two weeks after mine. Since you were a coach, you would insist to my dad that I would be a runner or a basketball player because it’s in my genes. How can I know what it would’ve been like if you were gone before any of this happened?

I remember a story my dad told me when I said I wanted a real Christmas tree a few years ago. As a kid, I wanted to do all the things that go into it, such as walking through a field and finding the perfect one. He told me you were allergic to them so that’s why you never had one growing up, and a part of me didn’t want one anymore. What if your ghost didn’t like to be around them? Is there a chance you would still come around? We ended up only ever having a real tree that one year, and returned to only putting up artificial ones. Every Christmas I think about what it would be like if you were still here. Would you have come over and helped us decorate? Sometimes I

hate the ‘what if’ game I’m always playing by myself. I never knew you and still, I feel like a part of me is missing.

Sometimes when I’m on a fishing trip with my dad, he will tell stories about you from when he was my age. Even if the story wasn’t fully about you, you were just mentioned as being there, I would soak in that story just to know another thing about you. I used to wonder if you would have told me the same story from your perspective if you were with us. From how much my dad tells me you would go up to camp, makes me think you would have taken me when I was growing up. It has been renovated a lot over the last 19 years, you would think it’s a lot nicer by how my dad described it back in the day.

Nineteen years is a long time; it takes about 3 months for all the cells in your body to regenerate. By this logic, there is not a single cell in my body that was there the last time you held me. It’s upsetting the way I’ve had to get to know you through stories and not have you there to see me become who I am. I hate the way I recently found out your name was actually your middle name, and how you’ll never see me get married. Sometimes I wish I could hear your voice because I don’t know what it even sounds like. In dreams I had about you, I wondered if that’s how you really sounded. I do know if there is a heaven, you would be there, looking out for me and entering my dreams. If

you had, is what you said real? With wishful thinking, I hold onto dreams as if they were memories. In reality, I wish I could’ve remembered you in a way I could pinpoint a moment when I felt love.

My brother has a picture of you and him from when he was little on the mantle of his and his wife’s first house. Every time I’m there I look at you and get so angry and jealous that you weren’t alive long enough to have that with me. Anger isn’t appropriate, I know, but will he tell

his son about you when he asks who is in that picture or will you eventually get forgotten after several years? People will start to forget you, but even though I don’t know you, I can’t imagine not thinking about you. So where does that put me, a secondary source to your existence?

Most of the teachers in my hometown knew who you were and had worked alongside you for years as teachers and coaches. I grew up hearing them tell me how you were this great guy and would always put in the work to help others. On the first day of middle school, my math teacher said you inspired them to be a math teacher as well. Flash forward to the last week of senior year, I got the math scholarship dedicated in your name. When I first heard that it was something students could win, I made myself the most qualified through all of high school

in order to get it, even if I wasn’t allowed to win it since it had my last name in the award. I thought if I won it would make me just a tiny bit closer to you, it was never about the money. Turns out I did win, and I don’t know how I feel. Though I used to wonder why I was good at math and if it was passed through genes from you to me. Hoping it was true in the back of my mind I always wanted to be a teacher like you, but I can’t. Even if I didn’t get it from you it would be another reminder that you would never get to hear that I did it. So to keep myself sane for the rest of my life, I will probably sit in a cubicle solving problems for those people who didn’t choose to study math.

Aside from having your genes, all I’ve ever had of you is an oversized flannel my grandma gave me a few years ago that used to be yours. I hate the fact that it’s my favorite and it smells not like her, so a part of me hopes it’s what you would have smelled like. I know it’s wrong to think that sometimes I hate wearing it because it keeps me warm as a hug does, and I’ll never know what that feels like. Sometimes I wonder if my life would be better if you were still here, if I had known you. It’s not possible to bring people back from the dead, but if I could, I would choose you every time. Sadly there are too many ‘I wonders’ and ‘what ifs’ so I have come to terms with knowing that you will never know me more than an infant. I have to be okay with only sharing 197 days of my

life with you because that’s something I can’t fight to change. You are not someone I’m not allowed to mourn every third of August. We have nothing but six months of memories I can’t even remember. Still, some part of me wants to know if you would be proud of me for who I became without you here.

Gretchen Lambie

Martha

Based on the lyrics of “Martha” by Tom Waits.

My name is Tom, I am 74 years old. I am sitting in a chair, the chair I sat in when my wife told me she was pregnant with our first child, the chair I sat in every morning for 40 years, next to her, before the kids woke up. Often the windows would be cracked open, and you could hear the birds singing as the sun rose. That was my paradise for 40 years. Those mornings with the newspaper and my coffee and Jean’s gentle humming and the increasingly heavy (and reluctant) patter of steps above as my kids awoke and raced down to breakfast and then one day one less set of steps and before long, there were none. But for 40 years, there sat Jean and me. Some mornings we would talk, others we would bicker, other mornings there was nothing at all. It was sweet, it was serene, it was doomed.

She died about a year ago, same age as me. We always thought it would be me who left first, with the way I ate, but Father Time takes with no care for thoughts on what is supposed to happen. I sit here with my coffee now, next to that chair where Jean sat for 40 years and where we shared a paradise of a life.

Why is it now though that I can’t think of Jean? My mind is on her, but this pressure in my chest is insistent upon someone else. I put down my coffee and pick up off the table a small piece of paper that is nearly, if not over 50 years old. On one side it has 10 digits, on the other side, one word: “Martha.” The truth is, over those 40 years, as the sun came up and shone through the window, a spot of light would hit my skin. It was easy to ignore, but impossible to forget. As my skin’s grown old and sensitive, it’s become warmer, nagging me to think about it. Now without Jean sitting here, it’s become all I have with me in this room.

As much as I would like to be able to say that light is Jean here with me every morning, that light has been here since we got this house and has stayed here with me throughout our whole marriage.

I sit in my chair, uncomfortable under the weight on my chest that has just been getting heavier over these decades. In between my chair and Jean’s is a little table and on the table is our home phone. I don’t get too many calls anymore, but I did get one recently from an old friend Marty who needed money, but my kids told me it wasn’t really Marty, that Marty had died of a heart attack in his sleep 10 years ago. That was disappointing to find out, and also disappointing to find out that I had gone to the funeral and seen the body lying in the casket and even

said a few words honoring old Marty. I guess I’ve just gotten too damned old to care to remember these things.

I do still pay the phone bill though. My kids don’t call too much anymore and when I used to ask why they would reply with “Oh, you know how things are.” I still really don’t. They came over for dinner after Jean died and stayed the night with their families for the funeral. My oldest daughter called about a week afterward, to “check in”. All I remember about that conversation was that I had put the kettle on to boil after I picked up the phone and it hadn’t begun whistling when I set the phone down. She hasn’t called me since.

The biggest change since Jean died, I think, has been that I have begun thinking. I couldn’t tell you much of anything that’s happened over the last 40 years. I mean Jack Kennedy was elected, a buddy of mine died in Vietnam, Jack Kennedy was shot, another buddy of mine died in Vietnam, Dick Nixon was elected, they went to the moon, Dick Nixon resigned, we left Vietnam, Jimmy Carter became President, Iran held him hostage for 444 days, Jimmy got the boot from Reagan, Michael Jackson began, the 49ers won four Super Bowls, they tore down the wall, Bush Sr. became President, Michael Jackson ended, Clinton became President and played a rad saxophone, he

cheated on his wife, Bush 2 got elected, and then the towers got hit. But I mean, that’s what I got from skimming the Timeline of Great American Events in the issue of National Geographic I was reading. I couldn’t really say too much of my last 40 years besides sitting here in this chair.

Before then though, it’s all light, a burning memory, like that sunshine on my skin. It’s been getting hotter now, and so here I am with this piece of paper that took me forever to find and that I am sure holds the wrong number.

Martha’s made me think this past year, the way she used to back when we were young. I wrote then as I’m writing now. She made me want to look at the world and be a part of the world. I do not know what to call what I felt— what I feel, for her, if what I felt for Jean was love. I found a book about love at a used bookstore a couple months back and read it over as much as I could. It was very academic, so I really didn’t know what much of it meant, but I found a word that really seemed to be the one: “limerence”. Limerence falls far short and goes far beyond love all at once. It is more than what Jean and I had, but the book said limerence never lasts because it is itself “an unstable state”. It is destined to be love lost to a realization of reality. But now with Jean and everything she’s brought me gone, I feel myself falling up into that

sunlight, wanting to go back into the clouds again, where Martha is.

I don’t know if she’s alive. I know she got married and had kids too, but maybe she will tell me all these same things. Maybe she’s sitting somewhere in the chair she’s sat in next to her husband for 40 years. Maybe there’s a ray of sunlight that’s been shining on her skin too, burning more than ever lately. Maybe she’s holding a piece of paper I wrote for her around 50 years ago that has 10 digits on one side and “Tom” on the other side. Maybe she feels the weight in her chest too.

I pick up the handset and begin to dial the digits. My throat is tight, and my eyes are wet. I hear the phone dialing on the other end a while before I get routed to the operator who reroutes me to his best guess of where she might be. I hear the tones again and then they stop, and I hear a click.

Morning Routine

Early in the morning before the sun rose over the clouds, 8year-old Anna would sit quietly in the old wooden rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom and watch her mom get ready for the day. She would always pick out her aptly named “work clothes” first, sometimes asking Anna for advice.

“Does this look okay?” her mom asked that morning, gesturing to her blue sweater and brown dress pants she had selected that morning.

Anna, who was still half asleep, gave a silent nod. Her eyelids drooped closed every few minutes, only to spring back open when she realized she was missing her favorite part of her mother’s morning routine: her makeup.

She would start with the foundation, covering her skin in a thin layer. Then, powder blush—a light pink shade that brought her rosy skin back to life. The part that mystified Anna the most, however, was the mascara. Anna would watch in awe as her mother swiped the small wand over her lashes again and again without blinking. To challenge herself, Anna would try to hold her eyes open for the entire

time her mom did. Her young eyes would start to water quickly, causing her eyelids to quiver and eventually clamp shut long before her mom had finished darkening her lashes. Wiping the stubborn tears away, she asked, “Can I wear makeup to school?”

“No, honey. You’re too young,” she replied with a smile. She walked over to the old creaky rocking chair and knelt down next to her daughter. As she tucked the girl’s light brown hair back behind her ear, she continued, “And too beautiful. Not like your old mom with all her wrinkles and dark spots. I need to cover those up before I go to work and see everyone.”

Anna pondered that for a moment, thinking about her mother’s skin. She had searched her mom’s face up and down many times, but she never found anything worth covering. She loved her mom’s green eyes and her smile and her soft skin. With her mother so close to her, she could even see the mole on her neck and the light freckles dusted across her cheeks, insisting they be noticed through the makeup. So, mimicking her mother, she reached out and tucked a piece of her greying hair behind her ear. “Mommy, I think you’re too beautiful for makeup too!”

Her mom wrapped her arms around her, pulling Anna in for a long, tight hug. “Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate that.”

They held the hug for a little while longer, only for her mother to break it with a claim that Anna better go get dressed or she won’t have time to eat breakfast before school. Rushing back over to her own bedroom, Anna quickly picked out her outfit for the day before returning to her mother’s room. She stopped in front of her and posed, hands on her hips. With a gesture to her tie-dye t-shirt and blue jeans, she asked, “Mom, does this look okay?”

Her mother smiled and nodded, assuring her that the items matched perfectly.

With that confirmation, Anna picked up her sneakers and bolted down the steps, pulling her mom along so they could eat their breakfast together.

Emily Dziennik

Letters to Opal

— My love. Do you remember when we met? Your presence disrupted the routine I had created for myself. I would have done anything to get rid of you. When you moved in, you avoided me for days. I would see you move quickly away from me — always hiding in the shadows of some corner.

You know, she told me once we would never get along. I forced myself to be so deeply uninterested in you, but I just could not help myself. We were always too similar always trying to one up each other with some display of aggression. How could we not see that what was in front of us was only a mirror? I did not know how to express myself back then, I still barely do. Now that I know what short time we had, I wish I had spent more of it letting you know how much I loved you.

If I could take it all back, I would have made them break the walls between us. I would have buried my face into your side. I would have held you when you were sick. I would have stopped it. I would have reversed time — just to be with you a little bit longer.

Yours, Esther

— My love. They put someone new in your home… Our home. I cannot stand their flashy clothing, it only serves as a reminder that you are no longer here. They flaunt

themselves around and show off for her attention. I was never this irritated with you. Was I? Perhaps over the years I have simply become a bitter old man. No one could ever compare to you in my eyes.

I am now the one that hides. I sneak glimpses of them from behind the grass. I should not watch, but I cannot help it. I just wish you were here to keep me in line. You always knew how to keep me from doing something I would regret.

Though, I fear that my jealousy is unmatched. How dare someone else move into your home. She did not take more than a few days to pack up all your things and throw them to the curb. We had plans. We never made it to the lake; we never will make it to the lake. I do not want you to worry — I will always have your memory floating with me.

Yours, Esther

My love. I find myself lost in old memories as each day passes. Constantly in a loop of sickness and health. When you became sick the first time, I thought you were just being dramatic. You always had a flair for the dramatics with your gaudy dress and performative attacks towards me. It was on the second night that you would not argue back that I knew it was real. I wish I had begged for her to let me hold you.

I had to watch your body go blue in your isolation without any way to make your pain go away. I sat as close to you as I

could every night. Do you remember what it was like to kiss through the windows? I keep reliving it. The cold glass of the window had the same temperature as your body. We were not meant to withstand the cold.

We laughed when your eyes swoll, but we had no way of knowing what was to come. I should have stayed closer to your side. I prayed every night that I could carry your sickness instead. When you recovered, we thought it was over — we had won. Nothing could kill us. You were as invincible as I proved myself to be.

Yours, Esther

My love. I did not mean to do it. It all happened so fast. They were parading around in your skin. I could feel it eating at me day after day. Perhaps if you had been so naive when we met, I would have done the same to you. I am far too old now to be suspected of any crime. She cried when I killed them, but she has no proof.

The pain did not go away when they died. I could only think of you. The aftermath occurred in the same manner. I was swept out of the way. I watched their lifeless bodies dance around the room. And, for a moment, their body became yours. Your sickly blues clouded in the water and danced with theirs — mocking me.

I did it for you.

Yours, Esther

My love. If I had known it was our last day together, I would have torn down the barrier between us. I would have let you really see me for who I am. I would have held you tightly in our embrace without any worries that you could not stand my presence. I would have made sure she served you every bit of food that you wanted. I would deprive myself of food for weeks just for you to be here again.

I was not even able to be there in your last moment. She was afraid that I would do something impulsive to ruin it all. If I had told her I loved you then, she would have never believed me. I regret never shouting to the world how deep my love was for you.

I watched from the window as they lowered you into the ground. They did not even give you six feet. Only a couple of shallow inches for you to float before the earth stole your water in the same way it stole you from me. The earth is cruel, I miss you in the water.

Yours, Esther

My love. Did you know that when two female Betta fish are in the same space for long enough, one will biologically transition to male without any chemical interference? If we had been women, maybe we would have stood a chance.

We could have had children and then I could spend my days raising them rather than wallowing in sorrow over you.

If we had been women, we could have spent less time proving our strength and more time being in each other's presence. When one of us transitioned, we could have finally told her of our love for one another without fear. I could have admitted that love to myself before it was too late.

Or maybe, everyone is doomed to the same fate we were. Despite our gender, our love was damned from the moment I saw you. She judged our capacity of love based on our species. We will always be known as fighters. We will always be known as the aggressors. We will never be known for the love we had for each other.

Opal, I will always love you.

Yours, Esther

Katie Huston

Bridge

It didn’t rain in Valley City; it misted. It was as if the rain was clingfilm grasping the clouds, hesitant to fall in some stuffy wool blanket over the grey-blue cars and old highway bridge. The moisture in the air collected in glass beads on Sara’s minivan windshield, the slow thumping of the wipers drowning out her daughter’s humming behind her. A red crayon was in her child’s grubby hand with the tip smooshed in an amorphous blob against a small coloring book.

Occasionally, the humming synchronized with the wipers, and the sloshing rainwater flicked droplets onto the mirrors.

They were halfway across the bridge when Sara saw the hazard lights. A man of about thirty, dressed in a black drawstring hoodie, stumbled out of his parked red sedan and grabbed for the railing. The water spun out from Sara’s tires, thrashing at his ankles. She watched his deep brown eyes lock onto her daughter through the rearview mirror and the thickening mist. Her foot hovered above the brake pedal

as he climbed over the railing and put his back to the road, heels pressed to the edge of the bridge. Her daughter’s crayon fell, rolling across the stained brown carpet.

“Uh oh, mommy,” the child said as her sticky fingers pinched the air. She reached for the floor, struggling against the car seat straps.

“What?” Sara’s breath spilled through her lips. When her eyes fixed back onto the passing road, the empty bridge was broken only by the fading sight of flashing lights.

Kimberly Braet

Hitchhiker’s Stone

“Come with me,” the college aged girl said, her expectant eyes relentlessly looking at Melissa’s from the backseat. One of the few things Melissa would remember about her appearance besides the black leather jacket and almost stereotypical patches covering it, was those warm brown eyes.

“What?”

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You look like you’ve got everything packed already.”

Melissa glanced to the backseat of her car, already full of clothes, books, cheap organizing bins, and a comforter shoved in as a ball beside a box for an air mattress. Her eyes quickly flickered back to the road. “I can’t just drop everything and go-where are you going again?”

The girl shrugged, her various bracelets jingling with the movement. “Not sure, really, but I’ll figure it out.”

Melissa looked forward. Well, no wonder she saw this girl hitch hiking in the middle of nowhere. “Wow… I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean why not? How do you know what to do? How do you make sure you have a place to stay at night?”

“You figure it out,” the other girl explained as if they were discussing where to eat for lunch. “As long as you aren’t picky you can find something.”

Find something… like a college student with a car? Melissa rubbed the steering wheel. “Okay so why are you asking me?”

“I dunno, just offering,” the girl said as she rubbed the strange gem necklace they wore. Melissa would forget the color of it. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“I could be a serial killer-“

“But are you?” She wasn’t. At least as far as Melissa would remember.

“No-but I could be-“

“But you aren’t. Where are you going anyway?”

“Penn State-“ Melissa replied, the name falling from her tongue as it had over and over since junior year of high school.

“Why there?” the girl asked.

“What?”

“I said why do you want to go there?”

Melissa shifted. “They have a good program, plenty of funding-“

“But why do you want to go there?” the girl interjected again.

“I-what do you mean why? I was saying, it’s a good school and-“

“Do you even want to go to school?”

Silence filled the car like a poorly timed fart.

“Look, this isn’t some ‘coming-of-age’ story. I can’t just abandon everything,” Melissa began, frowning now.

“No, you shouldn’t abandon everything. You can, it just has consequences., There’s a difference,” this stranger corrected,

before she patted the boxed up air mattress. “Already have a space to sleep.”

Melissa swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of how her glances towards this stranger could only be brief as she had to focus on the road. She couldn’t help but realize how vulnerable the back of her neck was. “I don’t even know your name. I mean, how do I know you aren’t the serial killer?’

The girl laughed to herself, leaning back. “I mean yeah, I guess that makes sense. I’m Jean. You?”

“Melissa.”

Jean smiled and gestured. “Then Melissa, join me on my trip. Next I’m thinking maybe New York, or even Boston after that. No wait-Salem.” She wiggled her finger, leaning close to Melissa. “Ooooo witches. Would you want to be a witch?”

Melissa leaned away, sending a sharp look back as she shrugged her shoulders to protect the crook of her neck. “No-I don’t want to be burned!”

Jean flopped back. “They weren’t burned in Salem.”

“Whatever-“ Melissa replied, before pausing. Her eyes landed on a nearby gas station. Thank god… a way to get this girl gone. She threw on the blinker to turn in.

Jean glanced over to the station and let out a breath. “You know, you’re pretty easy to read Melissa.”

The other girl parked the car, ignoring the comment as she turned back. “Go on. You can find someone else here. I need to get to Penn State.”

Jean looked over at her and smiled still-even as Melissa found herself drowning in the tense moment. “Alright-but take this.” Jean dug into her bag before placing a palm-sized rock into Melissa’s hand.

Melissa looked at it. Surely, it wouldn’t be dangerous. It was just a pebble. Weird, but… it couldn’t hurt right? It wouldn’t. It would always be weird. Melissa carefully took the rock from Jean’s hand, feeling the smooth stone. It was worn down and seemed modeled for a hand. Not Melissa’s handfor it was just too small of a dip for her thumb to fit in, but it was fit for some hand.

“Nice meeting ya, Melissa,” Jean cooed, before slipping out of the car, snatching her bag, and walking to a sidewalk.

Melissa watched her leave, before tossing the pebble towards the backseat, where it hit a pillow and bounced to the ground, nestling under the driver’s seat.

It was years later when Melissa finally folded the driver’s seat forward, and started to use the air vacuum from the gas station she stood at. Old french-fries, straw wrappers, and some weird receipt from a bookstore near the campus all were sucked up. The vacuum stopped, letting out almost an angry sound as the air flow was blocked. Turning it off, Melissa looked over to it to investigate.

She would have forgotten the palm-sized rock until she noticed the way it was more orange brown that the usual grey found in shows. It reminded her of those warm brown eyes, staring towards her from the back seat, packed in like her baggage she carried towards college. For a moment, she thought back on it all.

Melissa didn’t end up going with Jean. She went to college, and as she looked around the stressful Fall Welcome Week, she found someone to cling to for the four years she had studied. Melissa never went to Salem. She went to Boston, and remembered laughing as she snuck to the edge of a harbor with her girlfriend, Ellen, as they poured out some cheap iced tea into the harbor.

Melissa thought about Jean sometimes. As she took the stone in her hand, she almost felt guilty over the times where she laughed at the idea. Melissa didn’t regret her choice. She didn’t often think about what would have been, and yet now, she found herself wondering what could be.

Melissa looked to her car, packed for going back to her stiff home for the summer before she went off again for graduate school at some equally stiff university. Slowly, her eyes fell to the stone in her hand before she smiled and placed it in her pocket.

A quick trip to Salem wouldn’t hurt.

Isabella Brignola

Acknowledgements

To wrap up, The Prose Committee would like to extend a thank you to some of the contributors who helped to make this chapbook possible.

Our Executive Board, Megan Gardenhour, Emily Dziennik, and Alaina Conaway:

When I think of this journal, I think of the three of you. You guys truly are the heart and soul of The Reflector . Your dedication and passion for this journal is contagious, and honestly, I don’t know what The Reflector or TheSpawningPool would look like without your guidance. It hurts my heart that two of you will be graduating, but I know that wherever you go, great things will happen.

Our Committee Members:

Thank you all, for your involvement and support for the prose committee. Without your help and hours of dedication over winter break, none of this would have been possible.

Our Writers:

Another big shout out to all the wonderful Shippensburg students who submitted their stories to be recognized in this SpawningPool. Your creative talents and willingness to share your stories with your peers are a huge reason why this journal exists. We will be forever grateful that we were able to publish your work, and to help you all find an audience where your creative voices are heard. Never stop writing.

Kim Hess:

Thank you for working with us to create our vision for this edition of the prose SpawningPool. We appreciate your patience, and your dedication to helping us figure out exactly what we wanted to do. Whether it was the binding or the color of the paper, you were willing to help us figure it all out, and for that we are truly grateful.

Neil Connelly, advisor of TheReflector & SpawningPool :

We are grateful for your fearless support and guidance, which has contributed greatly to the success of this organization. We wouldn’t be able to do what we do without you.

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