Sisyphus - Spring 2019

Sisyphus Spring ’19 Outside Cover: collage by Logan Florida Inside Front (spiraling in from top left): photograph by Sutherlan Litke, watercolor

by Jackson DuCharme, photograph by Komlavi Addisem, colored pencil by Nicholas Dalaviras, digital painting by Tom Nguyen, print by Liam John, digital art

by Logan Florida Inside Back (clockwise from top left): watercolor by Nick Koenig, print by Jacob Heard, watercolor by Darion Mullins, watercolor by Nick Koenig, digital art

by Logan Florida 3 Watch Your Step, poetry by

Andrew Normington 4 lithograph by Joan Bugnitz 5 Location, Location, Location, nonfiction

by Matt Friedrichs 5 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau 6 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau 7 Fluid, fiction by Gabe Lepak 9 print by Ben Krummenacher 11 print by Max White 12 print by Matt LaFaver 12 print by Liam John 13 Encountering Him, poetry by

Peter Michalski 14 The Bee, fiction by Joey Dougherty 14 photograph by Sulli Wallisch 17 photograph by Matt LaFaver 19 photograph by John Hilker 20 Symbiosis, poetry by Joey Dougherty 21 photographs by Patrick Zarrick 22 Moonrise, fiction by Padraic Riordan 23 photograph by Sutherlan Litke 24 photograph by Sulli Wallisch 27 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau 28 Green in Blue, poetry by Collin Funck 29 photographs by Sulli Wallisch 30 Facing Walls, prose by Peter Lucier and

Justin Seaton 32 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

35 sketch by Logan Florida 38 ceramics by Joe Studt 38 ceramics by Victor Stefanescu 39 watercolor by Logan Florida 40 Her Tetralogy, poetry by Joey Dougherty 41 watercolor by Logan Florida 42 print by Ben Krummenacher 43 The King’s Defense, fiction

by Justin Bruno 44 colored pencil by Nicholas Dalaviras 45 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau 48 print by Jake Pineda 49 mail, drama by Ben Krummenacher 52 Poet’s Last Supper, poetry by

William George 53 sketch by Philip Hiblovic 54 photograph by Tyler Truong 54 Sincere Recommendations..., satire by

Tucker Walton 56 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau 57 poete maudit, poetry by Joe Mantych 61 sketch by Nick Koenig 62 Three Times, fiction by Ethan Schmidt 63 photograph by Sulli Wallisch 66 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau 67 lithograph by Joan Bugnitz 68 Desert, to Desert, poetry by

Emmanuel Akpan 68 photograph by Matthew Thibodeau 69 cherry oatmeal, poetry by Joe Mantych 70 photograph by Sutherlan Litke 71 Apples, prose by Henry McIntyre 72 Finding My Church in Ceramics,

nonfiction by Liam John 72 ceramics by Liam John 73 The Speech, fiction by Padraic Riordan 75 photograph by Sulli Wallisch 76 andrew wyeth, poetry by Joey Dougherty 77 Vernal Requiem, poetry by

Emmanuel Akpan 78 When I Fell in Love with Paris,

bilingual prose by Antwine Willis 80 Moderators’ Note 80 photograph Reed Milnor

Watch Your Step Andrew Normington

3 That tender flesh, so vulnerable, Conquers every creature Never succumbing to difficulty Breaking through rocks Climbing and cutting each branch Slicing the earth in two So it might keep each: The bigger and the smaller half.

That tender flesh, so daunting, Standing like a god Commanding strength through difficulty Molding rocks into statues Chopping branches, making crosses Feasting at tables Lounging on thrones So the workers know who’s boss.

That tender flesh, so forgetful, Teaches every creature Preaches love through difficulty Takes every stone for a temple leaving nothing for the homeless Baking bread with old wheat Forging forests into paper Writing books and acting against them.

That tender flesh, so lonely, That precious package, in need of care Traveling with unseeable difficulty Rolling that boulder on a mortal journey Careful not to stumble.

That tender flesh, so blissful, Waltzes on the peaks of mountains Crumbles avalanches on the highways that took him there Feasts on the grape vine Drinks in eternal day Forgetting the boulder that’s supposed to be with him.

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That tender flesh, those eyes, Unchanging from birth to death bed Serving as a beacon Begging each passerby to handle with care So that fragile interior remains intact And those broken pieces—like glass—won’t rip through Tearing that tender flesh apart.

Lithograph By Joan Bugnitz

Location, Location, Location Matt Friedrichs

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S

o, Matt, where are you from?”

I pause, looking across the lunch table at my new friend Jim, trying to come up with an answer to a question that comes nearly automatically to most but with great difficulty for me. I want to say Camp Springs, Maryland, where I was born. Or maybe Alexandria, Virginia, where I first learned to walk. Or Hawaii, where the three years and two months that I spent there still hold the record for the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. Or maybe one of the half-dozen other places that can be pieced together to make my childhood.

It’s hard to fit all that into an answer, though, so for now, I settle on “Texas”—my last stop before arriving here—and take in the look of wonder on Jim’s face with a smile as he launches into a series of questions about what life is like outside his world of St. Louis. I give the best answers that I can and ask some questions of my own—after all, what is it like to never have traveled more than fifty miles from the place you were born? To have actually lived in one house for your entire life?—but I know that I wouldn’t swap any of my answers with his even if I could. They’re who I am, the son of an Air Force doc or, if you prefer the delightful nickname bestowed on kids like me, a military brat.

Honestly, being the new kid isn’t all that bad; the only part of fitting into a new school that’s really tough is finding somewhere to sit at lunch. It’s at lunch that everyone slips back

photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

into their own bubble of friends they know— people that I’ve never had the opportunity to meet. It took me four grade schools to realize that the best way to approach this oncedaunting obstacle is to find a table with an empty seat, sit down, and just listen. I listen

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to one guy boasting about his family’s boat up at the lake while I think the time that I solosailed a thirteen-footer by the U.S.S. Kidd off the coast of Pearl Harbor. I listen to another try to one-up him with his ski trip to Colorado while I remember hiking that mountain with my brother and dad in the cold predawn of an Alaskan winter to ski down it with the rising sun. After a little while, I join in the conversation with my newfound friends as

of the table for three, six, twelve months, to have a yellow ribbon tied to a tree waiting to welcome a parent home, to pray that they never have to leave again, though they always seem to. But they’ll never experience the joy when our family is together again, wherever we are, and how much more that time means—how much fuller the laughter sounds, how much harder it is to say goodbye.

photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

we engage in the normal discussions of kids everywhere—fierce debates about sports, joking complaints about school, and other more serious aspects of teenage life.

Most of my friends probably don’t get that I can, and often do, fit my life into eight cardboard boxes. It’s hard to explain that after two or three years in the same state, I’m ready to seek out a new one, full of new people, cultures, excitements, and disappointments. They’ll never really understand what it’s like to have an empty seat at the head

So, to answer what I’m sure Jim figured was a simple question, I’m from the place where surf ’s up, and skis are, too. I’m from the place where the name “Arlington,” Memorial Day, and the flag that always flies outside our front door mean a little something more. I’m from the place of too many last goodbyes and of abundant new beginnings.

I’m from my unusual, awesome family that I wouldn’t change for anything and from wherever the Air Force sends us next. That’s where I’m from.

Fluid Gabe Lepak

L

achlan’s time management was abysmal at best. Thirty minutes late on a bad day, ten on a good one. His planning was spontaneous. He said he was playing things “as the cock crows.” His friends just said he was bad at planning. Sure enough, when his girlfriend Olivia invited him over to spend the night, with her parents out of town for the weekend, he figured he wouldn’t do much beyond spend time with her: they’d watch a movie or two that night, talk about their general disillusionment with politics, then pass out on each other sometime near midnight.

When he woke the following morning, near 7:10, he was struck with a violently rising desire that wasn’t foreign to him, but brought him distress all the same. This was compounded with the discovery that Olivia was not there when he awoke. In Olivia’s place was a note: “walking the neighbor’s dog, be back in an hour.” Lachlan failed to account for the possibility that he had slept into that hour. He assumed he had plenty of time. If he didn’t dawdle, he probably would have.

Lachlan moved from the couch in Olivia’s basement, a 15-year-old, cracking leather monstrosity where the two of them had passed out together the previous night watching old movies, to her bedroom on the second floor, a “pastel hellscape” as they jokingly called it, filled with posters and trinkets that demarcated the quick and electric fads

of the past 10 years, boy bands that once were, quotes from eclectic authors, and postapocalyptic young adult books with strong female protagonists. Lachlan paused in the middle of the room. Olivia’s room was built into the attic of the house, with sloped walls and a window right along the gable. In a curious sense, the room was one of the most soothing places he knew. His own room, covered in utilitarian gray and filled with strewn clothing that “had been worn once, but wasn’t dirty,” offered little comfort. He saw it as a place to sleep, a checkpoint from one day to the next. Olivia’s room was an altar.

He could ascend here, slip the surly bonds and break free, break out.

He thought, there’s no way I can do this, is there?

He answered, this is bigger than anything you’ve ever done before. Lachlan talked to himself when he was nervous, or stressed, or anxious, or when he needed to figure something out. He figured he wouldn’t get another shot at something like this for a while.

He asked why not? This was once in a lifetime.

He asked why? Why couldn’t he just come out to Olivia right there? She’d say it was okay. She’d console him. She’d still love him, wouldn’t she?

He said he wasn’t sure.

He said that he ought to go for it sooner than later.

He said that he had doubts.

He asked who cares about the doubts.

He said he did. He said he was lying. He was right. He said he couldn’t do this. He said he needed to shut up, look at himself, look at the room. He could finally win something here.

He said he could finally wear the clothes the kids his age are wearing: something that looks good, that makes you feel good, that could make you pass.

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He said he wouldn’t pass. He said that was a lie. He said he wasn’t sure he wanted to pass. He said he hadn’t been sure of much of anything for quite some time anyway.

He looked at Olivia’s closet. He wished he could live there. He said come out and you can. He said he’d think about it. He was lying. He’d thought about it enough.

He looked at the closet. He said he could finally dress like the kids his age. He could finally feel right about something, however small. He could finally get a victory. He could stop dressing like his mother. He could stop dressing like he was going to a sub-par wine party. He could finally look at himself in a mirror and not see himself in a mirror. He could stop calling himself he.

He said he made an excellent point, but he didn’t know what to call himself yet because he didn’t feel like she yet.

He said just use singular they. He said that would bother Grammar Nazis. He said to stop getting caught on semantics. He said he was right. He said that’s what happens when you think about this sort of thing a lot.

He said he wished he didn’t think about this sort of thing a lot. He had been saying that a lot.

He snapped back. Spinning in thought was great to pass time, but Lachlan did not have such a luxury. He looked at the clock: 7:25. He thought, okay, I can do this in time.

I just gotta be a little quick. He pulled his clothes off, his shirt and jeans turning inside out as he leapt out of them. He tossed them onto Olivia’s bed. He snapped his fingers like a maniacal jazz musician on heroin as he opened Olivia’s drawers.

Lachlan had spent eighteen years of his life getting pissed on by boys in his grade for his small frame. It wasn’t manly, they would say to him. He couldn’t respond with “that’s because I’m not a man.” That would be social suicide and, based on how he assumed some of those kids would respond, potentially actual suicide.

Lachlan’s small frame was key to his success. He could fit in places, fit into things, especially clothing. He opened a drawer by Olivia’s bed: leggings! Bingo! He pulled out a pair of black leggings. They would fit him.

They’d be a little small, but they’re elastic, it’d be fine in the end. Lachlan was addicted to the feeling of tight-fitting pants. The way they hugged him, compressed his legs, made him completely aware of their shape and contorted the shape just enough to look like they weren’t his own legs.

He moved on, he pulled open another drawer, this one held all of Olivia’s bras. Brilliant. He wasn’t sure what Olivia’s bra size was. At the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter.

They were just a series of letters and numbers to him. Abstract in the same way a Mondrian was: only the vaguest sense of a physical reality. He held one, plain, solid black, up to his own chest. He dreamt of breasts that would never come. Filling a bra that he’d never own. Just the thought sent him spiraling. The dream, the imaginary world where he’d unknowingly don some magical amulet or stumble upon a grateful genie or just God Himself would come upon him and he’d find himself in a world much like his own, but where he was not he but she. Nothing would change, perhaps, all the hunger and homelessness and chaos would exist should he be she, but she would be happy, and if not that, she would be content with herself. Alas, she is not real. He is.

He wondered if “she” would even be the most accurate descriptor. Every day the truth seemed more and more obscure. What that meant, he didn’t quite know, but all possibilities confused him. He looked at his hands. His cracked and masculine hands. He hated them.

The bra had slipped from the cursed fiends in his dream about her. He picked it up and put it back in the drawer. He muttered to himself, “no time.” He looked through

Olivia’s closet. He needed a dress. A simple one. It wasn’t like Lachlan to pick the gaudy or the absurd. Well, it was for his masculine clothing. He’d gotten bold over the past year.

Picking clothes ever so androgynous. Seeing exactly where the line would be drawn by his family, by his friends, by his girlfriend, by his school. It seemed the line was drawn everywhere at once, which confused him terrifically.

print by Ben Krummenacher

He pulled out a blue sundress with straps larger than normal. He recognized it. He had bought it for Olivia as a six-month anniversary gift. He thought she would look good in it. He wanted it for himself. He put on the dress. It hung oddly on his body. He had a tiny frame. It was still a masculine one. His

shoulders stuck out too far. The dress pulled back across them.

He looked down. He wondered if he had time. He said time was irrelevant, he was too far gone.

He wondered what the hell he was supposed to use, socks? He thought those could be a little lumpy. He thought tissues may do the trick.

He said taking all of Olivia’s tissues would be pretty noticeable. He said he didn’t want to take all of Olivia’s tissues. He said he didn’t need to take all of Olivia’s tissues, he just needed something to fill the gaps.

He was running out of time. He said he ought to just choose.

He panicked. He started to pluck tissues from the Kleenex box sitting next to her bed. He stuffed them inside the dress. He thought, Damn, if only I’d grabbed a bra.

He muttered, “Lachlan you’re a stupid idiot.” He said he knew that. He stuffed another Kleenex against his chest. He glanced at the clock. 7:40. Brilliant.

Lachlan collapsed to the floor. He never knew people could actually pass out from stress. He had assumed it was an old wives’ tale. A possible reality that had warped so dramatically over the generations of telling that it bore only the faintest resemblance to reality. The sound of the doorknob echoed through his bones.

Click.

It turned only once before the door opened, but the memory cycled repeatedly.

Click.

It was a simple sound. A perfect doorknob, if such a thing possibly existed. When turned it would drop an immaculate click through the room, penetrating the lives of all who lived inside.

Click.

The doorknob haunted Lachlan. His life would never be the same now.

Click.

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The door opened. For the briefest of moments, Lachlan considered jumping through the second-floor window. That would make a scene though, and Lachlan had no intention of doing that.

Click.

He wondered what Olivia thought, when she first walked in, how her day must’ve changed so dramatically. Life is odd like that, he thought; one minute you’re getting a change of clothes, the next your boyfriend is falling out the window.

Click.

The door, Lachlan never considered doors. He hated barriers, loved to be fluid, and doors were merely a potential threat to that fluidity. He kept them open often, locked them hardly. It was only fitting that he would do the same in Olivia’s bedroom.

He closed the door. He’d managed that much, no need to let fluidity run rampant, but didn’t lock it of course.

Click.

The doorknob turned open and Lachlan’s mind was filled with one thought: “oh no.”

Click.

“Lachlan,” Olivia had said as she walked in.

Click.

The doorknob would haunt Lachlan forever, he figured. She began to speak more, but Lachlan heard nothing as he tumbled to the ground. Olivia stood over his body and said nothing. What could she?

Click.

The doorknob turned open. The door swung open. Olivia stood in the open door.

Lachlan swung towards the door. “Lachlan?”

Olivia asked.

Fuck, Lachlan thought and attempted to say.

He collapsed to a floor as a myotonic goat does when suddenly frightened. He came back from the void bawling. Olivia

had him wrapped in her arms. He instinctively curled into a fetal ball, a baby chimp grabbing hold of a conservationist after its mother was shot by poachers. He was shaking. His stomach knotting in a loose, tangled ball. Olivia just held him. She whispered in the voice always soothing, “Hey. Hey. Hey.” Her soft hands floated across Lachlan’s arms and head. A gentle rock in her core. A sway back and forth calming the forces of the world. She whispered again, “Hey, hey, hey.”

Lachlan’s shallow breathing chest fell and rose. The crying had shrunk to a level nearly manageable. He said nothing as he sat still curled in Olivia’s lap. Olivia rubbed her hand across his head again. She spoke: “Hey, Lachlan.”

Lachlan said nothing.

She spoke: “Lachlan.” She paused. When she woke up to walk the neighbor’s dogs she didn’t think Lachlan would be awake when she returned. She didn’t imagine that Lachlan would be in her clothes when she returned. “Are you trans?”

Lachlan shook his head.

“Are you a boy?”

Lachlan shook his head.

“Are you a girl?”

Lachlan shook his head.

“Do you know what you are?”

Lachlan shook his head. Perhaps that was the worst part of it all. Lachlan never seemed to know the most important pieces.

Fundamental facets of his identity lay just beyond reach, a successful invasion of Russia through a winter. Olivia ran her hand across Lachlan’s head again.

She spoke, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Lachlan opened his mouth and finally managed to produce sound, “It’s not okay.”

His voice was raw.

Olivia nodded her head gently. She said, “Yeah, it probably looks like that.” She paused again. “Did you plan this?”

Lachlan shook his head.

She said, “Huh. Did you buy the dress for yourself?”

Lachlan muttered, “It’s complicated.”

She said, “Yeah, I think we’ve established that.”

Lachlan muttered, “Shut up.”

Olivia obliged, her soft hands rolling over Lachlan’s dishevelled body. Olivia spoke, “You know, blue is a good color on you.”

Lachlan said, “Don’t patronize me.”

Olivia said she meant it. She also said that it fit surprisingly well.

Lachlan said, “Sometimes things work out better than you’d think.”

Olivia chuckled softly. She sat Lachlan up, leaned him against the side of her bed, right next to her. She said, “You know, we ought to talk about this.”

Lachlan said, “Yes, but right now I’d like it if we just sat together.”

Olivia said “Okay,” and she continued to sit. Lachlan did not look at her. He looked forwards, or he looked up, or he looked down. Olivia always seemed to be cold, no

matter the situation, she would chill whatever touched her. Lachlan was always hot. He had an average temperature of 100 degrees.

He would spew heat into the air wherever he walked. He would joke that’s why he dated Olivia: thermodynamic equilibrium. That was genuinely part of it, but he would never tell Olivia that. His hands grabbed at his knees, still lightly skinned from his first attempt at skateboarding with Ethan Michaels outside the QuikTrip down the road from school. He considered ripping the scabs out.

His right arm was still shaking ever so, still tense from the faint.

He considered the faint. He had never fainted before; it was an entirely weird and foreign event. His eyes were dry, residual tears hung along the ducts. He picked at the strap on his left shoulder. In a certain, bizarre way, he was grateful for all of this. He didn’t have to tell Olivia now. She just knew. Admittedly, this was not how he imagined her discovering this.

He looked over at Olivia. He said, “I’m sorry.”

print by Max White

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Olivia asked, “Why?” He said, “Because I’m wearing your clothes. What the hell do you mean, ‘Why?’” Olivia said, “They’re just clothes.”

Lachlan responded, “Yeah, but they’re your clothes.”

Olivia asked, “So?” Lachlan didn’t know how to respond.

Olivia said, “I steal your sweatshirts all the time.”

Lachlan said, “That’s different.”

Olivia asked how. Lachlan didn’t have an answer. Olivia asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lachlan said, “I didn’t know how you would respond.”

Olivia said, “Lachlan, have you seen our friend group? Nothing would surprise me about those people anymore. Ethan could have his arm fall off, and we’d all roll our eyes and say ‘Not again.’’’

Lachlan blew air quickly out of his nose and smiled. Olivia ran her hand through the hair on the back of his head. “Hey,” she said, “I love you.”

Lachlan smiled again. “I love you, too,” he said. He leaned his head on Olivia’s shoulder. Olivia smiled and rested her head on Lachlan’s.

“You know, next time you should just ask,” Olivia said.

print by Matt LaFaver

print by Liam John

Encountering Him Peter Michalski They swerved past They looked pissed And I sat A few feet from him Who stood A few feet from me Like an old glass bottle Dirty, empty inside With a low whistle as the wind passed through Steady Yet out of tune with life He stared Not at me, but towards me With an expression vague and unsettling Jaw slack with wet foggy eyes Eyes that boasted some dormant power Sunken Sinister Waiting to grab me with a brutal strength And drag me into some frozen hellscape In a great rage kept hidden by those cold milky spheres His stillness cut me Danced a knife across my cheek And I expected a sudden lunge for my throat A swift bit of silence in the already quiet street Until He disappeared And I kept driving And I kept hearing his steady whistle And I kept feeling his frigid stare And I wiped the blood from my cheek

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The Bee Joey Dougherty

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B

radley Hofstadter stood suspended on the dais in Hutchison Elementary’s small gymnasium, bronze trophy clutched in his palms, clammy with nervous sweat. He felt several pressures at once: the crowd’s staring, the stuffy air, his father’s disappointed hand grabbing his shoulder. The crowd below was all smiles, manufactured to impress the other parents with their own proud children. Each one shone with fluorescent luminosity, beamed from above by the tube lighting onto their tired faces. The

light drew out every crease of fatigue, every weathered wrinkle, every middle-aged mark: it was the end of a work day and they wanted to go home. There was no fatigue in the grip of Bradley’s father.

The announcer, an older dad whose sash was adorned with countless badges, returned to the stage. He leaned excitedly against the podium, pressing his weight against the sides and dipping down to speak into the microphone. It screeched at his first words, erupting into an ear-piercing shriek that made the

photograph by Sulli Wallisch

audience cringe. He laughed giddily before tapping the mic tentatively; in his mind, Bradley heard him say “Is this thing on?” before he actually did. It was such a predictable thing to say.

“Once again, a big congratulations to our winners and all those who participated,” boomed the dad’s obnoxious voice. Bradley looked to the two top placers at his right: Maxwell in first with his annoyingly glossy golden trophy (he could spell MULTITUDINOUS and PRESUMPTUOUS and PRECOCIOUS in the third grade), and Robbie in second with an impressive silver prize (the best he could do was CORROSIVE and INTELLIGENT and ESSENTIAL, and he was in fourth grade). Bradley had messed up DISAPPOINTED, inserting a double-S rather than the double-P he knew was correct, so there he stood with his lousy bronze trophy.

Adjectives were the hardest, but that was no excuse. Arthur Hofstadter had made sure Bradley knew his adjectives; he was a Webelo (goddammit!) and he knew better.

Bradley looked up at his dad as the applause ended. Arthur’s face was taut with a smile, manufactured like the other parents.

His grip had not lessened.

The enthusiastic dad began doling out cleanup instructions as the winners filed off the dais. E-N-T-H-U-S-I-A-S-T-I-C, Bradley said to himself.

“Come on, son,” Arthur said. “Let’s stack some chairs.” He reached for the aisle chair in the first row and began stacking them down the line. Bradley followed suit, grumbling as he started the second row. The other winners left promptly with their parents, probably to get ice cream or a snack from the gas station.

Bradley and his dad stayed the longest (of course), until all the chairs were stacked, the dais was down, and the custodian dimmed the overhead lights. Bradley had set his trophy down against the wall, and now eyed it unhappily. Arthur clapped his hands,

just once as he always did to announce departure, so his son ran to grab the bronze beast and lug it along.

In the silence there hung a stagnant awkwardness as father and son moved for the exit.

D-I-S-A-P-P-O-I-N-T-E-D.

T

here had always been the words. For years, Arthur Hofstadter enrolled his son Bradley in spelling bee competitions anywhere he could find them. They were usually waiting in the daily newspaper: advertisements in unadorned boxes where one might commonly find the obituaries. Upon discovery, he would nab the scissors and promptly cut the ads out to pin to the fridge door. Each morning, Bradley descended the stairs and looked to that door, where he would spy the telltale newsprint cutout and let out a routine sigh. Arthur, often seated at the kitchen table, ignored this.

There were pageant parents and dance moms all around the small Indiana town, but Arthur’s obsession was spelling bees. So he made sure his son grasped spelling, really had an unshakeable hold on it. Each day, after dinner, Arthur and Bradley would retire to the living room, Arthur seated on the couch with his son standing straight as a beanpole before him, and practice the words.

Arthur decided to begin with the Bible. He considered himself a holy man, and he found the vocabulary of the thing truly marvelous. Besides, if anything was perfect, ought not it be the word of God? Creation, being the beginning (the aptly-named Genesis, Arthur would think), was a good place to start. The first word to catch Arthur’s eye was “firmament,” verse six, where God divided the waters. He would spell it for Bradley, F-I-R-M-A-M-E-N-T, before asking him to say it back. Then he would ask that it be spelled again, without any input from himself. Bradley struggled at

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first, as Arthur expected, but eventually each letter would eke its way past his lips to string the word together, and Arthur would beam with pride. Bradley was always indifferent to his success.

Every night, the two would clear out a chapter of interesting words. Oftentimes Arthur would define the words for Bradley, but doing so would elicit no response from the boy. Their sessions commonly took an hour, but often more, until the sun had set and Marcia called her son up for bed.

What Bradley liked was Scouts. Pitching tents at Tunnel Mill, roasting s’mores on open fires, playing Indians in the dark with the older boys—all of it punctuated the defining moments of a blissfully carefree boyhood. Even in the duller moments, Bradley was hooked; he enjoyed bussing tables at the annual chicken dinners and conferring with Scoutmaster Gleare to discuss badges.

Bussing required responsibility, and meeting with Gleare meant rank progress was being made. Learning knots was undoubtedly helpful, soap whittling was nifty, and what boy didn’t want to shoot a bow?

To Arthur, camping, knot-tying, whittling, archery, all seemed trite and unimportant down the line. He offered a compromise of sorts and so proposed to introduce a spelling bee to the Scouts program. It was the best of both worlds; surely Bradley would see that.

The den parents were skeptical at first, but Arthur was friends with the scoutmaster, Jon Gleare. Jon’s boy was bookish, bespectacled, but confident in most regards: The ideal Bradley, Arthur admitted with a twinge of guilt.

Arthur proposed the bee at a parent meeting, held in the Hofstadters’ own lowceilinged basement. As soon as Jon entered, his weighty sash strung about his shoulder, Arthur offered him a beer, the specific brand he loved. He had overheard Jon mention the variety after a Scouts meeting one evening.

The other parents arrived, only two or three in their tan uniforms like the scoutmaster. On the cover of Jon’s Scouting handbook Arthur spotted the Scout law: a scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, so on and so forth. He often saw Bradley struggle with the law, often saw the frustration on his son’s face during the recitation at each meeting’s opener. He bit his lip when he screwed up the adjective order. He ought to practice more.

When all the parents arrived, Arthur corralled them downstairs to a circle of foldable chairs he arranged. With the air of people expecting seats to be assigned, the parents moved cautiously to their chairs. Jon promptly set his beer down at his feet with a sigh. Arthur moseyed to the center of his circle, where all could see.

“Friends, I’m sorry for calling this meeting so abruptly,” he began without an ounce of apology in his voice. “But the introduction of something new into a program so steeped in tradition is something I found worthy of holding council.” The parents exchanged curious glances.

“I’ve spoken with Scoutmaster Gleare about my proposition,” he continued, “and we’ve decided to move forward with it. We have agreed to introduce a spelling bee to the program, and I’ve called you here to nail down the scheduling and discuss when exactly we can fit the bee into the next month or so.”

The parents shifted in their seats uncomfortably, but Arthur did not falter. Instead, he stood among them like the ringmaster at a circus, hands outstretched as if saying, “Look at me!” He was so proud of his proposal, nothing could shatter it then but the raucous footfalls of his son on the stairs behind them.

Bradley entered the basement. He wore a Hutchison hoodie, blackish-gray like charcoal, with different-colored socks on his feet.

photograph by Matt LaFaver

The dimples about his eyes and the creasing purse of his lips suggested his look of confusion was predetermined.

“Hey, bud!” Arthur greeted him. “What’s up?” He’s definitely confused, thought Arthur, here’s a meeting, and it’s not the fifteenth yet. He knows something’s up.

“Nothing. Mom just wanted to know if the moms and dads would like to stay for dinner.” At once the parents’ expired faces shot up alert.

“Would you all like to stay?” Arthur repeated.

“No, that’s quite all right, Arthur,” went one. “We don’t want to keep you, Art,” chimed another. He did not particularly like that nickname.

“We wouldn’t want to trouble Marcia, all that cooking, Arthur,” came the matter-offact voice of Jon Gleare.

Arthur turned to Bradley to speak, but his son was in the throes of a new query.

“Why are you guys meeting?”

Arthur expected this question, but surely Bradley would not object. The bee would be such a P-R-I-S-T-I-N-E way to showcase the cache of words that had been accumulating in his mind.

“Well, bud, we’re working on organizing a spelling bee for the Scouts.” Terse and to the point.

All Bradley did was sigh and move for the door. Curt and dismissive, but enough to set his father off.

“Bradley, come back here!” he called, stepping from the circle toward his son.

Bradley turned, alarmed.

Arthur stopped a few feet short of the boy, locking eyes with him; it was the first time in a while. “What’s wrong, son?” he asked. “You don’t like the idea?”

Arthur knew Bradley would sigh. It was such an expected thing to do. But he did not.

He bore eye contact with a confidence Arthur might label as steadfast, almost as if his son were to puff his chest like a rebellious caricature.

“It’s not that, Dad,” came the response, coming off meekly rather than with the confidence Arthur expected. “It’s nothing really.” It is something, he thought, nothing he’ll surrender to me. Bradley turned and left.

His son gone, Arthur stepped back to face the parents. At least five had a leg crossed over the other, bobbing one foot in impatience. Jon eyed the beer at his feet. Arthur felt suddenly exposed in a way he had never before. He felt his face and extremities flush.

He advanced toward them, noting the expectation in their eyes.

“Maybe it isn’t really the best decision right now, Arthur,” Jon said, finally reaching for the beer and taking a long swig. Arthur heard a few of the other parents chirp in agreement as he sat down in an open seat.

They are so eager to dash my vision, he thought, grinding his teeth, so eager to slip past my fin-

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18

gers. He felt the scrape of each tooth against chairs and moved for the door, almost hastthe other, felt the vibrations zigzag up his ily. Arthur composed himself to see them go. jawbone uncomfortably, jagged like bolts of Jon laid a hand of farewell on his shoulder lightning. with a fleeting “Thanks, Arthur.”

A few other comments rang out from the Before crossing the threshold of the circle, mixing like stirred gelatin into a soupy basement to return to the world above, Jon backdrop behind Arthur’s state of mind, so turned with a final comment. “You should transfixed by the denial of his peers. Then talk to Bradley, Arthur. My Maxwell can be like a pimple goaded by a prodding teenage the same way, but he’ll listen if you say.” At finger, it all came to a head and burst in an that, he left. unceremonious mess.

“I think just the opposite, Jon!” Arthur “ ISAPPOINTED!” boomed the voice shouted. The scoutmaster was taken aback, of Jon Gleare throughout the Hutchiunsure of how to respond. “Bradley and I son gym. “The Tenderfoot was disappointhave always done spelling bees, and he’s nev- ed he did not complete the merit badge in er had a problem with––” He stopped him- time. DISAPPOINTED.” self, tiredly shutting his eyes in knowledge of The word was too easy. Already Bradley the untruth. had spelled EXPECTING successfully, and Arthur cupped his face with one hand, he knew his adjectives. surrendering his line of sight to the safety of “DISAPPOINTED,” he said. Arthur’s the carpet. Still, he felt Jon’s judgmental gaze posture was confident. He wasn’t tired like pierce his back, doubled, tripled, quadrupled the nine-to-five parents seated around him. by the others’ stares. I don’t want to make a “D…” scene.

Suddenly Arthur thought of that SaturArthur heard the tentative click of Jon’s day—looking down on his son, just barely up lips opening to speak. “All right then, Arthur. to his chest, the boy’s face of fatigue.

If we’re doing this, I propose the Saturday “…I…” two weeks from today. We originally schedArthur looked up at Bradley now, high uled bread-making that day, but the Bullion on the dais.

Bakers canceled their session yesterday, as “…S…” you all know from this morning’s email. I You should talk to Bradley, Arthur. He’ll listhink noon would be a fitting time slot. Any- ten if you say. one disagree?” “…S—” All looked to Arthur, waiting for a posArthur froze, looking at the stage in a sible objection. None came. stupor. Bradley blushed red as a rose, a fire “All right then,” Jon said again, pulling pooling in his cheeks to creep up past the a pen from his pocket. He opened a small bridge of his nose. Arthur caught his eye for Scouting planner and scrawled a note on the a second before the boy looked away sharply. twentieth. “I’ll arrange with Arthur the spe- A pang rent Arthur’s stomach. He can’t look cifics of the bee and how it should all be or- at me. ganized and conducted. Thus concludes the Jon leaned toward the microphone. Armeeting.” thur felt the scoutmaster’s gaze fall on him Who is he to dismiss them...in my home? he for a moment before fleeing. “I am sorry, asked himself. The scoutmaster, the same voice Bradley, but unfortunately that is not the answered. The parents stood from their correct spelling. However, you have proceed-

D

ed far enough into the bee that you place among our top three spellers, first place being Maxwell Gleare and second being Robbie Thomas. Congratulations!”

Jon called the parents of the winners up to the dais. Arthur looked at Bradley, catching the look of discomfort he tried to hide.

He doesn’t want to see me. I’ve given him no reason to see I’m proud. Arthur, beside his son, grabbed the boy’s shoulder as encouragingly as he could muster. He opened his mouth for a sincere smile, facing the crowd.

He’ll listen if you say.

Will he?

photograph by John Hilker

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radley looked dazedly out the window at the world in passing, the cars all a blur of blues, reds, and sunshiny silvers. He noted each ice cream shop they passed, each gas station and the treasures they withheld, the treasures for worthy champions. His dad’s gaze remained fixed on the world out front, on the road and its boring designs.

Suddenly the car turned right where it ought continue straight. This caught Bradley’s attention. He keenly looked out the window for any hint. His dad probably just made a wrong turn. He was upset, after all.

About halfway through the detour, Bradley picked up on something, something instinctive deep from the vague folds of his subconscious. It could have been a traffic light so slightly familiar that it jogged a memory from the recesses of his mind, or maybe a distinctive pothole that racked the car with just the right jolt. Regardless, Bradley knew where his dad was taking him.

It came into view minutes later: the ice cream parlor so rarely visited. Bradley stared at the shop, transfixed by the massive neon sign as his dad pulled the car into the parking lot. It was Bradley’s favorite stop.

Upon parking, Arthur looked in the mirror above the dash to see his son’s face.

“I’m proud of you, son,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. But he didn’t open the door.

Instead, he sat in tranquility, his eyes occasionally darting to the rearview mirror, trying to catch a risky glimpse of Bradley.

In one of Arthur’s daring glances, he caught a cool look of acceptance on his son’s face, one that said a lot without surrendering much. Then came the verdict of Bradley’s words. “Thanks, Dad,” was all he said as he opened the door and stepped from the car. Arthur smiled numbly and followed suit.

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Symbiosis 20

Joey Dougherty A sunset: purple popsicle sky, white milk clouds.

Is the flavor I taste the same as the sky’s?

Are the floating wisps a milky warm?

My thoughts hang like those wisps, creamy dregs clung to a vessel, lilac as the flowers underfoot.

My toes squirm like the tiny things of the earth, bare and pink as grubs, searching for morsels: dewy dregs clung to a lilac vessel.

The vessel is emptied of milk and popsicle stick cleansed of purple ice, the dregs all consumed and stick bare and pink.

The clouds, Their sky; The grubs, Their earth; The vessel, Its dregs; And a sunset.

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photographs by Patrick Zarrick

Moonrise Padraic Riodan

22

N

inety seconds.

Trigger leaned back and let a sigh escape his mouth. He tried to pry his hands off the steering wheel, but his leather gloves stuck to the cushioning. That was still an option, he realized. A quick turn of the key, a press of his foot, and he’d be out of there. No questions asked, no people hurt. He could go home, put on some shitty cable movie, and forget all about this. Except, they wouldn’t forget. And he’d be on the run again.

He looked up at the house he was parked across the street from, and sighed again. He had come here for a reason, and Trigger was loath to break his word.

He checked his watch. Eighty seconds.

Tonight, the machine Trigger worked for had led him to this quiet suburban neighborhood. On his way there, he’d crossed a family leading their young children over the crosswalk. Almost hit them, actually. He managed to hit the brakes just in time, and gave them an awkward wave and embarrassed smile.

It didn’t stop the father from shooting him a disgusted look, but the man’s daughter grinned and waved back. Trigger watched them walk away, their little girl jumping up and down and their older son absentmindedly bouncing a basketball. It was then that he realized he wanted nothing to do with this job anymore. This place­—it was nice, and it reminded him of home.

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addy was in a worried mood again. Today had started better, and I had looked forward to spending the long weekend with him and Mommy, even if Derek was also home, but now Daddy had started worrying.

It began when we went out for a walk. Mom practically had to push Daddy out the door, he seemed so afraid to be outside, but once he was I could tell he felt better for it. We all need sunlight, or so my teacher says, and Daddy’s no different.

We were crossing the street on the way home from the park when it happened.

Someone almost hit us. He must not have been looking carefully. He must have been moving fast, too, cause I looked both ways, always do, and I didn’t see that car before I started crossing. Daddy always grabbed my hand when we crossed the street, so hard it almost hurt. Today was the same, but I didn’t complain cause I knew it made him feel better. He only grabbed harder when the black car with tinted windows screeched to a halt just a few feet away from us. Mommy jumped and Derek almost dropped his basketball, but Daddy looked more angry than anything else. I actually thought he was gonna kick the car, so I smiled and waved at the driver to let Daddy know it was okay.

When we got home I realized it hadn’t worked. Daddy took to pacing around the living room, constantly peeking out through the

blinds or double-checking the locks on the front door. Mommy protested, saying there wasn’t anything wrong, that there were idiot drivers everywhere, and that they’d moved us this far across the country for a reason, dammit, there wasn’t anything wrong. I wasn’t used to Mommy saying bad words like that, but I could tell it wasn’t a good time to ask for a quarter to put in the swear jar. Daddy responded by saying our safety was more important than anything else, then reached down to hug me and tell me he loved me. I liked it when he did that, but I didn’t like the way he said it at all.

S

eventy seconds now.

Trigger pulled his gaze back towards the house. It looked pretty standard. He wouldn’t have been able to pick it out from all the other ones if he hadn’t been given an address. Its white siding glowed like milk under the moonlight. The driveway led up to a double garage, but whoever lived here had left their minivan outside. The benefits of liv-

ing in an affluent neighborhood, Trigger supposed. The garage itself was probably full of tools and equipment, or maybe it had even been turned into a sort of den for the husband.

The husband.

He mustn’t think like that, Trigger reminded himself. These were not people, they were targets, and he didn’t know anything about them. Maybe a drug dealer lived here, some fat, sloppy forty-five-year-old loner who made enough money peddling speed to teenagers to move himself out here and pretend he actually was somebody. Trigger liked that

photograph by Sutherlan Litke

thought, and he finally pulled his hands off the steering wheel.

Sixty seconds. One minute.

The house was ringed by a lush green garden. Someone had taken care to keep it properly trimmed. Flowers, just as well kept, separated the driveway and the grass. They were illuminated by the warm glow from the living room window, and led up to the front

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door like a chorus of happy little children.

The front door. Dammit. Trigger had spent all these seconds ruminating on driveways and flowerbeds while neglecting what would most likely be his point of entry. He was getting sloppy. Sentimental. Tigger checked his watch again and cursed softly. He had only forty five seconds to plan his entry.

The oak door was adorned with a stylized window. Trigger didn’t see a screen door.

Good. Screen doors were loud. As Trigger ran his eyes down the door, he saw a flap. A doggy door. He cursed again. They hadn’t told him these people had a pet. A German Shepherd could prove much more formidable than some frightened housewife struggling to open a gun safe. Trigger took a deep breath.

Too late now. He would have to hope it was a chihuahua.

Twenty seconds.

Trigger used these last few moments to

glance back down the road in front of him.

It curved around to the west and led off in a direction Trigger didn’t know. He longed to fly down it, to sail into the sunrise and leave this all behind.

Ten seconds.

Trigger sighed and grabbed the gun sitting in his passenger seat. Its silver side gleamed in the moonlight, a corruption of the comforting picture of the house. Trigger checked the chamber and the magazine before slipping his lockpicking tools into his coat pocket. Better not to make mistakes. Mistakes delayed the inevitable, and prolonged the suffering.

Trigger pulled out his watch one last time.

5… 4… 3… 2…

Just as the second hand ticked over to the top of his watch, the light in the house’s living room flicked off. To this day, Trigger marveled at the precision with which they

photograph by Sulli Wallisch

operated. The machine he worked for must have been staking this place out for weeks.

Ah well. No time now. He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

up the steps. Tomorrow morning, I would tell Daddy the door had been unlocked all night, and that nothing happened so could he please stop being so worried all the time?

B

T

edtime was 9:30. Late for me, but Mommy said it was okay since I didn’t have school the next day. As the hours ticked down after dinner, all four of us ended up in the living room, watching T.V. Mommy let me pick what to watch, despite Derek and Daddy’s grumbling about missing the game. I scurried off to the closet and grabbed my favorite Disney movie. I hoped it would help calm Daddy down.

He sat in his recliner, carefully positioned to give him a good view of outside. He acted calmer as he sipped a glass of water, but I could see his fingers trembling.

When the old grandfather clock in the hallway began to ring, Daddy grabbed the remote and shut the movie off, declaring that it was time for bed. I whined that the movie wasn’t over yet, but he shushed me, saying we could finish it tomorrow, and began to shepherd everyone upstairs to our bedrooms.

I asked to stay downstairs a moment to put the movie away, as I was worried it would get damaged sitting out all night. Mommy interjected before Daddy could answer, saying yes alright dear, but to come upstairs to brush my teeth straight away.

After putting the movie away, I paused below the staircase. The locks on the front door shimmered in the moonlight. I always wondered why Daddy made sure we had them. After all, we went outside all the time, didn’t we? I began to quietly turn the handles on each and every one of them. At first I started to feel as frightened as Daddy might that some monster was going to burst in and eat me whole, but nothing happened. I stood in front of the door for a whole minute and nothing happened. I smiled. Mommy called me from upstairs, and I skipped all the way

rigger pushed open his car door. The wind whipped at his skin, so he pulled his ball cap down over his face and flipped the collar of his coat up. The car door almost slammed shut, but Trigger stopped it at the last moment and latched it silently. He gave one last look around, checked that no one was watching, and began his journey across the street, up the driveway, past the flowers, and through the door.

Each step was more torturous than the last. The wind blew harder now, and Trigger thought he might be picked up and carried away. He wouldn’t mind. But he kept walking, hands dug into his pockets, his body leaning against the wind like a tower about to crumble. As he neared the house, Trigger closed his eyes and recalled the image of a drug-dealing weasel he’d conjured earlier. Easier that way.

Trigger decided he wouldn’t turn on the lights in this house. He’d let the moonlight do the work. That way he didn’t have to look at anyone’s face. That way he didn’t have to know.

Trigger stopped in front of the door. His hand made a detour on the way to the door’s handle, stopping instead at the doorbell. He smirked, and in a moment of black humor, imagined himself actually using it, beckoning whoever was inside to come meet him man to man. The thought was so absurd Trigger actually wanted to do it, but he ignored his instincts once again and instead reached for the curved brass handle.

He pushed down, and it gave way. Not even locked. Ridiculous. Did these people know nothing of safety? They were practically asking for someone like him to come in.

Some frightened corner of Trigger’s brain latched onto this thought, using it as a means to rationalize what he was about to do.

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These people were idiots, Trigger thought. Suburban fools who didn’t understand anything about the real world. Left their door unlocked. Left their car outside, probably unlocked too. Trigger had glanced through its windows on his way up the driveway. All sorts of shiny things sat on the back seat, left on display, begging to be stolen, almost like bait. Trigger’s eyes had noticed what some of those shiny things were. His brain didn’t allow itself to consider what they meant.

Trigger pushed into the foyer. To his right, a carpeted, cushioned living room with a large television. To his left, a wide open dining room with beautiful antique furniture, and directly in front of him, a wooden staircase. Trigger knew that was the way he needed to go. They’d be upstairs. They always were. He slowly made his way up the steps, placing his feet far to the side of each one so as to avoid any creaking. He heard the steady sounds of sleeping breath above him. They were all in bed already. Good. Easier that way.

Trigger made it to the top of the staircase, and froze. Across from him, against the wall, a basketball sat, draped in moonlight.

He remembered it, and wished with all his might that he hadn’t.

I

almost tripped over Derek’s basketball on the way to my room again. I would yell at him in the morning, after letting Daddy know about my scheme and how everything was alright. I slipped under my covers, wrapping myself up like one of those big bean burritos Mommy would sometimes bring home from work. It made me feel safe.

I had been lying in bed for a little while when I heard someone walking down the hallway. I didn’t recognize the footsteps, and I knew the sound of everyone’s footsteps after many nights staying up past my bedtime,

reading, and listening to see if someone was coming, so I could jump for my lamp and pretend to be asleep as I should have been.

These footsteps were new, different, and I began to grow scared. Maybe Daddy was right. Maybe I should have left the locks as he had, shut tight and safe. I heard the door to Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom creak open, and shut my eyes. I tried to convince myself it was just a bad dream.

T

rigger could barely see out through the rain. His windshield wipers could only do so much, and even with the high beams on, he could only see ten feet of road before him. He usually counted on the moonlight to guide his way, but tonight, the rain blinded him from it. He was practically driving blind, yet he’d never sped faster in his life.

How long had it been raining?, he wondered.

When did the weather turn so bad? He couldn’t hide himself anymore. Trigger rolled down his window and stuck his head out into the wet, wild world outside. He smiled as he baptized himself in the rain, inviting it to cleanse him.

But it wasn’t enough. His smile faded as memories came rushing back, images of bloodsoaked pillows, scattered, broken toys, and a deflated basketball lying dead in the dark.

Lightning struck down all around him, and he felt the force of a tornado forming behind him, chasing him down, looking to snatch him back. Above it all, the moon had risen, and he knew it hung low tonight. Trigger responded by pushing the gas down further.

Ahead, the rain cleared and Trigger saw orange rays of sunlight bouncing off the clouds, but they didn’t shine for him. Better not to see them then, he decided. He shut off his high beams, stopped the windshield wipers, and closed his eyes, pushing the gas even harder now.

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photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

Green in Blue Collin Funck

28 He wants to write a song, A song for the New World.

He wants it short and sweet, With a touch of green.

He wants the green to be all shades, All shades.

Dogwood and mulberry, Cactus and sage, How seasons vary, While emeralds never change.

He wants the green to be all shades, All shades.

Through the parting breeze, A setting sun shines upon The beauty of a northern lapwing, Finding his way West.

Above trees of green He flies in a hurry, For the sound of Rolling hills and cool springs, Empty forests and the shelter it brings, Draws him into a flighting song.

What a wonderful world it is, The New World.

Alas, he finds a maple, Reaching its long neck high above the hills While leaning over, as if it were taking A swig from a shallow, And makes his nest.

He casts his gaze While a song unfolds before him: Dogwood and mulberry, Cactus and sage, Apricot and cherry, All ripe with age, Sassafras and ash, Aspen and birch— All in natural cache.

There he makes perch.

And there he rests, Letting go of The breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world For the New World.

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photographs by Sulli Wallisch

Facing Walls Peter Lucier and Justin Seaton

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A

young man—more man than boy, but feeling more like a boy as a teacher than he had as a student in the same building—gazed at the bulletin board he faced every day. He wondered whether, if he had been given a desk facing into the room, he might feel less gloomy.

He had two friends, already married homeowners at 23, who didn’t own a TV. Their living room was filled with seats, all in a circle. The focus of a room should be the other people who were in it, they said. The young man thought that had been a very mature decision and felt even more like a boy for having converted his living room into a movie theater, with four armchairs all facing a flat-screen TV. He wondered whether he mightn’t have just faced them each toward a bare wall. “

M

r. Seaton?”

Justin Seaton twisted away from the bulletin board and toward the English office entrance. His shoulder-length hair swung in a curtain as he turned. His boyish face contorted into a feigned smile. Smiling at students tired him. They never smiled back.

“What’s up, Scotty?”

Scotty was a scraggly freshman with long, fair hair that he was constantly brushing out of his eyes. He carried an impossible pile of textbooks in his arms and looked around the English office nervously. In that

room full of authority figures—scary, serious people—he became incoherent in his fear.

His eyes started to tear up as they did when he was called on in class.

Justin knew the feeling well. He used to hate being called on by teachers. Now the teachers were his colleagues, but he was still being called on by them.

How can you help? What have you read?

What do you know? Why are you here?

He couldn’t answer their questions any better than Scotty could answer his, so he put on his headphones, sank into his desk chair, and avoided eye contact. Easy enough, with a desk facing the wall.

Scotty stuttered through something about a quiz grade.

“Why don’t we talk outside?” Justin suggested.

Outside the office, students were enjoying a mid-day break, and the hallways were abuzz with high voices and low-brow conversations. Justin led Scotty to an old pew at the end of the hall. It creaked even under their modest weight and shifted on old legs. He opened his laptop and pretended to be busy while he considered how a real teacher might talk to his student.

Down the hall, a gangly sophomore shouted toward his stubbier friend. The stubby one was reaching deep into his locker.

The gangly one bounded down the hall and scuffled with the stubby one for a moment.

The moment passed before Justin could

scold them, and he knew he wouldn’t have, anyway; every time he scolded a student, he ran the risk of being challenged—being asked if he was really a teacher, or disregarded entirely—so he picked his battles carefully.

“So, what’d you wanna talk about?” He looked up from behind his screen.

The two sophomores began arguing loudly enough to steal back some of his attention. They were having a spat over a video game. He tried to tune them out again.

“A couple of my quiz grades are missing, but I’m sure I took the quizzes,” said Scotty.

His confidence had been partially restored outside the office, though he, too, was wary of the nearby sophomores. The stubby boy had just pulled out his iPad. The gangly one spoke and gestured toward the screen.

“Pull up his new gameplay, bro. I swear he got forty fuckin’ kills. Dude’s the best in the world.”

Why swear so loudly in front of a teacher?

What teacher? I don’t see a teacher. Just two kids on a bench.

Justin didn’t recognize their faces, couldn’t call them by name and tell them to quiet down. He let them be, sank a bit lower in the pew, avoided eye contact. As the nearby voices grew louder, Scotty got quieter. “I thought maybe you’d lost the quizzes,” he said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Justin admitted with a weak smile. Scotty didn’t smile back. “I’ll check my files and—” The stubby sophomore started to play a video at full volume.

“Turn it off.” He wanted to say it loudly, with authority, but he choked on the words.

The sophomores barely heard his warning.

They pressed pause, turned, and sized him up. He knew their looks well. They intended to put up a fight.

“Chill out,” said the gangly one. “I’m just gonna show him this video.” He turned back

toward the iPad and pressed play before Justin could respond. He sighed. At least he’d tried. Scotty looked at him expectantly.

“I’ll find those quizzes and get the grades in before the end of the day,” said Justin.

The class bell rang, and Scotty hurried off.

Some sophomores just roasted Mr. Seaton, and he didn’t do anything about it. What a pushover.

Justin got up and walked down the hall, though he didn’t have anywhere to be. He hugged the wall as he passed the two sophomores, still watching their video. They didn’t notice him pass, and he was glad. He blended into the passing-period traffic.

A

slightly older man looked up from the harsh blue glow of his computer screen and stared at a wall. He clicked aimlessly through the too-many tabs open on his laptop. Too many tasks he was trying to juggle, none clearly, none cleanly, all jumbled. Mundane prose and frenetic thoughts filled his head, cluttered his mind. What am I doing here?

I’m too old for this shit. I’m not ready for this class. I don’t deserve to be in this office. He struggled to push out the thoughts that plagued and distracted. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose, he did, as he so often, too often, did, and surrendered to daydreaming.

He stared at the impressive looking stack of books he’d stacked in front of the wall, so he’d have something to look at, and let the anxieties invade his brain. He’d dared himself to come back to this place, this midwestern high school that carried itself like some coastal elite old-money haven—a manicured oasis on the edge of Forest Park, protected from the unsavory elements of the city by its high, dark, wrought iron fenced. He’d come back to prove something, the same way he’d gone off and joined the Marines to prove something when he’d been here the

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first time. Take that expensive private school education, wrap it in a digital camouflage uniform, fill the poems and formulas he’d learned into a magazine, load them into a rifle, and fire them off down range with hate and discontent at whoever or whatever it was he was trying so desperately to impress.

Now, like the first time he’d been here, his clothes weren’t quite right. Then it had been white undershirts instead of pink and yellow pastels with mismatched socks. Now it was flannel instead of Vineyard Vines, boots

the things no one else could say, if only he could say them and now he could say all the things, but he was still stuck staring at a wall for some reason and the thing he really needed to do was… well, in any case, when is the next class? Too few minutes between now and when he’d have to, again, face down a class of teenagers in Sperrys and white socks. And too much to do, too much to know, between now and then. He checked his coffee mug.

Empty. Damn.

B

photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

instead of Sperrys. At some point while he’d “ rother. How you doing?” been away, traveling the world, Sperrys had Pete had paced in front of a clean replaced Birkenstocks but it was all the same and organized desk, not his own, until the ego trip. Now he was competing with well- occupant noticed him and said something. dressed real adults who drew salaries instead How was he doing? Can’t focus. Back hurts. of a volunteer stipend, but being out of style Anxiety on a low boil in the back of his has a timeless quality to it. brain. That’s how he was doing.

Back then he’d stare at walls, trying to “I just know I’m going to blow it today.” fit in, desperate to stand out. He’d dream “What?” of wearing the right clothes and also saying “I’m not ready for class. Like, at all.”

“What are you teaching today?”

“No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“What are you worried about” “Nothing. I’ve got this.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Giving up the attempt to interrupt, he shuffled back across the office to his own desk, his back groaning and popping as he sat down and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Where do I start? Should probably go over last night’s assigned reading again. Halfway through the page, the words were failing to give up their meaning to him. The coffee he’d hoped would sharpen him only made him jittery.

Coffee was the lifeblood of this place.

There were half full cups on every desk and half the books on the shelves bore some spreading stain. Occasionally an occupant of the office would make a round with the fatbellied carafe and pour everyone a warm-up.

Coffee was swilled and slurped in this place from 6:50 in the morning, until late into the hours of the night, when a nervous first-year teacher would swallow a seventh cup for the day, typing out a new exam, anxiously emailing his colleagues for input. Pete had always drunk coffee. He’d hoped that would help him fit in here. He didn’t fit in here. He drank and drank and drank but always seemed to remain two steps behind—a step behind his students, a step behind his colleagues.

Instead of going back to the reading he still hadn’t read, he replayed the conversation over in his head. He ought to have said something interesting. The room demanded brilliance. The shelves on the walls were full of the kind of kitsch only the erudite could collect—cheap busts of Bill Shakespeare, antique Necco Wafers tins, and stacks and stacks of important looking books full of obscure poems and New School critical analysis—that thing you said reminds me perfectly of this New Yorker article, have you read it?

The Adam Gopnik essay, surely you’ve read it?

It wasn’t just the knick-knacks and out-of-print editions. The office was full of brilliant people who were always saying the kinds of things brilliant people say. Pete had tried to say brilliant things. He’d hoped this year would bring him brilliant things to say.

He had things to say. He’d fought wars, damnit. He’d been around the world before he’d turned twenty-five. Why the hell couldn’t he impress them? Why had he shown his ass like that when the other teacher had asked him how he was doing? He was blowing this whole year. Where the hell was Justin?

L

ike Pete, Justin was unhappy, but of course he was unhappy in his own way.

The bullshit of this place affected Justin deeply. Where Pete wanted to wade into the bullshit, Justin was desperate to fly about it.

Twenty-four, long-haired, Justin would be boyish if there wasn’t something sad about him. He was searching, searching for authenticity, for connection, for something, and for all the good this place did, there was something false about it, something Justin felt. Living in this place was making Justin sick, turning his stomach every bit as much as the digestive disorder that would often turn his guts and leave him wincing surreptitiously, hoping no one would notice.

Pete knew Justin was right, knew why Justin didn’t talk to other teachers the way Pete talked to other teachers, and somehow Pete still wanted to impress the other teachers, still wanted to impress Justin for that matter. They’d watch television together at night and Pete would always interrupt trying to make some point that would impress the 24-year-old. Maybe he could talk to Justin now, as his brain was trying to boil over.

He glanced at Justin’s desk, but it was empty. Shook his head. It was almost always empty. Pete could have used him now. No

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use. He checked his watch. Just minutes to class now. He’d be fine. He opened the door in the wall and walked slowly to class.

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ustin wandered the halls most of the day.

His cloth shoes made no sound against the terrazzo floors, and the students on their free periods paid him no mind. He only stopped walking once, to re-steep the lemon tea he drank every day to soothe his stomach and throat. His throat was often sore—an undiagnosed pain. He suspected that his voice wasn’t used to so little use.

Before this year, he’d never been so quiet.

Now, when he did speak, his voice cracked like an arthritic joint.

When the final bell rang, Justin fell in line with the mob of freshmen moving toward their lockers. Boys gathered excitedly together, as they were bound to on a Friday afternoon, unsheathing their phones, making their weekend plans, saving their Snap streaks. One group of friends bulged far enough into the hallway that they jammed foot traffic in both directions. They were a well-built group of boys, most of whom, Justin knew, had played on a varsity sports team or two. Some walkers waited patiently for the athletes to grant them passage. Others sucked in their guts and slunk against the wall, as if they were toeing a ledge on a very tall cliff, careful not to cause a disturbance. A religion teacher finally cleared the jam with a joke.

“Hey, let’s keep it moving. I’m in a hurry to get stuck in traffic on 40!” he yelled.

Mr. Seaton couldn’t move his students like that.

Justin weaved through the halls to the English office and wordlessly gathered his things. He passed Pete’s empty desk on the way out and wondered where he was. Pete was always in the office; they loved him there.

P

ete survived class. Straight back to his desk, back through the door in the wall and back to sitting as his desk that faced the wall and his back hurting as he stared at the wall. It was Friday. He’d get a good sweat in at practice and then a cold glass of wine would be waiting for him back at the house. Was Justin having people over? He hoped so.

Justin’s Friday night jam sessions were great. A ragtag group of characters would filter into the too-large community house Peter and Justin shared with other teaching volunteers. The vagabonds would come armed with guitars, banjos, keyboards, ukes. They’d drink wine from coffee mugs and sing. Pete didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to sing. His singing wouldn’t impress anyone anyway.

He’d just slink into a recliner, sip his wine, and probably drift off to sleep. He loved having live music in the house.

He’d been married, once. He’d somehow managed to impress a woman, despite his shoes being wrong, for a time at least. When they’d lived together, for a while, she tried to buy him the right shoes, the right colored undershirts and he’d love her for it, but he’d never learned to tell the difference between the right shoes and the wrong ones and really it never was about the shoes and in the end she wasn’t impressed with him at all. But for some short while, at least, things had been good and when they were, when they’d lived together, his wife had often played music in their apartment. They’d clean together, while the dogs napped on the cool tile after a trip to the park, or they would play word games while the alt-rock radio strummed Everclear and Red Hot Chili Peppers. But since the divorce he didn’t listen much. It just wasn’t something he ever thought to do, like how he never remembered to wear the right shoes. It was like he needed an invitation from someone to even listen. Justin was that invitation.

The music was Justin’s, as it had been hers,

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sketch by Logan Florida

but he was allowed to share it, share in it.

When he listened to music there was no one he had to impress.

More coffee after class, something to pick him up and lube up the joints before he’d have to move later. His body didn’t do the things he asked of it as willingly anymore. His belly was soft and pink where it used to be taut and lean—back when he’d been a warrior. Back when he’d been a Marine. He’d wanted to impress all those Marines he’d been around just as badly as he was now trying to impress the people in the office. He’d talk too much and too loudly back then, too, about poets and formulas.

No zealot like a convert. He always seemed stuck in the awful in-between, the Marines

knew he was too effete, too soft, to really be a killer. The people in the office knew he’d never written a grad school paper on character or setting or free indirect discourse. And now, even worse, he’d gotten fat. The kids all knew he was a Marine. They expected a killer but his body wasn’t cooperating. The pain in his lower back was still there.

He glanced again at Justin’s desk. Empty.

He glanced around to see if there was anyone to talk to—no use bothering to try and get any work done on a Friday afternoon, but most desks were empty, and the few still in the office were working diligently. As much as he wanted to talk, probably best to just leave and get to the wrestling room early.

He packed up his laptop and books into the

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same backpack he’d carried when he was a student here, pushed his desk up against the wall he’d tried not to stare at all day.

“Heading out?” One of the other junior English teachers had perked up when he’d started packing.

“Yep.” “How was class? You seemed worried about it.”

“It was fine.”

“I’ll send you what I have for next week.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good.”

“Practice today?”

“Yep. Did you get a workout in?”

“I did. Elbow is still hurting.”

Pete talked with the other teacher about fitness and working out for another twenty minutes. It was easier to talk about lifting weights than books. The people in the office probably thought he knew more about bench-pressing and deadlifting than he knew about poetry and formulas. They were right.

He didn’t know much about poetry. The bell rang, ending the school day, and the week.

He was going to be late for practice. He grabbed his phone. Maybe he’d put on some tunes for the boys during warm-ups.

J

ustin woke from a nap just as the sun was setting in the late-winter sky. The blinds on his bedroom windows were halfshut, but enough of the dying light of early evening squeezed through to reflect off the vanity, the doorknob, the tuning knobs of two guitars, and paint the room gray. The house felt empty. His house—an old Jesuit residence with seven bedrooms, four baths, flaking ceilings, and a living room-turnedmovie theater—was way too big for the four teachers who lived in it, and it usually felt empty.

T

he ceiling creaked with signs of life, and Justin sprang out of bed.

“Pete, you home?” he yelled up the stairs. “Come have a drink. Danny will be here soon.”

With that, he shook off the last of his nap and moved through the house with speed. First, to his room, where he grabbed the two guitars, a ukulele, a keyboard, and a Bluetooth speaker. In one trip, propelled by the same energy that had roused the students in the hallways earlier in the day, he moved all of his instruments to the living room, connected the speaker, and shuffled a playlist at full volume. As the music played, he sang, and his voice reached every corner of the too-big house.

“Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la. UH-HUH.” Justin grunted and belted and impressed his invisible audience. “Was down up in New Amsterdam, staring at this yellow-haired girl…”

He growled like Adam Duritz, delighted in the wrong words, and poured two glasses of cabernet, one with ice, the way he knew Pete liked it.

Pete remained at his desk upstairs and smiled. Nothing filled the house like Justin’s voice. He’d be down soon.

uests began to arrive within the hour.

They came bearing jugs of wine, platters of cookies, and all the instruments they had. Food and drink were set out in the dining room. Instruments were set in a circle in the living room. Two men got to work rearranging the furniture. They pointed the recliners toward the center of the room. They filled gaps in the circle with wooden chairs, laundry baskets, instrument cases, amps, and milk crates, all for sitting and singing on.

Danny arrived last—late, but earlier than usual. He dragged with him the last of the instruments and settled into his usual spot in the circle. Justin placed Pete’s wine on a shelf outside the circle and took his place next to Danny. They exchanged goofy, familiar

G

smiles. Danny plugged in his keyboard. Justin slung his guitar strap over his head. Conversations around the circle quieted and the attention shifted. The frontmen were the focus for now—sometimes it took awhile for people to find their voices.

“How do ya wanna start?” Justin asked.

Danny answered with a riff.

Justin responded with a chord.

Cheers of recognition rose from the group, and they grabbed for things to beat or shake or strum.

“OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH.” Justin set the jam in motion, and they all delighted in the wrong words and wrong notes together.

Upstairs Pete got out of the shower, listening to the music coming from the living room. He stopped scrolling through Twitter and threw his phone on the bed. Wine was waiting for him downstairs, and music.

Pete walked down the stairs barefoot, the old carpet stiff under his feet. He glanced at Justin’s desk. No. Not his desk. His chair.

He was right where he should be, in the middle of the circle, guitar on his lap, glass of wine on the TV tray.

“Justin. Play that one song.”

Justin plucked out a few notes. Do do DO do. Do do DUM dee, dum de dum de de.

“Yes sir. Sing it.”

“I don’t know you. But I WANT you. All the more for that…”

“Yes sir.” “... Take this sinking boat and point it home We’ve still got time Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice

You’ll make it now.”

On the “now” Justin’s voice was high and wonderful like a prayer and Pete closed his eyes and the pain in his back was gone and the boiling in his brain sank into a gentle glass of cabernet and he closed his eyes. Yes sir.

T

wo young men gazed at the TV screen that they faced every night and queued up an episode of Game of Thrones. They sat in two recliners, one behind the other. The slightly older of the two sat in back. He wished he knew how to play music. Music impressed all the right people, like the way girls were impressed when Justin sang.

Wished he’d kept after those piano lessons he’d so hated, he wished, he wished, he wished… But of course if he could play, he’d have played. And sang. And then he wouldn’t have been able to listen, and playing for him would have just been one more ego trip, one more chance to open his mouth, and have the words come out, and the words that came out would have disappointed. At the jam session, and now, in the dark, he could simply sit, in comfortable silence, finally at peace.

The slightly younger man sat in front, fully reclined a few feet from the screen. Silent. His throat hurt from singing. A plush brown blanket covered everything below his chin, and in the darkness of the room, the mass of brown fabric against brown chair might not have contained a person at all— just eyes, locked to the TV. In the blackness of the screen between scenes, the slightly younger man could make out the outline of a slightly older man sitting behind him, facing the same wall.

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“Hot Potato,” ceramics by Joe Studt

“Not Playing with a Full Deck,” ceramics by Victor Stefanescu

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watercolor by Logan Florida

Her Tetralogy 40

Joey Dougherty Summer’s tang, Autumn’s gasp, Winter’s bite, And spring’s breath, Sticky, Dry, Sharp, And new.

Happy sun and oblong dusk, First.

Nature’s tongue exists symbiotic With the language of petering birdsong, Augur of spring’s defeat.

Graying dawn of salt, aging crinkle of leafy twilight, Next.

Nature, our vehicle, with Her terse gasp knows Her fatigue, Accepting of death’s arrival.

Morose morn and celestial night, Third.

Nature, asprawl, like a dog’s tummy upturned in surrender, belies the starry dome, Knowing of eternity and its reciprocal wisdom.

Truest daybreak and aftertaste darkness, Last.

Now Nature lives anew, a cap to a long-roiling wave, Wizened by frothy white.

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watercolor by Logan Florida

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print by Ben Krummenacher

The King’s Defense Justin Bruno

O

n a Tuesday after school, I sat in the chess room playing one of my good friends in a friendly game of chess. It wasn’t really a room so much as a part of the stage in the gym because that was the only spot open for such a small club. It was the main stage where the school hosted its yearly musical, so there were still decorations of bushes and a yellow path that led from one part of the stage to the other from last year’s production of The Wizard of Oz. But it was the beginning of the second semester, so they hadn’t started on auditions yet, which meant we got the stage for at least one more month. However, the school focused mainly on athletics, which became pretty annoying because the basketball team was always practicing during our chess games. It became hard to focus with the sound of balls dribbling and athletes yelling out calls. “Pick left!” or “I got ball, I got ball!”

I looked around as I sat in a wobbly wooden chair while Mr. Fisher closed the curtains to block off the basketball practice.

I then noticed the new girl, Anna, walk in through the back door. Even though she was in my AP Calculus class, I had never really talked to her. She always just sat at her desk in her blue jeans and white long sleeve Tshirt, which she seemed to wear everyday, studying the material from the day before.

I always thought she shouldn’t even be in such an advanced class and would have never thought that a girl, especially her, would’ve come to the chess club. Not only

was this a spot for the nerdy kids, but chess is a game of intellect. Professional chess players have the highest average IQ among any other profession, and not one is female. I guess she was here because she had nowhere else to go. Anna sat at a table playing chess against herself. I noticed she started with the King’s Pawn Opening and defended by using the Sicilian Defense. I was intrigued by her knowledge of opening theories, but wasn’t too impressed, as these openings were fairly common and simple. As she sat there playing a game by herself, I finished my game by moving Queen to c8, checkmate. “Good game, man,” my friend said. I shook his hand and moved in close to his ear whispering, “I think this girl’s lost. Should I tell her this is chess club and not the Birds of Prey?”

We both laughed as I began walking around looking for another game.

“I’ll play you,” Anna called out from her table.

I straightened my glasses as I looked at her. “That’s okay, I’m trying to get some actual practice in.”

But then I thought. If I beat her, I would show her that chess is a game for men and maybe she wouldn’t come back. So, I sat at her table and started setting up the black pieces, so I could give her the advantage of being white. “Are you sure you want to waste your time when you could be getting real practice in?” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.”

She began with pawn to e4, then I responded with pawn to e5. Next, she moved

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pawn to c3, a pretty uncommon move, and I chuckled at her ignorance of the game. I responded with knight to c6 stop her attack on the center squares. I quickly took control of the game, and we began trading pieces at my convenience during the beginning.

However, during the mid game, she surprised me with some of her moves, which led me to think for four or five minutes before my next move. She was able to slow down all of my attacks without much thought, put-

est opponent I’d ever faced was a girl. She then put out her hand across the table saying, “good game.” I nodded slightly with a grin and walked away, leaving her hand hanging above the table.

A

bout five years ago, before I was even thinking about high school, my father took me to his job one day where he worked as a mechanic changing tires everyday of every week. It was a Saturday afternoon and

colored pencil by Nicholas Dalaviras

ting me in dangerous positions. Towards the end, it was a really close game. I had only a one pawn advantage. It was my turn, so I moved my king in between my three pawns to protect them. We played out the game until I promoted my queen which was when she decided to place her king on its side, signalling a resignation. Even though I had won, I was surprised at her knowledge of the game, and sort of felt like I lost because the tough-

my mom was out of town for a mini-vacation with her friends. I couldn’t be alone at the house, so my father brought me to his work, where he showed up about twenty minutes late. According to his boss, this was always happening, and today he decided to call him out for it, “You gotta get your act together, Dick.” At first, I thought this was just about his tardiness, but I realized it was about much more when we walked over to

his workbench in the main garage. It was an old wooden desk filled with wrenches, cans of oil, and other tools. He had this whole corner to himself, or at least it seemed that way because it was surrounded with his personal boxes and papers. He also had three half-empty bottles of Jack Daniels on his desk and a flask sitting beside them. He walked up to them and filled another flask that came out of his shirt pocket and took a sip straight out of the bottle.

“Come here John. Take a sip.”

“Mom told me not to drink alcohol.”

My father chuckled and walked closer to

photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

me and put the bottle in my hand, giving me a serious look, “If you want to be a man, you can’t let a woman tell you what to do. You understand me?”

I nodded.

“Then take a sip.”

I barely touched my tongue to the warm, thick liquid then coughed, almost spilling some of the whiskey on my Spiderman shirt.

I felt it inside my stomach; it burned. My father laughed and took a big gulp. “We’ll work on it.”

We stayed in his corner for about thirty minutes where he was adjusting one of the lug nuts on a new tire while I sat on the floor playing against myself on my portable chess board. This was the best practice I could get because I already knew what my attacks would be, so I had to work around that. My dad then got up from his desk and signalled me to get up as well. “Put that thing away; we’re gonna go do some actual work.”

We walked over to the middle part of the garage where three cars were lifted off the ground and stacks of tires around them.

My father started working on a cheap blue car without any tires. Since they were always busy, changing tires was the only thing he would do in order to keep things moving. He wanted me to help him, so I rolled the tires to him while he put them on. He was lecturing about his process, saying something about the jack and using a lug wrench, but my attention was focused on chess. He didn’t know that I could play games in my head without a board.

When he was done putting on the tires and inspecting the screws and measuring the tire pressure, the customer came out of the waiting room. Normally it’s the lead mechanic who talks with the customer, but my father raised an eyebrow when a middle-aged woman came walking towards the car, so he grabbed the keys from the hood. He then put his fists on his hips where he held

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the keys and then made the same face he did whenever my mom would use the grill. It was an ugly, red face with the inside of his eyebrows pointing towards his nose. “Where’s your husband?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you’re not the one driving this car, are you?”

“I am. Is there a problem?” she responded.

My father chuckled as I stood next to him, forgetting my chess game and focusing on their conversation. My father noticed his boss standing just outside the garage. “No, there’s no problem at all. Just be careful,” he said to her as if she was in first grade just learning how to ride a bike.

She thanked him and put out her hand for a handshake, but my father dropped the keys in the palm of her hand and walked away leaving her handshake request empty.

He brought me back over to his corner where he drank the rest out of his flask and turned to me, raising his voice. “Never shake a woman’s hand. Ever.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Men shake hands, women hug. That’s the way my father taught me, that’s the way it’s been since I was kid, and I’m not gonna have my son be any different.”

“Okay, sir,” I promised, hoping he wouldn’t raise his voice again.

T

hat Tuesday night after barely beating Anna, I was studying and practicing for chess tryouts the next day. I knew I was going to make the team, but I wanted to guarantee that I would be chosen as captain. I sat on the carpet floor in the living room with my mom across the table playing the white pieces. Although she wasn’t very good at chess, it always helped me improve by teaching her new moves or endgame strategies. Plus, it was fun. My mom supported my passion for chess and would often buy

me books behind my father’s back. He was never home anyway, since he had lost his job a year ago. Neither my mom nor I knew where he’d be, but I just assumed he was out drinking somewhere.

My father came stumbling through the door and through the living room. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he went straight into the kitchen and opened his cabinet of alcohol which he always kept locked.

This time it was Smirnoff Vodka and he was drinking it straight out of the bottle. I could tell my mom was angry. Her face turned red and the veins in her forehead and arms began to show through her skin. I tried to focus on the game, but she kept looking over to the kitchen at my father. She didn’t say anything ,though, except to ask how he was. I guess she didn’t want to make a scene in front of me, but she had to handle the problem at the same time.

I sat there, thinking about my next move when my father looked at me, drunk and angry. “Aren’t you gonna ask where I was, John?”

By now, I hated my father. I was happy that he was never home anymore, but I hated how he stressed he made my mom and how you never knew what would set him off.

Tonight, it was simply me playing chess with my mom.

“This game,” he said shaking his head.

“When are you gonna do something useful? You need to get a job or play a sport. Do something meaningful: this game is for pussies.”

He flipped the board up and slammed his fist onto the table, nearly breaking it while looking at me with that face. The face I’d seen only a few times, and never directed at me. The large, bulging eyes and the thick vein nearly popped out of his forehead. He only ever made that face when he was drunk and pissed about something that happened in his personal life. These were the times

he used his belt to take out his anger on my mom. But this time, it was me. He began to unbuckle it and slip it out of his pant loop.

My mom stepped in front of me, crying and yelling for him to stop as she dropped to her knees. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there, red faced and heart beating, scared nearly to death.

My father didn’t care who he hit, so he yanked back the belt and whipped it at my mom. Once on her face, then on her back.

The only sounds I could hear were my mom crying and the slap of the leather against her back. I could barely think. Everything was moving so slowly. I saw his hand on the end of the belt and knees spread in an athletic stance. My mom was crouched on the floor with her back facing him and her hands covering her head. I was frozen; I couldn’t move.

I wanted to, but there was something inside me keeping me from stopping him. But then I heard his voice. I didn’t recognize it at first, as it sounded like something you’d hear in a horror film.

“You’re gonna let her stand up for you?

Be a man, fight for yourself. You’re pathetic, no son of mine!”

I finally stood up and violently pushed him with all my force and began to punch and hit him as hard as I possibly could, screaming while doing it. I didn’t realize it at first, but he was letting me do this.

I yelled, louder and louder each time, “Fuck you, get out!”

And to my surprise, he left with a small grin on his face.

I held my mom in my arms feeling the welts on her back. That whole time, she was so helpless. She couldn’t do anything besides let it happen. It was then when I realized that she was my hero. She knew she couldn’t fight him, so she protected me first. I lifted up the back of her shirt, to find not only three welts, but her back scarred with welts, every one for my protection.

Moving her head close to mine, she told me, “Don’t listen to him, you’re more of a man than he ever will be. And you know why?

Because you’re a protector and you stand for your own morals.”

I felt, one more time, the layers of scar tissue on her back and thought about all of the times she protected me. I just sat there with her, all night until she fell asleep.

I

stayed close to my mom all night hoping my father wouldn’t come back. He didn’t.

I couldn’t prepare much for chess tryouts, but that was okay. I was doing my job in protecting and comforting my mom. The next day at chess club, I played a few games before the official tryouts began. I won every match, so I was feeling pretty confident in myself. I was still shaken from the night before, but I was almost completely sure that my father was gone. So I began to focus more on the games ahead of me. The basketball team didn’t have practice today, so it was almost completely silent on the stage, except for the ticking clock and occasional fly that would buzz around. During my first match of a tournament style setting, I spotted my mom walking through the back door and smiling when she saw me. I smiled back, grateful that she had come and happy that my father wasn’t there. I gave her a wave but quickly got back into my chess mindset.

This was an easy game. I had been dominating since the opening and put my opponent in checkmate before we could even reach the endgame.

I breezed past my next few games, arriving at the final game: the top players in the club going against each other for the role as captain. As I sat down on that cheap old wooden chair, I became nervous. But that was mainly because my opponent was Anna. Her confidence in every move and unique style of play made me even more nervous. Some of my friends came up to me and

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whispered in my ear, “You got this, John,” and, “You can’t lose to a girl.” This just put more pressure on me because I didn’t want to be that guy who lost to a girl, especially when chess was my life. But I decided to forget about them and focus on the game ahead of me. I played as the white pieces, so I started with pawn to e4.

I knew she would have a response to this, but it was my favorite opening and proved to be the best and most consistent. We played a long, intense game, waiting until after twenty moves to make a trade. After one uneven exchange, I went down one pawn and had to play defensively. It was her turn and she moved her queen to f2 threatening checkmate in one move. It didn’t take me long to find my next move, which stopped her attack and threatened her queenside rook at the same time. Since we had unlimited time, Anna thought about her next move for about five minutes before I got out of my seat. My mom was standing still near the door, so I walked over to talk to her.

“She’s got me,” I said. “In a few moves, I’m gonna resign.”

My mom smiled, which confused me because I was obviously pretty pissed off.

“Don’t get too upset, you played a good

game. Plus, you’re still gonna make the team.

Stop looking at the negatives and start focusing on what really matters. Can she checkmate you any time soon?”

“No,” I said quietly, looking down at her feet.

“That’s because you protected your king, didn’t you? Winning the battle isn’t the most important thing. Winning the war is. Trust me.”

I sat back down at the table. Anna was still thinking. She thought for a few minutes then made a brilliant move, forking my queen and rook. I continued to play to the endgame even though I’d lost my rook. I played to the final move, protecting my king as best as I could. But she promoted her pawn and trapped me in the corner for checkmate.

“Good game, John,” she said, noticing I wasn’t happy but trying to demonstrate sportsmanship anyway. And, like last time, she reached her hand across the table to shake my hand.

This time, I accepted and shook her hand, looking into her eyes.

“Good game... captain.”

I walked out of school that night reviewing the game in my head. I noticed where I went wrong and thought of ways to correct them. With my mom beside me, I began to smile, hopeful for the future.

print by Jake Pineda

mail Ben Krummenacher evening it sure is dark and it smells like rain even inside

the window is not open. whaling wallpaper and a coat rack full of fishing hats blocks the front door

live laugh love milton: a bald man with eyes— the kind of bald you can’t imagine

being any other way they used to call him an old soul

and now he yells at his wife as she lounges on the floor beneath him did you get the mail today?

we got a letter from them they said we have to get our mail today jude: lounging on the floor with a glass of wine she accounts for her husband’s loss of hair

she’s all about balance she learned it in yoga

which she doesn’t take any more no milton: turns his phone off and on until it suggests that he call the police

he looks like he could have been a policeman and he does have an interest in the

tactical aspects of life he orders knives off the web and keeps them under his bed

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well we have to get the mail today

they sent a letter saying that jude: looking at milton with her whole upper body could you turn that down?

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milton: throwing his phone on the wrought table

it’s ok because he has one of those cases he folds forward in his chair

and never forget it’s his chair

he sewed his name on the seat i’ll get

the mail

jude: sipping from her monogrammed glass her initials were more interesting before but her mom once had interesting initials too

and you never heard her complain well i did once it was a long road trip milton: boots hat he walks to the back door his eyes go limp

so he’ll grab a coke on the way back

if only he had a lawn!

but the water’s his lawn he rubs the blue stripe along the side

and blesses the lack of rust

and barnacles and thieves he had turned the rocking chair around

it was rocking so now it faces the front door it’s less inviting that way anyway

we can’t have them on our porch i worked for this house with bare hands and they want me to give them a porch? the only ones i care about are myself and my wife and maybe a dog if she ever gets over it

god knows she won’t

he grabs the mail in multiple handfuls

they said we have to get the mail packages mail and bills

and packages of knives! a mr. rogers stamp? no thank you! he puts it back in the mailbox

along with the others he didn’t like he’s a man of his character and what is character

if not opposed to mr. rogers the kids can learn everything from fish

not some cardigan on a screen jude’s been ordering glue again they don’t make it from horses any more

it’s all chemicals from england

they don’t even know horses just oxford ponies and mules from the bible

you know mules are infertile? why should the kids know about that?

fertility is a man’s business he grabs a coke from the fridge

and sits back in his chair

tossing bottles of glue at jude jude: glue glue glue did you get the mail? all of it? milton: yes jude: because they said we had to all of it curtain

and windows

51

The Poet’s Last Supper William George

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His poems had teeth, sharp, prickly incisors that the students used to chew upon the lessons of their masters as The Poet moved among them through the day.

The workshop, the photos, the reading over, The Poet eased into a board-room chair to sit among some Jesuits over Scotch (not his first that day), puzzling these disciples with his chat of transubstantiation of the Word, until, rising from his chair as the spark within him rose, he said, “Among those drinking, who’ll unlearn his notions of our world?

Then, do this,” said he, raising up his glass, “in memory of me—so blessed be the prattle and the rattle of ice against a glass!”

Schooled to risk a nibble but not the bite, they “Hmmm”-ed or coughed or merely looked away, imagining, as they could, the cost to pay and whom to pay it for giving this Barabbas unto them, then said, “We thank you, sir. Good night.”

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sketch By Philip Hiblovic

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photograph by Tyler Truong

Sincere Recommendations to Improve the Education System in the United States, In Light of a Memorandum on the Superior Chinese Education Dogma Tucker Walton

I

n so vast and advanced a society as such of the States, it is an impossible task for one to claim even the most trivial vice, but yet it is such an inconvenient Object that I must bring forth, although reluctantly, but rather truthfully as impelled by my conscience, to promote the Common Good and the ultimate perfection of our society.

I reckon it is widely agreed upon by all Parties, that the American Education System, especially its High Schools, frequently produces the most vigorous, competent and creative candidates for the future. Unlike many other systems, the American Model greatly benefits from its openness, tolerance and resourcefulness. To illustrate this point to the public and especially those unacquainted with this topic, I will therefore only present the most prominent examples.

First and foremost is the Advantage coming from regularly organized social events that serve as outlets for sexual desires and platforms for future relationships. Often future wives and husbands first met each other at After-Parties, known to each other only by the sizes of their genitals. There is likewise another great Advantage in our current system, which is undoubtedly the easy accessibility of our Students to various synthesized Performance Boosters, often in the forms of

Nicotine and Marijuana. As it is known to all, various trustworthy sources have conducted studies proving the insurmountable emotional benefits attributed to the Performance Boosters, namely to reduce stress and generate happiness. Those two Advantages alone can characterize the American Model as the most desirable among all possible options.

As to my own part, as satisfied and proud as I was by the remarkable performance of Students from my very own Mid-O’Ker State Prep, a rather successful and ambitious Midwest institution, I had been luckily granted the privilege as an advisor to give guidance to Nanjing Normal High School, a rather under-developed institution on a continuously developing continent. However, it is a melancholy Confession that I must make, much to my own dismay, that I was utterly awed by my journey. What I witnessed was indeed a more superior model so economically efficient and productive that the high chancellor of the most revered University in my hometown, WashU, would be stunned speechless and repent in shame.

What a contradicting scene it is that the compartments of Nanjing Normal High School, so resembling the cells of a Jail, are capable of producing the freest Spirits in the Eastern Hemisphere. No visitors are spared

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from standing in awe before the uniformity of the student body: same uniforms, same haircuts and even the same talents! What harmony it shall bring when all Individualities are eliminated altogether and how proud we should be if that End were to be achieved by the means of education! In this regard, Nanjing Normal High School is a pioneer in exploring such Utopia. According to what I’ve seen and heard about, only if I can recall correctly, that besides a strictly enforced dress-code, limited time and options for lunch, and the absence of sports and clubs, it is the manifestation of Practice Makes Perfect: seven courses daily with one hour of homework for each course.

More strikingly, I was thoroughly astonished by how much affection those students had towards their Knowledge, especially their Letter Grades, as some even voluntarily gave up their lunch-time to finish extra homework. If those attributes cannot speak for the Pinnacle of all Education Systems, I can only count on God to create something finer.

I have recently been assured by a knowledgeable English man through my acquaintance on the International Educational Board for English-Speaking Countries, who bears the name Sir Jenson Beardsley. Just a word, the Board is held annually in Paris and has been widely exalted for its reformation of nearly ten institutions in its mere 150 years of history. Sir Jenson Beardsley had the privilege to stay in inland China for more than a decade to closely observe the outfits, habits and methods of three teachers from rural China.

There the education system tends to be the more advanced, especially for its world-record Teacher-Student ratio of 1:375, an index 30 times more superior than its western counterparts.

His study has been summarized into a most sincere report titled “Reformation of the Secondary Learned Society in England” taken to the House of the Lords, which has drawn him much favor and reverence as many of his advices are about to take into effect in the most presti-

gious Eton College. High among his genius suggestions are three doctrines of utmost value that should likewise be adopted by the American Education System.

For first, as confirmed through my own observations, it would tremendously lessen the Expenditure of our Education System if the ratio of Teachers to Students were to be optimized, since very often half of the Revenue goes into the pockets of our seemingly necessary but utterly useless Teachers. Imagine every school in the Nation cutting half the number of its Faculty members, which the students would happily accept, and relocating the funds to proportionally purchase Performance Boosters and distribute them at the discretion of the students. If adopted, this reform alone would elevate our rather fruitful Education System to an unprecedented success.

Secondly, Competition amongst students should be encouraged in all fields without restrictions and with abundant monetary incentives, which by the Law of Survival of the Fittest can greatly promote both the student body and each individual to be more capable and prepared for either the harsh Capitalism or the mild Cannibalism, if one insists that the two of no equal footings. I do therefore humbly offer it to the public consideration that a universal ranking system shall be applied to the Public and Private schools alike based upon Test Scores solely, since any other methods are undeniably biased and corruptible. It is imperative to announce those rankings publicly as to induce as much stress as possible to authentically mimic the Real World.

Thirdly, as Sins draw away us human beings from Truth and God, so do Sports and Hobbies draw away our attentions and energies from the very essence of Education, which is to create single-minded, submissive machines that are valued for their productivity not their personality. In a world where Knowledge is Whatever-It-Is-Taught not What-it-should-be, how well a student can absorb Knowledge from

books should dictate his future, and thus it’s indeed Common Sense to discard any distractions that work against this Ultimate Purpose.

I can think of no Objections that can possibly be raised against my proposal, unless it is spoken by Savages from another Planet so unfamiliar with the customs and traditions of our societies. Meanwhile, let no Man suggest to me any other options that embraces

Diversity, Equality and Opportunity, till he has learned some sense of judgement or fathomed the way to speak some words of wisdom.

Alas, I profess from my earnest Heart and with God above as my witness, that I have not the least personal Interest in this endeavor and let my modest proposal manifest nothing but the Wisdom of an Educated Man and his untiring efforts in promoting the Public Good.

photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

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“poete maudit” Joe Mantych

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I

went to that one shrink in the basement yesterday because my landlord mr. movistky made me go after I tried to redecorate the hallways by tearing down all the wallpaper (I guess he was fond of the wallpaper) and while I was there in the basement the shrink told me to write down what was on my mind because I was talking too fast and she couldn’t understand me. so here it is. “april 8th: grammy wanted to be cremated when she croked croaked and I didn’t want to keep her ashes because who wants to keep their dead grammy’s ashes, but once she did croak, I decided to keep her ashes like she asked me to, I still have her ashes in that ern urn I even moved them out of her urn into a plastic baggy a little while ago because I needed to use her urn as a penny bank, like the kind of penny bank where you just collect your loose change inside of it for awhile until one day there’s hundreds of dollars in there, but anyway, I still have her ashes in my closet because she asked me to keep her ashes and I’m not one to usually fall for heebie-jeebie crap to be superstishous superstitious but if the soon-to-be-dead ask you to do something, you should probably just do it so you they don’t haunt follow you in their afterlife. did you know that even at full swing, and

I’m talking I mean a full fast-ball swing, it still takes a couple of launches to fully splat a frog against a wall? I don’t mean bounces-offthe-wall kind of deal none of that bouncesoff-the-wall kind of deal, I mean splat as in there’s still wet arms and legs dangling from the brick. I guess I thought about the frogthing because I was talking about grammy croaking and frogs croak, too. I can make a frog splat in only four throws. anywho anyway, after grammy croaked, me and my brother neal my brother neal and I stuck together, but then neal got locked up for grand theft auto, which sounds cool at first, but it doesn’t sound as cool as when you hear that if you get caught doing grand theft auto you can get hit with up to three years, and neal got hit with three years. so now I’m living without him with my roommates.

I had three roommates for awhile, but one of them left last week because he said I was an “arsonist” who was going burn the whole damn building down and I tried to reason with him and tell him that no, I wasn’t an arsonist, I just had a casual interest in fire, but he didn’t believe me and now I have two roommates, trent and kobe, and me and trent and kobe trent and kobe and I get along well get along just fine. kobe is the one who showed me that if you lick the bottom of a batery battery it’ll shock you, and trent is the one who hid all of the batteries in the apartment because I wouldn’t stop licking them. I don’t know why I wanted to keep licking the batteries and sometimes it scares

me that I don’t know.

I don’t really know what I’m going to do with grammy’s ashes either, but I know I can’t get rid of them. did you know that trent is good at finding frogs? I wish I was good at finding frogs. you tell him to find a frog and he’ll find one in a jiffy twenty seconds, just like that. trent and kobe moved into my apartment because mr. movitsky told them to because he doesn’t like me being alone. Last time I lived alone, it was only for three days, and on the third day I put my shoes inside the microwave to see what would happen and they melted and dripped out of the microwave onto the tile floor and mr. movitsky figured that if I had roommates I wouldn’t feel the need to microwave my shoes anymore, and I personally don’t want to microwave my shoes anymore because they stained the tile floor and I had to pay for the tiles to be replaced and I need the money to help bail neal out of jail, so it was probably for the better that trent and kobe moved in with me.

I think I’m going move grammy out of the plastic bag because now that I think of it, who would really want to be stuck in a plastic bag all day long? I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a plastic bag all day long. I’ll move her to the cookie jar. I would move her to the cookie jar, but I forgot I already pawned it off.”

mr. movitsky lives on the top floor, almost right above me, and mr. movitsky is a busy man, his feet are always moving and he has a little bald spot on his head from rubbing it so much and I always stare at it when I talk to him. mr. movitsky lets me stay in the complex for free if I clean the lobby and hallways and stairwells every day. mr. movitsky reminds me of my father but mr. movitsky said I did not remind him of his son (he told me this after I told him he reminded me of my father). mr. movitsky is the one who told me to go see the shrink.

ms. greene, that’s the name of the shrink, she lives in the basement of my complex and my god there is the most comfortable couch in the entire world in her room, it’s leather but the kind of leather that is soft and worndown, and it smells like lysol because I guess she cleans it after every patient and I don’t mind the smell of lysol, but the rest of her room sort of makes me uncomfortable, especially ms. green, because she told me that “although you have made progress in terms of opening up, you are still becoming increasingly self-destructive, kazz” (she wrote this down on my progress report) and I don’t really know what this means but a part of me thinks I know what it is and I’m just telling that part of me to shut up because it’s been wrong before. her room also makes me uncomfortable because there’s a stuffed bird on top of her dresser and I don’t like birds, especially because I once kept a pigeon as a pet in my apartment (his name was javier, I named him after the old man who used to live across from me who always carried around sunflower seeds and toothpicks in his pockets), but javier crapped on the card table in the kitchen one day and I had to kick him out. “april 15th: I’ve been sending letters to neal for months, but he hasn’t responded yet. I know he will, though, I’m sure he’s just caught up in prison stuff. I wonder what prison would be is like?

I bet there’s no room it’s cramped and small and everyone feels like they need to get the hell out of there or else they’ll go crazy start banging the walls or scratching off their skin or something and the people in prison with you are either angry or sad because it’s too cramped and small and they all want to get the hell out of there but can’t and they also can’t start banging the walls or scratching off their skin because the guards will yell at them

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so they just sit around all day either getting angry or getting sad, like I said. I hope neal is angry instead of sad, because if he’s angry then he’ll probably try to beat people up, and he can beat up anybody he wants to because one time he beat up jeffery nickels, a semiproffessional semi-professional boxer with chewed-up shriveled-up ears who used to live on our street, and nobody is harder to beat tougher than jeffery nichols. by the way, I moved grammy to an old milk jug out of the fridge because personally, I would rather be in a milk jug than a plastic bag. trent and kobe both moved out. they said that I was “dangerous” because I was practicing my knife throwing in the living room, but they didn’t understand that if an intrudder intruder ever tried to get inside our apartment, I wouldn’t be the danger, I would be the one who could stop the danger. they also said the knife throwing was ruining the walls, but I didn’t think it was that bad, I was planning on putting up a picture frame over the holes anyway. and, they were just kitchen knives, they weren’t even real throwing knives. if they were real throwing knives, then yeah, I’d be worried about the walls too, but the kitchen knives barely even put a hole into punctured the wall at all.

I wish trent and kobe were still here, though.

I haven’t been able to find a single frog after trent left, and kobe used to clean the dishes after dinner, but now I have to do it. and there is an increasing number of holes in the wall ever since they left and sometimes I worry about myself when”

the bird in her room won’t stop staring at me the whole time I’m down there. I might need to ask her to take it down and put it away while I’m there.

ms. greene said to keep writing these letters.

I don’t know if ms. greene is just making up everything she says or if she is saying the truth. mr. movitsky said to keep seeing her or else he’ll kick me out. I guess he believes she is saying the truth.

“april 28:

“april 22: two days ago I bought a box of firecrackers from my friend sawyer and set them all off in my apartment. I think somebody called 911 the cops because two cops showed up at my door thirty minutes later. I showed them the ash burns on the hardwood floor and said they were only firecrackers, it wasn’t a pipe bomb or anything like that. mr. movitsky showed up and talked to the two cops outside in the hallway for a couple of minutes and then they left.

I wish neal were was here. if neal was here I probably wouldn’t have done the firecracker thing because he doesn’t like loud noises. I wonder if there are many loud noises in prison. I wish I could help get neal out of prison right now because I wouldn’t want to be in prison right now.

I sometimes feel like I’m already in prison, but a different kind of prison, I sometimes feel like I’m stuck in something that I can’t see or touch or feel and I have to get out of here or else I’ll” I don’t want to keep writing these letters. I don’t know what I am doing.

I don’t want to keep going back to ms. greene because I don’t want her to read my letters anymore.

I spent all of the money I had saved under my bed I own on a golf cart. my friend mickey had stolen a golf cart from a golf course out in the county and he drove it all the way

back to the complex and he said he was trying to sell it because he didn’t really have a need for a golf cart so I bought it off of him for $200.

I was out doing donuts in the parking lot last night and as the cart spun whipped around in a circle it almost tipped over, it was wobbling teetering on two wheels for the longest time until I balanced it out and I wish I could say it was fun but after the cart tipped back over to its belly I sat there for an hour trying not to think about anything until mr. movitsky walked outside around 4:00 A.M. and pulled tugged me back inside.

I’ve started to think that ms. greene is telling the truth but I don’t care, I stopped going to her anyways, I’m done writing letters and I’m done staring at that bird and I’m done cleaning for mr. movitsky. I wish neal was here and

sketch by Nick Koenig

I wish grammy wasn’t in that milk jug. this is my final letter. I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore. “april 30th: I bought another box of firecrackers from sawyer, and this time I put my other shoe in the microwave to even things out. I don’t know why I bought more firecrackers from sawyer or why I put my shoe in the microwave. I feel like I’m trapped in something I can’t see or feel and I need to get out and I bet that bird is still waiting for me. I bet that bird is still waiting for me. I bet that bird is still waiting for me.

I haven’t been able to find a single frog since trent left.

I moved grammy out of my closet because I myself wouldn’t want to be stuck in a closet all day long. she sits on top of the fridge now.

61

Three Times Ethan Schmidt “

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D

o you have any idea how much money—how much danger you put yourself in?”

These words explode out of Grant’s mother, Marianne, in her Black Ford Fusion.

The wavelengths on her phone’s voice recorder expand as wide as they can. She points its microphone towards Grant, capturing a confession of his car accident to send to his stepfather, who is out of town. Grant leans away from the phone, resting his head on the glass of the passenger window. He glares at the dim, weak reflection of his face in the glass. He’s not sure if he is looking at an innocent kid or a possessed one.

“Yes, mom.”

She clears her throat, reverting to her professional tone. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says. “Continue.”

“I mean, that’s really all there is to it. We crashed the car, Jack drove off and left us, and then we called you.”

She glares at him. “You have nothing else to add?”

“No,” he mumbles.

G

rant had told her everything in that recording: He and his friends thought it would be a fun idea to take his electric blue Toyota Prius onto some forested roads and try to drift on them. He knew damn well that it was a stupid thing to do, but like many of Grant’s shenanigans, the voice of his conscience would never speak before he acted. Only afterwards would it speak to him through a dizzy head, racing heartbeat, and upset stomach.

It’s a problem thathas burdened him since second grade. After he leapt into a fistfight

with another boy during recess, Marianne searched for ways to civilize him: Adderall, Youth Group at the local non-denominational church, and guitar lessons. Grant would forgo the Adderall, as it would always put him a crabby mood. What once was a place to drive preachers insane with sarcastic questions of heaven and hell, Youth Group eventually became Grant’s place to sneak around the back of the building and vape THC juice with his friends. And while structured guitar lessons gave him something meaningful to do in his free time as a kid, he would later form a band with those same friends from Youth Group: Jesus Understands Us Losers, or “JUUL” for short. Marianne thought the name was cute, clever, and certainly not edgy.

She, too, had judgment problems. Marianne had married three times, and each marriage had ended in the same manner. The husband would come home from work and walk into his bedroom, only to find Marianne laying naked under another man in bed.

After a fifteen-minute cacophony of cursing and crying, the husband would storm out of the house, only to be seen again in court for divorce.

Marianne would drag Grant through these relationships, pulling him deeper into his cynical view of the world. Three times had a random stranger greeted him with a charming wave and smile. Three times had a stranger grown close to Grant, listening to him talk about his insecurities and problems as he stumbled through elementary and middle school. Three times had a stranger vanished in the blink of an eye, as if he were spliced out of a film on the editing table. By the time Marianne married Nick, her cur-

rent husband, Grant held a strong conviction against his fourth stepfather, even after the fifth wedding anniversary. And though Nick had tried to reach out to Grant after he married Marianne, he gave up during Grant’s freshman year when a heated argument broke out at the dinner table.

“Stop!” Grant shouted at the dinner table, which held an unopened Pizza Hut box that had gone cold. “Just...stop pretending that you know me! You don’t know me, and you never will! Fuck off!” He stormed away from the table, leaving his stepfather silently glaring at him and his mother wiping tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Marianne had cried those same tears after Grant’s confession, lying wide awake in her bed at two in the morning. She feared that her son would never grow up before he left for college, and that he was doomed to a life like her own.

“

I

don’t get it, man,” Grant tells his friend, Jack, as they lean against their drabgreen lockers in the school hallway. “On top of having to pay for the car, I’m grounded until the end of the school year.”

“Oof,” Jack says. “That sucks. My parents just raised my curfew to eleven.” He looks both ways down the brown-tiled hall, then pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“You know,” Grant says with a tight, angry smile, “I wish I could ground her every time I see her sneaking in late at night, after Nick goes to sleep.”

“She started doing that again?”

“Yup,” he chirps bitterly, turning to open the latch on his locker.

“How long do you think it’ll take him to notice?”

“Two weeks, at best,” Grant says, yanking a thick book of American short stories out of the trash heap. “And I won’t try to defend her this time.”

photograph by Sulli Wallisch

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“Wow, so loving,” Jack remarks as he slides his phone into his pocket. “Who wouldn’t want to have you as a son?”

“Well, who would want to have her as a mother?!” Grant shouts, slamming his locker door.

“Like, how can I be related to that woman?”

Jack chuckles, planting his hand on Grant’s shoulder. “So when a man and woman love each other—” “Fuck you!” Grant groans, punching Jack on the shoulder. “I’m serious.”

Suddenly, Ms. Bursey walks around the corner. In her mid-30s, she still holds the revered “Cool Teacher” title, won with her reputation to let the rules slide in her American Literature class. Kids could slip their phones out and text away once they had their work done, and though she never explicitly allows kids to vape, she owns one herself, and would understand the desperate look in some of her students’ eyes whenever they asked to go to the bathroom. Of course, the administrators at Roosevelt High School are not aware of Ms. Bursey’s bad habit, but they have been peeved with her rebellious attire: blue jeans, a black leather jacket, a white shirt, and black boots that stretched up to her calves.

Her boots clack against the tile floor as she struts past the boys in the hallway, smiling at them. The boys straighten up, clearing their throats. They’ve had her as a teacher only for a few days, but the powerful clacking of her boots demands the boys’ respectful attention.

“Uh, sorry about that, Ms. Bursey,” Grant says.

“Don’t worry about it,” she tells them, “but it’s time for class.”

They follow her to the classroom, still empty of students who currently wander about the building with their friends, milking as much free time as they can out of their lunch period. Grant and Jack rest their books on two front row seats instead of the back seats, not wanting to offend Ms. Bursey, who pulls out her laptop to check her e-mail.

“Oh, Grant,” she says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you this: Are you related to a Mary Tarcer?”

“I mean, my mom goes by Marianne, so I guess so.”

“Oh my god, really?!” she shouts. “That’s crazy! I went to her wedding years ago, but I didn’t know her kid would be this old! Anyways, I was good friends with her in high school.”

Grant widens his eyes and scoffs. “You?” he asks, “You were friends with her in high school?”

“I know, right! Shocker, huh?”

Grant chuckles. “Got any good stories?”

“Um,” Ms. Bursey mumbles as she glances at her watch. “Yeah, why not? I got the time.”

The story explodes with life in front of Grant’s eyes, revealing a truth he never saw before. With every word Ms. Bursey speaks, the grin on Grant’s face grows. With every, “It gets better,” Grant hunches over his desk, cringing with suspense. With every mention of his mother, Grant mumbles, “No way!” As Ms. Bursey reaches her conclusion, the passing period bell rings, and she leaves to fill up her water bottle.

Grant turns to Jack, still grinning from the story. “Think I should mention something about that to Mom?” Jack cranes his neck over the laptop on his desk. “What, Ms. Bursey’s story?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Jack leans back in his seat, slapping the screen of his grey MacBook shut. “I mean, I guess?” he says, scratching the back of his thin black hair. “What’s the point in telling her about the story, though?”

Grant scoffs. “To call her out on her bullshit!”

“Okay,” Jack says, raising an eyebrow.

“And why do you need to do that?”

Grant opens his mouth to answer, but he stops himself. He feels like the perfect answer waits to shoot out of his mouth and slap

Jack in the face. What was I going to say? he wonders. The answers comes back to him immediately: He wants to see his mother humiliated. But he knows he shouldn’t say that. Even Jack has some respect for his mom.

“Well,” Grant stammers, “Well, I think my mom would change her mind on the whole grounding thing if she remembered that she’s just like me.”

Jack rubs his right eye, massaging the skin on the right side of his face. “You know,” he chuckles, “You really don’t understand your mom at all.”

As the babbling students wander into the classroom, Jack gathers his books and walks to another friend, leaving Grant staring at the floor.

M

arianne chomps into her Double Quarter Pounder at the dinner table, smacking her lips on the greasy meat. Grant nibbles at his, wondering how he could nat-

urally slip this new story into the conversation.

“So,” Marianne begins, swallowing her food, “how was school?”

Wait, he thinks to himself. There’ll be a better place to throw the story in her face.

“Good,” Grant mumbles. “I got a B+ on my physics test today.”

“That’s nice,” she says, lifting her burger up for another bite. “Did you see Jack today?”

“Yup,” he chirps. Grant understands what his mother is doing, trying to direct the conversation to the things on her mind.

“Did he explain why he drove off?” Marianne asks.

“It’s kinda obvious why he drove off,” Grant retorts. “He was scared.”

“Well, yeah, but he’s your friend. Why didn’t he stick around?” she pried.

Grant shoves his hands into his pockets.

He knows the answer: Jack was desperate to protect his reputation with his parents. But

photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

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he refuses to play along with Marianne’s game.

He knows the conclusion that she’s leading him to.

“I don’t know. Why are you asking me this?”

Marianne shrugged her shoulders sarcastically, putting down her burger. “Maybe it’s because he’s not your friend.”

Grant scoffs and smiles. Perfect.

“It’s funny that you’re telling me all this, Mom,” he says slyly, “about who’s a good friend and a bad friend. You know who my new American Lit teacher is?”

“No.” “Her name is Ms. Bursey. Sound familiar?”

Marianne coughs. “Yeah. We were friends in high school.”

“Yeah. She told me a funny story. One involving you and, uh, a car accident.”

She plants her elbow on the table, and rests her chin in her hand, staring coldly at her son who leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. “Really?” she asks. “Why don’t you tell me this story? Refresh my memory.”

“Well, she told me you went out to a party at your friend’s cousin’s farm when you were seventeen. It was a riot, apparently. Everyone was drinking, smoking pot, the whole shabang. And then at three in the morning, you guys thought it would be a great idea to take a joyride down a country road in your car, and... well, shit happened.”

“The car was totaled,” he continues, leaning forward in his seat, “but, oddly enough, Ms. Bursey tells me you weren’t even grounded. Interesting how you feel that you can hold me to a higher standard.”

As he delivers his sarcastic monologue, Marianne sits there, staring at him, breathing a little heavier than before, her cheeks now red. Grant had been anticipating the exposure of his mother’s sins all afternoon, but now that he’s finally done it, he feels empty.

After a few moments of silence, Mari-

anne clears her throat. “Thank you for telling me that story,” she says in a flat, penetrating voice. “It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about that since your accident, or the fact that you might turn out like me, a mother with one son and three ex-husbands.”

She picks up her paper bag from the dinner table and stands up, unaffected by Grant’s revelation. “And thank you for reminding me why you’re gonna stay grounded for a long time.” She throws the sack in the trash, then snatches her car keys off of the adjacent linoleum countertop.

“Whenever Nick gets back, let him know I’ll be home late,” she says.

Grant scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Sure. Have fun with whatever guy clinging to ya.”

Marianne freezes as she clutches the garage door handle, then jerks her gaze towards Grant. “If you think that I would ever—” “Save it,” he says. “Just fuck off.”

She stares at him for a moment, tears filling her eyes. She rips the door opens and rushes out to her car. In the kitchen window, the red tail lights pop on as the engine roars to life. The lights speed by the window and the tires squeal as they turn off of the tarmac driveway.

Grant sits in the dark brown wooden chair, his limp arms resting in his lap. He stares at his half-eaten hamburger on the table with a numb, expressionless face. In his head, he hears the cry of his newborn son. He sees the tears of his first, second, and third future wives, streaming down their wrinkled, red faces. He feels the tears pile in his eyes and the gasping of his lungs as he stares down at an open casket, holding the frail body of his mother, who stares up at him admonishingly, disappointed in the man he chose to become.

But Grant shakes his head, slipping back into the reality of his delusions. I’ll never turn into that woman, he thinks to himself. Never.

He leaves the table and trudges upstairs to his room.

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Lithograph By Joan Bugnitz

Desert, to Desert Emmanuel Akpan

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What is a desert(ion) without its counterpart to lack?

A world without oceans leaves little to compare to the landscapes desolate.

The presence of companions is needed for their absence to leave a hole.

What is a desert without its ripeness of despair?

Those found in the center of the Sahara walk without a guarantee of an end.

The forsaken one has had their confidence desecrated; their own ambition crushed with nowhere to follow.

What is a desert without a goal on its other side?

Treks across hellish wastelands aren’t for the sake of fun; the chance of a better place must lie ahead.

Abandonment leaves its wounds and missing part of the soul; one which the survivor will be more than willing to fill, no matter how.

What is a desert without isolation?

To live life cut off from what you want most; to bide with the curse of knowing you’re missing out on your best life as you slowly rot.

photograph by Matthew Thibodeau

cherry oatmeal Joe Mantych coddle me, coddle me coddle me I ask the entropy won’t stop a cocktail every morning for me, please! the dreariest can mourn and tug at their leash, but me? I don’t bleed! I never bleed! I plead and I plead for the world to behave and it does. coddle me, coddle me coddle me I ask the entropy to stop rule number one in my book, live in the present! the presence of

of the past is wet and heavy. coddle me, coddle me coddle me I ask the entropy to stop

I couldn’t finish reading deuteronomy because promise lands aren’t real! I feel alone, all me, all myself and I included. dutifully I pluck the olive off its stick and slip my white socks on. coddle me, coddle me coddle me I ask the entropy to stop medicine bottles

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bootlegged off of I seize the day! I seize the day! craig’s list? yes!

the future falls from above and squishes my brain into cherry oatmeal.

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coddle me, coddle me coddle me the entropy won’t stop

photograph by Sutherlan Litke

Apples Henry McIntyre

I

find myself sitting amongst friends at a long rectangular table that can barely fit us all, in a cafeteria full of identical tables with just as many people. I sit here every day, but today I hold an apple. Its skin is a dull shade of red, but glossy enough to reflect the distorted image of the fluorescent lights that hang overhead. The only difference between this apple and the ones that still lay in the fridge at home is the light bruises and blemishes scattered across its face, and the only reason that this one is in my bag instead of another is chance.

I look down at the apple in my hand, and I think about when I would eagerly throw the fridge open in search of the fruit. I would grasp a shiny red apple with my small hand and pull it out of the pale white light of the fridge with a big smile across my face. I would listen to the crisp crunch as I sank my teeth into its tough shell and savor the juiciness held within. I would savor every bite until I hit the small black seeds at the center, and then I would hold the core above my head and smile triumphantly as I looked up at my handiwork.

I look at the apple in my hand now as a poor imitation of the object from my memories. I bite into the soft flesh of the apple, and its flavor enters my mouth. I recognize it as the taste from my memories except without the power that I remember.

I feel no remorse as it drops into the bin and is quickly covered by other trash.

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Finding My Church in Ceramics

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Liam John

very time I hop on a ceramics wheel, a shiver flows from my spine to the tips of my fingers like a whisper saying, “I am here.”

The meandering rattle of the ceramics wheel echoing through a barren room of sinks and tables paints the image of the Trinity for my life. The room is a sanctuary of grace—an isolation from social judgments and qualms. Stroking the brush with a glob of paint across a bisque-fired piece grants me the inner peace I desire. Every step of the process with clay instills new holiness along the way.

Only occasionally do I experience the divine presence during Mass. I enjoy the ritual for the time of reflection, but I find myself giving a glass-half-empty vow. I interpret the readings and the songs, but no part of the Mass gives me more grace than ceramics. The clay forming from a lump to a piece of beauty puts me in awe. The golden chalice and paten are beautiful too, but creating a paten from nothing is much more satisfying than receiving from it.

In my church, I go in blind. I walk in to work without an image in mind. I say, “Let’s make something,” and through some mystery, God invokes His grace in me to make something beautiful and usable. Outside of this church, I have to sketch and plan every timeframe of my day, but inside my church, I let God take the wheel.

While God made Adam from dust in the Old Testament, I am using clay to show God in my life. Every vase, mug, and plate is embroidered with my signature, but only with God’s quill is that possible. God molded my person and soul into His image, and I am to follow His path as I set out for the unknown in my life without my church.

I await those shivers once again.

Ceramics by Liam John

The Speech Padraic Riordan

Y

ou’re supposed to start these things with thank yous, right? I never learned how to say thank you. I mean, who the hell am I supposed to thank? The publishers? They’re crooks. You? You’re all shallow husks of real people. My mom? She’s just like the publishers.

I apologize. Now there’s something I do know well. Apologies. I’ve gone through my whole life with little reason to say thank you, but I’ve carried out plenty of apologies, and not always for good reason...

The book! Right. I apologize again.

That’s what I’m being rewarded for, isn’t it?

Not for being raised by narcissists. For writing about them.

Truth be told, I’m ready to put this book behind me. It hurts. It hurt when I wrote it, it hurt when I plugged it, and it hurts now that I’m being recognized for it. I’d hoped it might hurt to read it, but I suppose none of you would know. And if it wasn’t for your not bothering to read the book, I wouldn’t be standing up here, in this tux, pretending to care about you.

I’m not really doing a good job of pretending, am I? I’ve never been as good as you guys. You who can read this book and somehow entirely avoid the exact message, the exact feelings I was trying to share, all while tweeting about how the main character’s eccentric and, let’s be honest, downright cruel behavior actually belies a hidden underbelly of pain and disdain for the cynical, cyclical nature of our political cycle that truthfully makes me the next Jonathan Swift and maybe shows I deserve the Nobel when in reality he’s just some ass who can’t handle being told “no” every now and then!

And I know what you’re all thinking.

“This is the most prestigious award this side of the Atlantic and here he is making a mockery of it!”

You know what the most prestigious award I’ve ever won really was? The 5th District Public School Award for Modern Excellence. They gave it to me for the best book I ever wrote, and I was chosen by people who really cared about the craft, not the cover.

That alone made it the highest honor I’ve ever been bestowed with.

None of them were more than seven years old.

It was that kids’ book I wrote about five years ago now. You know, the one about the bird and the dog and the small Minnesota town that almost gets sucked into the “fairy dimension.” I wrote it for my niece. The critics didn’t like that one. Called it childish, silly, braindead even. I guess that none of them cared that it was written for children, so of course it’s silly! Looking back, I should have expected them to treat the book like it was for them. They treat everything like it’s for them. I didn’t care though. I knew that book was my best work when I saw my niece’s face light up the first time she read it. It was fleeting, sure. She’s long since grown tired of it, but it was real. Genuine. That’s a lot more than can be said for this golden trophy.

So about the 5th District Award for Excellence. It was awarded by students the same age as my niece. Apparently this public school in upstate New York runs an annual event where the entire third grade gets together to decide on their favorite book written in the last five years. Then they all write letters to the author, congratulating

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them for the award and hopefully—but not too hopefully—asking the author to write back or maybe even visit. The letters were impossible to read and covered in questionably colored stains. I loved them. Every little scribble of crayon reminded me of my niece, and I relished the knowledge that there was a legion of students like her out there, smiling because of me.

The last letter was from the teacher. I could tell because it was legible. She said congrats then wrote a little about why they did the award and how the hope was to teach some young ones how to read and write nicely, as well as appreciate any form of art being created in the modern day. I thought that was splendid. Writing is an escape, a valuable one.

I began to write a response. I couldn’t just ignore the most prestigious award on any side of the Atlantic, but I didn’t feel good about any of the letters I produced. The teacher, in her letter, had admitted that the most they’d ever gotten from other authors was a pre-written note back. “Fuck that,” I thought. So I wrote just two sentences, each with only two words: “I’m visiting” and “Thank You.” After the flight to New York, I drove myself to the school. Rented some shitty ’98 Toyota Camry so that no one would think it was me pulling up to the front door. As I was walking in, I had the troubling thought that maybe none of those students would really care who I was, that maybe the assignment wasn’t one they really looked forward to so much as the teacher just forced them into it and I happened to be the author she’d thrown on them that year. I thought I might be walking into a classroom full of children snoozing their way through their multiplication tables, and be greeted by a sea of disengaged eyes wondering who the old fart bothering them was.

Then I remembered the look my niece had when she first read that book, and I thought if I could see even one young mind sharing in that joy then my trip would be worth it.

Besides, I was already there, and it was too early to justify getting a drink, even for me.

The woman at the front desk was confused—not an avid reader—but I managed to get directions to the room in question, where my fears proved unfounded. Walking through that door was like coming home for the first time. All the burdens in my life rolled off me like rain off an umbrella as I sank into that raw joy only children are capable of. They were surprised to see me. In all fairness, I hadn’t told anyone when I was coming, and I later found out my note had only arrived the day before I did. Still, the teacher was very accomodating, and the children were so much more. They were elated.

It was as if Santa himself had come to visit, riding on the back of Jesus Christ and carrying their long-lost dog whom they’d been told was sent to live on a butterfly farm up north.

I stayed there for hours. I read to them, talked about my book, and then talked about books in general. And I love talking to children about these things, because they only care about how they feel. And when children read, they hunt after lessons for themselves, not lessons for America.

I’ve often said that the best art is created by artists who don’t care what anyone will think. By artists who only care about the art itself, not any ratings or sales. And for the most part, I still subscribe to that philosophy, but like with so many other things, art doesn’t play by the same rules for children. When it came to that book, I didn’t care about anything but what they thought of it. How could

I? It’s no use to teach children anything too serious. They won’t understand, and if they do, they’ll forget it later. Experience is the only real teacher, and they’ll have plenty of that soon enough. So all I did, all I needed to, or could, do, was all I’ve ever tried to do with all of you. Make those kids feel something, in this case… happiness. Make them smile. And that was plenty for me, because

I knew some day they’d grow up to be just like all of you: shallow, judgmental, and interpreting everything but themselves.

That’s why the 5th District Public School Award for Modern Excellence was the greatest honor I’ve ever received.

And that’s why I don’t give two shits about this one.

Thanks.

photograph by Sulli Wallisch

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“Christina’s World,” 1948. tempera on panel by Andrew Wyeth.

New York, Museum of Modern Art. http://www.moma.org

andrew wyeth Joey Dougherty O christina! so you trudge ever onward hands and arms and nothing else to help but you need it the help that is

is it sleep youve woken from with fuzzy nostalgia or the yoke of all you know so long expected?

wind aloof and floaty dome waning spur you forward to it the house that is your neighbor andrews who else?

did you perceive poppies in place of crude flax upon your palms?

your world is struggle as no world should be but all the same is

was it roses that smote you or their thorns that struck you lame?

how your arms ache ought you cry out? ought you?

Vernal Requiem Emmanuel Akpan The cool galls of a neonatal spring accompany a dusty-blue sky, perhaps from those April showers people always talk about. Granted, it’s March, but the idea’s about the same.

Blooming life and all that, yeah?

The trees certainly appear to be earning their stripes, seeming… green. The grass is about as mundane as ever. Emerald. Peridot. Whatever you want to call it, it’s there.

The geese are returning from the South. The onion weed is becoming more miasmic. The corpse of a field mouse rotting out.

Corpse? Of a mouse? It’s awfully big for a mouse. It’s a possum playing possum, perhaps? No, there’s a fly crawling in its eye... It’s not quite maimed, but entering rigor mortis.

Hopefully it had a peaceful demise.

Perhaps for all of the new life, some of the old must be removed. Thus, our poor friend was just another sod in this insidious cycle. Hardly seems cyclical for him, though; time had a start, middle and end. Doubt he cared much about those April showers. No—for the rodent, March has been the cruelest month.

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When I Fell in Love with Paris Antwine Willis

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have always been in love with Paris. Or at least the idea of Paris, you know, “the city of love”, “French being language of love,” etc.

I heard people say, “Paris is where someone finds love” and I was obsessed with everything about love. And initially I had this idea that when I arrived in Paris, I would fall in love with someone who was beautiful. But it did not happen. I waited and waited for so long, like three days, before I realized it wasn’t happening. Then I thought, “So why did I come here?” I was upset and I moped through Paris with the group, because I’m a dreamer, and wanted love. It was like losing something that you felt belonged to you, but deep down you knew that you had no right to claim it.

W

hen I was in Paris, we went to the cemetery where celebrities like Edith Piaf are buried. Oscar Wilde, who is also buried there, was a writer who moved to Paris after his country denounced him for being gay. In Paris, Wilde wrote his best work and I think it was Paris. Paris influenced him. And I think I can say the same for Josephine Baker, Picasso, and Ernest Hemingway, who are all extraordinary artists. Ernest Hemingway said, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you. For Paris is a moveable feast.” Paris, in the 20th century, was a hub for artistry. It’s the place where Impressionism, my favorite art era, and arguably the most popular, was born.

Van Gogh, Gauguin, Monet, Degas, and Renoir all studied and painted in Paris and France in general. While I was focused on “finding love,” I missed out on the revelation of what it meant to be in love, in Paris.

O

ur days in Paris passed quickly; what seemed to be one day was three days.

We had already seen the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and I ate like someone who’d been born into a noble family. But I wanted more: there was so much that was still to be seen, more gardens to stroll through, more history to learn. Some people arrive in Paris and just see a cosmopolitan place filled to the brim with tourists and immigrants, but all I could see was this vastly different culture from mine. That wasn’t afraid to argue about politics and then go back to being friends, a place where every opinion has an outlet, and a place where every person expresses themself fiercely. I wanted more of the moment when I first saw the skyline of Paris from the Eiffel Tower. Or the walk along the Seine and the Eiffel Tower with cars in the background and couples having picnics.

I

remember it was my last day in Paris. We went to the Louvre, and I was very anxious. I didn’t want to leave Paris. In that moment, I wanted time to stop. It was six in the morning, and I was sitting on the windowsill. There was a cool breeze and along with it the scent of freshly baked pain au chocolat and coffee. I could see the cars racing on the street, the club down the street closing the doors, people enjoying their breakfast at the corner cafe. It was then that I realized that I did like Paris for the romantic ambience. But romance in the sense of mystery, grandeur, and its remoteness from my everyday life.

Paris is a city of love, and not just for lovers of love, but lovers of art, lovers of literature, lovers of music…. Paris is for those who love life.

Quand je suis tombé amoureux de Paris

J

Antwine Willis

’ai toujours été amoureux de Paris. Ou au moins l’idée de Paris, vous savez, “la ville de l’amour”,”le français étant la langue de l’amour”.

Les gens disaient aussi, “Paris est où quelqu’un trouve l’amour” et je suis devenu obsédé par tout ce qui concernait l’amour. Et initialement j’ai eu cette idée que quand je suis arrivé à Paris, je tomberais amoureux de quelqu’un très beau.

Mais cela ne s’est pas passé. J’ai attendu et attendu si longtemps, comme trois jours. Finalement, j’ai réalisé que cela ne se serait pas passé.

Puis j’ai pensé, “Alors pourquoi est-ce que je suis venu ici?” J’étais énervé. Je me suis morfondu à travers de Paris avec le groupe, parce que je suis un rêveur. Et j’avais envie de l’amour. C’était comme perdant quelque chose que tu as senti appartenu à toi, mais au fond tu sais que tu l’as pas le droit de demander.

Q

uand j’étais à Paris, nous sommes allés au cimetière ou des personnes célèbres comme Edith Piaf sont enterrées . Oscar Wilde, qui est aussi enterré là, était un écrivain qui a déménagé à Paris, après que sa patrie l’a reniée. . A Paris, Wilde a écrit ses meilleures œuvres et je crois que c’était Paris qui l’a influencé. Je peux dire le même pour Josephine Baker, Picasso, Ernest Hemingway, qui ont tous été des artistes extraordinaires. Ernest Hemingway a dit, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you. For Paris is a moveable feast.” Paris, dans le vingtième siècle, était un endroit pour talent artistique. C’est l’endroit où l’impressionnisme, l’époque d’art que je préfère, et probablement l’époque le plus célèbre était né. Van Gogh, Gauguin, Monet, Degas, Renoir, tous étudiés et peints à Paris et en France en général. Tant que j’étais concentré sur “trouver l’amour.” J’ai manqué la révélation de quoi ce sens être amoureux, à Paris.

N

os jours à Paris sont vites passés.

Ce qui nous semblait être un jour, c’était trois jours. Nous avions déjà vu la Tour Eiffel, le Louvre, et j’ai mangé comme quelqu’un qui était né dans un famille riche. Mais J’ai voulu plus, il y avait beaucoup de choses que c’était encore être voir, plus des jardins y flâner, plus des histoires apprendre. Des gens arrivent à Paris et juste vois un cosmopolite, un endroit plein déborder des touristes et immigrés, mais tout je pourrais voir étais c’est infiniment différent ma culture. Ils n’ont pas peur se disputer sur les politiques et puis retourne étant amis, un endroit où tous les opinions avait un endroit être entendu, et un endroit où tous personnes expriment luimême avec férocité. J’ai voulu plus de le moment quand je vois la silhouette des immeubles de Paris, pour le première fois, Ou marcher le long de la Seine devant la tour Eiffel. Avec les voitures à l’arrière-plan et des couples avec leurs pique-niques.

e me souviens, c’était mon dernier jour à Paris. Nous allions au Louvre, et j’étais très anxieux. Je ne voulais pas quitter Paris. En ce moment, j’ai voulu que le temps s’arrête. C’était six heures du matin. Il y avait un brise fraîche et le senteur de la boulangerie et du café. Je pourrais voir les voitures passer dans la rue, le club en bas de la rue ferme les portes, les gens apprécient leur le petit déjeuner au café du coin. C’était à ce moment-là où je me suis rendu compte que en fait, j’aime Paris pour leur charme romantique. Paris est une ville d’amour, ce n’est juste pour des amoureux d’amour, mais aussi pour les amoureux d’art, de la littérature, de la musique....

Paris est pour ceux qui aiment la vie.

J

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Moderators’ Note Each spring issue of Sisyphus calls for a yearly ritual. We wave farewell to our senior editors, bemoaning their celebrated success as they gallop away from us on their way to college. But we are pleased to announce this year that we have persuaded a federal magistrate to issue a civil injunction against the graduation of five specific seniors. According to court documents, literary editor Ben Krummenacher, having failed to resolve the tension between his perceptive intelligence and his proclivity for unreasonable self-deprecation, may not proceed to college. His fellow traveler, literary editor Jarrett Schneider, has violated the terms of his probation at SLUH by passing himself off as a smiling, affable fellow while secretly piercing the world’s treacly and pompous pretense to behold the world as it is in its sweet sadness and plaintive joy. Louis Barnes was called upon last year to shoot an occasional photo for the magazine, but the evidence now clearly indicates that Barnes has grown into a graciously responsive member of the art editing community—thus overstaying the terms of his original detention. The penalty for overstaying one’s visa, the court declares: one year or more of continued confinement on the Sisyphus staff. Joining Mr. Barnes and his associates are two art editors who have defrauded the SLUH community in a confidence scheme almost unprecedented in the history of this little republic. Both Andrew Wilson and Liam John were born as literary editors but then surreptitiously regenerated themselves as art editors. Wilson, who meanwhile lingered as a literary editor, faces multiple counts of infectiously injecting joy (as well as bright aesthetic discrimination) into both the literary and art domains of the magazine. Mr. John has been shackled with each of the magazine’s editorial duties—as literary editor, art editor, and layout editor. He has made himself indispensable by caring more about the magazine than just about anyone ever has. In a recently unsealed indictment, the court found that “in making himself indispensable, defendant Liam John has made it impossible—nay, illegal—for St. Louis U. High to dispense with him.” Like Sisyphus himself and his co-conspirators Tantalus and Prometheus before him, these defendants shall serve indeterminate sentences until such time that the proprietors and patrons of this magazine find that John and Wilson, Barnes and Schneider, and, yes, even the dark lord Krummenacher have exhausted their usefulness in this jurisdiction.

It might be a while.

photograph by Reed Milnor