Sisyphus - Winter 2015

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Sisyphus Winter ’15 Cover artwork by Dan Mudd Cover design by Jacob Colvis Masthead photography by Patrick Enderle Masthead design by Jack MacDonald Inside front cover: collagraph by Joan Bugnitz; photography by Patrick Enderle; acrylic painting by Jackson Mayfield; watercolor by Paul Henken Inside back cover: watercolor by Jacob Colvis; watercolor by Jack MacDonald; watercolor by Jacob Colvis photography by Jack Barbey 3 Broken Galaxies, poetry by Kevin Thomas 4 Beautiful Rain, prose by Nick Keesey 4,7,8 photography by Nick Bentz 12 Wireless, poetry by Matt Bates 13 photography by David Burke 14 Second and Water, prose by Hap Burke 15 A Young Home, poetry by Garret Fox 15 photography by Jack Barbey 16 The Closer, prose by Andrew Bub 17,18 photography by Jack Barbey 19 pen drawing by Joe Fentress 20 charcoal drawing by Jack Mayfield 20 Dad, poetry by Matt Smith 21 Anthony, prose by Rafael Robert 21 drawing by Nick Bentz 23 collagraph by Nick Bentz 26 photography by Patrick Enderle 28 drawing by Chip Austin 29 Smoke Rises, poetry by Kevin Thomas 30 Love, prose by Mick Callahan 30 drawing by Li Yizhang 31 Entering Rough Waters, prose by Joe Weis 32 A Fallen Soldier, photography by Matt Sciuto 34 Wonderful Things, prose by Michael Wiley 35 photography by Nick Bentz 37 photography by Patrick Zarrick

38 King of the Ozarks, prose by Hap Burke 39 Secondhand Shoes, prose by Kevin Thomas 39 photography by Jack Barbey 40-41 watercolor by Dan Mudd with poetry

by Matt Smith 42 Mr. Sullivan, prose by Luke Twardowski 43 photography by Max Prosperi 44 photography by Kevin Thomas 45 Boolean Logic, poetry by Jim Linhares 47 Pickles, Etc., prose by Evan Brende 48 photography by Chris Weingart 49 photography by Nick Bentz 50 Flowers at Alcatraz, poetry by Sam Fentress 50 watercolor by Jack MacDonald 51 Summer Camp Ninja, prose by Mason Ryan 52 photography by Mason Ryan 55 photography by Jack Barbey 56 Lights, prose by Joe Slama 57 photography by Jack Kiehl 58 Zypher, poetry by Jim Linhares 59 A Sweet Delusion, poetry by Garret Fox 59 photography by Patrick Enderle 60 Antlers, prose by Rollin Jackson 63,64 photography by Patrick Enderle 65 photography by Kevin Thomas 65 Home, prose by Andrew Bub 66 Too Common for the App, poetry

by Shayn Jackson 67 photography by Jack Barbey 68 Eyes in the Corn, prose by Mason Kruse 69 Portrait of the Laborer, poetry by Jim Linhares 69 photography by Li Ruiyi 70 The Artist, prose by Jordan Sosa 77 The Things We Want, prose by Rick Garner 77 charcoal drawing by Joe Fentress 78 watercolor by Jack MacDonald 79 art by Dan Mudd 80 My Father’s Cologne, poetry by Shayn Jackson

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Broken Galaxies Kevin Thomas I sleep beneath a broken galaxy.

It has no planets, not a single sun.

In fact, the only attribute it has in common with a galaxy is that they both will spin. But mine will only spin around in loops, if told to do so; like the ballerina with the broken face you found, in the pink music box, so long ago. It feels to me as though it was just this morning that I blew the dust o that musty box grandma gave to us in her will.

That day is one I’ll always remember: the dancing fear and disbelief, the way my Galaxy fan blew a gentle breeze.

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Beautiful Rain Nick Keesey

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I

t had been exactly three days, five hours, and thirty-six minutes since Mike Robert had been reported missing to the Logansport Police Department, but Jonathan noticed that Terrence was completely unaffected by the tragic news. Sure, Terrence had been in class when the announcement was made, wore the same sad look that everyone else wore, and even volunteered to look for Mike. But Jon knew something about Terrence’s act was wrong. Terrence was doing too good a job faking concern for a situation for which he felt only indifference.

It was raining that day. Everyone in Jon’s school, and the whole country for that mat-

PHOTO BY

NICK BENTZ

ter, hated the rain. The kids had only twenty minutes of break every day, and they wanted to spend as much of that time outside, away from snobby teachers, classrooms with dysfunctional A/C, and heavy textbooks.

When the break bell rang, Jon went over to the board game bookcase and crouched down to grab the torn-up Uno box from the bottom shelf. When he stood up, he instinctively looked over at the bay window, just to see if the rain had let up, and saw Terrence sitting in the hollowed-out space. He was looking down at the street and seemed to be smiling.

“C’mon, Jon! We’ve only got fifteen minutes left,” Emily Turner yelled from across the room. Jon continued his walk to the table where Emily and the rest of his friends sat, keeping his eyes on Terrence.

“Start without me,” he said. Jon set the box down in the center of the table and began to make his way to Terrence. Emily snatched his arm.

“What are you doing?” Emily asked.

Jon turned toward her. “He seems lonely, Emily. All he does is sit there everyday at break. I just want to see if he wants to play.”

“Be careful, Jon. The others say…well, some think he’s just not right.”

Jon pulled his arm away. “I’ll be fine.

He probably just needs a friend. I’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”

Emily looked down at the table. Jon noticed she seemed upset, but he shook it off.

He would want someone to ask him to play if he was in Terrence’s position, Jon thought.

He continued his walk to the bay window.

He stood about two feet from Terrence when his presence was finally acknowledged.

“Good morning, Jon.” “What’s up, Terrence?” Jon said, “Why don’t you come play with us?”

Terrence’s gaze did not move. “No, no, that’s all right. I’m just fine sitting here. I don’t want to keep you from your game.”

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Jon took one step closer and tried to look out the window at the same angle as Terrence. “What are you looking at, Terrence?” he asked.

“Oh, just the street and the people on it,” Terrence said. “It’s amazing what you can learn about people just by watching them.

For example,” he pointed out at the street, “see that lady there? The one without the umbrella?”

Jon squinted out the foggy window. “The one with the tan rain coat and the green skirt?”

“That’s the one. At first, I just assumed that she forgot her umbrella. Unlucky, I thought. But then I noticed something else.

What has she got in her handbag, Jon?” Jon moved his face right up to the window, his jutting jawbone pressed up against the cold glass. He could see a bulky, plasticwrapped square bulging out the top of the bag. Jon barely made out the bubble letters “M-P-E-R-S.” “Diapers?”

“Exactly. So then I asked myself why she would have diapers instead of an umbrella.

She obvious didn’t have enough money for both, but if she was married, then it seems that she would. And so the answer was simple, Jon. She’s a single mother.”

Jon raised his head and took a step back.

“That’s pretty good, Terrence.”

“You should try it sometime. You may notice things that surprise you.”

“I feel bad for her,” Jon said, “I’d hate to be out in this with no umbrella.”

“I wouldn’t mind that much.” Terrence swung his feet around and placed them on the floor. “Rain is beautiful, Jon.” Jon raised an eyebrow. “How is it beautiful? All it does is ruin our break.”

“Oh, no, Jon. It does much more.” Terrence stood up and turned back toward the window, propping his arms up on the edge of the space he sat in. “It stimulates the senses.

The smell of it on the leaves and trees. The consistent drumming of it on the rooftops and roads. The feel of the fast-falling water droplets colliding with your skin. It cleanses you, Jon. It cleanses everything. Washes away the old, makes new.”

“Well, I already took a shower this morning, so I think I’m clean enough already,” Jon said. “I’ll see you around, Terrence.”

Jon turned around just as Terrence spoke again. “Don’t take what I say lightly, Jon Haren. I mean what I say. You should walk in the rain sometime and you’ll see what I mean.”

Jon hesitated. Terrence sounded annoyed, almost angry. He turned his head so he could barely see Terrence. “I’m sorry.

Maybe I will try it.”

Terrence turned around and looked Jon in the eyes. “Until next time, Jon.” Jon went back to his table to watch his friends play. He turned back to notice Terrence staring at him and Jon wondered what his subtle movements, even ones that he didn’t recognize, revealed to Terrence.

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our days after the news that Mike was missing, the eighth-grade hallway was still like a graveyard. Mike still had not been found, dead or alive. Everyone knew what had probably happened to him, though no one would openly admit it. They all walked at a slow pace near the edges of the hall.

They took their time getting books out of their lockers. Even guys like Charlie Ross and Dennis Cook, who hardly knew Mike, hung their heads as they meandered through the sea of students to geometry or English.

Jon had been spending more time with Terrence, walking home with him. He realized that they lived down the street from each other. He went people-watching with Terrence in the afternoons when they didn’t have a lot of homework. Terrence was a lot better at it. “Experience, Jon,” he would say.

Jon also noticed that Terrence seemed to

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be over Mike’s disappearance. At school, Terrence whistled old opera tunes, holding his head up as he headed for his locker. He would be at his locker no more than thirty seconds, quickly transferring the books while keeping them neat and organized in the locker. He walked down the center of the hallway at a brisk pace and said “Good morning,” to every teacher he saw, even Mr. Patterson, who was a close friend of Mike’s family.

“I hate him,” Emily said one day after Terrence jaunted by. “He acts like nothing’s happened. He walks along and whistles. He whistles, Jon!” Emily turned back toward her locker. “He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong anywhere in this whole damn town.”

She slammed her locker door shut.

“You can’t judge him like that, Emily.

I think he’s more affected than he lets on,” Jon said. “He’s always very quiet when I ask about Mike. And look,” he pointed down the hall at Terrence, “He’s breathing through his mouth, which means his nose is stopped up.

And you see the bulge there in his pocket?

And the frayed white cloth poking out?” He turned toward Emily, “What do you think that is?”

“Stop it, Jon! You sound just like him,” she pulled away from Jon. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you talk now. The way you observe things. It’s not right.” Emily started walking down the hall.

“What’s not right about it?” Jon said, closing his locker and chasing after Emily.

“I’m just using my reasoning. How can that be bad?”

“It’s more than that,” Emily kept walking, not turning to face him.

“What is it then?” Jon grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “What’s so wrong with him? Because what I see is a pretty smart guy who’s trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

Emily looked down at her US History book. She closed her eyes and reopened them

as she looked up at Jon. She has such pretty eyes, Jon thought. She was one of those rare girls whose genes were mixed up, giving her light blue eyes and black hair, which made her eyes pop. They had a commanding gaze, as if directing other’s eyes to look where she looked, and if they looked at you, you could not turn away. Jon had that feeling now as she moved the stack of books under one arm and grabbed his hand with hers.

“Is that all you see in him, Jon? Because I can see more than that, and I’m not even trying. He’s changing you. People shouldn’t be observed, they should be understood, and he does not understand anyone. And he doesn’t understand you.” Emily squeezed his hand.

Jon felt the sweat in her palm. She must be nervous, he thought. He realized that they had never stood this close to each other by choice and she had never held his hand.

He wondered what was running through her mind, what she was thinking. He decided to ask.

“You’re scared, aren’t you? Of what I will become? You’re thinking that this is the pivotal moment that will decide our relationship forever? That if I respond a certain way it will change whether or not we ever date, ever marry, ever have kids?” He looked down at her hand. “And above all, you’re worried that I will lose myself the more I become like Terrence.” Jon paused and looked back up.

“And you think I can’t see that I am becoming like him.” He raised her hand in his and kissed the back of it. “I will not become like him.”

Emily stared at Jon. “How did…” the bell cut her off. She retracted her hand and ran off to her class. Jon stood there, in the middle of the hallway, and watched her as she ran. It was not a full-blown sprint. There was hesitation in her first step, and Jon wondered if she was still scared or amazed.

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PHOTO BY

T

NICK BENTZ

he trail down to the edge of the river was a steep one. The town had to put up a sign at its beginning to warn people, but still at least one bumbling toddler or careless adult wound up in the hospital every two weeks with broken arms, legs, or ribs. There were rumors that the mayor was going to have the trail remade with switchbacks to make it safer, if he ever found the money, but the years came and went and no changes were ever made.

Jon inched his way down that trail, sliding down occasionally because of the mud.

The rain had not stopped since his first encounter with Terrence six days earlier, except for that day, which had been the second in a row that it had not rained. It only sprinkled in the afternoon, allowing for a cold and dirty twenty-minute break outside.

When Jon reached the bottom, he looked out toward the river and saw Terrence standing at the bank in a long brown trench coat. A green knit scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, making his head seem like it

was floating above the water. His hands were shoved into his pockets. Terrence shifted his stance as he continued to look downstream.

Jon hiked over to him, lifting his feet high through the uncut grass.

“Glad you could make it, Jon,” Terrence said.

“Yeah, well, I found your note just in time.” Jon was behind him now. “I was about to start my math homework.”

“I knew you would start with math. Always tackle the hard things first—it makes the easy things seem easier.” Terrence turned his head so he looked at Jon. “Isn’t that what you say?”

Jon shivered in the chilly wind. “Yeah.”

“Come up here, Jon, next to me. I need to ask you something.”

Jon took two steps and stood on Terrence’s left. Jon did his best to stand straight and looked at Terrence, waiting for his question. “Okay, shoot.”

“Tell me, what do you see when you look at the river? Enlighten me with your thoughts.”

Jon looked out at the massive body of water in front of them. It was browner than usual, probably because of rain washing away loose soil in the hills surrounding the town.

It was not an extremely wide river, but wide enough for there to be two lanes of traffic for boats that came and went. Jon certainly wouldn’t have wanted to swim across it. If he tried, the current would carry him to the south boundary of Logansport before he reached the other side.

Jon closed his eyes and listened to how the water moved, how it crashed on top of itself and rippled up onto shore. He took a deep breath through his nose. Once he got past the smell of drenched grass, he could almost taste the mustiness of the river and the mud that caked the bottom of it.

“I see power in nature. Power that gives life, but cannot be controlled,” Jon opened

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his eyes. “I see how evil it can be, the destruction it can cause, even though it’s a neutral entity.”

Terrence stared at him for several seconds. “Does it frighten you?”

Jon looked at Terrence. “No. If anything it attracts me.”

“Why?” Terrence said, looking back downstream. “Why does it attract you if it can be so evil?”

Jon remained silent for about a minute.

He looked down at his muddy shoes and stained blue jeans. “I don’t know. I guess I value the life-giving more than the possibility of evil. So, to me, it’s worth it.”

“I see. On the contrary, such a thing frightens me. It is a liability.” Terrence walked closer to the edge of the water. “Yet, at the same time, it fascinates me.”

Jon stood in place until Terrence was as close to the river as he could be without getting his feet wet. “What about us, Terrence?”

He ran down to Terrence’s side again. “Aren’t we all capable of good or evil?”

Terrence crouched and looked down at the smooth, mud-infused sand. “Do you remember how I said the rain was beautiful, Jon? I said that because the rain can be both good and evil.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Terrence looked up at Jon. “It can create floods or it can smooth out the ground. It can wash your house away or wash your sins away. It is beautiful because it is capable of both. For this same reason, humans are beautiful.” He looked back to the sand.

“So we are both good and evil?” Jon asked.

“We are, Jon. But we have tendencies to do one or the other. Well, most of us do anyway.” Terrence turned his gaze to Jon and smiled. “For example, you have a tendency to look out for others, to be good, to love Emily Turner.”

Jon blushed. “And what are your tenden-

PHOTO BY

NICK BENTZ

cies, Terrence?” Jon asked.

Terrence’s smile vanished and he reverted his gaze to the river. He stood up, closed his eyes, and held up a finger pointing downstream. “What do you see sticking out of the water there, Jon?” Jon saw it immediately. A long, light brown figure stuck out of the murky water.

The brown water rushed around it, causing it to sway back and forth. Jon looked up and saw a tree stretching its limbs out over the object.

“A tree branch?” Jon said.

“No! Look closer. It may not be a person walking down the street, but you can still observe it. Now, what do you see, Jon? What do you see?”

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Jon squinted to see the top of the branch was forked. It also seemed to be a different color, darker than the rest of it. He looked down the branch and realized the hazel-colored wood appeared matted down. It was fur.

“A…deer leg?”

“Yes, Jon,” Terrence walked around Jon and down the riverbank. Jon hesitated then followed behind him. “I first noticed our little friend’s body two days ago, the day when it didn’t rain. The river went down just enough to expose the hoof.”

He stopped when the deer’s body was only about ten feet from them looking perpendicular to the river. As Jon approached Terrence’s side once again, he noticed the specks of black swirling around the exposed part of the carcass. The rancid smell of rotting guts and blood replaced the smell of rain and mud. “Oh, God,” Jon looked away.

“Now, Jon, look at the deer. What else can you tell me about him?” Terrence backed up so Jon could stand where he stood. Jon moved there and forced himself to look.

“Well…it’s really close to shore. That’s probably why it hasn’t floated away yet —it’s too heavy. But how it got there, I don’t know.

It’s on its back, which means that someone probably put it there rather than some predator killing it…”

“Stop worrying about how the damn thing got there!” Terrence appeared at Jon’s side. Jon turned to him, eyes open wide and mouth curled down. Terrence pointed at the deer. “Think! Draw connections! Dammit, Jon, do as I have taught you!”

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Terrence!” Jon threw his hands in the air and slammed them down on his side. “Just tell me where the hell you’re going with this.”

Terrence frowned, looked down, and made his way to the bank. He paused and looked out at the deer long enough for Jon to realize how loud the river was as the water crashed and flowed. A boat crossing under

the distant bridge blew its horn, overpowering the river.

Jon suppressed his feeling of excitement.

He never quite understood what Terrence was trying to teach him until he revealed it.

But this time Jon noticed that Terrence had a different aura around him. It was not one of a teacher with his student where something valuable is learned. It was the kind of feeling that Jon only had once before when his brother showed him the adult magazines found under their father’s bed.

“Terrence, what is it?” Jon said. Terrence glanced up at him, and then returned his gaze to the deer.

“Think for a moment, if you will,” Terrence said, raising one hand to emphasize something, “if a deer, a heavy animal by itself, was just now found here, approximately ten feet from shore, how much harder it would be to find the body of a short, scrawny tenyear-old boy that’s been missing for six days.

A scrawny body would not sink and stay in the mud like a deer, but would float down the river until it reached the Mississippi and then the Gulf.”

“What are you saying, Terrence?”

Terrence crouched down and stuck his hand in the muddy sand, gathering a generous handful. He shaped it into a smooth ball, stood up, and threw it as far as he could toward the center of the river. “They’re never going to find Mike, Jon. They’ll never ever find him…because he’s not here anymore….”

T

he bell rang for five seconds, signaling the beginning of break. Jon got up and walked to the bay window. It was raining even harder than before. He looked back at the table where Emily sat. Someone had already grabbed that same beat-up Uno box that they always played with. He looked at Emily, wondering what she thought of him now.

Emily looked up at Jon, making him

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avert his gaze. She got up from the table and walked over to him. Charlie Ross looked back, shaking his head when he saw that Emily had given up the game to talk to her “boyfriend.” Jon climbed into the bay window’s nook so that he could see the street. He did not face Emily, even when she stood there next to him.

“Come play with us, Jon. There’s nothing you can do about it now,” Emily said. “I know he was your friend, but you can’t let this ruin your life.” She reached down to grab his hand. He pushed it away.

“He wasn’t my friend,” Jon turned his head further away from Emily.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Emily stood silent for a few seconds, looking out at the street.

“If he wasn’t your friend, then why are you so sad?”

Jon turned his head back toward Emily but did not look at her. “You wouldn’t understand.” Emily frowned, her light blue eyes becoming more piercing. Jon noticed the change in mood. He glanced up at her face, then returned to staring at the floor. “I don’t mean that in a condescending way; it’s just true. You never talked with Terrence. There was something about him that…fascinated and frightened me at the same time.”

Emily stared at Jon, folding her arms.

“Well, it’s not like he’s dead. He just moved away. You might see him again someday.”

“No, Emily,” Jon said. “No, I will never see him again. And I don’t know if I want to. He was something else, but you were right.” He looked at Emily. “He didn’t belong here.” Jon curled his lips into a half-smile and snatched Emily’s hand from her folded arms.

“I’ll be fine. Go. Play. I’ll join you eventually.”

Emily looked down at their hands. Jon saw water start to build in the corners of her eyes. He looked behind her. The teacher was preoccupied, dealing with a knocked-over stack of books. He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, allowing his lips to rest for

several seconds on her delicate white skin.

Jon raised his head, let go of the hand, and turned back to the street. Emily stood next to him for another minute then went back to the table, the moisture in her eyes continuing to build up until she sat down.

Jon sat in the bay window watching the street, the place where it had all started. He saw many people and surmised about their situations. Businessmen with blue, black, or tan suits, carrying umbrellas and briefcases, with pieces of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of their shoes or frilly red panties peeking out of their back pockets. Bakers shielding their faces from the rain with wrapped trays of baked goodies. Women holding their small babies under their coats, making phone calls with their other hand. Police officers in their shiny Crown Victoria’s having stern conversations with scantily dressed young girls and dirty, roughed-up men standing on street corners.

That’s when Jon saw a small child, probably around nine or ten, walking on the sidewalk slowly with no umbrella. His yellow jacket looked completely soaked and his hair was flattened and dripping. The boy was walking in the same direction as the single mother with the diapers had.

The boy was just about to cross the street when a beat-up grey sedan drove up next to him. The window of the passenger side rolled down. The boy stopped and turned towards the car. His mouth moved, Jon saw, indicating some kind of discussion with the driver.

The boy looked up in the direction where he was going, pointed, and said something. The only thing significant to a little boy in that direction would have been Winchester, the most populous subdivision in Logansport.

They were discussing a ride home.

The bell rang.

The boy opened the door of the car and climbed into the passenger seat. The door shut. Jon squinted. He saw the locks go

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down. The car sped up and drove to the end of the street. At the T-intersection, the car turned left towards the river instead of right towards Winchester.

“Jon?” the teacher said, “Are you going to go back to your seat?”

Jon looked back at the police officer in his vehicle. He hadn’t noticed. He looked at all of the people on the street, but their demeanor hadn’t changed. They continued walking, dealing with their own problems, and paid no heed to the boy getting in the stranger’s car.

“Jon, is something wrong?” The teacher sounded frustrated and concerned all at once. She took a few steps toward Jon and tried to peer around him to get a look at his face. “Are you all right?”

Jon slowly got out of the bay window. He turned around and looked up at the teacher.

“No, nothing. Sorry to hold you up.”

“Great. Now, take a seat and open…” the teacher’s voice trailed off as Jon automatically moved to his seat, sat down, and became lost in his own thoughts.

Jon reviewed what he had just seen, marveling at the rain’s power to make a little boy forget about the dangers of getting in a stranger’s car, but also how that same rain washed the dirt into the river, making it big and flowing, and how that river powered the city from the dam. It really was beautiful, Jon thought. It defined the cycle of life and death and perhaps the cost associated with it. The random death of one little boy due to the rain might mean that many others could live, Jon thought. Perhaps this is what Darwinism was in modern society. Maybe it was not the best way, but it was necessary. In the end, the good still outweighed the bad.

But even as he thought this, a feeling of sickness, a paralyzing death, rose inside of him. A silence that he hadn’t realized was there slowly faded as a scream only he could hear got louder and louder. Jon felt the need

to thrash his arms against the wall, bash his head on the desk, or do anything else he could to relieve the relentless pain and stop the screech. He suppressed his thoughts on the boy, on the beauty and brutal ugliness he found in the situation, and the thought of his failure to act, to say anything to save that boy. He did not want to forget about the boy, but he made himself forget. Jon closed his eyes tightly and forced himself to shut it all out of his mind.

Suddenly, the scream inside his head ended, leaving behind the hollow silence that had existed before it, and the sickness faded. Jon looked back over at the rain coming down outside the window. He rested his head on his palm and stared, unthinking, at the droplets racing down the glass. Perhaps a walk in the rain would help, he thought, maybe it will cleanse me. He decided that was what he would do, as long as it kept raining.

He turned his attention back to the class and sighed, wishing that 3:00 would come sooner so he could purify himself in the rain.

T

he rain fell on Logansport for three more days. On the fourth day, the clouds seemed to vanish suddenly. The sun dried the mud in the woods and evaporated the standing water in the streets. Over the next week the river began to drop, eventually reaching a very low level. If Jon had mustered the courage to go down to the river and relive his memories of Terrence, he would have seen a small bone stuck in the mud about half-way between the normal bank and the edge of the water. It had been picked clean by the fish and had cracks running down the length of what was exposed.

If he had stayed there, when the rain picked up again, he would have seen the river rise up to its normal level slowly and, after a while, he would have seen the pressure of the water break the bone apart and wash the pieces downstream.

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Wireless Matt Bates Staring at glowing screens, trying to find more meaning in what we already see.

Aren’t they just means to a much greater end?

Staring at glowing screens.

I couldn’t see a better way. To describe all of what we already see.

So we lose ourselves, looking past the distance, staring at glowing screens.

Being more than free, holding each other with what we already see.

And so we nod off to the tunes of our hearts, breathing, staring at glowing screens, at what we already try to see.

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PHOTO BY

DAVID BURKE

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Second and Water Hap Burke

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hey closed down a restaurant the other day, which was a real shame, because I liked it fine. Someone’s already pulled down the letters, but you can still read BUTLER’S stained in brick on the side wall, but not at night anymore, because someone pulled down the spotlights, too.

I knew one of the waitresses there. She liked to paint.

The menus were paper. Probably a template, because who’d hire an artist to make a paper menu? Nobody bent the corners or creased the middle or spilled wine or coffee or tea on them. Maybe they just printed a lot of copies and used new ones every three days or so.

Leaves. Mud and grass clippings. Second and Water Street. I forgot where I was going again. The sidewalk’s dirty, and I hate the rain. There’s a car, now two. The wipers whip across glass quickly, catching droplets, making streams near the edges. I forgot my hat, and I’m soaking wet. I hate the rain. She wore a white shirt with a gold nametag that said Samantha. I don’t know why she had a nametag. Nobody reads anymore. She told me about her art class once. She said she liked to paint.

The windows are covered on the inside with brown paper, and there’s a sign on the door that says “FOR LEASE—PROGRESSIVE PROPERTIES AND HOLDINGS —(491) 810-1770”. I called them once, just to see if she’d answer, but she didn’t. I’m absolutely drenched by now.

I hate the rain.

The first time I went there I got a turkey and swiss club, and I thought I was invincible. It was night, and it was summer. It wasn’t raining. The turkey tasted fine. My waitress was fine, too. She didn’t misplace my order or forget my fries or spill water on my lap. I forgot to tip her. I thought I was invincible back then.

They used to have an awning that was green and white striped. I liked the white better at first, but nobody cleaned it, and it looked more grayish-brownish than anything when they closed it down. The green still looked green, though. I sat outside when it wasn’t raining. I didn’t get drenched. It wasn’t raining. I had the same waitress. We both thought it was funny. I remembered her because of her nametag, and she remembered me because I was the idiot that came by last week and forgot to tip. But I thought I was invincible back then. It wasn’t raining.

I tried to write once. I stared at a blank sheet for forty minutes. I probably don’t read enough anymore. Nobody does, these days.

I don’t paint, but I want to. My sister was a good painter. She made a butterfly, once.

It was blue and beautiful and the wingtips had white spots around the edges and I have never painted. I haven’t written, either, but who cares? Nobody reads anymore.

It looks so plain and old without the bright windows and the bright sign and the bright smile of the hostess as she finds a table for one. The bricks are deep red, like rusted mud. The door looks rusted, too. It’s locked. Or maybe it isn’t. I haven’t tried it.

I’m soaking, and the restaurant isn’t open.

That’s a shame. I could go for a turkey and swiss club right now.

Her name was Samantha. I know that because it said so on her nametag. Her nametag was gold. The fifth time I went she asked me if I liked to paint. I liked everything back then. She liked it, too.

But it’s hard to paint in the rain.

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A Young Home Garret Fox To walk within your rotting home and feel Its splintered, marbled boards resounds with woe.

The speckled ceilings droop like battered hammocks Where water dollops on its swelling breast And smacks the floor like muted firecrackers.

The staircase creaks like bitten schoolhouse pencils As you descend and find your darkened nest Beneath forgotten steps with faded stencil.

The smells of musty play delay your rest.

Your focus rises to the furrowed stairs Where termites munch and grubs are snuggled in.

The boards collapse and paint begins to tear You flee (or fly?) and don a struggled grin.

A jiggled doorknob loosens hardened rust.

You shield your eyes against the blinding sun Then sputter into cars that honk and roast.

PHOTO BY

JACK BARBEY

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The Closer Andrew Bub “

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H

e checks, gets his sign, and he now comes set. The 2-2...STRIKE THREE, HE STRUCK HIM OUT!” Mike Shannon’s voice shouted over the radio.

“And there you go, folks. The Redbirds win this one 7–6!”

My dad reached out his hand, and I gave him a high-five. We listened to the game together on the back patio after a dinner of BBQ ribs.

“And that’s now Trevor’s twelfth straight save in a row! Wow, can that kid pitch!” Mike Shannon announced.

My dad got up out of the metal patio chair to clear our plates. “Just like you, Chris.

Closing things up no problem.”

I looked down at an ant on the concrete patio ground, carrying a bread crumb that fell off our table. “Yeah,” I said quietly, “I wish I was still able to do that.”

My dad put the plates back down on the table and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m really sorry.”

I had been diagnosed with a rare spinal disease. The pain from it was tough, but I could handle it. What hurt the most for me, though, was that I had to give up the game I loved. Playing ball was too risky for me now.

One bad incident and I could easily be paralyzed or killed.

My dad saw my saddened face and quickly tried to change the subject. “But this weather, though. It’s such a beautiful night.”

It definitely was. Nothing beats a clear cool night in the middle of June. The stars were shining, a nice breeze was blowing, and the cicadas had just begun singing their songs of summer. “Yeah,” I said, “It would be a waste not to use it. I think I’m gonna go

for a run. I won’t be able to do many of those anymore after next week.”

“Sounds good. Just let Mom know, and no running to the Arch this time.”

“Okay, Dad,” I chuckled, “will do.”

As I laced up my running shoes, I told my mom that I was going to run west into Webster then come back. I told her bye, put in my headphones, and turned on my music. I ran out the door, down the street, and made a right at the end, heading east. I felt bad knowing that I lied to my mom, but there was something I had to do.

I ran four miles at a leisurely pace. I wanted to enjoy this moment. It could have easily been the last run I’d ever go on. In a week, I’d undergo a risky spinal surgery. The instability I had in my spine was too dangerous, and anything could easily have paralyzed me. The doctors felt I needed surgery to fix this problem, even if it meant taking the chance of my being paralyzed.

Running had always been my escape from girlfriend issues, fights with my parents, or school stress. It gave me incredible comfort, and was just about the only form of exercise that I could still do with my condition. Running was a close second to baseball as a way to clear my head and make myself happy. With baseball forced off the list, it was now my only way.

At around 11:00 PM, I made it to Forest Park. By this time, everyone had left, and the only people hanging around were the park rangers patrolling in their cars. I probably wasn’t allowed to be there, but I didn’t care.

I was on a mission. Carefully, I snuck past the rangers, and made my way to the ball fields, where I had played so many games be-

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fore. Luckily, the floodlights were now off, so hopefully the rangers wouldn’t find me.

I squeezed through the gate of the chain-link fence that led into the dugout and sat down on the cold metal bench in the spot I always took. I imagined myself sitting there as I always had, spitting BBQ sunflower seeds and charting our pitcher.

After five minutes, I got up from the bench, imagining my coach had given me the sign as he did at the end of every game. It was my time. Time to close things out. One last time.

I jogged out of the dugout towards the front of the mound. I slowed down and picked a few blades of grass from the edge where the dirt mound meets the grass field, as I had done before every one of my outings. Instead of throwing those blades of grass down by the rubber as I had always done, I clutched them in my hand and sat on the dirt, facing home plate.

I just sat there staring, as I had stared down so many batters before. Only this time, my gaze was long and empty. As I sat there, I started thinking this was it: my final memory on this field. My field.

My spinal problem already taken baseball from me, but the doctors never said it would do so permanently. But now with the surgery in a week, the doctors told me my baseball career was likely over. I started crying, slowly at first, eventually becoming heavy quiet sobs. Baseball was my life. And now it was gone.

I looked around the dark empty field, picturing my teammates backing me up and cheering me on. I looked into the dugout and imagined my coach, telling me to “Bear down,” during the tough times and shouting, “Atta way, Williams” after making a fool out of a kid with my slider. Finally, I looked past the backstop at the stands, and I remembered my dad. And how he came to every single one of my home games. And how he’d

17

PHOTO BY

JACK BARBEY

always cheer me on and give me a smile and double thumbs up when I gave him a quick glance after I had recorded another save.

As I thought of my favorite memories of the games I had played here, I stared up at the starry summer sky. I prayed, asking God why. Why me? I never got an answer, but as I waited, I thought of everything the game had done for me. Slowly, my prayer changed from questions to thanks. Even though my time on the field was done, I wanted to thank God for all the wonderful memories I had made here. And all of the amazing teammates I now called my friends. And the immeasurable impact this sport had on my life.

As soon as I had finished my prayer, I saw a shooting star out of the corner of my left eye.

It was time, I thought.

I got up, went to the back of the mound, and signed my initials, CW, into the soft brown dirt. I took one last look around, imagining my teammates running up to me to celebrate our win, my coach clapping as

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he walked out of the dugout, and my dad giving me the thumbs up from the stands. They were all there to celebrate me. And my close.

For the very last time.

I walked down the mound and off the field, saying goodbye to the game I loved. As I crossed over the third-base line, I noticed a cop standing outside of his car on top of the hill behind the home dugout. He had his arms folded across his chest, but he didn’t look mad. He just seemed curious.

As I squeezed back out of the dugout through the gate, the ranger started walking down the hill towards me. He stood outside the fence, waiting for me to squeeze my whole body out. As soon as I was free, he just looked at me. “This must be a special place for you, huh?”

“Yessir,” I said, scared and unsure of what might happen.

I guess he could tell I was nervous, so he put his hand on my shoulder, as my coach

did to prepare me before I pitched. “Well, don’t worry, son. I’m not going to ruin it for you. But it is past curfew here in the park. So whaddya say I give you a lift home so another cop doesn’t get mad at you?”

“I’d like that. Thanks, sir.”

A

s we drove home, the ranger looked over at me in the passenger seat of his cop car. “So, do you play ball?”

“I used to,” I said, looking at the blade of grass I was still holding, “but I can’t anymore. I’m having spinal surgery in a week.

After that, I probably won’t be able to play again.”

“I’m sorry about that. Is that why you came here tonight?”

“Yeah.”

For a couple awkward minutes, neither of us said anything. Finally the cop broke the silence. “What position were you?” he asked.

I looked him in the eyes. “The closer.”

PHOTO BY

JACK BARBEY

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PEN DRAWING BY

JOE FENTRESS

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CHARCOAL DRAWING BY

JACK MAYFIELD

20

Dad Matt Smith He once told me my eyes were bigger than my stomach, Clouded by cigar smoke and dazzled by the ice cream machine’s blue gaze, It was neatly wrapped in crinkled cellophane and quickly froze my hand, But in the stands, ripped open, liquefied, unfinished, The starting gun went off, and the tears came.

He once told me to “always respect Mother Nature,” On my haunches in the boat, worming a fish-hook through a minnow, Happily carving out scales and chunks of eyeball and brain, While in the water, his pole reared and the taut line snapped, The fish danced in the net, and my back grew cold.

He once said nothing, Riding our horses in the July storm, iced rain beating us, Freezing and petrified, both man and beast, it neighed, I cursed, Cursed the rain, cursed the horse, cursed even him, The sun emerged and my throat ached.

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Anthony Rafael Robert

T

he first rule of the wrestling room is to wrestle for the Greater Glory of God. But our second rule is to love one another.

The power of the first rule deeply overshadows the second rule. Often us wrestlers completely forget about rule number two.

The coaches never remind us to love one another but always harp about rule number six: pay attention to detail.

D

uring the first quarter of my freshman year, I was walking down the hallway to the cafeteria to buy a bosco stick. To my surprise, I bumped into a brick wall of a body standing in the center of the hallway. I looked up at him in surprise. His thick muscular neck supported a cleft chin. His clean-

ly shaven head and broad shoulders tipped me off that he was a force to be reckoned with.

“Sorry.” I tried to slide past him to avoid a conflict.

“Sign up for wrestling!”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“If you sign up, I won’t have to kill you.”

With no questions asked, I followed him to room M107 and scribbled my name on a list.

“What’s your name? I’m Devin, by the way.”

“Rafael.”

“Like the ninja turtle!” said an excited voice from the corner of the room.

The other boy had short blond hair and

DRAWING BY

NICK BENTZ

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22

a pudgy face. He waddled over to inspect me as well. Although he was much larger than me, we were about the same height. His head was shaped like a watermelon, and his chin and forehead were speckled with acne.

“Quiet, Olson! We don’t want to scare him off,” another voice scolded.

“Don’t listen to that kid. We’re just happy to have you on the team,” Devin interjected.

“Uhh, OK.” “That’s just Anthony Olson. Don’t listen to a word he says.”

Devin put his arm around my shoulder and escorted me back out into the hallway.

T

hree weeks after our meeting, I jammed my foot into my wrestling shoe, arching my foot to angle it through the tiny shoe. I peered through the glass doors of the wrestling room to watch a freshman roll and scramble for a pin. The first week of practice was coming to a close.

Anthony Olson, who wrestled in the weight class above me on JV, slipped through the door to find a foam roller.

“Olson, out!” scolded one of the freshman coaches.

Anthony scooted out into the hallway like a puppy getting kicked into a dog house.

Anthony couldn’t stay upset for long. Like a puppy, he grinned slyly and bounded over to one of the seniors. The senior sent him away, and he bumbled over to a spot next to me along the wall.

“Hey, Olson.”

“Hello there!” Anthony cocked his head to the side and leaned closer to my face. “You think practice will be fun today?”

“Ehh, maybe some parts. Coach will probably have us do that spin drill, and that sucks.”

Anthony furrowed his brow. “If we wrestle live today, I want to be in a group with you.”

Our coach cut the conversation short and hustled us into the wrestling room while the freshmen finished up. All the boys huddled around Coach to hear instructions on how to start practice.

“Let’s do match warm-up today, boys.”

I followed the captains in a jog around the room to get our blood pumping. Massive bodies rolled, skipped, and cartwheeled across the room, showing off athleticism.

The wrestlers stopped only to crouch down with our foreheads on the mat to roll out our necks.

Without wasting any time, the squad partnered up for the next part of the warm up. I partnered with Aaron, who wrestled in my weight class on varsity.

Aaron hit the move first. He gripped my triceps and pressured into me with his forehead. He snapped my shoulders forward with his iron grip and ducked under my arm.

Aaron slipped back into the original position and hit the move seven more times.

After I did the move, we moved on to take-downs. Aaron batted my head down, dragging me forward, then stepped in deep to grab my far leg and drove right through me and knocked me onto my hips.

Aaron always hit his moves effortlessly.

He flowed through wrestling as if it were dance class. He moved slowly but firmly until I blinked, and I ended up lying on the mat.

O

ur biggest home meet of the year lasted about eight hours on December 18th and included three of the biggest power-house wrestling programs in the Saint Louis area: Ritenour, Fort Zumwalt North, and Troy. If our Varsity team could pull off these key victories, our resume for districts would be top-notch.

I had only two matches on JV. I managed to pound a kid from Fort Zumwalt North, and I narrowly defeated a wrestler from Troy.

Anthony had a rocky start on his first match

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COLLAGRAPH BY

NICK BENTZ

against Fort Zumwalt North but managed to pull off a pin once his opponent tired in the third period. He then wrestled a kid with at least three tattoos; Anthony barely avoided being pinned.

Aaron pinned his first two opponents, then wrestled a riveting match against Ritenour’s top wrestler and managed to pull off an overtime victory with his slick duck-under.

I slumped in the bleachers of the gym next to Anthony as the final matches of the afternoon began. I munched on a Clif Bar I had packed as a snack between matches. Anthony fidgeted with the straps on his headgear.

“You should come over to my house after the meet,” Anthony grinned at me.

“Uhhh. We’ll see…” I replied, looking away.

“It will be fun because I’ve been setting up my ‘chill room.’ I put my Xbox up there

and a bunch of bean bag chairs!” He bounced up and down.

Anthony spotted one of the seniors who had just filled up a cup of Gatorade at the water cooler and jumped off the bleachers to pester him.

“Dude, don’t go to Olson’s house. His ‘chill room’ sounds really lame,” Devin chuckled after overhearing Anthony.

“Haha, yeah. You’re probably right.”

I stood up to return to the locker room to steer clear of Anthony. I hoped that he would forget about his invitation and I could avoid the encounter all together. Just as I turned the corner in the tunnel off to a stairwell, my fears turned into reality.

“So can you come over?”

I panicked. Should I tell him my parents won’t let me? Way too lame. I couldn’t lie and tell him I already have other plans either because he knows I don’t. I felt myself backed in a corner.

“Sure, I’ll go.”

Anthony grinned with delight as he followed me back to the locker room.

“What do you think we should do first?

You think we we should play Xbox? I have ‘Bad Company.’”

We scooted out of the back door of the gym into the alley, and he led me past a few old brick houses. Anthony unhinged a metal gate in the back of one of the houses. He lead me up onto his small deck and through the back door.

A radiator in the corner moaned to heat the house. The walls were all painted simple shades of white and gray. Anthony gestured toward a winding staircase with a chipped-up coat of white paint. We skipped up the stairs to the second floor.

I followed Anthony down a short hall into a small box-shaped room about the size of a walk-in closet. It jutted out over the back of the house. Bean bag chairs sat in front of the flat screen TV resting on a small stand.

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Reusable shopping bags packed with video games littered the perimeter of the room.

“What do you think?”

“It’s pretty cool,” I lied.

I didn’t think the room was all that bad.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect because Anthony had talked up how cool his “chill room” was and Devin had attempted to destroy my expectations. Although I thought it would be a fun place to hang out, my imagination convinced me of better. It was just a tiny room with a TV. “You ready for ‘Bad Company’?” Anthony asked.

“Yeah, man. I actually have never played before.”

Anthony fired up the Xbox and flipped me a controller. The game had begun. I fumbled with the buttons while Anthony obliterated my troops with an AK-47.

After a few rounds of Anthony’s complete domination, Anthony dropped his controller on a beanbag chair, “You hungry?”

“I’m starved.”

“Let’s go microwave a pizza.”

I followed Anthony back down the creaky stairs into the kitchen. He pulled a frozen pizza out of the freezer and slipped it into the microwave.

I heard Anthony chuckle to himself, so I switched my focus from the cover of a People magazine lying on the counter and directed it toward Anthony.

“What?”

“Have you seen this picture?” Anthony continued to chuckle.

“What picture?”

“This cat meme,” Anthony cackled.

Anthony whipped out his phone and searched through his photo album for the picture. He slid his fingers over the screen browsing through the thousands of various memes he had stored over time. Anthony’s eyes lit up when he found the one he’d been searching for.

“Ah ha!” Anthony cried.

He tilted the screen over to me so I could see it. A fat cat sprawled across the screen. It had deep dark eyes, and its tongue hung slyly out of his mouth. The fat cat glared down at a cute, little kitten. Bold, white letters underneath asked, “Is it all right if I eat you?”

I stared at the picture and furrowed my brow. Anthony fell off his stool and rolled around on the floor dying in silent laughter.

I couldn’t stop myself from joining him because of his strange sense of humor.

“Wait. So you have more of those?” I choked back my laughter.

“I have a whole album full!” Anthony rolled over onto his belly. “I’ll show you some more!”

He scrolled through his album grinning to himself. If he stumbled upon one he found particularly fun, he chuckled then waved his phone at me to show off another cute cat with bold letters blasting a crazy comment.

After laughing at countless “cat memes,” Anthony paused. His smile faded into a stern line.

“I just want to be respected,” Anthony sat up.

“What do you mean?”

“The other guys on the team always push me around because they think I’m weird. I’m not a bad guy.”

“I know, buddy. I feel you, man.”

“That’s why I really try so hard. I know I’m not as good as the other guys like Aaron and Devin, but I want them to respect me.”

P

ractice resumed after the New Year, and we hadn’t missed a beat. The team moved quickly through the warm-up and moved into takedowns. My awkward leg grabs progressed into a strong blast double leg. My double leg still wasn’t as swift as Aaron’s fluid duck-under, but I took down the slugs that I wrestled at the meets.

These slugs barely moved once the

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match started before I pounced and managed to knock them onto their backs. In contrast to the chubby unathletic wrestlers I faced, Aaron matched up against burly bulls of human beings who could crush a soda can between their pinkie finger and thumb.

We drilled several offensive misdirections to deak our opponents off balance. After Aaron completely shredded me with the finesse technique of a magician, coach alerted us, “All right, boys, up against the wall. It’s time for shark tank.”

The grueling drill of shark tank separated the “sharks” from the “minnows.” One wrestler enters the center of the ring and feeds on his prey, or an opponent from a series of alternating wrestlers feeds on him.

The wrestler in the center receives no rest compared to his well-rested opponents waiting to strike.

“Aaron, Jake, and Evan, you will be in the center today.”

As they took center stage, the remainder of the wrestlers broke off into groups to feed on the boys in the center. Anthony, another wrestler in our weight class, and I paired up with Aaron.

The other boy started in the middle with Aaron. Aaron mercilessly smashed this poor kid’s face in the mat. He squirmed in an attempt to escape but to no avail. Aaron contorted his opponent’s body and pressed his shoulders into the mat for a pin. The helpless boy rolled back onto his belly, and just before Aaron turned him over again, it was my turn.

I managed to fight off Aaron’s initial flurry of attacks and turned his weariness into offense of my own. I rammed him hard with the blast-double I’d practiced earlier and scored a takedown. He thrashed wildly in an attempt to escape. He wore down my grip on his hips and wrists and slipped away just as it was time to switch.

Anthony hopped in the ring right away eager to prove himself. He waved, grappled,

and stalked wildly after Aaron on the mat.

He scrambled his way forward pushing Aaron into the corner of the room. Anthony dove in at his legs in an attempt to take him down. Unable to slip his legs away, Aaron fell backwards.

His head smashed into one of the kettlebells along the edge of the mat. Anthony pounced, proud of his catch. He jumped back in surprise after feeling the limp body in his arms. His proud grin shifted to a look of utter confusion as all action ceased around him and the coaches raced over to check on Aaron. One boy burst out of the room and raced to find the nearest nurse or trainer.

The rest of us froze to watch Aaron from a distance to give him some air. I overheard the coaches mumbling about “concussions“ and “season-ending injuries.”

State was a little over a month away.

There was no way Aaron could recover in time for districts to qualify. He would have to sit out for the remainder of his final season crushing his dreams of a state championship.

Anthony faded into a corner the way a shamefaced dog slinks back into its cage.

Devin glared at over at Anthony and mumbled under his breath, “This is all Olson’s fault.”

I didn’t know what to think. Injuries happen all the time in wrestling. They may not look as bad, but they sure do happen.

It wasn’t like it was really Anthony’s fault either. He just wanted a takedown to prove himself to the other guys. Anthony had become my friend, and I didn’t think he was as bad as Devin made him out to be. But I didn’t want to be on Devin’s bad side, either.

We sat in silence in the locker room after practice. Nothing could be said to mend the situation.

Finally Devin slammed his fist up on the lockers. “This is your fault, Olson. All you do is screw things up. You’re a shit wrestler, and you just hurt the best kid on the team!”

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PHOTO BY

Anthony didn’t respond; instead, he retreated to the shower area to escape Devin’s ranting. The rest of us, slowly packed our bags, waiting to hear word from the coaches about Aaron’s condition. An ambulance had taken him to the hospital, but no one was sure how bad his concussion really was.

D

uring lunch the next day, I still hadn’t heard about how Aaron was doing. I feared being one of the contenders to take his place on the Varsity lineup.

I felt two hands shake my shoulders. I turned my head backwards to find Anthony grinning down at me.

“Hey, Anthony.”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t know. Just eating lunch.” I shrugged him off.

He plopped down in the seat beside mine and let out a long sigh. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Well, you did!” I snapped. “He was the

PATRICK ENDERLE

best damn wrestler on the team, and now he has a serious concussion. You blew our best shot at the first state champ in school history!”

The moment I said it, I knew what I had done. I regretted it, but there was no way in hell I could stop my emotions. I was mad at Anthony for hurting Aaron. I knew it wasn’t really his fault, that it was just a freak accident, but I needed someone to blame.

Anthony stood up. He stuttered to find his words but couldn’t manage to put together a sentence. He turned away and scampered off down out of the cafeteria and into a crowd of students.

B

efore practice, the team lounged around the locker room changing into their workout clothes. While we waited for the coaches, a few of the guys usually shot nasty jokes across the room at one another to draw laughs from the rest of the team.

These guys sat in silence today.

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“I heard from Aaron’s mom that Aaron’s definitely out for the rest of the season, but thankfully there’s no severe brain damage,” one of the wrestlers reported.

“But he’s still missing state.” Devin glared at Anthony. “I should kick your ass for doing that to him. You knew he was all worn out from Shark Tank!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Anthony squeaked.

Anthony didn’t deserve to be stomped all over by Devin, but I didn’t want to be on Devin’s bad side. Devin could smash me into oblivion if he so desired.

Before Devin had a chance to stand up from his seat, the coaches appeared to start practice.

A

few of the guys stopped by Aaron’s house to see how he was doing, but Aaron wasn’t around school for about a week. The guys who visited him said that bright lights still bothered him and his head hurt when he tried to concentrate on schoolwork.

Our last dual meet against conference opponents was today. We faced off against De Smet Jesuit. They lacked a strong program, but the wrestlers they did have were fierce, fast, and powerful.

I couldn’t stop my body from shivering because coach penciled me in as Aaron’s replacement in the lineup. I really wanted to size myself up with a good wrestler, but not in this situation. Not because our best wrestler got sidelined with a season ending injury. I also wasn’t sure what to expect from a varsity-caliber wrestler. I was used to wrestling Aaron, and he always killed me. But to put things in perspective, he killed everyone.

“All right, boys. Huddle up!” the coaches called after warmups.

The team jogged off to the side of the gym where the coaches stood.

“We’re starting at the 170 weight class, Raf, and you’ve got a match.”

I nodded my head. Shit. First match right off the bat is the worst. I always felt rusty and sluggish when I had to wrestle first.

I could get it over with quickly though.

The mats cleared and the referees prepared to start the first matches. I ripped off my sweats and jogged over to the scoring table to check in.

I hung tough with my opponent for the first period so that we’d enter the second all tied up at zero apiece. I gave up a point when he managed to stand up and recover from a scramble on the ground.

Late in the final period I knew my only chance at a victory was to escape from his clutches. But I was struggling. He slammed my face down into the mat as I squirmed forward searching for space. My situation was hopeless. This guy was way too tough. I looked up at my coach, who was screaming at me to get up, when I saw Aaron at his side.

I couldn’t make out what coach was shouting, but I heard Aaron shout, “I know you can do this! You just have to want it!”

I had to escape for Aaron. I scrambled wildly around, fighting for a tiny bit of space to be able to stand up in, but my opponent’s strong grip wasn’t easing up. I knew that time was short, but Aaron had faith in me.

I managed to force myself to my feet but instantly was rejected by my opponent tossing me back onto the mat as time expired.

When I walked off the mat after shaking hands with my opponent, Aaron slung his arm of my shoulder and guided me over to my seat.

“You were tough out there. I know you lost, but you’re a freshman. That was your first one, so keep your head up, kid,” Aaron winked at me.

I pulled my warm-ups on over my singlet and remained sitting with Aaron. We sat quietly watching the rest of the matches occasionally shouting words of encouragement.

Anthony timidly approached us midway

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through the meet. He avoided eye contact as he fidgeted with his fingernails.

“Sorry about the concussion.”

Aaron just waved him off, “You’re good, bro. Accidents happen. What can I say. You took me down.”

“But what about state and everything?”

Anthony looked up from his feet.

“Guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

I couldn’t believe what I heard. Aaron forgave Anthony for shattering his dreams.

Devin, the rest of the team, and I had held him in contempt ever since the accident. At the drop of a hat, Aaron was willing to forgive him. I felt bad for the way we treated him all week, in my case mostly because I was afraid of Devin.

A

fter the meet, we showered back in the locker room. Conversation and laughter stirred in the locker room again after seeing Aaron that night. Although he couldn’t wrestle, the team felt his charisma returning to the team.

I leaned over to Anthony, who was stuffing his gear into his bag. “Sorry for yelling at you the other day. I didn’t mean what I said.

I know it was an accident.”

Anthony didn’t respond.

“Is there anything I can do to make up for it?”

He peered over at me and grinned. “One condition. You have to help me find some more funny cat memes.”

DRAWING BY

CHIP AUSTIN

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Smoke Rises Kevin Thomas Once upon a time, the walls were alive with fantasy and wishes and dolls, and millions of other things written in a child’s scrawl.

Then the fire came.

It burned the beauty the home once held as the smoke rose, dirtying its grandeur and engulfing the sky.

Years later, when the memories were forgotten by all but brick, the walls coughed, shuddered, and fell while a crane and its ball laughed, sputtered, and flew.

A booted man stood tall, watching the mortar and memories fall. He lit his favorite cigarette: a 100-mm Pall Mall menthol.

Then he recalled His daughter’s small, fragile face; how the acrid black smoke made her cough.

How long it’d been since he heard her giggle take over their entire living room.

Years later, she would recall how she could never breathe until he left.

Her happy memories were gone like tinder, burned by ashy grey tombs.

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Love Mick Callahan

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he dust-brown stone looked out well over the forest line, something you’d see in a postcard that was described to me on the ride here. This wasn’t a place for kayaking or sports, just a spring in a clearing to swim. No sports? Not exactly my style, I thought at the time. I’d rather have been with my friend at home, yet here I was unwillingly dragged here. Perhaps Mom’s right, I thought, you could probably use some time with your brothers.

I heard my family laughing in the spring below, all twelve relatives from my dad’s side, and swimming in the spring. I saw my two little brothers down below beaming up at me, yelling at me to come and play with them. I was tense. I wasn’t so sure of the depth of the spring, but I knew it was deep enough.

I looked down once more. Thirty feet, maybe. I decided the best choice was to just fall, nothing fancy, just feet-first. I took a breath, counted to three, and stepped off.

As I fell, something evoked the best moments from my young life: going to the City Museum as a little kid with my friend from preschool, seeing my favorite teacher from grade school, passing notes with the girl I had a crush on in second grade, playing video games with my friend Dalton, and spending a week every summer at Zoo Camp.

Twenty feet to go.

I saw my family. My brothers, along with my two cousins, were giddy with joy watching their big brother jump from so high; my mom, grandma, and aunts all turned away as they couldn’t—wouldn’t— allow themselves to see the impact; my dad, uncles, and grandpa all staring in both pride at my courage and disappointment at my stupidity. Ten feet to fall.

I thought of nothing as I neared the water. I closed my eyes and turned my head up towards the sky. I had an inner peace about me that I’d never before felt, and the sensation eased my body. The shape of a man shined through a cloud. He said nothing, but only smiled. Two feet to go.

I opened my eyes, looked toward the water and prepared for impact.

DRAWING BY

LI YIZHANG

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Entering Rough Waters Joe Weis

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pillar with a clicking clock reminded past riders of the hour, the gone days of timetables and jostling crowds. Usually, this pillar stood as a reminder of the city’s past glory, but not today. Today it gave new hope to the mass of people flooding into Union Station to see a revived era. Henry, too, hoped for his city which had faced such hardships as riots, the loss of Budweiser to InBev, and the closing of the Chevrolet plant. But today was the turn to a new chapter for the city he so loved. Henry jogged inside, excited for the musical he had come to see. The arched structure, called the “Whispering Walls,” welcomed him as it towered above. Stained glass told a story of a time when the city folk came through and to this station. It stood as a reminder of the 1904 World’s Fair, as well.

“Henry!” a voice shouted in the crowd.

Elizabeth Laclede parted the crowd and embraced Henry in her costume for the Rosati performance of a scene from Meet Me in St. Louis. A bun held her brunette blazes underneath an old-fashioned blue-ribboned hat.

“Where is everyone?” Henry asked, finding no 1904 actors, except for the old men and women who pretended to live in 1904.

“They’re rehearsing near the South Plaza,” she said, pointing down the hall. Her dress swished a little bit with the turn, and her lips shone with modest red lipstick. “We can walk down there: the show’s in an hour.”

Henry agreed and followed his friend through the extensive structure. Stores lined the sides: clothing, train collections, maga-

zine stores, and food. Like a snake the pathway wound and twisted, keeping the customers looking at some storefront at all times .Henry and Elizabeth came to a cove set aside and blocking out the sound, with black curtains shielding it from view. And there awaited thirty actors and actresses sitting in small groups, some whispering to each other. Boys in tuxedos, girls in red dresses and bonnets. Kyle, Henry’s best friend who was also performing, waved to Henry, and he returned the greeting.

Finding he was out of place among these performers, Henry left the cove and reentered the real world. Henry found his way eventually to Einstein Bagels and walked inside. Glass panels ran from the floor to the ceiling and permitted Henry a view of the large white sheet of paper waiting to be filled. It lay everywhere in the city, from Kirkwood to Florissant. Henry downed his cream-cheese slathered cinnamon bagel and drank his soda, a Fitz’s root beer. Couples everywhere sat together in their coats and beanies and parents joked with their children who were helplessly dressed up in Christmas sweaters with patterns of snowmen and reindeer. Henry left the bagel joint with a satisfied stomach and headed outside where Elizabeth and the rest would perform in front of the Christmas Tree and where the announcements for the Revival would be held.

The Christmas Tree near Market stood at thirty feet tall, loaded with lights. It had not yet been lit, but would be set on fire with colors of blue, green, orange, purple, red, yellow. All around people chattered away in the cold. Henry waited and finally saw the feather of a costume making its way closer to the stage in front of the tree. Someone on a speaker told of the Seventy-Sixth Anniversary Christmas Tree Lighting, but Henry was not listening. Mayor Slay said some words praising the city for its resolve and consideration. Then, with what was supposed to be a

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grand motion but really looked gaudy, he lit the tree with the plugs above his head. People cheered and the 1904 choir walked up on stage. One girl stumbled on her dress and one of the guys sauntered up with his hands in his pockets.

Two boys decked in top hats set a bench down, and Elizabeth entered with her sevenyear-old co-star. The two picked up with a conversation about leaving St. Louis. The little girl spoke in a sweet voice about having no friends and no place to bury her dolls when they died. Then Elizabeth started to sing to the girl with a voice fit for the holy choir at Bethlehem. Everyone who had still been talking stopped, turning their heads to the source of perfect melody. And Henry, well, his heart fluttered up to the gentle clouds where it rested. The boy known for his blunt statements and brutal four-seamer now found a dormant emotion starved by his search for fulfillment. For the first time he accepted his feelings and let his mind form an idea. He was going to ask Elizabeth Laclede for a date.

Elizabeth finished her song, the two “sisters” hugged, the father came in as did the rest of the Smiths, and they all decided not to leave. Henry could not get his mind off his idea, though, and could not focus for the rest of the show. The group of performers stepped down carefully from the stage and the girls held their dresses so as not to trip. Henry went back into the station and walked around with a little more confidence.

He was going to ask Elizabeth Laclede out.

Henry Conway and Elizabeth Laclede, what a couple! He heard the clicking of heels no more than ten yards away, and he knew. Henry pivoted, seeing Elizabeth emerge from the crowd.

“What’d you think?” She beamed with rosy red lips.

“It was great, I never knew you could sing so amazing-ly.” He choked on the last bit, realizing suddenly that fear had taken over and his hands now trembled.

“Thanks, Henry! Have you seen Kyle anywhere?” Elizabeth swung hair head around looking for their friend. Henry won-

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dered why she wanted to see Kyle. They had been around each other no later than ten minutes before.

“No, why?” Henry searched for something better to say, but she answered before he could mend his words.

“No reason. Is something wrong?” Henry looked up from his shoes to see her clear blue eyes searching his.

“Well,” Henry paused, building up his courage. “Actually, can we go somewhere else? It’s too loud in here.” Elizabeth nodded and led him to the koi pond outside. The fish poked their scale-covered heads to peek at the two teenagers standing above. Henry took a breath, suppressed the churning feeling in his stomach and tried to recall his confidence. “I really like you, Elizabeth. I kinda just realized how much I liked you when you were singing up on stage.” He paused and attempted to gauge her reaction in her eyes, though Henry never could read people.

“Oh.” Elizabeth bit her lower lip, and looked down. The news hit him like one of the steam engines that once rolled into Union Station. Henry had not picked up on but now remembered three different times he had seen Kyle and Elizabeth sharing glances. His heart fell from the clouds with a thud.

“I think you’re a great guy, Henry, it’s just that Kyle and I, we’ve just been together a lot. He’s a nice guy, Henry.”

He nodded, trying to cover his feelings.

“And we, we’ve agreed to date and see where it goes.” Elizabeth stood up taller and bore into Henry’s eyes. Quick, recover! Henry racked his brain to the point of exhaustion for something to say.

“Well, you two make a great couple,” he blurted out, quickly regretting such a bland statement. “I’m happy for you guys.” Guys?

Elizabeth showed her beautiful smile again and hugged him, saying, “Thanks, Henry!”

She again demanded his attention with a

deep and genuine look. “You’re a good man.”

Bullcrap. Henry was jealous of Kyle and she knew it. He had lied to Elizabeth, and now looked like a good person for it. He separated himself from her and found an excuse to leave. “I gotta go pick up Pete from soccer practice. See you around.”

Henry walked through the station and out the entrance to Market, where protesters now held signs and yelled at police, who stared them down and threatened arrest.

“Child killer!” Shouted someone. A sergeant replied, “Stay back!” Police lights lit up the area, the flashes of blue and red streaked across the dark and pale faces of hurt and angry people. Henry jogged away and to the parking lot farther down, slumping into his driver’s seat and resting his head on the wheel.

He slammed his forehead into the rubber a few times, but what for? For his city, for him, for Elizabeth? He leaned back and rubbed the painful area, trying to sort through his confusion. Emotions, he thought. Emotions ruin everything. Let them decide something just one time and they screw the chances, Henry determined.

A figure approached. It was Kyle. He opened the passenger door and sat down next to Henry.

“Elizabeth told me you asked her out.”

He passed Henry a soda and opened his own. Henry took it and popped the tab. “I should’ve told you, man.”

“It’s not your fault, Kyle. I should’ve seen the hints.” Henry forced himself to accept responsibility.

“Pete doesn’t have soccer practice today, Henry,” Kyle chuckled. “You know I’m assistant coach.”

“And a crappy assistant coach at that.”

Henry forced a faint smile. He started up the engine, slowly rolled out of the lot, past the protesters and the policemen, passed the clock, and kept in sight the Arch as he drove north to his home.

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Wonderful Things Michael Wiley “

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eriously, There’s no reason for me to be here right now,” I groaned as my mom’s old Suburban rolled into the nearly-empty parking lot.

“What are you complaining about now?” my mom asked sarcastically. Considering that I had been making my objections known for the last week, I figured she at least had an idea.

“You know, I can drive now,” I said.

“Pretty soon, you’ll have to stop dragging me around to all of your little errands.”

“Michael, you’re fifteen,” my mom retorted. “You can’t even drive around the block without your father or me in the passenger seat.”

Damn, she had a point. I would never tell her that, of course. Instead, I shuffled around in my seat, crossed my arms, and put on my best “I hate this” face. Suddenly the collared shirt and khaki pants I had been forced to wear seemed a lot smaller. The car’s AC must have been busted, because I was just dying.

“Mom, I’m reeeaallly sick. I’ll have to go home and get some rest.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that today,” she said with something resembling a chuckle. “Besides, you know this isn’t just an errand. It’s the man’s birthday! I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed just to see you at his party.”

I would have made a snotty comment about how loosely she was using the word “party,” but I couldn’t bring myself to argue with the memories she was mentioning. After all, he and I did have some history.

I

’ve never tried, but I’m sure it’d be tough to forget those days at Robert S. Weinberg’s house. Mr. Weinberg was a beer in-

dustry consultant and former AnheuserBusch executive, but, appropriately, I never addressed him as anything other than Mr. Bob. During the summer months, when neither school nor reinforced steel had the power to keep me out of trouble, my mom was forced to take me to Mr. Bob’s house, where she helped him with statistical analysis, data configuration, and other boring stuff.

Every morning, we’d pull into his airstrip-sized driveway on Lindell, close enough to Forest Park that I could have tossed a golf ball from his front porch and disrupted a few games. We would pass the bright flowers and oak trees in the lawn and wait at the side door, from where I could gaze out at the pool and tennis courts in the yard that was big enough to rival the park. For three years (on a six year-old’s time), we’d stand there while my mom cradled a laptop and a stack of documents and I held onto Batman, Spiderman, and three Power Ranger toys. Eventually, Mr. Bob’s face would appear through the glass.

Mr. Bob was Santa Claus’s fraternal twin. Really, he had the big white beard and everything, but he usually chose to wear blue jeans and a faded plaid shirt rather than some gaudy red suit. And in place of a fluffy winter hat, he was almost always wearing prescription glasses so massive that they must have come from the same place that manufactured his floor-to-ceiling windows.

He would usher us inside, and I wish I could say the mansion’s interior matched its glimmering gardens and towering pillars. I’m not sure what was more noticeable: the smell of death that probably originated somewhere in the kitchen or the actual dead mice that called the threshold their final resting place. Farther into the halls, the wallpaper was peeling off, gathering dust, and swaying with every draft like old cobwebs. And, yes, there were plenty of those too.

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When spelunking toward the front of the house, we had to remain alert and stay out from underneath a chandelier which was just waiting for a reason to fall and shatter into a million pieces of its former beauty.

Usually, Mr. Bob would pile his books in places where we weren’t supposed to walk, and I would make a game out of reading their complicated titles—some gibberish about quantum physics or advanced economics. He did have a library in the basement, but, after he ran out of shelf space, he got tired of walking down the stairs to reach it.

And then there were the boxes. Oh, the boxes! Every single room was split into aisles by mounds of the unlabeled cardboard.

Needless to say, there was no method of organization. Every one held its own surprise, and on more than a few occasions, I found myself some nice gifts that he allowed me to take home, such as James Bond VHS tapes or a thousand-page thesaurus. I was only told to stop rummaging through the boxes when my mom caught me turning the pages to a vintage nudie magazine.

Only one room in the house was not in-

fected by the dirt and clutter. On the second floor, next to what might have been a bathroom in some past life, was his wife’s bedroom. Somehow, the word luxurious did it no justice. Light spilled in through two windows surrounded by velvet drapes and wrapped itself up in the soft, patterned rug. The black cherry wood on the queen bed’s posts and headboard matched the nightstand and wardrobe, which hid her collection of dresses that I could only envision in a 1920s ball, all tuxedos, cigar smoke, and cocktails.

It was no wonder the room was so clean.

Mrs. Bob, as I called her, slept her days away in a makeshift hospital bed, positioned conveniently in the center of the dining room.

Occasionally, she would strain and push herself from under the sheets and into a wheelchair so she could come play Legos with me.

In my absence, her days were monotonous and unchanging, just like the opulence of that bedroom, cut off from her by a flight of stairs and rickety bones. Such was her story until her death delivered her from a bitter end to an otherwise beautiful marriage.

However, as a hyperactive six-year-old

PHOTO BY

NICK BENTZ

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brought to tears by the thought of cleaning his own room, I empathized with Mr. Bob’s cleaning habits (or lack thereof). Mom did a good job of hiding it, but she was losing sleep over the man’s lifestyle. Meanwhile, I was losing sleep over something else; in the corner of Mr. Bob’s office, where he and my mom spent their time tediously sifting through charts and graphs, a lit-up glass case displayed model battle ships from the U.S. Navy. Every ship was spotless and lined up perfectly with all the others: Mr. Bob’s only surviving memorial to the disciplined tidiness he learned in his Navy days. Because the vessels were just the right size for my action figures, I would stand at the glass every day and cover it in my sticky, sweaty fingerprints until Mr. Bob sternly shooed me away.

It may be an understatement, but there were a lot of things in that house—a lot of things that were one man’s trash and everyone else’s garbage. But those ships were something entirely different. Each one was a tangible memory, a grave to what was once life itself. Maybe they were nothing more than stagnant reminders that all real things change. To him, those ships were wonderful things.

M

om quietly struggled to reclaim her composure as she shifted the Suburban into park and climbed out of the driver’s seat. I hopped out of the car, tugged at my collar a couple more times, and then I saw it. Stuck on the front of the building was a sign said “CHINA KING” in huge, red neon letters. I was about to comment on the historical accuracy of it all, but my mom was already rushing through the door.

Just as the name implied, the inside of the restaurant didn’t scream “genuine.” All the tables were pushed to the side in order to make room for our party’s Godzilla-sized table, which effectively took up half of the restaurant. There might have been more room,

but the Easter-like green and orange walls were angled in such a way that the room was something like a cramped parallelogram.

The table was infested with unrecognized faces. My mom had already found her seat next to a scruffy man in a wrinkled blue shirt. He shook my hand as I approached, and as he looked me in the eyes and said “Allen,” I couldn’t avoid glancing at his yellow, crooked teeth. Yes, that name did sound familiar; he must have been the Allen who was hired to clean up the mansion and move Mr. Bob into a place that was more…secure. His reward? A million dollars upon completion.

Because my mom was sitting at the end of the table, the only open chair was next to some spindly old man, who looked at me with a shy smile and waved me over with an arm not unlike a tree’s winter branch. He looked so small, draped inside of a wheelchair someone had pushed up to his plate.

I squeezed behind everyone and carefully positioned myself at his right side. He was still staring at me, so I just looked down at the white rice and other foods that I assumed were some kind of fish.

“Hey, Michael, let me get a good look at you,” the man said in his raspy, exhausted voice. He reached down into his pocket and retrieved a pair of glasses that looked so ancient and enormous that he must have ripped them off a fossil at the Natural History Museum. And maybe it was that thought about history that finally made me remember.

“Hello, erm, Mr. Weinberg,” I stuttered.

“Happy birthday.”Addressing him so formally for the first time did feel wrong in some way, but, in my defense, it did feel like I was talking to a different person, just like the difference between the inside and the outside of his house.

For a second, he too seemed confused by that name, but he shrugged it off when he asked me how I had been doing for the past million years (on a senior citizen’s time). Re-

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PATRICK ZARRICK

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alizing that I didn’t have anything important to say to the man, I bragged about my GPA, droned on about my permit, and whined about my family—everything that my parents would have expected me to say. There might as well have been a teleprompter on the other side of the restaurant, but when I ended my speech, Mr. Bob nodded his head slowly, thoughtfully digesting.

“Well, these are all wonderful things,” he said slowly, methodically, like any retired businessman would have. Despite what I might have been thinking at the time, I don’t think he was talking about my grades. He wasn’t referring to my driving, and he probably didn’t care about the average teenager’s problems. No, I believe that, in all the wisdom granted to him through those dusty, shambling years, he came to see all things through those gargantuan glasses as truly wonderful.

“I know it’s my birthday, but I thought

you might want this,” he said, placing a gray, miniature U. S. Navy battleship in the palm of my hand. I stayed still, said nothing, and let the silence fester, but I could have sworn I felt something, like a toothpick tapping at the base of a glacier. It might have been nostalgia, thankfulness, remorse for my indifference, or a ghastly concoction of all three.

I think that I said “thank you,” but I can’t be sure. The rest of the celebration followed, and my silence continued burning like the candles Mr. Bob wasn’t strong enough to blow out. When the time came to go home, I didn’t beg my mom to let me drive; I just got into the Suburban, watched the neon China King sign fade away in the mirror, and flipped the battleship around inside of my coat pocket. When we got home, I ran up to my room and tossed the replica ship into a drawer where it joined forces with Batman and Spiderman, just as I always wanted it to.

I never looked at it again.

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King of the Ozarks Hap Burke

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here’s a creek about three hours away from here, if you take the highway south and don’t stop for gas or a bite to eat or the world’s second-largest gift shop or any other southern Missouri roadside trash like that. Anyways, the creek’s not too wide or fast or famous, but there’s a part of it that’s maybe a little noteworthy. Coming over an Ozark ridge, the creek falls and tumbles its way forty feet down a rocky shut-in, making a nice, stout waterfall. Not a lot of people from around here care about it, because, you know, who’d make a three-hour drive for some backwoods waterfall? But we did, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

Because the creek doesn’t just trickle like a gutterpipe or gurgle like a garden hose. It explodes. From its head to its pool, the waterfall catches the sun in a thousand mist-rainbows, glistening with sunlight and starlight and moonbeams and whatever else makes an Ozark river so enchanting on a mid-July evening. The water dances in rocky corridors, slips on glossy pavement, and rushes together at once in a dazzling spray of windfall.

I made sure I had the best view of the whole thing. The light was fading fast, so I climbed up a heap of weathered boulders that framed the creek on the right side. The pile was enormous, soaring with layer upon layer of karst topographical limestone, or something like that. My sister told me earlier, but I had my earbuds in, so I might’ve misheard her. Anyways, after hauling myself up to the very peak, I looked out on the whole scene in the last light of the day. Only a pine tree next to me was taller.

I looked down on the creek and the waterfall. I could only barely see the parking lot because of all the trees, so I tried to pretend I was the only one around. I pretended that I was the only man in the entire Ozarks. I was the only one who stood above this riverside. I was the only one who surmounted the boulder mountain. I was alone.

Except, suddenly, I wasn’t. I heard some scuffling behind me. I turned. A family of four was struggling up the hill not fifteen feet from me—two parents, a boy, and a girl.

I rolled my eyes. The parents were overweight, and the children were certainly on track. The dad was speaking to his wife in the thickest hick accent I’ve ever heard.

“Never even saw a Ford worth half as much,” he was saying between panting breaths. “The crook’s cheating me outta five hundred dollars.”

It was terrible. Here I was, enjoying some fine natural beauty, when these crosseyed rednecks barge in and make the whole mountaintop smell like fried chicken. I figured I probably should be going soon, anyways, so I glanced at the river one last time before trekking back down the boulder like I had come up. But as I was stumbling down past the family as they stumbled up, I noticed something.

The little boy wasn’t wearing shoes. His feet were almost black with dirt. I think I stopped for just a moment. His shorts were blue but unwashed; his shirt was oversized and said “Rally Car Exhibition, 2008”. But he didn’t have shoes. He turned his head my way, and for a second I thought we were going to make eye contact. So I quickly turned away and kept walking down the hillside. I’m not sure what it was, but I got some really weird feeling about the whole thing.

Yet when I got to the bottom, all I wanted to think about was the beauty of being alone on an Ozark mountaintop.

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Secondhand Shoes Kevin Thomas

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bought my shoes at a thrift shop.

They’re not exceptionally fancy, just a ratty old pair of PF Flyers. They’re mostly maroon, with dirty white laces and a dirty white sole. Each shoe has a tongue with no tag, and each tongue likes to hide a little bit off to the side when I wear them.

They’re shy, I suppose.

As I said earlier, each tongue lacks a tag, so I don’t really know what size they are.

But I do know that each shoe fits.

To be perfectly honest, they aren’t the most comfortable shoes in the world. In fact, I personally believe they are far from it.

Walking around all day in them can really hurt the arches of my feet. They definitely aren’t the most stylish shoes in the world.

They’re more than a little beaten up, and the rubber soles are falling apart just a tad. If I want to keep wearing them, I’ll eventually have to take them to a shoe church.

I paid sixteen dollars and fifty cents for these shoes. I got them from a thrift shop.

It wasn’t Goodwill, or the Salvation Army, or one of those massive warehouses of worn clothes who through their munificence have prices so low that they’re basically giving away clothes; nor was it one of those “new age” thrift shops that popped up after Macklemore made thrift shopping famous

and contain stuff solely meant to amuse the upper class—and as a result have exorbitant prices. No, it was just a normal thrift shop in a decent area.

I spent sixteen dollars and fifty cents at a thrift shop to make a junky pair of shoes my own. Yet they still aren’t my own shoes.

I mean, yeah, I “own” them, but they’re still not mine entirely.

I didn’t draw up the initial design in my sketchbook; someone else did that. I didn’t labor at a machine in a sweatshop in Wherethehellistan where these shoes were made, at most likely far below minimum wage; someone else did that. I didn’t even go

PHOTO BY

JACK BARBEY

to the website, or shoe store, or wherever the original owner of these shoes bought them. I didn’t select my size, select the color I wanted and pay the price just so I would have the exact shoe I wanted. Someone else did that.

I bought my shoes at a thrift shop. I paid sixteen dollars and fifty cents for them.

The Cherokee say not to judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. I’ve walked, ridden, and driven far more than one mile in these secondhand shoes, and I still have no idea what the hell to think about the man whose shoes I’m stepping in.

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Mr. Sullivan Luke Twardowski

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I

glanced down in embarrassment, avoiding further eye contact with Mr. Sullivan, and jammed my hands in my pockets. I awkwardly twisted the toes of my new Sperrys on the dirty cement as if I were squashing a bug. It was weird to see him so formal. Mr. Sullivan built dirt bikes from scratch, trademarked the underhand high-five, and slept on his hammock when the weather permitted. He certainly didn’t pass out towels and shake hands with a cheesy smile. He also sported fishing hats and paint-stained blue jeans, not a nametag and flashlight. The man I saw, the man whose tag identified himself as “Tom Sullivan,” was not the Mr. Sullivan I knew, but rather a foreigner inhabiting my idol’s body. I had heard the economy was bad, and it had obviously affected the Sullivans, as they had downgraded cars, but never could I have imagined that Mr. Sullivan would come to work for my father as an usher at Busch Stadium.

I sported an ironed Ralph Lauren T-shirt and seersucker shorts. I was dressed for a Sunday Mass, not a Cardinals game. We were sitting in the green seats, and I guess my dad worried that his clients would make assumptions about him and his business based off how his twelve-year-old son dressed at the ballpark. Mr. Sullivan, on the other hand, boasted a wrinkled grey collared shirt, black pants, and a black cap, all imprinted with the Tucker Security logo.

“Hey, man, thanks for working tonight.

Tucker really appreciates you being here,” my dad addressed Mr. Sullivan.

“Good evening, Mr. Allen.” Mr. Sullivan

robotically shook my father’s hand. “And no problem, sir. It’s an awesome night for a game. Perfect weather.”

“It is, isn’t it, Tom? How’s the work going?”

Mr. Sullivan enthusiastically replied, “It’s been chaotic tonight, with us playing Chicago and having to deal with all the obnoxious Cubs fans, but, gosh, it’s hard to beat working at the ballpark.”

Then he gazed at me. Normally, we would fist bump or high-five, as I would greet my close friends, but instead Mr. Sullivan stiffly reached out his arm, palm open and fingers stretched, as he did for my father.

The open hand begged for a slap, but I restrained myself and cautiously accepted his mechanical handshake.

“Hey, Mr. Sullivan.”

He released his grip, and I returned my hand to my pocket, habitually checking that my expensive ticket was still there.

I couldn’t speak. I simply didn’t know what to say. I wanted to punch his gut and jeer at his attire, but I knew that wasn’t appropriate. This wasn’t the time or place to mock my role model. I looked down, and there was silence. Sensing my discomfort, Mr. Sullivan hurriedly reached into his cardboard box and handed us our towels, wishing that we “have an excellent time in our seats.”

I sauntered a few steps ahead of my father. As I passed August Busch’s bust, I entered the large tinted doors that separated the lavish home plate box from the rest of the stadium. I slipped on the black market Ray-Ban sunglasses stolem from my cousin’s dresser. We were inside now, in the dimly lit dining area, but I opted to look like a fool for wearing sunglasses inside rather than to look like a fool for crying at a Cardinals game.

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s usual, I didn’t eat any of the fancy buffet food. Normally it was because I preferred to feast on the nachos and brat-

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wursts outside in our seats, but when we reached our seats, I declined any offer of food or beverage from our overly energetic waitress.

“All right, sweetie, but I’m here to serve you all night, so you just say the word and I’ll bring it,” she promised.

I slumped in my seat, with my shades pressed tightly against my nose and my shaved head ducking beneath the back of my leathery chair. I probably looked like a spoiled brat to most fans for pouting and behaving so poorly, but I couldn’t shake the image of Mr. Sullivan handing me that towel and speaking so formally. He looked like a caged tiger, suffering behind the bars of this job. He didn’t deserve this. A man of his stature deserved better.

After Scott Rolen grounded out to short to end the third inning, I pulled the paper menu out of the cup holder in front of me and looked to my dad.

“If I get nachos, will you share them with me?”

He said something very softly to himself about “getting David to Texas,” and with no recognition of me, remained hunched over on his forearms, typing on his Blackberry. I nudged his leg with mine and repeated the question.

“No, too messy, bud. Not with my nice shirt on. But I’ll have some popcorn if you want that.”

Still slumped in my chair, I let my head fall back and audibly exhaled, surely loud enough for him to hear.

“Well, I’m gonna get nachos,” I said. “I’ll just throw what I don’t eat under my seat.”

I

n the eighth inning, after Suppan struck out the side, my dad patted my thigh and stood up. “Let’s go. You have school tomorrow, and I don’t want to get stuck in this traffic.”

PHOTO BY

MAX PROSPERI

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I quickly tossed a final handful of Cracker Jacks into my mouth and proceeded to scoot along the seats toward the aisle, carefully stepping over the drinks and snacks that littered the concrete floor. Peanut shells crunched under my feet. We walked through the dining area and up the marble stairs that reconnected us with the rest of Busch Stadium.

My stomach twisted. We would probably have to walk past Mr. Sullivan once more to exit the stadium. Remaining within sight and earshot of my dad, I tried to blend in with the crowd. We passed the bust of Auggie Busch and neared Mr. Sullivan’s sector. No more than one hundred feet from the exit. We were so close, just a few more steps. I held my breath, crossed my fingers, and prayed to God. As we walked under the grand archway at the entrance to the stadium, I mistakenly looked left and glimpsed Mr. Sullivan, standing erect against one of the square, brick pillars with his chest pushed out and his hands folded behind his back. I looked away and kept walking.

And then we were walking on lively 7th Street headed back to the Missouri Athletic Club. I suppose Mr. Sullivan didn’t see me.

Near the Old Courthouse, the party scene ended. No more drummers, no screaming fans, and no bustling bars, just scattered streetlights and dark office build-

ings. I slowed my walk and matched my dad’s pace. He wasn’t on the phone anymore. I looked to him.

“Dad…” “What’s up?”

“Do you…”

I hesitated.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Do you, uh, think…do you think Mom

PHOTO BY

KEVIN THOMAS

will have leftovers for us when we get home?”

“Sure, I bet there’s still some salmon left. Heat that up. It’ll be good.”

We finally reached the MAC, and there to greet us, sitting in a tollbooth, was a Tucker guard with dark, heavy eyes, dressed in the traditional Tucker uniform.

“Hey, man, thanks for working tonight.

Tucker really appreciates you being here,” my dad addressed the employee.

We walked down to the lower level of the parking garage and climbed into my dad’s low-riding silver Lexus. By that time, I’m sure Mr. Sullivan was locking the barred gates to the stadium and preparing to clock out.

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Boolean Logic Jim Linhares George Boole, an early 19th century mathematician whose combination of algebraic equations with probability and rhetorical logic is credited with making modern digital computing possible, died of a severe cold when his wife, Mary Everest, attempted to treat him with baths of cold water.

George, George.

What were the chances?

You arranged the improbable but fruitful marriage of math and rhetoric now wedded to our motherboards, so that whatever is to become of us, struggling to balance the equations of passion and reason, self-possession and relinquishment, creation and destruction, it will be searched out on your terms.

But where did you ever find her?

We hope you weren’t impressed with her uncle who’d merely had the ultimate summit named for him.

After all, you’d seen it for yourself: Mastering optics as a child, Horatian odes the local schoolmaster swore you’d plagiarized by 12, you might have gone to the Church.

But you were always your own schoolmaster before anyone’s student.

Your differentials won you the Royal Medal, the Chair of Math at Queens in Cork.

And when you wrote An Investigation into the Laws of Thought on Which Are Founded the Mathematical Theories of Logic and Probability it seemed as if you were ready to pull the cloak of mystery itself from off the specimen of human subjectivity.

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Then you caught cold in the rain.

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It doesn’t bother us that you lacked the proverbial sense, but what were you thinking when she said, gently perhaps, that “remedy should resemble cause”?

It may have “sounded good,” like soup, made for a nice poem or even had a certain soft appeal, coming as it did from her lips and conjuring up for you a transcendental hope because, after all, this was your dear and subtle life and your dear and lucid mind.

But George.

“Yes, of course, that’s the thing.”

So, she put you to bed, your lungs filling up with fluids, consumed by fever and fear of drowning, and doused you again and again with buckets of water.

Perhaps this was a perfectly logical ending.

After all, you set aside the path to solace and security because the numbers consumed you.

And when your friend Duncan said: “Get to Cambridge, man!” you stayed with your school and your students to care for your mother and father in their later years.

And then, of course, she came into view and was so much there.

And even on the day in question you were a man on a mission, rain or no.

So who are we to shake our heads?

And what are we to do but point our browsers to “soul” + “science” and click away.

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Pickles, Etc. Evan Brende

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he jar slowly slid back to the other side of the counter.

The boy followed its movement with his eyes, his hands gripping the countertop. The jar glided to a halt at the edge of the white surface. It sat motionless for three seconds before smoothly inching back the way it had come. The boy, motionless, watched as the jar moved by. It crept over the glossy counter so unhurriedly that it took a good minute to reach the opposite edge, where it paused again for three seconds. The boy, as if in a trance, placed his finger in the path of the jar and waited for what seemed an eternity for it to approach. Six inches from his finger, the jar slowed to a stop. The boy stared. Ever so slowly, he lifted his finger from the counter and brought his hand back to his side. The jar slid forward.

The jar had glass tinted like a beer bottle’s and was about three inches wide and four inches tall. A thin green label circled it, and scribbled on the label in cursive were the words “Pickles, etc.” The words were written in thin red ink.

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s it moved back and forth across the counter, the boy thought back to its unexpected arrival in his kitchen. He had let himself in after school with the key that he kept for instances when his older brother was out. The jar had been sitting on the counter, perfectly still. It had not been there the day before. He read the label and tried to twist off the lid. It was stuck. As he leaned into the refrigerator to grab a soda, he heard a noise behind him: the soft sound of rolling glass. Turning around, he saw that

the noise must have come from the jar with the green label, which was sliding across the counter so slowly he almost didn’t notice. He deduced that the counter must not be quite flat, and he crossed over to catch the jar when it reached the edge. But a few inches away from his hand, it stopped. The boy’s eyebrows lowered. It wasn’t a natural stop. In his experience, things slowed down before stopping. The jar had just stopped.

He shook his head and shrugged. But then the jar began moving backward.

T

he boy heard the lock in the front door turning. It was his brother, home from wherever he went after work. As he trudged down the hallway, kicking off his shoes and dropping his coat along the way, the boy glanced down at the counter. The jar was now motionless in the center, its label turned to face the hallway. It was as if it had been waiting for his brother to arrive.

The boy asked where his brother had gotten the jar. Tersely, his brother told him he had bought it at a flea market for only a quarter. Then he told the boy to shut up and scram. The boy began to tell him about the jar’s recent activity, but his brother cursed him for his stupidity and snatched the jar from the table. He twisted the cap off easily and fished around inside with his thumb and forefinger, pulling out a small pickle. To the boy, it seemed a little gray. He warned his brother not to eat it, but the older boy ignored him and plopped the entire pickle on his tongue. He began chewing. He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer, then trudged up the hallway to the living room, kicking

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his shoes out of the way and stepping on his coat. He disappeared through the doorway and the boy heard the television.

The boy stared at the doorway of the living room for a few moments, then turned his attention back on the jar, which sat silent and frozen in the middle of the counter. The lid had been tossed off to one side, but the inside of the jar was hidden in shadow. He stepped towards it, his eyes riveted on the blackness within. As he came up above it, he saw that the inside of the jar was coated with a thick green residue. The pickles themselves floated in sewage-like sludge. Pickle jars weren’t supposed to be this way, the boy thought. He wondered how his brother hadn’t noticed.

Deciding to warn him of the vile nature of

the pickles, he ran up the hallway, the murmur of the television growing louder as he drew near. Stepping over his brother’s coat, he entered the dark living room.

As his eyes ran over his brother’s form on the couch, he noticed something was wrong. His brother’s face was pale in the light from the television, and the images on the screen flashed across his face, making it appear unnatural and eerie. Part of the pickle his brother had been eating was sliding down his chin, and more of it remained in his open mouth. Maybe he had tried to spit it out.

His eyes were open wide and his eyebrows seemed to be frozen in a position an inch higher than normal. The boy stifled a gasp.

Silent and frozen.

PHOTO BY

CHRIS WEINGART

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PHOTO BY

NICK BENTZ

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Flowers at Alcatraz Sam Fentress For Elliott Michener, who planted them

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Where do snapdragons come from?

Elliott Michener only needed a spade to solicit soil and sunlight from the cold concrete of the sparrow’s cage.

If Elliott Michener only needed a spade, who wished him there in the first place?

Was it my whisper against the breezy ear of hyssop and plumbagos that wished him there in the first place, seeing a patch of dirt that lacked a flower and a patch of flowers that needed only some dirt and a crack of sunlight?

Seeing a patch of dirt that lacked a flower, Michener broke concrete with contrast; He wished himself there ever since.

Where do snapdragons come from?

WATERCOLOR BY

JACK MACDONALD

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Summer Camp Ninja Mason Ryan

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he stars were out and the crisp summer night air felt wonderful on my face. The rest of me was a comfortable temperature as well. I had even showered for the first time all week just a half-hour earlier, taking advantage of the brand new shower houses with heated water. I lost my bet with my best friend and sleepy tentmate, Aaron, but it had been worth it—so what if he laughed at me for a couple minutes the next morning? Plus, mosquitoes wouldn’t add to the forty-two bites I had gotten over the past four days, thanks to a small but smoky campfire, my hiking boots, and all-black rain gear. Two of my friends, Wei-ming and Charles, and I were seated around the campfire in three of the many folding chairs the dads had brought along.

Lucky for us, the dads were holed up in a large tent just out of earshot, and the other scouts were fooling around in their tents or playing cards under a shelter.

I was relaxing and enjoying an epic “Yo Mama” battle between Wei-ming and Charles. My favorites came back to back, with Wei-ming first dishing out, “Yo Mama’s so ugly Hello Kitty said goodbye,” and then, “Yo Mama’s so fat she has more chins than a Chinese phonebook!” from Charles.

Just then, Carl, the awesome ninth-grader and the oldest scout there, came up to us from the shelter and asked for a volunteer.

He explained that William, a fifth grader, had left his fishing pole by the lake dock, and we were going to get it. He needed one of us to volunteer since the other guys were too young for the job. Breaking the buddy rule and getting caught meant terrible things. Be-

fore he even finished going over his plan— which was more or less that we would abstain from using flashlights and headlamps as much as possible and slip onto the dock—he chose me, though I was the only one not asking to tag along.

“Joey’s dressed for the job. He looks like a ninja and already has a headlamp on,” I pointed out, to no avail.

Yanking me out of my chair, Carl said to Wei-ming and Charles, “You two come up with more Yo Mama jokes. We’ll be back before you know it.”

C

arl and I had a daunting task ahead.

It was a few minutes past ten o’clock, and we would have to break some rules to complete the mission. I hated breaking rules. First off, scouts were supposed to stay at their campsites after ten o’clock unless accompanied by an adult. Second, to enter the lakefront, you had to sign in and be approved by a camp counselor. A first offense resulted in losing your right to enter the lakefront or the water for the rest of the week, and I was taking two water sports classes with three days of camp left. Carl claimed that we had little to worry about.

He said that the chances of being caught by anyone were minuscule—it was a cloudy night, there were no lights along the lakeside trails which we would be taking or by the dock, and the camp counselors would be hanging out in the mess hall on the other side of camp for at least another hour.

Still, I had my doubts. The dock was at the south end of the mile-long egg-shaped lake; the mess hall was a quarter mile up the east shore of the lake from the lakefront.

Our campsite was a half-mile from the lakefront and first in a column of nicely spacedout campsites off the lake’s west side, so it was unlikely that we would run into other scouts or parents. But the shacks the camp counselors called their summer homes were

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in a little cove between us and the lakefront.

“What if someone from the mess hall decides to leave earlier than normal?” I asked.

Carl swatted that scenario away. He claimed that no one would, and if they did, they would take the direct trail to their shacks which ran from their shack-site to the open area behind the lakefront. We would use the one that hugs the lake and goes straight to the lakefront but still had tree cover on both sides. We could get caught only while we were in the lakefront.

I figured by Carl’s reasoning that it would be a relatively easy mission, and said, “I’m ready if you are.”

“Oh baby, you bet I’m ready,” Carl eagerly replied, and he took off running into the darkness.

I raced after him down the fifty-foot-long path from our campsite to the lakeside trail. We avoided using our headlamps, though I set mine to dim and put it in my pocket. We were restricted to going just slow enough that we could react in time to rocks or roots on the ground.

I was in panic mode—heart thumping, eyes darting up and around every chance they got, head jerking at the sound of leaves rustling as a mouse pattered around.

We passed where the trail split off and led to the camp counselors’ shacks. We had entered dangerous territory.

Less than a quarter mile to go until we reached our destination. My anxiety dulled a bit as we began rounding the fi-

nal turn of the trail before the lakefront—a big, gradual bend left. Carl and I picked up our speed, ready to fly out of the trail and accomplish our mission. Carl slowed me down when we spotted a light around the turn maybe fifty feet away. We slunk into the trees on the lakeside of the trail and held our breaths. I smothered my headlamp with my hand. Whoever it was, they were whistling.

It turned out to just be a middle-aged dad, but we didn’t leave our hiding spots until the man was at least thirty yards away.

PHOTO BY

MASON RYAN

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When we began moving again, we stuck to the inside of the trail, brushing against tree branches, so that we could jump the waist-high fence that guarded the lakefront as soon as possible to minimize our visibility to a passerby. I let Carl hop the fence. I didn’t join him.

“You don’t need me to look for and grab a fishing pole. And if we’re caught, I don’t wanna be in there.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I could still use your help. You’ve got the better headlamp.”

I resisted. I wanted to be positioned to disappear down the trail or into the trees and head back to our campsite at the first sign of trouble.

“Your headlamp should be good enough.

I could just stay on the outside of the fence and keep watch for you. I’ll bang the fence if I see anyone coming and then I’m taking off.

I mean, the reason you wanted me to come was just to follow the buddy rule.”

“Yeah, yeah. We can do that. And if I really need a hand, I’ll just call for you. Nobody’s out here but us anyways. Cool?”

“Ummm, sure.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

Carl jogged off and I quietly speedwalked a couple hundred feet to the center of the lakefront. I passed the shoulder-high double-decker racks that held ten kayaks on top and eight canoes on the bottom, the three-walled wooden shack that opened up to the water for the life vests and oars, and stopped just past the gate to enter the beach next to the sign-in stand. I had a view of the trail opening that led to the mess hall on the far side of the lakefront and could see through a small gap in the trees further along the trail as it hugged the contours of the lake for a couple hundred yards before heading straight east. As long as they had their headlamps or flashlights on, I would spot anyone coming. My heart rate slowed and I stopped sweating.

I

let Carl do his thing and began to enjoy the dark blue night sky. I could see more stars than I could ever remember seeing. In fact, this was this first night of camp I could see them. I had been spending my evenings and nights by our campfire, in my tent, or playing cards. I made a note to myself to stay out even after the campfire was put out the next night. The moon reflected off the lake and cast a soft glow on the lakefront.

The white three-pronged dock looked— Oh, pickles! I realized the clouds were gone and I had no idea what was going on with Carl and the fishing pole. I did a 360-degree scan for lights and people. Then I scanned again. Nothing. For now. And I still didn’t know where Carl was. He was in jeans and a blood-red hoodie, so I expected to pick him out quickly. I hit the backlight button on my watch. We had only been at the lakefront for two minutes. I shouted for Carl as loudly as I could in my whispering voice.

No response. I furiously debated with myself for about ten seconds. I faced the lake, put my headlamp on my head, and turned it to its brightest setting, making the water sparkle.

“Hey! Turn it off !” said Carl, his torso leaning over the gate.

A jolt went through my body. Carl had somehow appeared to my left and slipped out of the shadows in between the shack and the fence. I fumbled about, pulling my headlamp over eyes before getting it to turn off and sliding it to dangle from my neck.

“I got the fishing pole, but I need your help for something real quick. Follow me,” Carl said.

Before I could ask any questions, Carl turned and began walking speedily away to the left. Whatever, I thought, and ran after Carl. The clouds were coming back, and once again I couldn’t make out Carl’s outline.

A soft plastic-on-metal scratching sound wafted over, putting the insects into the

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background for a few seconds before stopping. My steps got smaller, slower, and quieter. I was on my toes, feet sinking into the sand, and almost out from the shadow of the shack. About twenty feet away at a forty-five degree angle to my right, Carl had pulled off the front end of a kayak from the racks and had it resting on his lap.

“Grab the other end! We’re not going to put it in the lake, okay? This’ll be quick, then we can go.” Carl said with urgency.

Not worrying much anymore, I obliged.

“What’s it for, then?” I casually asked.

Carl was walking backwards towards the center of the beach.

“Don’t tell anyone else this. I know you won’t. I have kayaking after breakfast every day and the kayaking instructor has made me run back to the mess hall three days in a row to grab his hat that he keeps forgetting. Today, he didn’t actually forget the hat, but still sent me to go look for it as a joke. I told him I’d get him back somehow.”

I nodded a few times before remembering to say “Okay.”

It was dark again, and I was having a little fun—not the smile-inducing happy kind of fun, but the kind of fun you have during an intense competition when you’re winning. I was still antsy, though, and kept checking the trail openings even as we walked the kayak around.

“We’re going to lay this thing down perpendicular to the fence once we get even with the gate,” Carl instructed. “Then grab me a life vest and three short canoeing oars—they’re on the rack along the back wall shack. I’m just gonna spell out “HI!” with the oars and use the kayak and life vest for an exclamation point. Your oars will be for the top and bottom of the ‘I’ and the strut in the ‘H.’” As we bent over to softly set the tenfoot long kayak down, I could have sworn I saw a dim light through the opening of trail

near the mess hall, but when I checked again after the kayak was in position, it was gone. I was sweating again and didn’t just care about not getting caught—I wanted there to be no witnesses.

It was just dark enough that I had to turn on my headlamp—still dangling from my neck—in order to navigate my way to the shack. I slid a life jacket over my head, grabbed two oars with my right hand and one with my left, and ran back out. Carl was already done positioning three long kayak oars for the vertical parts of the ‘H’ and ‘I’ when I dumped off my three oars and wrestled the life vest off my head.

“Hey, I’m leaving!” I said, walking to the gate to grab the fishing pole as Carl finished off the ‘H.’ When I was about ten feet away from the fence, Carl quietly shouted, “Run!” before dashing away. I looked left in time to see a human outline and a dim light flicker by the eastern trail opening then stay off.

Dammit, dammit, dammit! I knew it! Go, go, go! I turned my headlamp off, picked up the fishing pole by its handle with my left hand, raised it above my head, took an explosive step forward, planted my right hand on top of the fence, and smoothly scaled it. I ran for all I was worth. The wind whistled through my ears and whipped around the hood of my jacket. I stuck the fishing pole straight out, felt the line swinging a little, and reeled it in tight. I didn’t think about placing my feet around roots and rocks. I was a sleek speed machine.

Before entering the trail, I saw Carl running along the beach. Well, at least only one of us can be caught, I thought, before realizing I would be the one—I was far easier to track than Carl and not as far along. I blasted into the trail, letting the forest and all of its dark, buzzing glory envelop me.

I tried to check my back after passing the fork in the trail. I was getting really tired.

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Twisting my head and shoulders to the right, I misstepped for the first time. I churned my legs, driving my knees up to catch myself from falling forwards. I didn’t face-plant, but I had veered to the right of the trail and put my hands out palms-down to regain my balance. But the fishing pole, gripped to death in my left hand, caught a plant and clotheslined me, slinging me onto my back.

It was quiet for a few seconds. My mind was painfully clear. My left shoulder blade was definitely bruised, and woodchips were in my hair. I just wanted to breathe. I rolled over and crawled towards the lakefront a few feet before turning around. I stayed on all fours for a moment, rose to my feet, then trudged back towards the campsite with my headlamp on. The forest had consumed the fishing pole. I felt like taking another shower.

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he dads must have been having a jolly old time because I wasn’t greeted or noticed by one. Instead, I entered the campsite with my feet dragging and shoulders slumped in defeat. The four fifth graders formerly playing cards were gone except for

William, who was sitting with Wei-Ming, Charles, and that son-of-a-mother named Carl by the campfire.

“Hey,” Carl said, smiling. “So you got back all right? Way to go! You are all right, though, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. The pole got ripped out of my hands by a tree or something and I decided to just keep going. Sorry about that, William.”

“Thanks. It was only like twenty bucks anyways,” William peeped out over the cackling of the campfire.

Standing up, Carl said, “Well, it was worth a shot. What do you say we try to find it in the morning, Joey?”

“Yeah, I guess we could try.”

“Cool. I’m turning in for the night. Later, guys.” Carl sauntered away. William followed him.

I headed for my tent after a few minutes of talking with Wei-Ming and Charles. All I could think of was what a story I would’ve had to tell if I had walked into camp with that fishing pole.

PHOTO BY

JACK BARBEY

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Lights Joe Slama

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M

y hand grasps the frigid brass door handle. A jolt rushes through my body as I attempt to throw the door open only to find it locked, completely immobile, and I brace myself against its plastic coating. Then I manage to pinpoint a door that’s open. I step from the biting chill of a fading evening overcast by drab clouds into the warm embrace of the lobby. I walk swiftly across the mats of the entryway, through a propped-open second set of double-doors, and past the vending machine and bulletin board boasting the latest show into the expanse of the main part of the room. It’s strewn with students lingering after school —playing checkers, jamming to headphones, napping on antiquated pews, leaning on the faded brass poles surrounding the school seal set in the floor, talking and laughing. My eyes scan the scene, searching for the sophomores I drive home to arrange our departure, not making eye contact with anyone else in the room. Not seeing them and not having received a “we goin?” text yet, and since it’s the end of another gruelingly-difficult-yet-all-the-same-enjoyable day full of paperback literature, lectures on sleep cycles and the calculation of various slopes, meetings with teachers, and work grant, I decide to take a few minutes of rest.

I take a sharp ninety-degree turn and face another set of double-doors. I grab one of the handles and hesitate before giving it a hard yank; it’s a hefty door, but years of experience have taught me to get through it with seemingly little effort.

I step inside the largely dark theater and suddenly become even more sharply

aware of my onerous backpack. I shake the weighty burden from my shoulders without a second thought, kicking it beneath one of the spindly black metal chairs that line the back wall. I turn towards the stairs and walk down their wide treads, kicking each leg out and stiffening it before lowering to the step below. I make another sharp ninety to the right and stride into the row of chairs, sitting a couple of seats from the aisle. I let out a long, whispery sigh as I lean back in the aged yet still plush cushions, and the back of my skull rests on the rough plastic at the top. I close my eyes and drag my hands down my face, ignoring my mom’s orders not to do this lest my acne worsen. My arms drop onto the armrests with a slight clunk of plastic as I drift just a little bit closer to the sleep I’ve been desperate for since third period.

However, it’s hard to nap so soon after another typical day that’s forced me to divide my attention span so many times, and after several seconds, my eyelids retreat, causing my gaze to fall on the stage. Unfiltered lights from the catwalk above pound the faded masonite of that sprawling platform while the rest of the room is lit only by a few semicircular lamps (each on one of their dimmer settings) lining the walls and a reading light that exposes the sound booth in the far upper corner of the room.

Struck by a wholly unexpected whim, I dart from my chair and down the aisle, feet quickly falling from one stair to the next with hands tucked in my coat pockets. I leap up the short stairway and land on the stage with the smack of shoe on wood. Back straight, taking the longest steps I can with-

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PHOTO BY

out running, I stride away from the proscenium. Numbers mark positions at the edge at even intervals, starting at 16 on both left and right and progressing downwards until the last digit on either side is 2. I stop where 0 would be, a spot marked instead by a lone C. I turn on my heels to face row upon row of empty chairs, which from here seem stacked one directly on top of another. I spread my arms, palms facing loosely upwards, crack a smile—being onstage is something I’ve never truly been afraid of—and bask in the nearblinding light.

Only a moment passes until I pause—I hesitate. For no clear reason, from the dark corners of the room, a frightening gust, a chill, seems to emanate, touching only me.

The smile fades as the sudden chill from the psychological anomaly drips down my spine.

JACK KIEHL

My back hunches with a bristle, snatching away my upbeat posture. My arms wrap around my torso and my hands close just below my shoulders.

Fingers trembling, my former confidence dented, confused, I walk timidly towards the edge. I clench two fists, leap down and, carried by the momentum of the fists, land on the second step of an inner staircase.

I bolt up the stairs and find my backpack, kneeling by it to check that my stuff hasn’t been smashed. I sling the pack back onto my shoulders and am once more greeted by its crushing weight that pulls me fully upright once more. I tug my wadded-up gloves from my pocket and softly snap them on, distracting myself with thoughts of my to-do’s over the next twenty-four hours as I wonder, curious as to why I came here in the first place.

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Zypher Jim Linhares

58 Zypher

Jim Linhares Mid-seventh summer colt come in from bolting circles in open air, lies sweating on a shag-hay floor, bowel clenched and full, a clear-eyed stare through muffled heat in darkened stall split by gauzy seams of afternoon: thumb-broad stripe above the sill, plumb-straight sear between drawn curtains plaid and still, when on a sudden breeze, like heaving flanks of flesh they swell,

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A Sweet Delusion Garret Fox The chemists say that milk is no solution but rather something called a colloid mixture.

“Just fatty globs in even distribution.

No bonding powers are found in this ‘elixir’.”

They say the chocolate added is no better.

The lands are logged and farmed for cocoa crops By sunburned workers forced to drown in sweat or To starve and watch as others fill the shops.

I hunch and sip the dirty, altered fluid while picturing the rank toxicity.

The bitter liquid tastes like rotted sewage And hope is crushed for all simplicity.

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I ponder as I drain the gross illusion: Has there ever been a pure solution?

PHOTO BY

PATRICK ENDERLE

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Antlers Rollin Jackson

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A

s his eyes opened a crack, he saw the windowpane filled with a star-flecked, indigo sky. He forced his eyes shut for another moment before opening them widely.

The warm paw left his shoulder, and the heavy boots trod out of his bedroom. He rolled over and pulled the chain for the lamp beside his bed, wincing when the light flooded his eyes. He sat up, bringing his face above the lampshade, and curled his toes into the thin carpet. The dresser drawer lay open before him when he stood; he slipped the turtleneck over his head and stepped into his overalls.

There was coffee and an egg sandwich awaiting him on the kitchen counter. The steam rose from the mouth of his thermos as he walked into the cold muck room. Boots.

Jacket, one arm then the other. Hat. Gloves.

He held the coffee close to his face as he stepped out into the cold November morning, the warm steam brushing his cheeks. His father’s back disappeared into the barn; the sheet metal rattled and echoed the grumbling diesel engine. Headlights flooded the driveway in the shadow of early morning, and overlapping cones of light marched across the gravel as the boy’s father drove toward him. The boy climbed up onto the frost-covered seat and just barely grabbed onto the safety handle before the vehicle lurched forward, throwing rocks and dust behind them.

The pair sat in silence as they rode along, occasionally reaching for their coffee, but otherwise motionless. The cold, dry air reddened their cheeks as they crossed fields and conquered hills. The sun still had yet to show.

“Where the hell have they gone off to, damnit!”

“Wait, Dad, didn’t we open the gate to the western pasture yesterday?”

“We closed it, though, didn’t we?”

“No.” “Well, shit, we are on the opposite side of the property. You’re probably right, but I’m gonna drive us through the patch of woods on this side before we check the west, just to be sure.”

The boy sipped his coffee as his father pressed on into the trees. The vehicle bounced as they went off rocks, over fallen branches, and through the eroded creek bed.

The woods were silent this time of year except for the crunching of frost-coated leaves and the clatter of diesel engines. The boy kept his eyes moving as they drove. They were nearing the edge of the woods in the morning twilight— “Dad! Slow down!” the boy said in a hushed voice. “Look down by that stump, next to the cedar tree.”

The father marveled at the beast before him. Not fifty yards away stood a broad, long-necked bull—fourteen-pointed, he counted. Small icicles hung from the thick fur of the beast’s chest. At that moment their eyes met and both of their hearts fell silent.

A heavy puff of vapor spewed from its gleaming nose before it reared up, turned around and bounded off toward the northeast, its white posterior fading into the trees.

“Son, that’s your elk if you want him.”

The boy stared forward in shock. He had given up asking his father to let him hunt. Since his uncle’s death, the boy’s father had locked all his guns away. His father never would tell him the story of that fatal trip; his mother said the guilt was too

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much. “You see, we can’t make your father try to remember, for his own sanity. That day with your uncle, it changed him. It wasn’t his fault, and I think he knows that, but he has always questioned it. Your uncle didn’t tell him he was moving, and he took off his vest.

He should never have been in your father’s range. But your father blames himself sometimes and he would if it happened again. He just doesn’t want to take the risk. He can’t afford to lose you, too.”

But something changed today. He looked at his father who emptily stared ahead. The boy watched as water from his breath condensed on his beard. “A bull like that is a once-in-a-lifetime shot. I’d be doing you a disservice if I deprived you of that.”

“They were fine,” the father said. “Just living out yet another exciting day standing around eating grass. Knucklehead over here forgot to remind me that we moved them, though, so we drove all the way across the property and back for nothing. Well, not for nothing.”

“What? Did something happen?” She looked at them both worriedly.

“You can tell your mother.”

“We saw an elk. Big one,” the boy said.

“And I’m gonna teach him to hunt.”

“Oh, honey—” “The boy’s sixteen. It’s time. I need to move on, and now’s as good a time as ever with that beast walking around out there.

Let’s eat some lunch.”

T

A

he lock clicked as the boy turned the key and pulled it off the chain. The hinges creaked as he walked the rounded path with the gate back to the post and clicked the lock back into place.

“Did you wrap the chain around twice?”

“Yup,” he said as he plopped back into his seat.

“You sure? That seemed a little fast.”

“I’m sure. And I left at least four links hanging on either side so it’ll be easy to open next time. Don’t worry, I didn’t rush it; I’m just gettin’ good at it.”

The two laughed as they started driving off, but the rest of the way they sat in silence.

The early morning sun fought to warm their faces, but the rushing of the dry wind as they drove overpowered it. They parked at the house with reddened cheeks and noses.

The warm air was refreshing against their worn faces, and the fresh pot of coffee warmed their mugs, hands and bellies. The smell of frying potatoes and onions steamed up the kitchen window.

“Good morning, boys! How were the cattle?”

few days later the boy and his father were cutting wood in the yard when the father asked the boy what he knew about hunting, knowing very well his son’s complete ignorance. The boy told him he knew how to fire a gun, but that’s all he had. For the next few days their conversations wandered from gun safety to conservation laws to camouflage tactics; by the end of the week the boy could quickly answer almost every of his father’s questions without hesitation. The following Saturday he applied for a license through the Wyoming Game and Fish Department.

W

hen the new year rolled around, the boy was eager to get a tag, yet his father had one final test for him. The boy’s father told the boy he couldn’t get tags until he was able to hit five out of ten shots on the bullseye from fifty yards. “‘Ain’t no point in wasting all that time and bullets if you ain’t gonna hit yer target.’

That’s what my father told me, and now I’m tellin’ you.”

“So, five out of ten?”

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“Yup, and the others had better not be too far off.”

Swallowing, the boy lowered himself onto one knee. He closed his eyes, focused, slowed his breathing. His father, standing next to him, raised the binoculars to his face.

The boy rested the sight on his left eye and centered on the bullseye. Adjust for the distance—missed right, wind from the west. Set back up, adjust for distance, left to compensate for the wind—still a tad right. Set back up, adjust for distance, compensate a little more—one. Two. Miss. Three. Miss. Miss.

Got to make these next two—four. Last one, pressure is on—quit shaking—five. He stood up as his father let his binoculars hang from his neck. He simply shook his hand. “Get in the truck.”

“Son, you know when elk season is?”

“Mid-October to early November.”

“Right, and it’s now only the second week of January.”

“I know.” The boy stared emptily out the window at the snow banks lining the road.

“So you had better be sure that you wanna hunt that elk before we buy this tag.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, then you had better make sure you keep that beast on the property until the season.”

After buying the tag, the pair purchased ten Trophy Rocks and a tree-mounted camera. On their way back home, they argued about where to place the mineral rocks. The boy questioned what to do about the cattle.

And he listened to his father. When they arrived home, they took the truck straight to the property and distributed the Trophy Rocks to the agreed-upon locations, all the while hoping to see the beast.

I

t was September. The family had gathered at the boy’s grandmother’s house for his birthday. He and his cousin were born a year and three days apart, so they often

celebrated together. His grandmother had prepared her family-famous brisket, and the boy’s mother made mashed potatoes. The boy’s aunt brought a cake for the two boys.

Before they had entered the house, the boy’s father had warned him to say no word about the elk. “If your aunt or grandmother figure out I’m teaching you to hunt, they’ll light a fire under both our asses. And be especially careful around your cousin. Just because I’m trying to move on doesn’t mean they’re ready to. They may never get past it: loss is a hard thing, and your grandmother has already lost her husband and a son.”

After dinner, everyone gathered for gift sharing for the boys. From his cousin, the boy received a book his cousin had recently enjoyed. The boy gave his cousin the new video game he had been wanting. The grandmother gave the boy’s cousin a nice fleece and a matching hat and gloves. The boy got a Clay Matthews jersey and a Packers hat and gloves. The boy also received Packers pajamas from his aunt. The boy’s parents claimed to have forgotten his gift at home; his father shot him a wink. Eager to leave, the boy thanked his family and grabbed his coat. His father told everyone the boy had homework to finish, so they needed to get home.

When they got home, his father took him to the basement. The two spent the night cleaning the guns and reviewing the safety features on each. They went through all of the pictures their camera had taken the past few months and sorted them by location and individual. Around midnight, the boy went to his room intending to sleep, but found on his bed any young sportsman’s dream: warm base layers, camouflage outerwear, gloves, a hat, scent blocker, face paint.

His father appeared in the doorway, “Will that work all right?”

“Make sure it all fits,” his mother chimed in. “Otherwise I can take it back tomorrow and exchange it for the right sizes.”

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The boy walked up and wrapped his arms around his parents. “I love you guys. Thanks.”

I

t was another cold morning in late October. His father woke him up with a shake of the shoulder. He went to the bathroom and dressed himself in all the layers.

He used his mother’s vanity to put on his face paint. In the kitchen, a sandwich and a thermos awaited him. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked out the door.

His father helped him spray on scent block and ran through his checklist with the boy.

The sun still hadn’t risen when he set off across the property, but it was light enough for him to see where he placed his feet. The spot he had decided to set up was on the northeast corner of the property, so he had planned his approach from the southwest in accordance with the southeastern heading winds.

The sun had come up already and there was still no sign of any life other than an occasional bird calling in the distance. By his guess it was probably eight in the morning already. All he could do was watch and wait.

He had gone to bed early the night before but still felt an urge to lean back, wrap his arms up, and fall asleep. “No,” he told himself, “you can’t. Think of that bull you saw last year. He grew an even bigger set this year.”

He woke up to the sound of a stick crunching somewhere nearby. He almost let go of his rifle as he jumped awake. He surveyed the woods around him, but couldn’t seem to find the source of the noise. Then another crunch came from behind him.

Carefully, he craned his neck around the tree to see a small set of antlers with its head turned away from him. It wasn’t the one he had been waiting for, but it was an elk all the same. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, thumping up against his sternum. He

closed his eyes, praying for the beast to come around that tree. He softened his breath, tried not to move. His eyes scrunched shut as he mapped out the shot in his head. It would come around the tree, but he wouldn’t shoot right away. No, he’d let the young elk get a little further away. It only seemed fair.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw a head poking around the tree. His left hand tightened around the barrel, and his right thumb slipped up to click the safety off.

The elk took stepped forward until its rear was easily in sight. A few steps later the boy raised the sight to his eye. As he lined up the shot for the kill, his hands started shaking.

No amount of self-assurance or focus could help him steady his barrel. All he could do was hold the rifle and wait for the crosshairs to sweep over the spot.

The pop shattered the silence of the woods as the boy pulled the gun away from

PHOTO BY

PATRICK ENDERLE

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his face. He watched the tail bounce off through the trees. Tears. Tears ran down his face as he descended from his perch. He emerged from the body of trees with the rifle still in his hands. How did he miss? Why did his hands start shaking? The shot replayed in his mind as he moped along through the pastures. He stared emptily at the ground as he moved, his arms rigid, hands still gripping the gun. As he came over the crest of yet another terrace, he saw his elk. The beast stared back at him as he moved nearer. they were barely twenty yards apart when it finally bounded off into the woodland. “I will get you,” he said. “I promise I’ll get you.”

H

e marched back up to the house with the rifle slung over his shoulder. His mother was waiting at the back door. “You had better take those smelly clothes off before you come in.”

“Mom, can I at least—” She pinched her nose. “Off, now.”

“Where do I leave my clothes?”

“Just throw them in the back of your fa-

ther’s truck.”

The boy dashed naked from the truck into the muck room where his mother had a clean pair of boxers for him. Passing through the kitchen, he grabbed the Tostitos off the counter and the salsa out of the fridge. He slumped into the living room couch next to his father, holding his food high with outstretched arms.

“What do you have there?”

“Chips and salsa. Want some?”

“I might have to try a bite. You made it back just in time. Packers game starts in just a few. Broncos already won.” Silence.

“So I heard a shot out there. What was that about?”

“I missed. I saw a young antlered but I missed.”

“How far away was he?”

“Maybe fifteen yards. If that. I got the shakes.”

“Well—” “No, I’m going out tomorrow. And I won’t miss. I saw him.”

PHOTO BY

PAT ENDERLE

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PHOTO BY

KEVIN THOMAS

Home Andrew Bub

C

aroline sat with her head in the red drapes, her breath fogging up the cold window. She looked down at her phone. 2:47 AM. He should’ve been home over an hour ago. As the picture of daddy and his little girl faded to a black on her phone’s lockscreen, she laid her tired head in her arms on the chipped windowsill.

As she rested her head, old memories floated into her brain. Warm summers of playing catch with him in the backyard. Cold winters of sledding, building snowmen, and drinking hot chocolate. Growing up from daddy’s little baby to his big girl.

Then he got the call. He never got to see her graduate eighth grade. Or scare her first boyfriend before their first date at the movies. Or offer his strong shoulders when that boy broke her heart. She had only seen him for a few weeks at a time, maybe two or three times a year. She worried year-round that he’d never come back home. That he’d

never be back for one of those few weeks that never lasted long enough.

Caroline thought back to ten months ago, when he had surprised her at her school’s Valentine’s Day dance. The principal asked her to work the coat rack that night, wanting to include Caroline with the rest of the girls even though her dad couldn’t be there for the special night. She remembered how the tears streamed down her smiling face when she was announced Sweetheart of the Dance and her father stood up on the stage in his uniform, holding a bouquet of roses.

She recalled the warmth and strength of his hug, and the lonely despair when he had to let go again. That was ten months ago. Ten months, she thought.

S

he woke up the next morning, still at the window. She looked out for him, but only saw her mom, standing beneath their flag, hanging limply in the still air.

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Too Common for the App Shayn Jackson

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Frustration.

The reaction before your mental fragmentation; the precursor to your frontal lobic degeneration.

The lip purser, stomach churner, that suspends your future, like a suspiciously sown suture, strangling sincere stories with “show don’t tell” Unique?

Delete those lines of “my name is Student 1 and I grew up by Nobody-gives-a-shit Creek,” We don’t care about the newts you loved to seek.

Or the journeys that turned you into the man you wanted to be.

Essays like these put us quickly to sleep.

Because they are common.

Not applicable, for us Ivy men.

Not admissible, for the schools that you want to get in.

Only dismissible, because they were written by regular simpletons, that use too many I’s across, and force our eyes to cross.

Write about an experience that changed how you think.

Write in a way that makes you shrink, all of you into an easy meal that we can swallow in one comfortable drink.

Write about what you love. Write about things you hate.

But please come harder than “This the story of my first date” We want to hear about your dad’s death, or how you overcame low income in your family, but please write it in a way that perfectly words emotion and is written with the utmost mastery.

If you are just average and can’t come up with any sappy crap, then enjoy your local community school because you are too common for our Common App.

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PHOTO BY

JACK BARBEY

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Eyes in the Corn Mason Kruse

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E

yes in the corn. Those eyes belong to me, seeking a spot of black within the roiling grey clouds. As the growing storm spits cold white flecks of ice at my exposed face, I turn to my companions. I am angered by the chill rolling through my body, the numbness seeping into my fingers. However, I try to turn my attention, looking out upon the windswept lake which was just a few months ago acres of tall corn but whose remaining stubble has been thoroughly drowned in an effort to lure our prey. The calls upon my chest dangle as I shift about in my camo-clad waders in a vain effort to keep my body temperature up. My only disguise on this island of blowing stalks is the bulky, wet clothing which envelops my body but brings me no warmth.

As Mother Nature once again lashes out with her icy claws, simultaneously stinging and numbing my exposed face while reddening my cheeks, I spot a movement out of the corner of my left eye. Wings flit high above. Conversation ceases as all eyes turn skyward. Stony expression set, my eyes lock like a bombardier zeroing in on his target. A lone “quack” escapes from the four pintails high above before they descend slightly, surveying the ocean of drowned corn stretched before me. As they are slowly coaxed into the “spread,” their white-tipped feathers flutter, tipping along to the beat of the sweet song echoing across the whitecaps. The clucks and quacks emitted by my father’s Rich-N-

Tone “daisy cutter” smack my left ear while the air becomes tinged with the smell of iron. Electricity seems to be running through my veins, and the very air once whipping my cheeks becomes as dense as water, bringing a fluidity and slowness to the moment not before realized. All becomes silent as the final approach begins.

The world no longer turns at its normal pace. Slowing down only for me, time stands stretched, ready at any moment to snap from its molasses-like flow back to its rapid former pace. After the sacred words are uttered, all is fair game. However, I alone rise up when the call of “Get ’em boys” passes from my father’s lips. Joey and Paul have been held back so that I alone can get the first crack.

In this state of adrenaline-fueled calm, I pick my target out of the group, zero in, and pull the trigger. I release from the daily cycle of home, school, practice, home—a cycle that has been on repeat for weeks—and I escape into the ecstasy of one moment, which erases the stress from my twelve year-old mind.

I feel neither the trigger’s physical resistance nor shock as the 1187 youth model twentygauge spits fire from its gaping maw. The bird, in its final act of graceful existence, hits the water like a torpedo. After I realize what has just happened, I give a whoop, and high fives are shared all around. Heart pounding, walking for what seems like a mile, I find my prize, a heap of beautiful brown and white feathers, and hold it up for all of Mother Nature and my comrades to see. Although I stand alone out in the middle of a duck lake in calf-deep, freezing water, I feel as though I am a victorious Caesar, a vir triumphalis, riding through the streets of Rome with no slave in my chariot to remind me that I am not a god.

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Portrait of the Laborer Jim Linhares Cezanne coming home after a day of selling, Paintings in a wheel barrow, Cursing at passersby, Thinking of Zola’s letter: I hope my painters novel won’t offend.

Peasant parents need not fix a life to canvas.

Copies of Titian on top, his own work at the bottom.

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And with them at the bottom, A bowl of green apples: Iridescent, muted and mashed to flatness.

Apples, or merely blotches of paint on a board.

An urchin mockingly asks him what they are.

“You decide,” he mutters under his breath.

PHOTO BY

LI RUIYI

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The Artist Jordan Sosa

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I

pulled onto Riverview Boulevard with the river to my right. After a mile, Jim and I let out a sudden “whoa” as giant pillars came into view on the left side of the road ahead.

“Daniel, the road!” Harry yelled in my ear.

“Shit!” I veered my blue Taurus back into my lane as a car zoomed by. “My bad.”

“Idiot.” We all laughed. “Pull into this lot across the street from it by the river.” I parked.

“Leave your wallets in my car in case we get caught,” I suggested, and they hid them under the seats. I knew, however, that Jim kept his Swiss army knife with him, and Harry his lighter. Harry and Jim had a physical dominance since they stood six inches higher at 6’4” with bigger arms than me. Harry’s belly was a bit chubby, but Jim’s size came from more muscular arms and a chest that stuck out just enough to be noticeable. They were neighbors and went to the same kindergarten, then both transferred to my school, Sacred Heart, in fifth grade.

We got out of the car. I made sure I locked it. The Mississippi River flowed forty yards in front of us. We turned around to see the corner of the immense wasteland across Riverview Boulevard. A fresh spring breeze of a Saturday afternoon blew against our faces.

The pillars with several bright-colored tops connected to make a giant fence. The tall grass shooting out from behind the pillars reminded me of a jungle. “Let’s do this,” I said.

We crossed the empty Riverview Boulevard and walked up Scranton Avenue, a

curved, twenty-five mile-per-hour road that ran along the north side of the wasteland.

Jim’s shoulders shifted up and down with his steps, while Harry’s rotated in coordination.

Walking along the perimeter of the old cement factory, tall bushes of weeds climbed over the fence. They bent toward us as if to shake our hands. A tall gate blocked the dirtroad entrance. Signs hanging on the fencewarned, “This is private property,” “Do not trespass,” and “You are on camera.”

“You guys think they can see us?” Jim’s raspy voice muttered as he lowered his head.

“Those cameras don’t record, they’re only real-time. And they wouldn’t pay someone to watch this place twenty-four/seven,” assured Harry.

We kept walking. Our footsteps echoed.

I looked behind us every five seconds while Jim’s and Harry’s eyes wandered everywhere.

Harry tried to convince us and himself we were safe. “You don’t have to look around so much, dude. We’re not doing anything illegal right now, and no one would jump us out of nowhere.”

Jim and I let out laughs to calm ourselves. This wasn’t our first time breaking in to spray-paint something, but it was our first time going somewhere in a neighborhood rougher than our own.

Several holes dotted the fence as we walked around the property, but we needed a hole big enough to quickly hop through in a location where we wouldn’t be in the open.

Around a curved turn on the street, a tree leaned by the side of one of the buildings in the property. The tree covered a portion of the fence from being seen up the street.

Luckily, the fence bent inward away from its top bar. “Let’s get movin’,” Jim said. He kicked the fence in, going first. I lobbed him my backpack of spray-paints. The bottles clinked in the bag as the fence rattled from our hopping over it.

“Hell yeah, we’re in,” I whispered.

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Whenever we did something we shouldn’t, it felt proper to whisper to make the adventure seem more dangerous.

We leaned our heads down to fit through a passageway under a building where the earth below it sloped down before the building ended. Getting out into the open space, we hiked up a hill, holding on to firm grass along the building.

At the top of the hill, an entirely new landscape opened up to us.

We looked south from the top of the north section. To the right stood a castle the size of a small, suburban home. The walls consisted of large, rectangular, tan-brown stones that became gray, triangular pickets at the top. It had a bridge that connected to a southern tower, which had a second bridge.

This one was wide enough for two people.

It slanted up to the top of a silo to the west.

The bridges formed a slanted triangle missing one side.

The northeast building nearest us perched on top of our hill and opened up on the other side as if half of it were waiting to be built. The floors led right off an edge to the outside where a wall would be. The floor adjacent to us leveled off at about sixty feet above the bottom floor, which sunk down inside the building into the ground. No wall separated the inside from the mound we stood on. From there, we looked outside again toward several small, one-story buildings, each long enough to be a home but low enough to be a shed.

In the center, south of us, white silos peered from behind the tall mounds across the clearing. Green grass and bushes of weeds scattered across the mounds. If allergies hadn’t stuffed up my nose, I probably would have smelled dirt, grass, and new pavement.

I imagine Jim and Harry were as awestruck as I was, but we kept our faces straight.

“Let’s check out this building right here,” Jim said, breaking the silence and re-

turning to our desire for vandalism.

“Guys, I have to be able to say I’ve pissed off this,” I laughed as I pulled down my zipper, standing in front of the drop. “Gotta claim the territory.”

As I pulled out my marker, I looked down the long drop that could easily end a life with its cold, hard, concrete floor. A chilling breeze invaded from the drop. You wouldn’t even see it unless you crept up to it like we did; it was that sudden.

“Daniel, what the hell? Hurry up!” Jim’s voice arrived as an echo off a distant wall because he wouldn’t face me.

I couldn’t make anything come out.

“Forget it, I’ll do it later.”

W

e marched down the less steep half of the hill leading to the inside of the building. We climbed down the metal ladder leaning against a smaller drop from this floor. Then tall walls surrounded us.

“Let’s do this,” I said, opening my backpack of spray cans. We each took one, shook it up, making a dink with each shake, and began our impositions.

Not even five minutes later, several deformed penises and a “FUCK OFF” in bubble letters wide as Harry’s arm-span and tall as me covered a small portion of what seemed like the world’s biggest basement.

All of us stood back and breathed in.

“Good work, boys,” I saluted.

Suddenly like a ghost, an unfamiliar voice lectured like a college professor to his students, “There’s something beautiful about pure expression, but it lacks wit.”

All of our eyes widened instantly. My heart stopped, then accelerated to a very high rate.

Before any of our legs could respond, he reassured, “Don’t worry, I’m not here to get you in trouble.” We each slowly turned around. The man stood high and comfortable with much energy for someone prob-

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ably in his mid-fifties. His hairline receded half-way, but the rest of his gray hair waved forward like the wind coming at me.

“How do we know that?” demanded Harry with fierce eyes and slanting eyebrows.

“Why wouldn’t you rat us out?” I wondered in an almost whisper. Jim’s and Harry’s fists clenched.

“You’re either here for the same reason I am, or you’re angry with me. If you’re not angry with me, it’s nice to meet you guys; I’m Bob Cassilly.”

“Why are you here?” challenged Jim with a hint of fear in his voice. However, he stood up straight with his arms out. His face formed like Harry’s, frowned slightly. I could understand why people confused them as brothers. Their faces held the same defiant looks. Their black, ruffled hair flowed over their foreheads.

“Art. I’m bored. It’s something to do.

I’m alive. I want purpose. I work here during the week, then on the weekend I like to walk around and get to know the place as it grows.

Ya know, I like to watch my plants grow. And this place is my plant. Can I ask why you’re here?” Bob asked without accusation.

“We’re bored,” I scrunched up my face.

“What are you even doing with this place?”

“The same thing you did to that wall; I’m putting meaning into a simple thing. I want to make something risky and fun for people to enjoy,” he explained, looking all of us in the eye.

“Wait, aren’t you the dude who made the City Museum?” Jim asked, lowering his shoulders, unclenching his fists and resting his eyebrows. Harry still stared outside.

The cement floors had smudges of dirt like a cheetah’s spots.

“That’s my creation. Lately I’ve been doing large-scale art—certain structures built around each other, designing my own land.

And I want to do something like that outside, so it can be even bigger. I call this Cement

Land.” He turned his back to us to look outside. Then he breathed in and turned back to us. “Also, this neighborhood would get more people driving through, so more customers for local businesses. And the value of their homes would increase. Everyone wins.”

“That’s kick ass!” I jumped in.

“I can show you around if you want. I haven’t walked around much today.”

Finally, Harry’s eyes opened up more and desired Bob’s eyes. I could tell he was trying to contain a smile—even as Jim and I let our smiles show.

“Yeah, that sounds awesome!” my smile hung open.

“All right, just promise me you won’t write on my art. You already messed up this wall.”

“Yes, sir,” we nodded, looking at our feet.

B

ob took us through the area. He showed us the ladders inside the silos and told us how he wanted to buy new, more colorful ones. We explored the castle, which had no roof. Six stairs composed of rocks led into a passageway made by the stones outside the castle where no light came through. Bob warned us of a turn that I almost bumped into. After the turn, we saw the light at the end.

We walked outside around the castle, hiking south of it where the land slanted more steeply. A steady river from the rain ran between the pillars holding up the castle and the adjacent tower. On top of the tower, a circle of stairs climbed through a hole in the roof. It suddenly broke off into a stairway toward the transcendent, unlimited sky.

Finally, as we walked to the front gate, I looked at Bob saying, “Hey, thanks again for all this. This place is incredible; I wish I could do something like this. I’ll be sure to check it out when it’s finished.”

Bob looked at me smiling widely, “Maybe you will do something even better! You

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never know. You guys are welcome back anytime! I’m glad you got to really understand the place.”

“Yeah, thanks again,” Jim added.

“Yeah, and sorry about the spray-paint,” Harry added.

“Don’t worry about it! I remember the weird shit I did.” Bob laughed. He unchained the fence and cracked it open for us. He laughed as he looked at the warning signs posted by the old factory owners. “Now be safe!” he winked.

We walked quickly down the curved street to the river as we exclaimed to each other our favorite parts of that experience.

S

chool ended early on Friday, and Harry texted me, “Cement Land?”

No questions asked. “I’m down. I’ll come get you and Jim.” I drove to their neighborhood filled with Halloween decorations. I pulled up to Harry’s short driveway in front of his house similarly built like the rest on the road. I honked. They ran out; Jim beat Harry to shotgun.

“Dammit, Jim.” Harry heaved himself into the back.

“Sucks, dude.” Jim smiled.

I

parked in the same lot across the street.

Getting out of the car, the first frozen air of the year stung our cheeks. “I wonder how much Bob’s done to the place.” I looked at the pillars. It had been about half a year.

This time we had no bag of spray-paint.

We walked across Riverview Boulevard: fewer cars than usual. At the beginning of the smaller, curved road, the brown-gray, dead grass lay along both sides of the fence.

As we passed the gate with its signs, the weeds hung over the fence, withered out and dead. We walked quickly, more because of our excitement than our paranoia from last time. We didn’t look inside so the majesty could strike us all at once. This time, the sky

was shaded a darker gray with clouds because it was late afternoon in fall instead of noon in spring like last time.

We reached the curve with the tree, the only tree with leaves still on its branches— withered leaves, but still leaves. I hopped through the fence.

“I swear, this shit shrunk since last time.” Harry slowly maneuvered through as I chuckled. Jim followed, a bit quicker but still struggling.

The dirt felt harder. After going under the building, we hiked up the hill. Since the grass was too dead to hold us, we had to dig our shoes and fingers into the dirt. “Damn hills. Like we don’t do ’em enough in football,” Jim heaved.

“Damn right!” Harry proclaimed.

“Yeah, football! Grrr!” I joked.

“Ha!” they retorted.

At the top of the hill, we took a breath with our hands on our knees. “Holy shit,” Harry whispered.

The mounds on the opposite side of the clearing had dead bushes all along it. The bridges connecting the towers and silo had rusted. The building with the drop looked like it lost its other half rather than unfinished. The place changed from a place of hopeful art to a place of heavy holiness. Random objects such as a pipe, a shovel, trash bags, and beer cans spread through the landscape every few yards. In front of us on the slope of the hill, a bulldozer lay sideways. A beat up, dirt-covered, rusty truck rested next to it. A miniature crane hung in the bed.

“Whoa.” Jim ended the silence like an amen to a reverent prayer.

“What do you think happened?” I asked as we stepped down to the truck. I climbed into the driver side and sat behind the steering wheel. Jim yanked at the right door’s handle, but it didn’t open.

“He’s probably working on getting this bulldozer back up,” Harry pointed out.

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An old, dusty CD player sat on its front in shotgun. I tried to turn it on, but the batteries must have been dead. I hopped down from the truck.

“Daniel, you have shit all over your hands,” Harry pointed at them.

I held them up to my eyes. My palms had black smudges, but my fingers looked relatively clean. “Oh well,” I shrugged. “Let’s check out the building.”

I walked over to the drop I had tried to piss off of. I looked down, thankful I hadn’t fallen off before. I looked up and noticed the walls covered in writing. “What the hell!?” I yelled in angry disbelief that echoed through the hills and building.

“What!?” Jim and Harry rushed over, unafraid of the drop. They saw it too, and their eyes widened.

We ran to the ladder inside that led us to the hard bottom floor. Graffiti of gangs, names, and cuss words covered the tall walls.

“NorthSideWolves” with a sloppily drawn purple outline of a wolf below it; “Master A.H.” in a grossly dark green in sideways cursive; “F U C K T H E W O R L D” largely in light blue, bleeding down at the edge of the letters. I couldn’t read the rest of it because of how squished and squiggled it was.

“Those assholes!” Harry threw his arms, yelling, echoing. Jim rubbed his eyes. I breathed heavily, staring straight at our scribbles hiding our “FUCK OFF” and genitalia.

“How long do you think it’s been since he’s been here?” Jim softly asked.

“I don’t know, but we should kick some ass,” Harry grunted.

“There’s no way we could find who did this,” I reasoned. “Let’s see if Bob’s here cleaning up, and we can help.”

We trudged through rubble on the main floor, mostly fallen walls from the building’s original infrastructure. As we walked through where a wall should be, a man ordered “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!”

I turned my head and saw a lanky police officer with his hands on his side, ready to grab his gun. He stood up straight, taller than me but shorter than Harry and Jim. He had a black crew cut, a big nose, and a dull silver badge it on his chest. “Shit,” I muttered. We put our hands halfway up.

“Slowly turn around!” he demanded.

“What are you doing?” Harry sneered once we faced the cop.

“What are you doing!? This is private property! You think you can just break into somewhere and goof around, yelling, and no one will hear you?” he yelled, looking at our faces but not in our eyes. Another cop with a similar body type walked stiffly from behind the first. “You have the right to remain silent…” the two cops recited as they approached us.

“We’re Bob’s friends! What the hell!?”

Jim retorted, tossing his head away.

“That dude with the crazy ideas? He died last month when his bulldozer flipped.

Now nobody’s working here. He died right there, on that hill,” the first cop nodded towards the mound right behind us by that unexpected ledge.

“What the hell!?” Harry writhed with his arms behind him.

“His name’s Bob Cassilly, you asshole!”

Jim cocked his head back and forward at the officer like he was about to spit at him.

I fell silent. My eyes died and fell onto the dirt in front of my shoes. My throat swelled up and I couldn’t breathe, but at the same time I had to cough out my lungs. After a few seconds, I remembered what was happening around me. The cops pushed us forward. I turned to see the one who found us.

I glared into his eyes for the first time. They looked empty and dull, without a spark. I glanced down to his gray nametag: OFFICER TOTH. They marched us to down to the gate, Toth behind Jim and me, the other officer

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behind Harry. “You punks are in deep shit,” Toth yelled pushing on our backs. Our hard steps made loud thuds against the dirt. “No concern for safety, property rights, authority.

Damn delinquents.”

My eyelids slumped down halfway, and our eyes darted forward, ignoring everything he said. It didn’t matter what we said; we couldn’t make the situation better.

Finally, they opened the gate, shaking as it pulled inward. Toth marched me towards his St. Louis City police car and threw me inside. Other city cop cars showed up with their lights on but no sirens. They tossed Jim and Harry into separate cars too. They slammed the doors not a second after. The inside felt just as cold as the outside but had no smell of crunched leaves. The aroma of black coffee in the console replaced the smells of fall. I lifted my upper body and swung my legs to the ground with my hands cuffed behind me.

Metal bars constricted the view through the windows to my left and right.

Toth rigidly and orderly sat in the driver seat, facing forward. “Social Security number, address, name,” Toth flatly requested as he pulled out a pocketsize notepad.

I answered him quickly. He ordered, “Repeat.”

I did with more impatience in my voice.

He jotted it down, and then shifted out of the car. The sun hid behind a cloud touching the horizon, so I couldn’t see it set.

After five minutes of our imprisonment, I heard a loud, irritated voice, “What’s goin’ on here!?” Between the bars, I saw a tall man in blue jeans and a T-shirt march down to the cars from where we came. He had short, gray hair and gray-blue eyes with a dot of light in them.

“Sir, this is private property. What are you doing here?” Toth asked loudly as his eyes widened. He and the other cops reached their hands to their guns.

“Whoa, easy there! I’m not gonna hurt

any of ya’ll. This here is partly my land, too.

Look that shit up. Under Mike Smith,” he stood up straight. His eyebrows scrunched up angrily. “I went in on the project with Cassilly financially, so I still have a share of this place,” he pulled out his ID from his wallet, and handed it to one of the officers.

That officer looked at it, then went into one of the cars to look him up.

Toth looked back at the cars with us inside, then at Mike, “Well, what’s your business here?”

“These kids are with me, I told ’em to come by,” he threw up his right hand. “I walk a bit slow, so I was behind them, and I saw you takin’ ’em.”

“Sir, we believed these kids were trespassing.”

“Did they have anything on them?”

“A lighter and a pocket knife!”

“Jesus, let these kids go. Obviously they weren’t doin’ shit. Ya can’t just go supposin’ whatever ya want on my land.”

Another cop got out from the car, and while looking down, muttered to Toth, “he does have a share of the rights.” Toth forcefully exhaled and looked at the other officers with weakened eyes, and they simultaneously moved their hands away from their waists.

One officer came to each of our cars.

“Come on,” one breathed reluctantly to me as he opened the door. I shuffled out of the car with no help from the officer.

I saw Jim and Harry standing by their cars, angrily glaring at the cops but then shifting their feet uneasily. I wasn’t sure if I should be happy, angry, or confused. The officers uncuffed our hands. “You’re free to go.”

We walked away without looking at them.

Except Harry, who gave Toth a glare yelling, “You fucked up, ya dumbass,” stronger than spray-paint on an empty wall could.

“Now, you officers go find something productive to do. Thanks for watching out, though!” Smith laughed. He put his arms

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around us and pushed us up the curved street. “Just keep walking,” he said. We only looked forward.

A 76

fter we passed the tree hiding our passageway, Smith inquired, “Now what hell were you doing?” looking at each of us.

He lifted his arms off us.

“We met Bob Cassilly before, so we wanted to check up on his work,” Harry explained, looking at Smith now.

I explained how we broke in, and how Bob showed us around and told us to come back.

“Well, I’ll be damned; friends of Bob Cassilly! A friend of Bob is a friend of mine; he and I hung out as kids all the time!” His smile spread across his face. “My name’s Mike. I helped him with construction over the summer. Now I walk around the place like Bob used to, but I do it to keep out the damn meth heads and alcoholics that like to get wasted in there. It’s easy to look after because I live right here across the street where the houses on the other side of Scranton Avenue level with Cement Land,” he lifted his right arm towards the houses. “Also, I usually have a dog to keep me safe, but she’s with my nephews today. I thought of them when I saw the cops take you guys, so I figured I should save your asses.”

We each introduced ourselves, nodding our heads as we did so.

“I’m sorry about your loss. Bob was a great man,” I offered.

“Yeah, I feel sorry for the world. He was a genius. One of the greatest artists of our time. No one’s gonna be able to finish what he started. It pisses me off that people come in and drink, get high, or spray-paint the place.” Mike looked over the trees into Cement Land.

I felt the cool silence of being outside a church after a funeral for someone I should have gotten to know better.

“Anyway, where do you kids need to go? I know you got parties and girls to see,” Mike eased the tension.

“We parked by the river,” I pointed my thumb backwards.

“Oh, my bad! I’m takin’ you the wrong way,” Mike laughed. “Want me to drive you back?”

“No, thanks. You’ve already helped us out enough,” insisted Jim. “Speak for yourself,” Harry muttered looking down, then looking up and laughing.

“But really, thanks for everything, man.”

“No problem, guys! I remember what it was like to be a teenage boy; bored, looking for something to do,” Mike smiled. Then he looked into our eyes. “But ya know, you don’t have to come here for art. You can make your own. Even when people like those cops try to keep you from seeing it.” He pointed down the street.

“Bob wanted art to inspire people to do something. And you’ve seen part of his work, so make something yourself!” His eyebrows rose with his voice and hands.

“It doesn’t matter if you get paid for it. The point is for you to DO something with your life. Something with a purpose, ya know? Ah, I’m getting all philosophical now thinkin’ of Bob. You kids get goin’, and stay safe!”

“Thanks, Mr. Smith!” we started away, giving a single wave and a small smile back.

N

ovember 1st, I woke up to the smell of my mom’s omelet for my birthday.

Before I went in to eat, I remembered an old present from my grandpa. I searched through my closet floor and found my old sketchpad. I quickly created the Mississippi River flowing down Riverview Boulevard.

The angle comes from above and north of the river. The top of the castle from Cement Land peeks into the drawing. Along the river, little streams flow from it.

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The Things We Want Rick Garner

B

ishop Bender impatiently tapped his fingers on the counter as he waited for the night shift waitress to come and take his order. Now out of the bitter January wind that chills to the bone, he shed his khaki overcoat over the back of his chair. He began to smooth out the wrinkles but gave up when he heard a voice say, “Hi, my name is Amanda and I’ll be your server this evening.”

First of all, evening ended about nine hours ago. It was three a.m. It was nearing on evening in China. Bishop looked up at the

smiling young girl, maybe around college age, who was waiting beside his table spinning a pen in her right hand. “Where’s Martha?”

“Oh Martha, um… I think she took the night off. Something about working a double shift yesterday and not feeling so great today.

Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“I’ll take a cup of coffee, not decaf, black, three pancakes, and a slice of whole wheat toast without butter, thank you.”

Amanda frantically scribbled on her note pad. “Whoa! Hold on there, Buster.

That’ll be one black coffee… and three pancakes, you said? I’m sorry, Buster, but we don’t do three pancakes. The Pancake Plate comes with four, the Pancake Platter comes with six, and our Tower of Hotcakes comes with ten, if you can believe that!”

“I said three, ma’am. Martha always gets me three.”

CHARCOAL DRAWING BY

JOE FENTRESS

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Amanda sighed. “Let me go talk to the cook.”

As she walked away, he thought about the night, as he always did. He reeked of smoke. Well, he always did, so that was nothing new, he thought. His fingers could still feel the keys even though he had left Willy’s and the piano an hour earlier. He massaged his hands, bending each finger back individually to stretch them out. The cold outside had stiffened them up some. When he finished he leaned back, tipping his chair so that the front legs just lost contact with the ground. He let his arms fall into his lap and sighed.

This was the way things always went, minus the hostess switch and hotcakes debacle. Every night after he finished his set at Willy’s, he’d walk the two blocks up Augusta Street and spend an hour or two at the Denny’s on the corner of Augusta and Park and wait for most of the alcohol’s effects to wear off. It’d been his routine for three and a half years now, five nights a week. He stopped to think about how many times he’d been asked to play “Piano Man” by patrons far more inebriated than he, not fifteen minutes after he’d just played it. But the tip jar spoke; boy, did it speak.

Sometimes Bishop resented how the tip jar dictated most of his night. “Damned prostitute…” he would call himself. He always concluded such thoughts by reminding

himself that things would be different when he hit it big. After all, it was only a matter of time before a man with hair slicked back, three-piece black suit, and leather briefcase in tow walked into Willy’s towards the end of his set, ordered them a pair of drinks and pulled a big white contract from that leather briefcase for Bishop to sign with his real name “Jonathan Jackson” because you don’t sign contracts with your stage name. He had dreamed of that day the same way every child dreams of being a firefighter or professional wrestler at some point, except this would happen. This was the reason he showed up to work every night at Willy’s ready to play “Piano Man” umpteen times because he never knew when black-threepiece-suit-man would drop by with his leather briefcase and WATERCOLOR BY JACK MACDONALD contract to sign.

And every night as the hours passed by and black-three-piece-suit-man didn’t show up, he would start drinking; it made waiting easier. When Willy would stumble out from the back room where he’d been playing poker with his gambling buddies to give the bellowing shout of “Last call! Get ‘em while you can still drink ’em!”, Bishop would wrap up the song and retrieve his jacket from behind the bar. He’d let the jukebox take over for him and he’d spend the last drink sitting at the end of the bar alone, eyes on the door.

Bishop drank slowly not to savor the Scotch in the glass; he sipped slowly to give black-

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three-piece-suit-man a little extra time. Maybe he had missed the subway or gotten stuck up on the I-56 behind a tipped tractor trailer.

When the drink was finished, he’d throw his coat hastily over his shoulders. Pushing his way past desperate individuals frantically trying to find someone to continue their nights with, he would slip out.

“Okey dokey, sir. We got your three flapjacks.”

Amanda’s peppy voice and the clanking of the plate on the table brought Bishop back from his dream.

He had been picturing himself on stage, not in the corner of a bar, and he’d been playing a song he’d been writing, and he was singing it grandly. As he finished, the audience

politely applauded, not hooting and hollering like the barbaric bystanders at Willy’s did. The house lights would come on following his bow and he could see two hundred people—no, more, probably three hundred people—on their feet wishing he would play them an encore. His fingers danced on the table edge as he imagined it as if it were the keyboard.

“And here’s your coffee, black, not decaf,” she said, mimicking his earlier tone.

Bishop took the coffee from her hand and took a sip. “And the toast?”

Amanda smiled. “Lemme be right back.”

Bishop poked at the pancakes with his fork only to push them aside to continue his daydream.

ART BY

DAN MUDD

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My Father’s Cologne Shayn Jackson

80 Gone.

Black lacquer is stripped from the prismic cask.

A father stolen from his son, a fated stag from a faithful fawn.

Inside swirl scented memories of questions forgotten to ask.

Lost.

The translucent grey liquid smells of chamomile’s taste, sharp but warm.

Imagined memories, very real pain that spreads as murderously as the frost destroys livelihood, but in this bottle, memory, although untouchable, lays safe from harm.

Shattered.

The sharpness kisses warm and smooth but frighteningly cold.

Cold like a tease, an absence of love, childhood and dreams constantly battered.

A silken stab on the neck, the pain of an unmistakable absence since you were six years old.

This cologne spumes of a life, a world, connections that will never be.

“You smell like your father,” “You smell like a man,” “Will you remember me?”