(4) Nocturne 2023: Sleepwalking (Section 4)

SLEEPWALKING Amid the noise I hear the flute.

It draws me close and takes me far across bleeding lands and washed-out trees, past dripping stones and drawn-out fears.

It clings and winds in a dissolving world, until the illusion freezes in its place.

The song before me is now behind me.

It holds me here, still searching.

This is not anywhere.

60 SLEEPWALKING

SAINT VALENTINE POETRY BY NELLE RAIN

I’ve fallen into a Wikipedia labyrinth.

I think I started on dactylic poetry, now I’m reading about Saint Valentine.

Maybe I ought to be thinking of you, but instead I’m remembering last autumn: when she turned to me and asked “are you dating him?”

I looked away.

No. Yes? “I’m not sure.”

She hummed. Through my squint-smeared vision, the light caught in her curls became a halo.

“That’s probably not good,” she said.

I’ve finished the page on Saint Valentine.

Two thousand eight hundred and thirty-four words.

Only three hundred and thirty-eight are about romance.

I wonder what he thinks of this holiday bearing his name.

Maybe the next link will tell me, but I close the tab instead.

“Don’t make it harder than it is,” she said.

The sun retreated behind the trees.

The gold-leaf glow was only wisps of hair.

“You’re right.”

I won’t.

(I will).

I changed the subject.

Because how do I say that a false smile stings more than anything you could hide behind it?

How do I say that I could tell you this a thousand ways but the only one you’ll recognize is aloud but aloud is the only one I can’t do.

BATTLE FOR THE MIND DRAWING BY BRENNAN MONTALBANO

SLEEPWALKING

LADY LIBERTY IN A THUNDERSTORM COMPOSITION BY WENDI WEN

THE GODDESS OF BEAUTY DIGITAL ART BY M FISCHER

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62 SLEEPWALKING

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN PROSE BY ALEX SHROCK

The moon shone high above, stars speckling the night sky like the freckles across the traveler’s face. He stood at a fork in the road. Concentration knitted his eyebrows together, and he ran a hand through his long hair. The two paths looked fairly similar; greenery and life covered the road, trampled just enough for the route to be seen. The moon illuminated the spark in the traveler’s eyes, telling him to take the smaller, muddier, less traveled one. The stars above pushed him towards the wider, well-known one, telling him to be reasonable. He shuffled to the side, looking down one as far as he could, only to see it turn into the foliage. Stretching his neck to see the other, he only saw the same. How could he decide? He had no goal in mind, no destination to reach. How could he possibly choose which mystery to follow? The traveler let out an exasperated sigh, trudging back to view both paths.

“Wouldn’t it be fun?” the moon whispered to him, “Wouldn’t you like to know what so many people don’t?”

“Don’t be stupid,” the stars scolded, “Be safe. Maybe no one knows what lies down that path because nobody wants to know. It could be dangerous.”

“We look the same,” the paths hissed, “There can’t be a difference. Perhaps we even merge a couple steps ahead.”

“Yeah, merge into danger,” the stars laughed.

“Well, people must have gone down that trail before,” the traveler reasoned, “So it can’t be that treacherous. You know how tales spread. One misfortune and no one would travel here again.”

“Go on,” the moon encouraged.

“Don’t you dare,” the stars warned.

“Hurry up,” the paths complained.

The traveler’s feet carried him long and far down the small path, the smaller, muddier, less-traveled path.

“Perhaps I will end up here again someday,” he grinned, knowing it was not the truth. The smaller, muddier, less-

traveled path led him to unimaginable things, at least unimaginable to you or I. It led that young traveler to adventures of his wildest dreams and people he would spend the rest of his time on this here earth with. But what lay down the other path? He never returned.

BUNNY SCOUT

SCULPTURE BY XOCHITL SUH

SLEEPWALKING

THE CLERIC’S SCARF TEXTILE BY AUDRA GIBBS

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64 SLEEPWALKING

LADY REBECCA CAPLINGER DIGITAL ART

BY ROSLYN CARLE

EXTINCTION MIXED MEDIA

BY CLOVER TYLER

SLEEPWALKING

FIRE FROM FAR AWAY POETRY BY M FISCHER

I am cold a dozen little candles can’t be a heat source I guess If someone asked how the temperature was I would say it’s fine Because honestly I don’t notice how cold I am Until you turn the fire on I am across the room But I feel the heat radiating towards me The breath of a thousand unsaid i love you’s The burning stinging pain of reasonable heat After so long in the cold And then it’s gone And then I am far, far too cold for comfort again I really should turn on the fire I do, often Often enough to remind myself of the bitter cold I should sit by the fire I should let it blast for more than a few minutes I should ask the fire how it’s doing So it doesn’t just fizzle out after a few words But the fire is so far away And there are candles I can light right here And I think I will just have to make do With a dozen small flames Instead of the one I need so desperately

THE END OF THE STORM

DIGITAL ART BY NICKO FRIEDMAN

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66 SLEEPWALKING

BLUE DEER

PROSE BY OLIVE GOLDMAN “We’re lost.”

color has always been green.

“How can we be lost if we don’t have a destination?”

“I feel lost.”

Fair point. I hate when he’s right. I stay silent in my

“We already went over this, we aren’t lost.”

incorrectness.

I take in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, exactly, that’s what I thought.”

“Yes we are,” I mumble, like a kid who knows they’re in trouble.

I hate his smugness. That stupid pride engulfs him and I can

It’s unfair of me to blame him for my nails. I painted them all

see it radiate off his skin. I walk softly on the ground, listening to

28 times, and I filled my closet with things that remind me of him.

the quiet, and he goes out of his way to crunch the leaves with his

What pains me is I’ve surrendered my green for blue and I’m not

beaters. I hate those shoes. I’ve told him time and time again to

even sure he’s noticed. I look up at the figure a few feet ahead of

buy new ones. As I stare at his stupid, dumb shoes, I realize I’ve

me and whip my hands behind my back.

never felt more alone in the presence of someone else. I love the

“What color are my nails?”

quiet, but his silence feels deafening. I can’t pull the words I want

“What?”

to hear from him, or else he’d choke.

It was a simple question, how is he confused? His confusion

“Oh my God, look,” he whispers.

I snap out of my stare and lift my gaze up. It’s a deer. I freeze in the air between the trees and look into its eyes. I can hear my heartbeat, and for a moment, it’s in sync with the deer’s. I can tell, I just know it is.

A hand waves in front of my face and I look at him.

“Hello, is anyone home?”

I stare into his eyes and swat his hand away.

“I was watching the deer, dipshit.”

He lets out a quick laugh and turns his head back to the nonexistent path. The movement had made the deer run away, making my breathing uneven and choppy again and I couldn’t hear my heartbeat anymore. My eyes fall to my hands, to my fingers, to my nails. They’re painted a light blue. Light blue is his favorite color, and ever since I found out that information, I couldn’t help the obsession. My nails have been light blue 28 times, and every article of clothing I stumbled upon that is light blue often finds its way into my closet. It wasn’t always conscious, oftentimes the very opposite. I was a moth to a light blue flame.

The paint on my nails is chipped and it looks terrible, especially considering I’ve never been very fond of light blue. Looking at the color now, here, between these trees, I remember how my favorite

METAMORPHOSIZE MIXED MEDIA BY GREYSON IMM

SLEEPWALKING tightens my jaw and makes me sweat.

“What color are my nails?”

“We aren’t lost.”

Deafening silence.

Even though his tone has stick and grit to it, I can feel my

“You’re so odd.”

embarrassment melt away and now it is my turn to be smug. I’ll

Oh my god, he doesn’t know. Even though I shouldn’t, I’ve never

walk for miles if it means he has to soak in his incorrectness.

felt more embarrassed. I drop my hands to my sides and I see him

I think about what color I’ll paint my nails when I get home.

take a quick glance at them. Boys always think their quick looks

I’ll feel wrong taking off the blue, I’m sure, but just because

are so sly. They aren’t.

something feels wrong doesn’t mean it is. I would have worn that

“Light blue,” he says.

paint until discontinuation, but now I realize I need to stop at the

We stand many feet apart, but I can feel his eyes, and

store and buy nail polish remover. Neutrality is just far too painful.

his breath, and his annoyance.

“Are you seriously gonna get weird cause

UNDERNEATH

SCULPTURE BY CLOVER TYLER

We got to his house hours later, and never once did he admit he was lost. His pride looked

I didn’t know what color

worn, though. There were

your nails are?”

moments of walking when

“We are together

I felt him wanting to break.

practically everyday, how

But he never did. I took

can you not remember

off the warmth I hoarded

what color my nails are?”

in his room and changed

I could feel tears

into clean clothes. After

wanting to pour out, but

a few minutes of quiet

that would be humiliating.

understanding, I left. He

I didn’t want him to

called out to me when I

take my tears. I felt like

was in the doorway, a fast

I was drowning, and

“See you later.”

yet I’ve never been so

I see him through

dehydrated. My mouth

flashes of people in school,

is dry and I can feel my

buildings crumbling

tongue cracking. He takes

around me when I make

a moment and won’t

eye contact, and there

break eye contact with me. I think he is trying to decide if I should cry or not.

hasn’t been a wave yet.

Not a smile or a nod. Sometimes I stare at my ceiling and imagine

“Let’s go home.”

what a smile would feel like. I imagine what would have happened

I look to the non-existent path and smile to myself.

if I didn’t care about nail polish or getting lost or deer. He would

“Lead the way, then.”

think I’m cool, and relaxed, and the kind of person he could be

His eyes dart back and forth and I can see the gears turning

with. He would say my name differently than other people, and

within his brain. He realizes, in this moment, here, between these trees, that we are lost.

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“Just admit that you’re lost.”

listen when I tell him he should buy new shoes.

But I really loved that deer, and I think the deer loved me back.

68 SLEEPWALKING

IST DAS ALLES, WAS MIR ÜBRIG IST? POETRY BY PAUL SERNINE

The children learn from their parents in a world larger than their minds can know /see/ “A language is a window to the world”.

Yet every fortnight a language loses its epitaph.

So I count my syllables differently than you 5 Dis-son-an-ce [...] ten-si-on {7} 7 (A) mi-nor sec-on-d a-way {8} 5 ha-lf st-ep fr-om ton-ic {8} A new perspective; a new transl[iter]ation.

Language carries so much meaning, even when words are not spoken nor written, two can still understand each other.

THE ARCHIVE PHOTOGRAPHY

BY SEGAN BETTENHAUSEN

So please do not translate but learn the tongue Of those who wrote: (Please god never let me forget) Même quand tu ne peux pleurer Non riesci a ridere 即使你不會唱歌 Хоть твоя жизнь луста Kahit ‘di magmahal 愛されなくても Nein, ich gebe niemals auf!

SLEEPWALKING

RØSNÆS FYR

PAINTING BY GRETA GRIFFIN

THE CEASG

PAINTING BY ELISE HARDING

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A NEWFOUND PLACE PROSE BY KENNEDI FORSYTHE

“Do you understand, Stillinghall?”

“Yes, Sir.” “Good, good. There’s a tailor’s shop a couple of blocks from here. Pick out something nice and don’t make a ruckus.” . . .

“Good Lord, he’s loaded.”

My head was spinning as I made my way towards it.

A giant mansion, some four or five stories. Four columns holding up the weight of this gray giant. Light beaming from the many windows that dotted its face. Neatly trimmed hedges, not a twig out of place. A giant driveway crowded with people, their high heels and polished shoes filling the warm June night with sound.

Click, clack my shoes went as I joined the crowd.

I straightened my suit and ran a hand through my hair.

God, when was the last time I wore a suit? I tugged at the collar straining my neck and pushed my way closer to the

SOMETHING ABOUT SQUARES TEXTILE BY ANNA WURST

mansion. It seemed to have a life of its own, bursting with laughter from the guests inside.

How many people did this guy invite? There seemed to be over a hundred just outside, shoving against each other trying to enter the mansion. I bowed my head and silently continued. If this was what having this many friends and colleagues was like, then thank God I wasn’t rich. I was glad I had left my father when I did.

After what seemed like hours, the crowd finally reached the doorway. Light spilled over me, swallowing me up in its brilliance. When my eyes finally adjusted, I looked around at the scene before me, searching for him.

Men in classy suits, women in colorful dresses, waiters carrying shiny dishes of steaming food. The chandeliers continued to beam above me, lighting my way as I walked from wall to wall. I continued to run my hand through my growingly ruffled hair. Where was he? I should’ve anticipated this wouldn’t be easy.

“Do you understand, Stillinghall?”

His voice ran through my ears. My gaze sped to the nearest window, half expecting to see His dark, angry eyes staring into me. Only the summer night looked back. My heart began to pound.

“Micheal Richardson, ladies and gentlemen!”

My eyes flashed to my left. There, amongst the growing, admiring crowd, was the man I was looking for. Dark blonde hair shining in the mansion’s light, baby blue suit illuminating his warm smile as he greeted the guests, kind old eyes.

“Yes, Sir.” Taking a deep breath, I walked toward him. As I got closer, I noticed how old he really was. I guess I was expecting some young whiny brat who used up all of Daddy’s money to buy himself this mansion. Instead, I came upon a welcoming man, middle-aged, with a hearty laugh and outstretched arms. I watched in surprise as he shook

SLEEPWALKING hands with everyone around him, looking sincere the whole time.

This is the guy He’s threatened by? Come on, this all must be a façade. There’s no way he— “Excuse me?”

I jumped. Fists balled, I snapped my face towards the voice that broke my thoughts. My heart picked up once again.

Two soft blue eyes looked into mine.

Light blonde hair that rested gently on her shoulders. A forest green dress with a small necklace.

Its golden heart winked at me.

My fingers fell from their place in my palms. My heart thumped. My face heated up.

The young woman reached out her hand. As it brushed mine, I struggled to keep from shaking.

“Oh,” she gasped, noticing my expression. “I’m sorry if I scared you! I guess I shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.

I thought you were someone else.”

“No…worries,” I muttered. My knee bounced. Not sure what else to say, I straightened my tie.

“Uhm, I, eh, get mistaken for a lot of people. A-all the time, actually! I mean, I look like every other brunette white guy in his 20’s! So, don’t worry about it!”

Up and down went my knee.

The woman looked down at my knee and then back at me. God, her eyes were so pretty.

“Oh, well, okay. I’m sorry, once again,” she said as she fiddled with her necklace. “Actually, I quite like brunettes.

Sometimes I wish I was a brunette. You guys have such beautiful hair, and I adore the way it shines in the sun.”

My heart was throbbing now.

Damn it, Jack. Calm the hell down.

“Th-thanks! Uhm,” I said. I cleared my throat. “I, uh, like your hair, too! Blonde hair and green dresses go well… together.”

Jack, you are such a dumbass.

The woman smiled. Her cheeks were the color of roses.

“Thank you! I was actually pretty nervous about coming out in this new dress, but I quite like it, too! My name is Genevieve, by the way. And you?”

“Jackson, but I mostly go by Jack.” I swallowed. Genevieve.

Genevieve rubbed her hands together.

She looked to where Micheal Richardson was standing with the rest of his guests and began to move toward him.

“I wish I could stay longer, but I need to meet up with my dad. It was nice meeting you, Jack. Maybe we can talk later?”

My heart stopped.

Jack, you absolute dumbass.

“Y-yeah,” I said, smiling. “I’d love to!

See you, Genevieve.” She gave one last smile as she followed the crowd, her dress flowing behind her.

Micheal Richardson. Genevieve Richardson.

So, it was her father whom I was supposed to kill. My knee continued to bounce.

“Do you understand, Stillinghall?”

“Yes, Sir.” “Damn it.” . . .

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them.

I sipped my champagne in silence. Micheal Richardson and Genevieve were still in the middle of a crowd, sharing warm greetings.

Gee, everybody loves this guy.

Micheal Richardson laughed and drank. I could hear him complimenting the women on their dresses and asking the men how business was going for them. His eyes were bright, darting from guest to guest, looking them directly in the eye.

His smile never left his face. I could tell he was in his element.

I gazed at Genevieve. I couldn’t stop looking at her. The way her thin blonde hair rested on her shoulders. Her fair skin. Her smile. She was pretty quiet most of the time, her

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72 SLEEPWALKING hands tightly clasped against her. She wasn’t having as much fun as her father was.

Genevieve finally noticed me. She grinned and began to make her way over, her necklace glowing brighter the closer she got.

“Hey, Jack. I just noticed you were over here all by yourself! You’re enjoying your evening, I hope?”

“Oh, yeah.” I smiled and set down my drink. “I’ll admit, though, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to an event like this. I forgot how crowded and loud it can be. But you have a beautiful home.”

“Aw, thank you,” Genevive said, blushing. “My father has had this house for years, since before I was even born. It was designed by one of his closest friends, who unfortunately passed away a few years ago.”

She began to fiddle with her necklace again. Its golden heart swung quietly on its chain.

“You have a beautiful necklace, too.”

“Thank you. It was my mother’s. She died a few years ago as well, but at least this necklace is a reminder that she is always with me.”

Losing a mother. I knew what that was like. My heart began to ache.

“You lost your mother, too?”

“Huh?” How does she know?

“I could tell by how you looked. When I mentioned my mother, you looked a little sad.”

My knee bounced again. I flushed in embarrassment. I had never been good at hiding my emotions, so of course she would’ve figured it out.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Suicide. She went through a lot in her life, and, well, I guess she couldn’t take it anymore.”

And it was all because of me.

Genevieve’s eyes filled with sorrow. She rested her hand on mine, moving in closer as she did so. I swallowed my nervousness and made no move.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Jack,” she said. “That’s horrible.”

“Thank you,” I sighed. After a few seconds of silence, I clapped my hands to move on to a different subject. I didn’t want to think about my mother anymore.

“So,” I said. “What do you do? As a job, I mean?”

“Well, I only graduated from college last year, but since then I’ve been working as the librarian of a huge library down the street. It’s the oldest building in town, and I love working there. A lot of people didn’t expect me to manage it all since I’m still so young, but with my father’s support I was able to keep business going.” Her necklace continued to twinkle.

“That’s amazing,” I said excitedly. “I’ve always loved reading. My father had a huge library in his office that I would sometimes sneak into and borrow the books from. It was really my only escape from…stuff.”

I silenced myself before the horrible memories could fill my head. Genevieve seemed not to notice and brought her hands to her chest.

“Oh, I’ve always loved reading, too. In fact, the most loyal friends I’ve ever had were books! They allowed me to escape and be someone else, at least for a little bit.”

My heart swelled. Finally, someone who gets it.

“Well, when you think about it—” “Genevieve!”

Micheal Richardson strode up to us.

The closer he got, the taller he became.

He was a grand man with a grand attitude, that’s for sure. I stepped back as he reached out his hand to me.

“Oh, Genevieve, it looks like you’ve made a friend! Micheal Richardson,” he beamed, “CEO of the Hideaway Hotel.

And you, young man?”

“J-Jackson…Cleveland!” I exclaimed the first last name that came to mind.

“Jackson Cleveland, but you can call me Jack. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I, uh, was just speaking to your beautiful daughter. Nice party you’ve got here, too! Very…

SLEEPWALKING lively!”

I should’ve practiced my lines. Damn it.

Mr. Richardson beamed wider. He took a whiff of his cigar, and smoke danced above us.

“Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m glad to see that you and Genevieve have been enjoying each other’s company. A party is always the best place to hook up with someone your age.”

“D-dad, we were just talking…!”

Genevieve yelped as her face grew red.

I felt mine do the same. I jumped in to change the subject.

“A-actually, sir, I’ve been meaning to speak to you! I’ve been traveling for a few years, and I’ve stayed at quite a few of your locations. Your influence has spread from New York all the way down the East Coast, that’s for sure! I’m an aspiring businessman myself, but I’m a bit rusty, I’ll admit. I was hoping that you could give me some of your wisdom? How did you do it? What made you the man you are today?”

I took in a breath. Did that sound too script-y? I swear to God… To my relief, Mr. Richardson laughed, shaking the ground as he did so. He threw an arm around me and brought me closer. I strained at his touch, trying not to let my reflexes get the better of me.

“Genevieve, you’ve found yourself a keeper! I like this one, quite inquisitive! Of course, Jackie, I can answer all of your questions. I can do more, in fact! I can help you get started with whatever you’re working on!”

“Wait, really?”

“Of course! You seem like a respectful young man, well-dressed and cultured. And I love how you’ve helped Genevieve get out of her shell, too. She’s always been a bit shy, but the fact that you were able to extend your kindness to her and converse is one of the best aspects of a businessman. Whatever you need, I’ll provide!”

Genevieve grew redder, not making a peep. I stared at Mr. Richardson in shock.

Well, that was easy.

I gently broke away from his grip and straightened my tie.

I smiled, trying not to show how surprised I was that this millionaire would offer a complete stranger all the ins-and-outs of his business.

If this guy is so easygoing, why wouldn’t He kill him Himself?

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” Mr. Richardson exclaimed, taking my hand once again. “But before we start this new relationship, tell me a bit about yourself. Pine Ridge is such a small town, and I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before!”

Oh, Lord. Right now?

“Well,” I began. “I-I grew up in a small town called Little Creek, not far from here. I graduated from Little Creek University about a year ago, and I’ve been traveling all over the East Coast, searching for business. I had never been to Pine Ridge before, but once I heard you lived here, I came up right away to get the chance to speak with you.”

“Oh, Little Creek! A nice place,” Mr. Richardson said.

“And what got you into business? Was your father a businessman?”

Yeah, a real selfish one.

“Y-yes, but he wasn’t quite as successful as he wanted to be. So, I’ve been trying to continue his legacy.”

As if. I’d be the happiest man alive if I never saw that bastard ever again.

“Well, I cannot wait to get started with you, Jackie,” Mr. Richardson said. He looked behind me. “Unfortunately, I’ll need to speak with you later. I’ve got other guests waiting for me. But, I hope you enjoy the rest of your night. You too, Genevieve.”

With a last warm look at us, he made his way toward another group of guests.

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74 SLEEPWALKING I stared after him, mouth slightly open. It was quiet for a bit before Genevieve spoke up.

“Uhm, thank you. For calling me beautiful earlier, I mean.

That was really sweet of you.”

My heart stopped as I turned back to her. Her eyes gazed into mine, two pools of sincerity that I just couldn’t look away from. My knee began to bounce.

“O-oh, d-did I say that? I mean, uh,” I stuttered, hands beginning to shake as well. “I, uh, it’s true! I know we just met but you’re really, really pretty. You’re… yeah.”

Genevieve gave a shy smile, arms wrapped around each other. My hands grew clammy as I tried to think of what else to say. God, who knew it was this hard to talk to a girl?

We stood like that for what seemed like forever. As it grew more awkward, I cleared my throat.

“Well, I’m glad that we got to talk tonight! It was really nice to just not sit by myself the whole time.”

“Me too,” Genevieve said. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t planning on really talking to anyone tonight either. I’m not like my father, I can’t just…open up to strangers like that.

I was worried that everyone would think I’m just some shy girl trailing behind her father’s legacy. But around you I…I feel like my own person, if that makes sense.”

I looked at her. That’s really how she felt? We were more alike than I thought.

“I-I love my dad, don’t get me wrong! He’s done so much for me, but it’s nice to have a friend for a change. I can only talk to books for so long.”

I grinned as my heart skipped a beat.

“Oh, I know how you feel. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a real friend, so I’m glad I found you.”

Genevieve moved in closer. I tried not to show the panic on my face.

Keep it together.

“Besides, if you start working with my dad, we can talk more! I mean, if you want to. I know you’re probably very busy, so I don’t want to intrude. But maybe I can show you my library sometime?”

“Yes, of course!” I grinned. “I’d love to spend more time with you!”

Genevieve was beaming. She reached out and brought her hand into mine, squeezing it. Before I knew what was happening, she led me away into the crowd, pointing me towards a door across the way.

“My father’s library. Would you like to see?”

I squeezed back.

“Yeah, let’s go!” . . .

3:00 AM. I stared into the pitch black void of my trailer. The smell of champagne and cologne stuck to my body like tattoos. I inhaled.

He had showed up once I had returned home. It was actually a pretty short conversation.

“Did you get close to him?”

“Yes, Sir. He didn’t suspect a thing. He’ll be an easy target for sure.”

“Don’t pat yourself on the back too soon. You’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

“Apologies, Sir.” “Quit that. Take this seriously. You want to join, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir. More than anything.”

“Then get your head out of your ass and focus on your assignment, dammit. If it weren’t for me you’d still be wandering the streets, wasting away as the amateur thief you’ve been your whole life. Don’t mess this up.”

“Yes, Sir.” “And don’t you dare forget your place, Stillinghall.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, sighing. I knew I had to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I could only see hers.

SLEEPWALKING Two soft, serene pools that I couldn’t swim out of.

Don’t you dare forget your place, Stillinghall.

Her golden heart twinkled in my vision.

Genevieve.

I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. My head began to pound, and I sank into the darkness.

“But what is my place?”

FAIRPLAY

SCULPTURE BY NORA ALFERMAN

WIRE WRAP NECKLACE

JEWELRY BY JEANNE OZKAN

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76 SLEEPWALKING

GODDESS OF NATURE DIGITAL ART BY M FISCHER

SIMON

PHOTOGRAPHY BY HAN MELLENBRUCH

SLEEPWALKING

I WANT A SUBURBAN HOME PAINTING SERIES BY GRETA GRIFFIN

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78 SLEEPWALKING

ALBA IULIA: JOURNEY TO NOWHERE PROSE BY ALICIA HOCH

There is a beauty in the start of a journey to nowhere.

Eyes soft with grief harden with the final decision to wander.

Determined souls press their backs against cream walls or opt to rest their anxious legs by sitting in baby blue seats.

There is something in the air of this place, a collective purpose, so strong that you can almost hear it in the hum of the electricity running the emergency phone.

I am leaving.

This stop has captured the spirits of drifters, each firm footstep imprinted in brick, a message in code only travelers understand. Punctuation is marked with snuffedout cigarettes.

The bus will arrive every two hours; you will be kicked off after three rounds.

This is a home, if only for a few minutes, the last taste of structure before the world whizzes by through tinted windows, painted with streetlight strokes. It is fully furnished. The diamond blocks spelling AUTOGARA take the place of a welcome mat or a “live, laugh, love” sign. A cardboard box, never moved, is a coffee table. A flickering

BYZANTINE-INSPIRED EARRINGS JEWELRY BY JEANNE OZKAN

light that barely cuts through the black pitch is a lamp and the state-of-the-art security that has never been used hangs its head in a closed-eyes vigil.

I will shield your weather-burnt skin until it heals.

Something lives here, though the transient residents never meet it. Something that feels the need to cover windows with rugs, yet leave one screen open. It watches from corners and dust-forged windows. It makes tea and warms bones and waves to the bus as it goes. It is something that loves loss and hates gain.

Each exhale is a farewell, each heartbeat a reminder that it is time to leave.

There is a beauty in the place that marks your journey to nowhere. There is a comfort in its baby blue seats and warm cream walls. Its power has risen to break and fade blood-orange pillars. It withstands deterioration, makes dust its makeup and wind its breath. In its abandoned silence, there is a voice that tells you: You are not the first, and you are not the last.

There is a place for you.

SLEEPWALKING

ECO-BRUTALISM PHOTOGRAPHY

BY HAN MELLENBRUCH

TRANSITION PHOTOGRAPHY

BY ALICIA HOCH

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80 SLEEPWALKING

SIDEWALK MEMORIES

POETRY BY JESSICA BOUNDS

I cannot describe to you what pain is Because, in truth, I have never felt it.

The closest I have come is a scrape on my knee From when I still thought the world held me in its arms Safe from any danger.

From when I would run and play, Not caring about what may linger in the grass Or wondering why I shouldn’t dance in the rain.

When I would spend hours out in the storm, Returning soaked to the bone.

My father would make me change in the garage.

He didn’t want me tracking mud all over the house.

So I would strip the clothes from my body, Feeling as if it were my skin, And leave it in a pile on the floor to soak in its joy.

TIME MACHINE PHOTOGRAPHY

BY AUDREY MOREHEAD

But all I have now are memories.

Memories of carelessness and delight, Of sickness and warmth.

All I have is that day in the rain, The water pelting down on me as I jump in the puddles, Screaming and singing and laughing and crying Because no one else in the world had joined me.

Slipping as I danced.

Falling to the ground.

Blood distorting my reflection in the puddle More than the raindrops ever could.

I think I still have that scar, Fading slowly over time.

I can barely see it now, the image disappearing with my memory.

SLEEPWALKING

MEMORY OF GHOSTS

PHOTOGRAPHY BY DELANEY MCDERMED

TOGETHER AGAIN

COMPOSITION BY KATE WHITEFIELD

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