TCU Creative Writing Awards 2017 by TCU Creative Writing Awards

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Dr. Bob Frye

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The Hull

Dalton Williams

SCENE: A white screen stands in the middle of the stage spanning the entire width of the performance space. The screen is backlit, and the silhouettes of various rocks and trees form an environment. The silhouette of a body lies near the center of the stage, with a backpack on the ground near it. In front of the screen on a bare stage, PRIVATE DANIEL SCHOFIELD enters from stage right. DANIEL resembles the silhouette in the background, carrying the same pack and rifle. He progresses to a point near the silhouette of the body. Looking nervous, he approaches his mark and begins the scene. DANIEL Oh hell! I knew I should have brought the damn compass. (Setting down his rifle, he pulls the pack off of his shoulder and removes his helmet. DANIEL begins to search through his pack. After a moment of searching, he addresses the audience) I know. I know. A good soldier always has his kit in order right? I know. The thing is, I haven’t had to use the damn thing in almost a year. Of course it started to lose its place. (He focuses his attention on the pack and after a few seconds he returns his attention to the audience) Usually the sarge handled all the navigation. The map, the compass, everything. All I’ve needed to do is point Hedy’s guns at the Krauts and tense my pointer finger. (He holds his hand up and mimes the action) That’s it. That’s all I’ve needed. Now I’m out here in the middle of God-knows-what- village France, and completely lost. Ah Christ. I’ve been in country two weeks and already killed. (In resignation, he sits.) I had to have walked three miles since sarge sent me off. I thought I was in a decent spot. High elevation, plenty of cover, I didn’t even think that maybe a sniper had a bead on my location from the start.

2 (He slopes over, and jerks himself up.) Oh. Damn. I feel exhausted, dizzy. Bleeding buckets has that effect I guess. (He pulls a tin can out of his pouch.) (With his mouth half full) You know, this stuff ain’t too bad once you learn how to hold your breath while you chew. They give us these rations. They’re alright, you know? (He chews the remainder of his food.) Fuckin’ sarge. (Mockingly) “Hey Scofield, go scout the surrounding villages you’ve never heard of and report back” (DANIEL reaches into his pack and pulls out a tin. From the tin he produces a single cigarette and a match. He lights the cigarette and take a long pull, then exhales.) Jackass. (He takes another drag. When he continues, a man emerges from stage left, He should be as far back as possible, and unlit, holding a pointer-stick.) On the level, he was right to be on edge. Goddamn. I’ll tell you something, nobody saw this shit coming. Our unit trained in London for ten months to work Hedy like we’ve lived in her our whole lives. Once we landed, we were smooth sailing. We blew right past Normandy, and into the occupied villages. That’s where it got fucked up. Ten months in London, no one thought to tell us about the Panthers. If I could get my hands on that slimy little Nancy boy. Couldn’t have been more than 24, yet a Lieutenant, spoutin off with his Mickey Mouse presentations. Tellin’ us about all the Hedy’s and the Bessy’s and the whatsits. We give ‘em their names, but they’re all related. (DANIEL takes a drag.) Sherman’s. A family of rolling, crushing, metal beasts. We thought we were the hunters – Until we came across our first kraut battalion. That little mook had no idea what he was talking about (A second light shines down on the LIEUTENANT (LT.) A projection appears on the screen. It’s a blue print of a tank. He begins to speak, pointing at the diagram throughout. It is important that DANIEL

doesn’t face or look at LT. Any lines spoken by DANIEL do not affect LT.)

LT.

DANIEL hatches, barring the roof, are also reinforced. All bolts, pistons, and

Alright men, take a seat. We will begin this morning with a presentation. This presentation will cover a mechanical overview of the M4 Medium Armored Tank designated “Sherman”

I’d bet a pair of socks this guy just memorized the damn pamphlet.

The Sherman is operated and maintained by a crew of 5. A driver, assistant driver, a loader, gunner, and of course, a commander.

A crew of five jammed in a metal deathtrap, and hot too. Especially when a Gerry shell rips through the hull and hits a fuel tank.

The engine, located in the rear and accessed via the back rear hatch is an air-cooled Continental R975. Within the engine hatch there are two generators. One primary, which will function continuously, and an auxiliary, to be used to keep the engine warm through the winter months. These engines are designed to be as reliable as possible, able to traverse twenty-five hundred miles before maintenance is needed. Refer to your manuals for the details.

The only advantage we had on those Kraut Panthers was our speed. That, and our numbers. Shermans were simple, easy to mass-produce. The Panther was not. So it’s a trade off: A few strong, slower tanks that can take a hit, or a lot of small faster tanks that leave the enemy overwhelmed. I’m thinking option one, but I’m the one in the damn thing.

The fully-articulated main cannon fires a seventy-five millimeter round, loaded sequentially by the designated crewman. The assistant driver and gunner will man twin thirty caliber automatic rifles located here. Each gun has been loaded to fire a tracer round after every five shots.

The biggest thing we can throw at ‘em, and it just bounces off.

Below the main gun, the hull is comprised of welded steel, approximately three inches thick. All

Yet meanwhile, their shells tear straight through our hulls. Imagine a bullet the size of your forearm getting fired out of a giant cannon, and whenit comes, it screams. Loud too. 8

Sarge says he can’t hear too well‘cause one flew by his head and skirted the top of the hatch. I think that’s just what he tells us so he can ignore us when we get to bitchin’ when we get assigned our work details, but that’s just a theory

Gaskets are universal throughout the machine, limiting the need for multiple tools during repairs. In the event of a life-threatening chemical or fire breach incurred in a combat scenario, the safest exit is the hatch located within the floor of the tank. Once opened, all crewmembers exit one-at-a time, while relying on the treads for extra cover while under fire.

When my father was alive, he used to talk about how loud incoming rounds were, flying over his head in the trenches. He’d kept a collection of some weapons in his study. Sometimes he would pull one out and tell me all about how scary it was to be shot at, working the operation of each gun. I wasn’t allowed to go in by myself. Too dangerous

I will now take questions.

Questions?

There were two last time we saw ‘em, and each one’s shot either took out a crewman or blew the whole thing to shit. No room for error.

Anyone? In that case, report to the fields at o- ninehundred for maneurvering drills and tactical combat.

Tactical. Pssh. What a crock of shit. You wanna know how we made it out of that duck shoot? We filed in near the back of the line. The first four tanks to cross into that field were gone within seconds of each other. The only chance we had was to swarm the back and hit their gas reserves in the rear. Once we sent those Nazi shits to hell we had lost two more. One third of the division. Thirty men, in six minutes.

(Snaps a salute) Dismissed!

off.)

(He exits, the projection is cut

If that rate held the same, then by the best odds I would’ve had about fifteen minutes before I bit it. (He puts the cigarette out on the ground.) Luckily I got a little more time.

(He pauses, and pulls out a map. He lays it down and begins to look out to the horizon for landmarks)

So after refuel and resupply, we headed east towards the next town on this narrow- ass road. Thick trees on either side of us. For five minutes things got calm. Then someone shouted something I couldn’t hear and sure enough BOOM! Some SS prick was running away from the tank behind us into the trees. He was shot, and the tracks had fallen off the tank. (He pulls out a pair of binoculars, clumsily adjusting the focus) Nothing we couldn’t handle, but it would take some doing, so sarge decided to send me to scout ahead for alternate routes and enemy position. (Pauses) Now out here in the French countryside there’s villages all around, those surround the larger towns, and so far intel has gathered that there’s anywhere from a squad to a full unit in each village, with entire battalions occupying the towns. So of course there was some Gerry sniper waiting to pick off the first of us he saw. (His hands begin shaking. Suddenly, the binoculars fall out of his hands) Damn. I must be fading. Dizzy. Blurry vision. I’m going to die here. (He falls down onto one elbow. He rubs his hand over his uniform, and then looks at his hand.) Warm. (He moves to lie down on his back. As he does this, he winces suddenly in pain) Agh! MR. SCHOFIELD (Offstage.) And this one is a Thompson. Any soldier with one of these couldn’t lose.

DANIEL Thompson. “The tommy gun”. I didn’t have one. I lost. (He begins to stifle tears.) Dad made it back. He died just after my seventeenth birthday. A stray beam came loose at a site, pinned him. He died before the ambulance got there. MR. SCHOFIELD (Still offstage) Alright birthday boy, remember this: The most important thing in a dangerous world is to always be safe. Take every precaution. I know you’re getting bigger but trust me, you have some growing to do yet. DANIEL Yes, sir. MR. SCHOFIELD

Good boy.

DANIEL He was a good man. Did pretty well raising a boy by himself. (Coughs, then wipes his cheek) There were a lot of rules in the house, but the biggest. The –bigge(Continues to cough uncontrollably) MR. SCHOFIELD Never go into my study alone. It’s dangerous in there, Dan. You’d hurt yourself in there. You don’t want to get hurt, right?

No way. I don’t like getting hurt.

DANIEL

MR. SCHOFIELD Well I would hope not! So how do we not get hurt? DANIEL Don’t go in – don’t go into the study. Alone.

There’s a good boy.

MR. SCHOFIELD 11

7 DANIEL I enlisted fresh out of high school. Most of us did. We wanted to be heroes. I joined up thinking it would make Dad proud. Serve his memory, or something. It was a nice thought, but I’m not so sure. (A drill sergeant enters the stage in front of the screen. He is rigid. Moving to front left on the stage, he snaps his heels together, facing DANIEL) DRILL SERGEANT Company! Atten-tion! (DANIEL weakly tries to shift his torso up. His hand moves slowly to attention, the whole posture is straining. The two hold this posture for a moment.) At ease! (DANIEL falls limply back into place. Out of breath) Welcome to basic marksmanship training. Here you will learn how to fire your weapon and hopefully, Lord willing, learn how to fire it accurately. Is that understood?

Sir, yes sir.

DANIEL

DRILL SERGEANT Be warned, cadets: These are not your daddy’s hunting rifles. These are tools of death to be used to protect your fellow soldiers, yourself, and your country!

Dad wasn’t much for hunting.

DANIEL

DRILL SERGEANT When in combat, the enemy will not exercise restraint. They will shoot without discretion. It will be your job to shoot them first. You must have instinct! You must have cause! There can be no hesitation. If you hesitate in the moment of truth, you will die. Know this hard, cadets! DANIEL The first man I ever killed was some Kraut infantry in retreat. He ran out of his foxhole. I laid into him with the thirty-cal. It felt wrong. DRILL SERGEANT

Our enemy is a hateful one. He seeks to destroy you! He hates you. You must return the favor! These are not men of principle. Your enemy serves the living manifestation of evil. We are going to rid the world of this evil, one dead German at a time. Understood? DANIEL They couldn’t all be evil? Could they? That question ran through my head each time that slanteyed drill instructor made this speech. At first it was loud, but the rifle blasts eventually overtook the thought. I became what the senior drill instructor so affectionately referred to as a son of Mars. (The drill sergeant turns his attention off stage. He makes his way off shouting.) DRILL SERGEANT Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What in God’s name do you think your doing?! You haven’t hit a single target yet, cadet! (Offstage now) YOU GOT TO HATE WHAT YOU’RE FIRING AT! DANIEL It was nice to have a Dad again, or at the very least the illusion of one. Of course that dissolved the first day in country. We arrived on Normandy Beach three weeks after D-Day. Our tank rolled off the carrier and onto the sand, and when the tide came in, the water painted the beach red. In basic I became an accomplished killer of range targets. When we – uh-. (Pause, and looks blankly into space. After a moment, he snaps out of it.) I wasn’t a son of Mars. No. It was on that beach that I realized that I had carried out my father’s greatest fear. You see, He talked about the guns like they were art. He never told stories about how he killed with ‘em. Hell! He was an engineer. Of course it was art to him. All those stories. I was sitting in there with him. Not listening. (MR. SCHOFIELD’s voice is heard again offstage. DANIEL looks towards the source of the voice) MR. SCHOFIELD

And with that (A gun cocks) Clean as a whistle.

DANIEL

Wow!

MR. SCHOFIELD They are pretty neat, aren’t they? But you must remember, even though they’re nice and clean, they can still cause a lot of hurt, son. I’ve saved these as a reminder of all the pain I’ve seen people in. All because of these guns. Do you understand? Danny? DANIEL

Yes. I understand.

(Still lying down, he reaches for his rifle. Wincing in pain, he makes a weak attempt to throw it away in disgust.) Jackass! (He places his hands on his abdomen, and begins to cry quietly.) Well look where it got me. I’m alone. It hurts. It all hurts. I can’t keep the blood from coming out! I can’t- I can’t see any more! Oh no. No. (The silhouette begins to convulse. DANIEL grows more hysterical) This can’t be it! I’m scared! MR. SCHOFIELD

Danny? Danny!

(The silhouette’s convulsions slow.) DANIEL (Directs his attention off stage in the direction his body is facing.) Dad?! (MR SCHOFIELD’s silhouette enters behind the screen and approaches the silhouette. DANIEL keeps his gaze fixed on the silhouette as if he is on the other side of the screen.) MR. SCHOFIELD Oh no! What happened? 14

DANIEL (Straining to speak, choked from the pain as well as fresh tears.)

I got hurt. MR. SCHOFIELD My goodness! What happened? Why were you here? It’s not safe. I told you that, remember?

You left me. I was lost.

DANIEL

MR. SCHOFIELD (Placing his hand on the silhouette. As he does this DANIEL lies back limply and closes his eyes.) Oh Daniel. No. (Pause) Well let’s get you out of here. It’s alright. You’re safe now. It’s all over son. C’mon. Sit up. (The silhouette, with help from MR. SCHOFIELD gets up. DANIEL’s breathing becomes shallow) It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. (With one arm around MR. SCHOFIELD, the two walk further back into the light, the silhouette limping. The aperture of the light should be adjusted gradually in order to create the illusion that they are walking further into the light, getting smaller. This will also cause the backlighting to fade, and in conjunction, the light shining on DANIEL dims as well. Just as the stage lights fade out into total darkness, an exhale echoes through the theatre.)

(End Scene.)

OBSESSION

Allison Vidor

FADE IN: The screen is black, but you can hear a distant tick of a clock. It stops. UP CLOSE SHOT:

GRACE (looking into camera) Knowing how traumatic the entire experience had been, Detective Hotchner felt that it would be best to come and tell me “face-to-face”. (sighs quietly) That after months of agony and paranoia, he had been caught.

JACK’S APARTMENT – LIVING ROOM – DAY Three people sit uncomfortably on a tattered sofa in the living room of a small apartment. HOTCHNER sits with his hands in his lap, noticeably struggling to form each sentence.

HOTCHNER He works around the corner, must’ve seen you walking home and—well— (pause) (MORE)

HOTCHNER (CONT’D) —you’re safe now. That’s all that matters. (sighs heavily)

But you should know, there will most likely be a trial. Now whether— VOICE FADES INTO A LOW HUM:

GRACE (looking into the camera) Safe. Hmm. (rises from couch and walks) People keep using that word as if it means something. Before all of this, if I locked my doors at night, then I was safe. If I made sure to walk home before dark, then I was safe. But it turns out, you’re never really safe. (stops at bedroom door) You just think you are. (walks through)

COLLEGE BUILDING- EVENING GRACE walks out of double doors, as bells toll the start of a new hour. The sun is still out while she walks towards her home. As she turns a corner, she notices something behind her. A car has been following her, an unidentifiable man gets out and walks towards her.

GRACE (looking into the camera) It’s light out. That means I’m safe, remember? But I can feel him begin to pick up the pace, which means I’m going to feel the need to run away in 3…2…1.

She breaks into a sprint, the man following close. She runs towards— HOME And slams the front door. Locking each bolt, then sliding down against it. GRACE (dialing) INTERCUT PHONE CONVERSATION OPERATOR 911, what’s the location of your emergency? GRACE Greene Ave. I live on Greene, uh, it’s uh, oh shit— (frantically looking through her phone) 3208! I live on 3208 Greene. OPERATOR Alright ma’am, what’s the nature of your emergency? GRACE There’s a man, he followed me home and no one is here and I don’t know if he’s outside or what’s going on but I’m alone and I need someone! OPERATOR Okay ma’am, try to stay calm. What is your name? GRACE Grace Lowe. L-O-W-E. Lowe. OPERATOR Alright ma’am an officer is on their way. (click)

GRACE (looking into camera) The officer did eventually show, but I was useless. Couldn’t even give a description. It was obvious he thought this was a total waste of his time. Guy didn’t even bother to pretend to write something down. Can’t blame him. (rises and walks) I mean, I didn’t really think much of it either. Okay so yeah, a creepy dude followed me home. But that was it, nothing else. GRACE walks towards the— KITCHEN As she passes through, her outfit changes and she is now rummaging through her fridge. GRACE DAMNIT! JACK (O.S.) Huh.

GRACE She did it again. I swear to god, if that woman uses my blender one more damn time without freaking cleaning it afterwards I’m going to kill. JACK (O.S.) Just tell her. GRACE is now walking to— LIVING ROOM

JACK is putting a backpack and laptop down on the couch, while GRACE plops down next to him, extending a water bottle in his direction. GRACE I can’t. She’ll take it wrong, like I’m trying to “be her mother” and then be passive aggressive for the next two months. JACK (grabbing the water and shaking his head) I’ll never understand why you agreed to live with Jess—like, of all people. GRACE Because I’m an idiot who doesn’t think things through. JACK (smiling) Sounds bout’ right. The room falls silent as they both begin to type on their laptops. A significant amount of time pass by when they hear a noise. JACK What the hell is— GRACE This house is a piece of shit. Creaks literally at the thought of wind. The room goes silent, but just briefly. They hear a noise that sounds like someone is turning the knob of the front door. JACK and GRACE look at each other, then back at the door.

GRACE Jess?

(pause) Jess? They both notice the knob turning, but then it stops. JACK stands up, walks off screen and returns with a bat. He opens the door and sees nothing. He closes it and notices the door knob is loose. JACK It always been like this? GRACE Dunno. Honestly wouldn’t surprise me. Told you, this house is old. Creaks and such are nothing weird. JACK Hmm. (examining the knob) Well maybe we should go back to— There is high pitch squeak of metal turning coming from THE BEDROOM off screen. They stare frozen at one another. They walk hesitantly towards— THE BEDROOM There is a door in the room that leads to the front yard. The knob is slowly turning. JACK raises the bat, when there is a loud bang. JACK (loudly) HEY! It remains locked but the door itself bends in their direction from the force of the blow. Jack runs and opens the door to find no one there.

JACK WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? HUH?

GRACE dials 911. INTERCUT PHONE CONVERSATION OPERATOR 911, what’s the location of— GRACE (shaking) 3208 Green Ave. Someone just tried to break into my house. Last name is Lowe, L-O-W-E. First name Grace. I need someone here now! OPERATOR Okay ma’am, try to stay calm. An officer is— GRACE Here. I need one here now. OPERATOR Yes, ma’am—we’ve sent one over. They should be there soon. Just remain— GRACE Calm? Done. Just send someone. GRACE hangs up. SLOW ZOOM INTO UP CLOSE SHOT: GRACE (looking into the camera) This time they were quicker. Apparently, break-ins merit faster response times than simple chase scenes. Oh, and this time there were two officers. And once again, I was useless. No description, no evidence, just a vague impression of what seemed to be a dirty shoe print on my door. Nothing exciting

for the officers. We all knew what would happen with this. Unless he came and turned himself in, my case was sunk. ZOOM OUT: THE BATHROOM – NIGHT GRACE is looking at herself in the mirror. She turns, drops her robe, and steps into the shower. B-ROLL OF PERIMETER—BACK TO SHOWER: GRACE emerges from the steamy bathroom and walks towards the— THE BEDROOM She picks a hairbrush up and begins to detangle her wet hair. She then drops her towel and begins to rummage through her drawers for clothes. The phone rings.

GRACE Hello? NEIGHBOR (O.S) (voice quivering) G-Grace. Are you home right now? GRACE In my room, what’s up? You okay? NEIGHBOR (O.S) (whispering) Oh my god she is, Hailey call the cops. (still shaking) Grace—there’s a man. There’s a man outside your bedroom window. He’s watching you. We’re calling the cops.

GRACE slowly turns around. She can see through a small crack in the blinds, a pair of small, dark eyes staring directly at her. She drops to the side of her bed and lays down, staring at the door that had previously been kicked in.

GRACE (quietly whimpering) Oh god. NEIGHBOR (O.S) Oh my god, Grace, what happened. He just ran into your backyard. We don’t—I don’t— GRACE I need to call Jack. Just—just call the cops. Please. She hangs up and redials a new number. INTERCUT PHONE CONVERSATION JACK Hel— GRACE Jack! It’s him. He’s here. I don’t know where but— There’s a loud bang from the kitchen. (crying hysterically) Oh my god. JACK Grace! Hold on, I’m coming. GRACE I think, oh god, I think He’s in the house, Jack. Please. Jack I need you.

She drops the phone. She runs to the bedroom door and slams it shut, twisting the fragile lock. She frantically grabs a knife from her nightstand, then crawls back on the floor, wraps herself in a blanket and begins to sob. In between sobs, she notices the knob of her bedroom door. It’s slowly twisting. She sits there, near hyperventilation, when she hears JACK’s voice. JACK (O.S.) Grace! She hears his truck door slam, immediately followed by the sound of oncoming sirens. The knob stops twisting and she can hear running footsteps rush towards the back door.

GRACE (desperately crying) Jack. Using his key, JACK walks through the front door and into— THE LIVING ROOM Police officers walk in behind and begin to yell. They’ve mistaken Jack for him. After a few moments of frantic screaming back and forth, there is a low hum of them questioning Jack fading into the background. SLOW ZOOM INTO UP CLOSE SHOT: GRACE (looking into camera, speaking between gasping breath) Well done. Only took them a few minutes this time. Two b-break-ins. That’s how you get them here. That’s w-what interests them. Repeat offenders. Because then it shows a pattern. And according to Detective Hotchner, His pattern was one of obsession. One that I did nothing to instigate. Nothing. Nothing, but exist. (pause)

“You’re safe now.” (pause) Hmm. (pause) When was I ever? CUT TO BLACK

Loss of Home in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict

Kaylee Bowers

As Sham et al wrote in their article, “Introduction to Shared Narratives—A PalestinianIsraeli Dialogue,” “Historical truth is less important in peacemaking than what the societies believe to have happened” (1). At the heart of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is the question of who is at home in Israel and who is not. Palestinians believe they have been ousted from their territory by invaders; Israelis, specifically Zionists, believe they are repossessing the land they were deprived of in the past (Sham et al 2). Both are essentially asking where home is and looking for a sense of security and consistency. The problem is, the two sides have injured and received injuries from each other that negate any desire for a coexistent homeland. Modern conflicts are exacerbated by tensions between the global and the local, between an individual and a collective, and between tradition and modernity, to name a few contributing factors (Alidou et al 530). Furthermore, complications arise in every argument. These complications intersperse themselves with the flame of an initial clash and eventually manifest as a blaze, which is what happened between the Israelis and the Palestinians. Extensive research has already been done regarding the source of their rivalry; however, far less has been done within the context of the trauma of losing individual and collective senses of home. Thus, an increased understanding of the psychology behind the groups’ troubled pasts and how the resulting negative feelings could, to a certain extent, be remedied is all the more significant. The purpose of this essay, then, is to explore the psychology behind having a home and examine how dislocation worsens the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Furthermore, the study will delve into the value of

multicultural and multilingual education and the role it plays in opening studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; minds to accept each other as leaders, despite various cultural backgrounds. While this research does not provide a comprehensive analysis of the factors contributing to the conflict, it does seek to encourage further education and dialogue in order to make reconciliation a better possibility. In addition to research, problem solvers have already tangibly worked to add more inclusive education within these strongly divided communities. Unfortunately, conflicts like these have no immediately attainable answers, so they have not come anywhere close to bringing full healing. Some may wonder why this research is continuing at all if so little progress has been made after all this time. Regardless of the outcome, continuing the conversation is significant, if only because the issues are ongoing. Whether outsiders weary of discussing the conflictâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s many complications or not, the Israelis and the Palestinians have experienced, are currently experiencing, and will experience the effects of not having a consistent understanding of home. A home holds deep significance for its inhabitants, yet it remains a subjective idea (Fox 481). Its legal value cannot be established outside the cost of the physical structure because many factors play into worth that apply for some and not for others (Fox 481). Therefore, a home can take on multiple roles. As a physical structure, a home meets crucial needs of physical protection, which makes the loss of home a potentially traumatic experience (Fox 591). As a territory, a home gives people autonomy and control over their situation; it also provides a space to develop their senses of individuality and belonging (Fox 592). Homes are spaces that both reflect oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s identity and allow one to develop his or her understanding of self (Fox 599). Finally, a home

incorporates cultural values and reaffirms one’s sense of stability within the larger society (Fox 601). Of course, a home is not a positive experience for everyone, but the idea of having a safe space and an identity of security is a widely desired one. Therefore, migration, which strings people between tangible concepts of home, creates painful problems. Those remaining in their native culture often do not know how to interact with the diversity they suddenly find themselves presented with (Bar-Yosef 232). As for the new arrivals, Bar-Yosef wrote in his article “Children of Two Cultures” that they are expected to assimilate to the host society (232). In Israel, immigrants are supposed to fit the majority as Jewish citizens, which makes interactions between its two main people groups especially difficult (Bar-Yosef 239). The more extreme conservative Israelis typically deny that the Palestinians were forced out of their homeland to make room for the Israelis, while the more extreme Palestinians say the only way to return their affairs to the way they were is to expunge the Israelites (Sham et al 3). Migration, then, is a powerful divisive point between them because the stability of having a home can slowly vanish as can one’s sense of belonging. Going deeper into the conflict, however, it becomes clear that both groups are immigrants, not just the Palestinians. The Israelites spread across the region during their diaspora and now the Palestinians have been forced to do the same (Sham et al 9). Both have been targeted, and not just by each other. The Jews have been persecuted for centuries. One of the most prevalent examples is the Holocaust. The Palestinians, likewise, have suffered, primarily under the modern Zionist movement, which emphasizes demographic and political dominance

(Hermann 134-6). The name of Zionism is enough to bring racism, invasion, and oppression to the minds of many Palestinians (Hermann 134). Since both groups have histories of being forced between places as immigrants, they have experienced the trauma that significant relocation and cultural disorientation can bring. The cost of immigration is directly tied to the loss of home. As Bar-Yosef wrote, “Immigrants suffer from loss of status” (241). Part of that demotion stems from losing the physical place of refuge for oneself and one’s family. Homes, as mentioned before, provide stability and autonomy, which add to one’s social status (Fox 590). Since both the Israelis and the Palestinians have been ousted from their homeland at some point—or various points—through the centuries, they have had lowered statuses. Some social standing can be regained, but even when it is, the emotional cost can span across generations. It is important to note, however, that not every Israeli or Palestinian citizen falls into these categories, nor did Zionism specifically as a movement always hold its modern views of political and demographic superiority in Israel (Hermann 136). Despite the exceptions, many on both sides struggle to relate to each other because they see the others as predators or oppressors rather than as people with similar traumatic experiences. Especially beneath the strain of unreliable homelands, being a part of these collective identities can bring a sense of restored comfort and belonging. Zionism, for example, sees all Jews as forming a nation, one that was always intended to manifest itself in Israel (Hermann 134). Thus, Israelis can share in the promise of a lasting safe place, which can soothe their

trauma. Palestinians, too, have their own national identity to provide them the security of fitting within a group. This, unfortunately, is where their mutually exclusive historical narratives return to the forefront of this discussion. Rather than gathering under a banner of shared home and identity, Zionists have congregated partly for fear of anti-Semitism (Hermann 135). Similarly, Palestinians have rallied behind reclaiming their land and rights from the Israelis (Sham et al 2). Thus, while these collective identities can provide some healing from traumatic migrations, they further separate the two groups. With the extent of division present, reconciliation has thus far proven to be elusive. That is not to say, however, that there is no hope for Israeli-Palestinian relations. Research has shown that education is hugely beneficial in the acceptance of interracial relationships, whether between white and black Americans or other ethnically different groupsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;although the amount to which that is true is subject to change depending on the cultural group (Jacobson and Johnson 573). While individual acceptance of Israeli-Palestinian relationships is by no means the panacea, it is a necessary point of resolution. If no individual is able to see someone from the other side as an equal or identify shared histories of dislocation, the collective groups will be hard pressed to stop seeing the other as an enemy bent on their destruction. As Jacobson and Johnson wrote, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Education is closely related to greater tolerance of other racial groups as well as perceptions of smaller social distance between an individual and members of other racial groupsâ&#x20AC;? (573). In a cultural climate where some Israelis see Palestinians as nothing more than a threat and vice versa, education will likely prove necessary in bringing the groups to a state of reconciliation.

Global communities are coming closer together with today’s technology, so in this century, a new emphasis is being placed on multilingual and multicultural education (Alidou et al 529). The primary goal of this focus is to decrease “prejudice and discrimination in the classroom” and encourage leaders among students of all different backgrounds (Alidou et al 533). These new educational standards operate under three main ideas: lifelong learning about oneself and the surrounding communities, enacting universal learned lessons—specifically in regards to living with different people, respecting one’s own culture and differing opinions—and growing personally in all areas of life (Alidou et al 532-7). An emphasis like this could prove beneficial in helping the Israelis and Palestinians relate better to each other. Of course, if education was all that was needed to heal their hurts, the conflict would have ended by now. Too many misunderstandings and other factors have influenced the issues between these two groups for any reconciliation process to be easily accomplished. Still, multilingual and multicultural education is an important concept to discuss. While it is no cureall, education can increase levels of tolerance and understanding. The result may not be a tangible one, but even encouraging one person to acknowledge the psychological loss of someone from a different cultural background and belief system could lead to change in the future. As Sham et al. wrote, “Historical truth is less important in peacemaking than what the societies believe to have happened” (1). Both the Israelis and the Palestinians have caused pain for people on the other side. Those actions have led to mutually exclusive master narratives, in which neither side is open to reconciliation. For the Palestinians, the Israelis are marauding

invaders, who have stolen their land and livelihoods. For the Israelis, the Palestinians are a threat to the safety they have finally found from anti-Semitism. Neither group has stability in their homeland, although both sides are striving for it. Furthermore, the idea of home is growing constantly less and less clear as generations are strung between cultures. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is one of many that reflects the confusion of these collective and individual dilemmas. The issues between them have been worsened by the feeling of dislocation and the traumatic losses that have come, consciously or subconsciously, through the deprivation of the security and autonomy normally provided by a home. Thus, this study sought to portray the psychology driving the feelings caused by losing oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s homestead and seek ideas for reconciliation, specifically where education is involved. This essay is by no means intended to serve as a comprehensive analysis of the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict or to claim answers to much-debated questions. Rather, it hopes to bring more awareness to the complexity of these issues. They are tied directly to other questions that are impossible to answer in a universal context. These questions include, as the essay has discussed, the meaning of home and what it looks like to carry a culture when people are removed from their homelands and placed in new environments. Israelis and Palestinians alike have experienced hardship and suffering throughout their history and in their quest to find a collective home. This essay shares the ideology that encourages open dialogue as a first step in healing from trauma. Without clear communication, reconciliation will continue to prove itself out of reach. By opening new channels of understanding, however, including an appreciation for

how both sides have lost their homes at some point, the possibility of reunifying is allowed to come nearer.

Annotated Bibliography Alidou, Hassana et al. “Quality Multilingual and Multicultural Education for Lifelong Learning.” International Review of Education / Internationale Zeitschrift Für Erziehungswissenschaft / Revue Internationale De l'Education, vol. 57, no. 5/6, 2011, pp. 529–539. www.jstor.org/stable/41480141. “Quality Multilingual” concerns the benefits of multilingual and multicultural education globally with a specific focus on the educational pillars that make the practice more successful. I think it will be extremely useful in my argument not only because it gives me better insight into which questions I should ask my interviewee, but also because it gives me a better grasp of what the effects of such an upbringing might be. Bar-Yosef, Rivka W. “Children of Two Cultures: Immigrant Children from Ethiopia in Israel.” Journal of Comparative Family Studies, vol. 32, no. 2, 2001, pp. 231– 246. www.jstor.org/stable/41603745.

“Children of Two Cultures” is about the difficulty that Ethiopian Jews face when they arrive in Israel. The article will be helpful in discussing some of the problems that every new arrival in a culture faces, despite the fact that most people mentioned were refugees in crisis, rather than others who moved for economic or other reasons. The most useful part will be the explanation of how immigrant children often mostly assimilate into the new culture, while struggling to understand the remaining parts of their parents’ culture. Bautista, Audrey. “So Where’s Home? A Film About Third Culture Kid Identity, Adrian Bautista.” Vimeo. Georgetown University, 2012. Web. 30 November 2016. https://vimeo.com/41264088. “So Where’s Home?” is a video featuring different young adults who grew up between cultures. They discuss their notions of home and how it changes the way they see the things around them. It will help me in my project because it gives a universality to the topic that I could not otherwise give it with just one interviewee. Di Stefano, John. “Moving Images of Home.” Art Journal, vol. 61, no. 4, 2002, pp. 38– 51. www.jstor.org/stable/778150. “Moving Images of Home” discusses how in this modern era where space is more easily traversed through both physical and social mediums, the notion of home or a person’s nation is more of an imagined sense of self than anything else. It will be helpful potentially in talking about the changing nature of home for people crossing between cultures and places.

Frankel, Charles. “The ‘Cultural Contest.’” Proceedings of the Academy of Political Science, vol. 29, no. 3, 1969, pp. 139–155. www.jstor.org/stable/1173194. “The ‘Cultural Contest’” is about the construction of international policy amidst the conflict between countries like the US and the Middle East. It is not particularly helpful for my podcast because it focuses on politics rather than individual responses and how to more positively shape them. Hermann, Tamar. “Zionism and Palestinian Nationalism: Possibilities of Recognition.” Project MUSE, http://muse.jhu.edu/article/502481. Accessed 30 November 2016. Zionism and Palestinian Nationalism” explores the history of Zionism and how it came to a state where it displaced Palestinians. Each came to see the other as a threat and now the idea of reconciliation is a difficult one to picture. This could be useful for my paper because it shows a loss of home but the seeking of one on both sides. Jacobson, Cardell K., and Bryan R. Johnson. “Interracial Friendship and African American Attitudes about Interracial Marriage.” Journal of Black Studies, vol. 36, no. 4, 2006, pp. 570–584. www.jstor.org/stable/40034771. “Interracial Friendship” presented the factors that play into how African Americans specifically view interracial relationships. Those variables included level of education, geography, and existence of multicultural friendship. While this article won’t be as useful as some of the others, it offers a perspective on how bridges can begin to be made, particularly in the realm of education.

Kathleen Spivack. “Between Two Cultures.” The Kenyon Review, vol. 17, no. 3/4, 1995, pp. 118–126. www.jstor.org/stable/4337260. “Between Two Cultures” is a personal narrative about growing up between America and Germany after World War 2. It will prove useful in discussing the challenges that can arise because of living between worlds and languages. The author feels more at home in America when she is in Germany, but loses that feeling of home the moment she gets back to America. Lorna Fox. “The Meaning of Home: A Chimerical Concept or a Legal Challenge?” Journal of Law and Society, vol. 29, no. 4, 2002, pp. 580–610. www.jstor.org/stable/4150519. “The Meaning of Home” centers on the need for a defined legal concept of a home specifically within legal courts. It goes through the values that are bound up in the idea of home and how those complicate matters in a legal sense when they remain undefined. The article bears significance in my argument because it explores how the values and concepts making up a home make it more valuable than other properties. Scham, Paul et al. “Introduction to Shared Narratives—A Palestinian-Israeli Dialogue.” Israel Studies, vol. 18, no. 2, 2013, pp. 1–10. www.jstor.org/stable/10.2979/israelstudies.18.2.1. “Introduction to Shared Narratives” is about the master stories told by the Israelis and Palestinians that are mutually exclusive. Largely because of these separated narratives, it

has become extremely difficult for either side to communicate. This will help the argument because I can explore how losing oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s understanding and feeling of home, especially when forced out, can cause these discourses to grow more and more unlikely.

There Is Still A Someday

Annelise Severtson

You will not call yourself a writer when you compile a jumbled mound of colorful pages and staple them together, declaring “The Princess Horse” as your first book at age seven. Or when you spend countless elementary school recesses indoors, typing up a book without a title about a young girl who is allergic to bees and the strange, confusing story that somehow follows it. Or when you scribble bad poetry on lined loose leaf paper during middle school math classes, writing “Assignment One” in the corner because you’re too embarrassed to be writing poetry just for the heck of it, hoping that if anyone glances over they’ll think your try at poetry is only an unavoidable necessity. You will certainly not call yourself a writer during high school, when your English teachers make you think and laugh but creative writing is obliterated in the face of AP test practice and required readings. You will not write creatively for all of these years, rather finding your business classes fascinating and making it to Nationals in the business competition you spend all of your hours working on. You will sit up straighter when your marketing teacher jokingly asks the class one day “Who do you think will earn the most money?” and the class echoes back your name. The business world will begin to feel like home, and when you apply to colleges you’ll declare a marketing major without hesitation. You will think of English classes and writing as a hobby of the past, the very thought of calling yourself a writer an abstract and distant notion. Freshman year at college will bring economics and calculus and failure. You will soar writing business reports and stumble at nearly everything else. It will not be long before you open a new word document on your laptop, a waiting white page and blinking cursor, and begin to write again. You will sit on the floor outside of your calculus classroom twenty minutes before your first test, writing in your

notebook about the way your mind doesn’t understand numbers the way it craves words and wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake, wondering if maybe it’s not too late to fix it. You will decide to take an Introduction to Creative Writing class because you need to move your thoughts onto a page, an 8:00 a.m. that fulfills zero graduation requirements, and promptly fall in love with writing all over again. You will know that this is something you can no longer ignore. You will count credits and pour over course catalogs until you declare a double major, finally spending one long day in multiple advisors’ offices to declare a writing major. You will still not call yourself a writer. You will soon take a creative non-fiction workshop class in which you tell secrets masked in poetic prose to twenty other students and patiently listen to theirs in return. You will discover the art of the lyric essay and feel your heart open up in a way it hadn’t before: This can be mine, you’ll think. You will announce alluring alliterations and write similes like romantics write love poems. You will write many pieces, sentences, words that you are proud of and many more of which you are not. Still, you will not call yourself a writer. You will not call yourself a writer when you receive positive feedback in workshop. Or when you win an award or a prize or a compliment. Or when you work for 24 hours straight (eating meals in front of your laptop screen and sacrificing sleep) to perfect a portfolio, turning it in with a goofy grin and walking through the university commons feeling electric. You will not call yourself a writer when you leave nearly everything you begin unfinished, jabbing with passion at your keyboard only to leave questions unanswered and sentences cut off once it turns difficult. Or when you write a single line on a clean page in your notebook, deciding it’s the best thing you’ve ever written only to look back hours later and declare it too melodramatic or cheesy or pretentious.

You will beat on; a fiction workshop that makes you view the word “community” in a new and brighter light, a propaganda analysis class with a sweet older professor who teaches you the power of punctuation, a writing seminar that allows you to twist the mundane into something that makes you feel light instead of hollow. Amidst the blinking screens and rushed essays and dragging lectures and letting your heart bleed onto the page, you will still not call yourself a writer. In this new world as a writing major, beauty and magic and defeat will intermingle on stark white pages and in cold plastic seats. You will sit in writing classes where you fake laughter at jokes about famous authors you’ve never heard of and nervous adrenaline will surge while you listen to near-strangers critique slivers of your soul (yes, you will become the type of person to use phrases like “slivers of your soul”) during workshop. Your heart will flutter open when you read a beautiful line of poetry and your eyes will flutter shut when you struggle to stay awake, barely making it past a page of the book everyone else finds intellectually stimulating. In these rooms, you’re allowed to read for pleasure and New York is always a place to live and not just a place to visit. These rooms are filled with eight years of graduate school debt suffocating the air and people who secretly (or, maybe not so secretly) believe they are brilliant and special and going to make it. You will simultaneously envy and resent these people who so freely and confidently believe that they are brilliant and special and going to make it. Soon, a day will come when you ask yourself: What does making it mean anyway? This thing that you’re supposed to strive for, making it, feels invigorating at times and empty at others. Your black spiraled notebooks don’t mind much if you make it or not, the scribbled pages content simply giving a home to the thoughts in your head. And yet . . . what if? What if you invited others into your notebook home? On your sunniest days, you think that maybe your words could matter to others like so many writers’ words have mattered to you. On these days, you think that maybe you will write thousands of

words that no one ever reads and a handful that they do. Or maybe you will declare that you want to be a book editor until the publishing houses tell you that that’s what everyone thinks at first. Actually, they’ll tell you, you’re supposed to be a literary agent or a project manager or an unpaid intern. Maybe you will take classes for years and years until someone finally says “You’ve studied enough. You can tell other people how to study now.” More importantly, you will think, now you can tell other people why writing matters, why they should care. On these days, you will almost call yourself a writer. Months will roam on and you will quietly wonder why you cannot call yourself a writer. What does it mean to be a writer? What does it mean to be too afraid to call yourself one? Your insecurities will spin a web around you, twenty years strong and suffocating. The crumpled papers and virtual recycling bin disasters will lay claim to the word “writer” waiting at the tip of your tongue, taking credit for the leap it cannot make. You will always be your harshest critic, always on the verge of almost good enough. You will be the only one waiting, wondering: When will I call myself a writer? And today, right at this moment, you are supposed to call yourself a writer. A clean ending to a messy piece, a finale of straight lines and clear answers. But today, right at this moment, you will still not call yourself a writer. Instead, you will sit, cursor blinking and feeling altogether confused. You will think of all of the beautiful things you have written and the many more that have brought sickly disappointment. You will think about “The Princess Horse” and your 24-hour portfolio marathon and the way writing a lyric essay fills you like a balloon, lifting you higher than you ever thought you could go before. You will think about all of the people who have claimed their title of “writer” so fiercely and fearlessly, all of the people who have moved you to think that maybe you could claim it too.

Today, right at this moment, you will not call yourself a writer. And yet, there is still a someday. Someday your web of insecurities, all of the failures and disappointments and hesitancies that keep the word â&#x20AC;&#x153;writerâ&#x20AC;? swallowed inside, just may unravel. Someday, hard work and dedication and patience just may give you the confidence to open wide and say: I am a writer.

WHEN I WAS LUCY

Polley Poer

SWEATSHIRT My tiny kid brain was a mirror that only reflected myself. It didn’t matter who was knocking on the door, asking for entry, hoping to take a stroll along my frontal cortex. No, you poor souls, you’re not allowed in. This is a one-woman show. I was four years old when I screamed at my mother for the first time. I told you not to buy me clothes! I roared my tiny little aggravated voice inside my head, wiped my nose, and ran off to my room. I’d told her, if she were going to the store, to buy me a toy. That was all I wanted. Was that so hard? Everybody bought me clothes. I had plenty of clothes. But still, she had walked into the living room with an excited smile and held out a red sweatshirt. “Lucy, I found something you’re going to like!” she’d said. Later that evening, after my insolent tears had dried like paste on my face, I snuck into the living room and brought back the sweatshirt. She’d known me well. On the front, it had a collage of my favorite Disney character. Somewhere in an attic, in a box with all my keepsakes, I still have that tiny red sweatshirt.

POER HOUSE Our house was always quiet enough that you could hear the wind blow through it. Saturday would come, and Mom would be in her room, Dad outside in the yard. He would always leave the backdoor open. As I heard it periodically slam against the doorframe, clunking the shabby blinds along behind it, I would lie in my bed and contemplate my options for the day.

I could play school in the front room. I could watch movies until my head hurts. I could go outside with Dad. I could try to convince Mom to take me to Target. After choosing to go with option four, I would stroll into Mom’s room and find myself hanging my head as I stalked back out. The time was 1:34 pm. Mom was asleep.

DUMB LITTLE SENTENCE I was 6 years old when I wrote a fake, cheesy haiku at the elementary school Mother’s Day brunch. We were required, much to my dismay, to recite a sentence about our moms in a microphone as they all sat and watched. I fought hard to turn my mirror-brain around, to let it show someone else. But everyone in the audience was a blubbering mess. I looked around at all of those women and felt my skin crawl as they sat there, glistening eyes and all, holding their hands to their mouths. Mom cried, I was embarrassed. I hated when she cried. Can’t we just move on and pretend like that touching moment didn’t just happen? Such a dumb little sentence. I was sure she’d tell all my family about it. She stuffed tissues into her purse.

COLD EGGS Sometimes, if I were lucky, I’d wake up on Sundays to find my dad making pancakes. I thought he made the best pancakes. He’d whistle to himself as he stood alone in the kitchen, hovering around the space like it was built for him. Everyone was in bed, the house just as still

and quiet as it ever was. I’d perch myself up at the bar to watch the bubbles grow on top of the rounds. We’d make a full batch. Mix more batter, pour more blobs, flip, flip, flip. Then, he’d decide to make eggs. Then he’d throw in a little bacon, too. “Hey, we’ve got ‘em,” he’d say. “Might as well cook it all!” I’d think about how happy Mom and Sam would be when they woke up to a huge breakfast ready to devour. Dad would tell me “you flip pancakes like a pro” and I’d wonder if Mom flipped pancakes any differently. I’d never know. Dad liked to cook like he was cooking for a party; as if there would soon be a constant knocking at the door while people strolled in ready to eat. We’d have to keep cooking, keep slapping pancakes and stirring eggs. We’d hear their laughter over the loud sizzling of a new slab of bacon on the pan. They wouldn’t be able to get enough. Someone would have to run-to-thestore in their pajamas, pick up more stuff. The coffee pot would never cease its gurgles and hisses. We never quite grasped, however, that the extra eggs would get cold, extra pancakes thrown in the freezer for rushed mornings out the door, bacon given to the dog, and the only meals made out of the Sunday morning feast would be by him and me. A little person inside my head wanted to confront them. Dad and me made breakfast, get up! But I didn’t, I just let it slide, like the leftover eggs into the trash.

THE SILENCE OF LORETTA LYNN I was 12 years old when Mom insisted I watch “Coal Miner’s Daughter”. I don’t think I really even knew what a coal miner was, but I obliged. Somewhere in the story of the country

singer, I was appalled. The husband was a creep, a pig, did they have to have sex like that back then? It was always matters of harsh sexism that sent me into a fit of uncontrollable crying. I’d barely made it 20 minutes into the movie. What just happened? I thought, horrified. Why did he do that? Mom said nothing. She gave me Advil and told me to try to sleep. This happened a lot.

SING SWEET, SING SOFT I was 13 years old when Mom bought me a guitar. In the privacy of my room, door shut, I might’ve tried writing songs. No one ever heard them. Some nights I sat with it in her room and strummed the only six chords I knew. She always videoed me playing as she lay in her bed under the covers. I didn’t know many country songs, but she knew all of them. I’d get out my phone, look up how to play Me and Bobby McGee, and end up skipping a few chords here and there because I couldn’t quite shape my hand like a pretzel along the frets. I hummed along with the tune, far too embarrassed to sing. “Ooh, lemme see it,” Dad would say as he walked in after a day of work. Sometimes he looked like a little kid when presented with a new toy. “I used to be able to play this song.” Somehow, though with much difficulty, in the pings and groans from the guitar, I could hear something by Aerosmith coming from the strings. My dad sung, pitifully, but I just giggled and watched him fumble. Mom didn’t try to decipher the song. She had taken off her glasses and closed her eyes to sleep.

SNOWMAN MELTDOWN I was 14 years old when we decorated her hospital room with Christmas decorations. We bought lights, a little tinsel, even a tiny little green tree that we perched up by the window so she could see it from her bed. We hung her favorite ornaments on it – the crappy ones my brother and I made as kids. Christmas and Mom were like hot chocolate and marshmallows, and if she had to spend the holiday in a tiny hospital room that smelled and looked like the stale remnant of the maternity ward she might have birthed me in back in 1997, peeling blush wallpaper and all, we were going to make it sparkle. By the time we finished, it was still small, but warm and cozy. I spent fifteen minutes gluing fake eyeballs to the foam cutout of a snowman. Mom loved snowmen. We made one for every person in the family. As Dr. Mini-Giant entered, he grinned and nodded at the pitiful display of ten snowmen taped along the window. I grimaced. It wasn’t my best craftwork, but there was only so much to work with in a hospital. “Good news!” Dr. Mini-Giant clapped a massive hand on my brother’s back, nearly punching him out of his chair. His voice boomed like he was announcing a football game. “The numbers aren’t high enough for the transplant. You’re all spending Christmas at home. Be happy!” Mom told me months later, after all the times she went back to see that doctor, he never forgot the December night he made her daughter cry. Hope he’s thrilled, I thought. It was a rarity. I think we ended up hanging the snowmen above our piano. Probably threw the tiny Christmas tree away.

LIFE LESSONS OF ATTICUS FINCH I was 15 when I read Mom’s favorite book of all time: To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s a wonder my brother wasn’t named “Jem”. Scout reminded me of her. She was inquisitive, smart, but never much like the rest of the family. Not as outgoing as her sister, not as outspoken as her other sister, and not a young athlete like her brother. She wanted to make the cheerleading team. I once found out she was devastated when she didn’t. I felt a twinge of that pain. I wanted nothing more in the seventh grade to make the volleyball team. She bought me a present when I didn’t. Mom was different, maybe an outcast. The smart one. The first one to go to college. The quiet one. The extra body in the room. I tell myself she was always thinking as she sat silently in the corner at family gatherings. Sometimes I looked at old picture albums. Mom wasn’t really in that many pictures. She was probably the one taking them. I think Mr. Atticus Finch made her feel better. The wise, intelligent, noble lawyer from Maycomb meant something to her that we never quite understood. The first time I watched the movie, a floating voice was engrained in my head.

“Maycomb was a tired old town.” But the voice wasn’t the narrator’s, it was Mom’s, sitting in the kitchen like she’d lived the story herself.

WORDS FROM ABOVE One night, in my 16th year, she pulled a hat over her ears. She hated wearing hats – even more than she hated wearing her wig – but it was cold. I think she was always cold. That night, she sat upright in her bed, signaling that she was in a good mood. The brown comforter was matted underneath her. When I slowly walked into the room, hesitantly, I wondered if I should release the question I had tucked into my throat. It would be stupid. Don’t bring it up. She’ll probably just nod. What on Earth would she have to say to that? “Mom,” I start, trying to sound casual. Her eyes perk up and see me, acknowledging my call. “I was thinking about entering this writing contest. But I don’t know, I think it might be dumb. I just thought maybe I could earn some extra money.” Maybe the transplant changed her – she says the German woman’s bone marrow she got turned her into a ‘foul-mouth’. But I noticed something rise in her as the corners of her mouth turned up. Her eyes peaked upward, and she spoke. “I love that idea. Write, just write all the time.” She told me.

Later, when I stalked back to my room, I wondered if I’d just seen the light I thought she’d lost years ago. I thought I met a new person, or at least one that had been hiding for 16 years.

CABBIE I’m almost 17 years old when we’re back in the hospital. The third time is the most tense for everyone. My head is pounding, my nose stopped, my eyes so swollen I can barely see the empty waiting room around me. It’s late, probably eleven. The other hospital goers are gone, but it isn’t important for me to worry about school the next day. I’m standing there, shaking violently as my tear-ducts have dried like deserts, when I notice a woman on a hospital bed being wheeled around the corner. She seems to be happy, but dazed, like she’s “goin’ for a ride”. I hide my tissues, wipe my face quickly, and walk to her as she waves at her cabbie to halt. “Hey Lucy,” my mother says to me. Her eyes are swollen like mine, but hers are from the medicine. Her left arm – the one she earlier named “Stan” - lays lifelessly by her side, the cancer having cut off her ability to use it, but she grins without a clue. Her spacey smile frowns almost immediately when she notices my puffy red eyes. “What’s wrong?” What’s wrong? I could’ve screamed. Mother, ‘What’s WRONG?’ We’ve been in a hospital for almost two weeks. You’re sick, and we’ve been doing this offand-on for six years. Nothing has worked.

But this, she doesn’t know. She has no idea. All she knows is that this nice lady in scrubs has taken her for a stroll around the hospital, and her daughter has been crying. “Nothing,” I say simply. I try to smile, but it’s weak. Why would I choose now to tell my mother how I feel? Her eyes question me for a moment, but her airy smile relapses like the sense had just blown out of her. “Okay, well call me if you need me.” She says, and the nurse pushes her away down the hall again.

APARTMENTS AND COOKIES I’m sitting in a pew, the front row, the VIP, hand-in-hand with my first boyfriend. He’s a sweet guy, tall and gentle. Little do I know he’ll break up with me in a year and it’ll kill me almost as much as the casket I’m staring at. Mom’s funeral was good. There’s no other word for it. I didn’t cry, so it was great. Everyone else cried, so it sucked. The flowers and her casket were beautiful, so it was great. She was dead, so it sucked. In the lobby of the church, a couple of women in their mid thirties approach me. They smile sympathetically, give the old “I’m so sorry for your loss, she was a great lady,” spiel, and begin to tell me their peace. “We were her students in her first year teaching English,” the Carroll High class of nineteen-eighty-something tell me. “She used to invite us to her apartment and bake cookies.”

My mom? The woman who just spent the last two years of her post-bone marrow transplant life convincing everyone she started cussing because of her German transplant donor? “One time she bought us journals,” one of them continues. “She told us to ‘write, write all the time.’”

STICKY NOTES Mom wrote everything down. Of course, I never knew this, but as I’m looking through her old jewelry box that afternoon, I find trinkets. Student council pin from the 70’s. She was in student council? Topaz and gold ring. I never saw her wear that… A note from my aunt Lyn on her 22nd birthday. What was she like at 22? Further and further I go, opening random notes, all folded at the corners into neat little pockets that someone told me people my age never make anymore. She wrote down song lyrics, poems, lines about love. They’re all words of wisdom scribbled onto little pieces of fading paper. But all of these things are old, tokens, memories, flashes of the past. A past I never knew, one that I wasn’t a part of. I had opened a treasure chest, a time capsule my mother had once lived in, a sacred space of the person she used to be. And I wasn’t a part of it. I throw the wooden box to my side and think of all the things I’ll never know. Then, I notice a yellow sticky note sticking out from between two scraps of paper. I pick it up, smile, and begin to cry for the first time in a long time. In her handwriting perfect cursive lettering that failed her after she got cancer- the note read:

“Nothing dies that is remembered.”

SCOUT FINCH AND JESSICA SIMPSON The burial was long. My heels – my new Jessica Simpson pumps that she’d have never bought me because “her money would never go to something with ‘Jessica Simpson’ on it – dug into the grass. Poor Jessica, I thought. She met the wrath of one ferocious woman. We got a dog that night. I named her Jean Louise. Scout, for short.

LIST OF ‘NEVERS’ I’m 18 years old when I’m sitting in class; it’s my second semester of college. My fellow students and I sit in a circle. There’s no professor in the room. Why am I in here? I don’t belong here, look at all of these people! That girl over there, you know she knows what she’s doing. But I stop myself. I never entered the writing contest because I thought they’d laugh at my entry. I never told my ex-boyfriend how much he hurt me because I thought he’d think I was crazy. I never applied for scholarships because I thought I wouldn’t get them. I never told my mother I loved the red sweatshirt. A woman enters the classroom, clearly the professor. “Hi everyone,” she smiles as she stands at the front of the room. “Welcome to Intro to Creative Writing.”

SPLASH I’m splashing across the street in electrifying rain, my Jessica Simpson shoes dangling in my hand, laughing at myself for having this terrible idea. I’ve given up on trying to fit my body under my college roommate’s umbrella – I didn’t need it - and begin sprinting. My foot doesn’t hurt. The rain splatters like my screaming laughter. We’re idiots, I think. Even though my toes feel like I could break them off one by one, I’ve never felt more powerful running in the street. I’m sure, somewhere, there are people staring and watching. But I don’t see them. A car comes to a casual halt as we frolic across the painted intersection. It’s only when we’re mere feet in front of it’s bumper that it jolts forward. We scream, sprint, our lungs choking for air between a mixture of panic and laughter. I promise myself that I’ll make up for all the things I should’ve said and should’ve done. In the morning, I’ll make someone go eat eggs with me. I’ll sing to someone - as pitifully as my parents - to my friends. I’ll write as much as I can, and tell people what’s wrong. Maybe someday, I might even write dumb little sentences and shout them out to the people I love, especially when they buy me sweatshirts.

Patrick Kavanagh’s Criticism of Cultural Identity in “The Great Hunger”

Aarika Novelli

“The Great Hunger” is one of Patrick Kavanagh’s longest and most treasured poems, with much of the conversation concerning the role of religion and the implication of hunger. Patrick Maguire, the peasant farmer who narrates the fourteen-section poem, and whose name resembles closely that of the author’s- perhaps intentionally, navigates time and place alongside a consistent, multi-faceted starvation. The stanzas navigate delibaretly and masterfully through the months of the year, with each season bringing its own connotations. The poem’s title, on the other hand, while also referencing the Great Famine of Ireland in the 1840s, perfectly captures Maguire’s consistent hunger for a wife, class-escape, and spiritual understanding, all of which escape him due to the constraints of cultural pressures. Moreover, Patrick Kavanagh in “The Great Hunger” equates religion to depravation, women to sin, and Irish cultural identity to ignorance and poverty as a way of arguing a shared cultural identity can infer eternal oppression as opposed to communal closeness. One manifestation of Maguire’s hunger is in his quarrel to find love. Rather than pursuing a relationship to alleviate his loneliness and sexual frustration, Maguire resorts to guilt-ridden selfpunishment when thoughts of women come to mind. He immediately associates women with lust, and thus sin, where all instances of female attraction are presented in summer months, when the heat that beats down on farmers’ necks and the heat of licentious fantasies are interchangeable. Kavanagh writes “No man could ever see / That their skirts had loosed buttons, / Deliberately loosed buttons. / O the men were as blind as could be. / And Patrick Maguire / From his purgatory fire / Called the gods of the Christian to prove / That this twisted skein / Was the necessary pain / And not the rope that was strangling true love” (Kavanagh 30). The wicked women deliberately seek to tempt the men, yet the men are forced by their culture’s teachings of Christianity to avoid falling for their sinful traps- in spite of the

chokehold it places on their freewill. Critic Allison Muri writes of this expectation that “[i]deals of the male will overcoming sensual Nature persisted even in post-famine Ireland, and such convictions held by the clergy had sober consequences for the largely uneducated peasantry” (67). According to this line of thought, women inhabited nature and the earth while men inhabited the world of spirit and culture, thus suggesting men were higher on the cultural hierarchy, and somehow less moral. Further, place is a subject that cannot be ignored in Kavanagh’s work. The months of the year have heightened significance when relating to sexual tension, where temptation and lust is oftentimes seen in the summer months, a time when one would naturally have images of burning and passion already in place. For instance, Kavanagh writes “[o]ne summer morning / Again through the hay-field on her way to the shop- / The grass was wet and over-leaned the path- / And Agnes held her skirts sensationally up, / And not because the grass was wet either” (Kavanagh 28). Here, Kavanagh paints a picture of forbidden temptation within a backdrop of summer, highlighting once again the sinfulness of flesh and women alongside the depravation men are forced to endure from culture’s expectations. Further, Muri adds “Kavanagh’s expression of bitter anger in The Great Hunger reflects this repressive realm that was Catholic Ireland: the peasant’s hunger following the famine is not a physical starvation but a sexual one” (67-68). The idea that women possess sinful, temptress qualities has been ingrained in Maguire through his strict religious practices, an immensely powerful cultural element in Ireland. Muri writes “For Maguire cannot see the female in other than the limiting terms of Christianity. He cannot see the woman as woman, only as extreme archetypes as the hallowed virgin and the blessed mother or the evil temptress” (69). Each time Maguire is confronted by his natural interest in women, he grabs onto his depraved thoughts and drowns them, feeling both terrified of what a woman could lead him to, and that he is being tested by God to ward off the woman’s temptations. Critic Daniel Murphy

argues that “[s]exual frustration and hunger for love are the main sources of Maguire's disillusionment; he stands “'In the doorway of his house A ragged sculpture of the wind'; the poem refers to 'the enclosed nun of his thought', to 'the purgatory of middle-aged virginity'; he finds 'the hysterical laughter of the defeated everywhere.' He is cut off from the life-giving energies of nature by a distorted morality; the poem projects an image of a place where the life of sense is everywhere extinguished” (Murphy 55). Though he consistently suppresses thoughts of desire, it is clear he seeks respite from his loneliness, noting simultaneously that the relationships he has with his mother and his fields, which he explicitly states are as close as he gets to having a wife, fall short of his needs for fulfillment. Kavanagh writes of Maguire’s sexual hunger: “But his passion became a plague / For he grew feeble bringing the vague / Women of his mind to lust nearness, / Once a week at least flesh must make an appearance” (Kavanagh 22). Clearly, Maguire is undergoing torment in accordance with his firm religious doctrines made mandatory through the social pressures of the community. Henceforth, while Maguire addresses and seeks relief from his suffering, his cultural ties prevent him from acting in a way to resolve his hunger. Though religion and culture can be easily distinguished, in the Irish community- particularly among the peasant class- these elements are not so easily disjointed. As noted by Anthony Keating, “Irish Catholicism will be shown to have been deeply conservative and authoritarian with an overstated pessimism regarding the people of Ireland’s ability to withstand foreign vice without the application of rigid clerical discipline—a feature born of Irish Catholicism’s particular theological underpinning, which led to the Irish people being viewed as ‘children’ in need of ‘parental’ protection and guidance by both church and Nationalist ideologues” (289-90). Because of the rigidity of Irish religion, and its consequent effect on Maguire’s ability to find a wife, or to at least forego the undue pressure of refusing a seeminglynatural inclination to have interest in women, the impact of Irish culture on Maguire’s hunger cannot be

understated. This leads to a stark conclusion by Muri as follows: “[t]hus Patrick Maguire must plant his own seed, not in a woman’s womb, and not even in the fertile earth, but in fertile ground, ashes. His religion denies him the principal natural purpose for his existence- procreation- and thus Maguire’s life becomes a symbol for ineffectuality and impotence” (Muri 71). Thus, the stringent religious teachings in Irish culture restricts Maguire so much romantically as to express Kavanagh’s criticism of potential dangers of communal thought. Though women are often used throughout “The Great Hunger” to highlight religion’s, and, by extension, culture’s impact on Maguire’s sexual depravation, Maguire’s negative characterization and beliefs about women are styled in a way to further cement the problems within community-thought of the Irish peasantry. Women are stripped of traditional positive characteristics such as nurturing and kindness through the unforgiving characterization of Maguire’s mother and sister, Mary Anne, both of whom possess qualities Maguire abhors. Mary Anne’s straddling between heaven and hell with her legs spread open is consistent with Maguire’s understanding of women as temptresses sent from Hell to test men’s devoutness. Meanwhile, his mother, whom he claims as the closest he has to a wife aside from his fields as a way of further cementing the notion that Maguire views women incapable of fostering love, is strict, vindictive, and speaks with venom. His mother also appears to be unreligious, or at least able to discern the inherent supremacy of Nature over religion, despite the pressure she places on her son to be so, highlighting women’s immorality. He describes his mother harshly: “She had a venomous drawl / And a wizened face like moth-eaten leatherette” (Kavanagh 23). His mother therefore represents the strictness and hypocrisy of Christianity as practiced in Irish culture while also maintaining the women-are-less-than motif engrained by the culture through her subsequent rejection of the very religion she forces her son to subscribe to.

Along with Kavanagh’s attention to the unreasonably damaging cultural implications of religion on Maguire to further his criticism of cultural blindness, he also endeavors to justify his criticism through the exploration of a different form of hunger, one that involves class and spiritual understanding. The connected relationship between class and religion is distinct from that of sex and religion, but both serve the same purpose: to question the power society allots to the idea of cultural identity. Maguire’s pursuit of class-escape and religious understanding are intertwined throughout the poem, so these topics are bestserved coupled. Maguire’s perspective is unique in that he is presented as the only one capable of discerning society from an outsider’s perspective, where the others seem unaware or unaffected by their lowly ranks and inability to break free from poverty. While others gather at church to sing praises for the ailments of poverty instilled on them by God, Maguire has doubts, both about whether poverty should be a subject of gratitude and whether religion is any kind of remedy. When in the church, his knees are dusty, implying that prayer is an activity in which he has seldom partaken in earnest despite going through the motions in church, and since the dust came from the church floors, possibly that God has long-ago left the peasant farmers of Ireland. Kavanagh writes later that “[r]eligion, the fields and the fear of the Lord / And Ignorance giving him the coward’s blow / He dare not rise to pluck the fantasies / From the fruited Tree of Life” (Kavanagh 26). Perhaps Kavanagh deliberately capitalized Ignorance alongside that of the Lord and the Tree of Life as a way of displaying the equal influence and weight these all have on Maguire’s sense of self and understanding of religion, where his class-bestowed ignorance prevents him from ever seeking true spiritual knowledge. Maguire seems to realize the culture-driven practice of religion is flawed, as evidenced when Kavanagh writes “God is in the bits and pieces of Everyday- / A kiss here and a laugh again, and sometimes tears, / A pearl necklace round the neck of poverty” (28). It thereby follows that Maguire

himself is not irreligious, rather he is incredibly skeptical of the methods instilled in Irish churches, and how salvation is sought after by the masses through repeated phrases and patterns. Critic Una Agnew contends that “[K]avanagh undoubtedly probed religion further than the average churchgoer of his time. He experienced prayer differently from current Church practice, as he walked alone in his fields and on the hills” (437). While Kavanagh’s understanding of religion is remarkably different than that of the rest of his community, in probing religion further, one finds that he does not necessarily collect deeper or truer spirituality. While skepticism is a common practice in religious theorizing, and is often seen as a crucial milestone in attaining true religious knowledge, that is not how Maguire’s suspicion is intended in Kavanagh’s work. Instead, the skepticism Maguire holds for the traditional, rigid, hyper-procedural religious practices serves, in its truest form, as a criticism against, not merely the church, but the state as well. Kavanagh writes that Maguire “[c]oughed the prayer phlegm up from his throat and / sighed: Amen” (25), clearly holding anti-religious sentiment in the way the culture depicted it as strictly procedural. It is, in fact, the Irish culture that encouraged censorship, discouraged intimacy, and initiated the idea that nature is inherently corrupt, as affirmed by Keating, who writes “[t]he rationale for extending censorship was presented, ostensibly, as a benign act with “Mother Ireland” and the welfare of its people at its heart, ensuring the importation of immorality, particularly sexual immorality, was not allowed to “pollute” the Free State” (292). It is therefore not the church or religion itself to blame for the consequences of its strict implementation in Ireland, but the culture’s integration of said religion in all aspects of society, including the private sexual life of its citizens. Because of this aforementioned effect on intimacy, and because of its ability to manipulate peoples’ beliefs about their class circumstance, the culture’s enforcement of religion is again used by Kavanagh to outwardly criticize cultural identity:

And the grief and defeat of men like peasants Is God’s way- maybe- and we must not want too much To see . . . O let us kneel where the blind ploughman kneels And learn to live without despairing In a mud-walled spaceIlliterate, unknown and unknowing (36). The censorship introduced by Irish culture through strict religious practices has thereby transferred to the peasants as self-inflicting, where they feel it is God’s desire to see them accept poverty gladly as part of His plan. Moreover, Maguire’s unique position to question God and class structure emphasizes the desperation of the poor in the time of the famine as well as a push-back on the idea that a shared cultural identity is necessarily positive. Coming together to sing God’s praises for man-made, systemic poverty seems ill-fitting to Maguire, who desires class mobility while simultaneously feeling powerless to achieve it. This feeling of the odds being stacked against him is characteristic of those in poverty, and is a powerful criticism against the others in the community who blindly accept their living conditions, and even more sightlessly adhere to the idea that God is the creator of their famine. There are several points in the poem where Maguire’s hesitation regarding religion and God is expressed, such as when Kavanagh writes, “His neighbours envied his holy rise, / But he walked down from the church with affected / indifference” (35). However, despite his alleged indifference, religion weighs heavily on Maguire’s life, incurring much of his personal suffering. Critic Murphy argues that “[t]he Great Hunger' emphasizes the reality of suffering, loneliness and hunger for love as the states of feeling and thought which tragic ally define the condition of its protagonist, the bachelor farmer, Patrick Maguire. Images of suffering provide the main

emotional details of the poem, but a deep and affirmative religious significance emerges from the dark particulars of life in the remote rural town land” (53). While true, religion is not some mitigating, salvation-bringing force that solves the town’s, or Maguire’s, problems. Rather, I argue quite the opposite, where religion is used as evidence for culture’s shortcomings in protecting the Irish people. Proving this idea is the fact that Maguire, despite his dedication to seeking the truth in religion’s questions, or perhaps as a result of his dedication, continues to see death as meaningless. Regardless of what religion one subscribes to, nearly all depict the existence of an afterlife and place significance on how one’s life determines one’s position in the afterlife, or some variation of the sort. More generally, religion brings meaning to both life and death, in its most basic form. If Maguire were truly religious as many critics argue, surely he would not see death as an inevitable chain of coming and going. Muri puts forth the notion that “[d]espite his faith and his religion, the peasant’s life is passive, dictated solely by inconstancy in nature, and death results in nothing more than the return to the earth from whence he came” (68). Assuredly, then, religion does not seem to serve Maguire in any of the traditionally positive ways one would expect. Kavanagh sardonically writes, when speaking of Maguire’s death, Maguire is not afraid of death, the Church will light him a candle. To see his way through the vaults and he’ll understand the Quality of the clay that dribbles over his coffin. He’ll know the names of the roots that climb down to tickle his feet. And he will feel no different than when he walked

Through Donaghmoyne” (43). Kavanagh later writes, “Patrick Maguire, the old peasant, can neither be damned / nor glorified: / The graveyard in which he will lie will be just a deep- / drilled potato-field” (Kavanagh 44). Consequently, religion does not bestow on Maguire hope for an enhanced afterlife; rather he will simply lie beneath the earth he has slaved over through his impoverished life; death and life are merely two sides of the same unforgiving coin. Ergo, all religion brings Maguire is the inability to express discontent with the accompanied sense that he must remain hungry for both love and class-ascent if he wishes to adhere to the rigid religious doctrines imposed on him by Irish culture. Despite Maguire’s ability to separate himself from the blind path which the rest of his community follow mindlessly, he is nonetheless unable to detach himself from the ignorance of the peasant farmer. He holds that his fields are his wife, and as a result, Muri argues “[K]avanagh does not consequently exalt in the power of the earth, or clay, or immortality associated thereof, through this juxtaposition; instead, he accentuates the drudgery and monotony and, perhaps, the stupidity of man who depends wholly upon it for subsistence, and who therefore confers upon it undue significance” (68). Maguire’s senselessness leads him to depending wholly upon the land for substance, which affirms the idea that mere dirt is of high importance to the peasants, and emphasizes the emptiness in their existence. Realizing he is trapped within a life of ignorance, Maguire remarks, “Who bent the coin of my destiny/ That it stuck in the slot? . . . O Christ! I am locked in a stable with pigs and cows forever” (Kavanagh 40). Further, it is important to note that “The Great Hunger” was written after the Second World War, a time when many countries faced financial repercussions that led to widespread poverty among the working class, which inevitably led to a decline in faith toward the economy and current political structure. According to Michael O’Siadhail, “The aftermath of the war would see a huge loss of belief in the Enlightenment dream of continual human

progress. The confidence in modernity, so strong throughout the 19th century, was shattered” (54). By addressing post-war sentiment in a previous time period, the time of the Irish famine, Kavanagh is able to make a statement about the cyclical pattern of poverty and suffering, furthering his theme of meaninglessness in life and death, where all events are simply turns of the wheel, and where man is incapable of preventing this. “Clay is the word and clay is the flesh” (Kavanagh 18). Reminiscent of biblical scripture which speaks of the word becoming flesh when Jesus, who faced all temptations but did not sin and died for the sins of others, Kavanagh contends that clay is Maguire’s word and flesh. In so following, Kavanagh is asserting that society has taught Maguire, and others within Ireland, that to die free of sin, one must avoid the sinful temptations of women and remain content with their poverty, which serves only to make their lives miserable and meaningless. Clay, therefore, is representative of that poverty and sexual deprivation, where the only way to make it to heaven is to follow the way of clay. Critic Murphy adds, “[i]ts consequences are to be seen in the silently endured frustrations, the repressed sexuality, the cynicism and loneliness, which Kavanagh sets in ironic juxtaposition in 'The Great Hunger' with the fertility of the clay, and the possibilities of love and light which the whole natural world represents” (56). While Murphy sees the clay as fertile and thereby representative of wholeness and lightness, I argue instead that the clay is more representative of the brute life of the peasant man who knows his destiny is merely to return to the clay he works on daily and to become one with it in a new but equally oppressive way. Ultimately, Maguire’s understanding of religion, though distinct from the other peasants in his community, is still influenced by his class, as evidenced in the powerfully tragic line: “God’s truth is life- even the grotesque shapes of its / foulest fire” (Kavanagh 21). Maguire has been led to believe that to hunger is to live a life worthy of God’s approval. Kavanagh, on the other hand, sees this line of thinking as a rope around the

neck of the individual, but more importantly, as a dangerous indoctrination of ignorant peasants incapable of discerning their own truths from religion. Culture can serve as a positive sense of identity, as a powerful collection of human achievements and knowledge, and can enrich the lives of those who take part in preserving or appreciating it. However, as Kavanagh shows in “The Great Hunger,” culture can also weigh its people down, coerce them into restrictive lifestyles, and encourage passivity, all of which are dangerous and problematic. For a culture to exist in a non-oppressive form, no one must be going hungry.

Bibliography Agnew, Una. “The God of Patrick Kavanagh.” Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review, vol. 93, no. 372, 2004, pp. 437–447. Kavanagh, Patrick. "The Great Hunger." Selected Poems. London: Penguin, 2000. 18-44. Print. Keating, Anthony. "Censorship: The Cornerstone Of Catholic Ireland." Journal Of Church And State 57.2 (2015): 289-309. ATLA Religion Database with ATLASerials. Web. 6 Dec. 2016. Muri, Allison. “Paganism and Christianity in Kavanagh's ‘The Great Hunger.’” The Canadian Journal of Irish Studies, vol. 16, no. 2, 1990, pp. 66–78. Murphy, Daniel J. “Apocalypse of Clay: Religion in Patrick Kavanagh's Poetry.” Studies: An

Irish Quarterly Review, vol. 74, no. 293, 1985, pp. 47–65. O'Siadhail, Micheal. “Patrick Kavanagh: Poet and Prophet.” Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review, vol. 102, no. 405, 2013, pp. 53–67. Tomaney, J. "Parish and Universe: Patrick Kavanagh's Poetics of the Local." Environment and Planning D-society & Space 28.2 (2010): 311-25. Web. 20 Nov. 2016.

The Anonymous Soldier

Steven Culver

Dleen, my wife, cleans up the dinner table early at my request. She tends to our five grandchildren, helping our recently widowed daughter-in-law to send them off to bed. Their reluctance is evident; they are too young to understand the reason behind my demands. Even against their protests, I need not raise a finger. Dleen handles them with authority normally reserved for men. Authority she only dares to exercise in the security of our home. If her dominance over our grandsons is witnessed by another Iraqi man, she plays the chance of being killed in the streets. All in the name of preserving our grandsonsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; honor. The house grows quiet, a flickering candle the only indication that anyone is awake. I watch the flame dance back and forth, knowing my guests will be arriving any minute now. They prefer that the house be dark when they arrive. This faint, primitive light the only thing permitted to indicate which room I am sitting. I always picked the same room, the one with no windows. The one just large enough for me and one other man to sit down and discuss new politics. I hear the slow creaking of the floor and lift my gaze. Through the doorway, across the living room, I see the outline of a rifle. Slowly, smoothly, the rifle enters the living room, carrying a shadow in tow. My guests have arrived. *** The faint aroma of grilled lamb meat fills my nostrils; I can tell we are close to the market now. My grandsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm guides my hand as I attempted to navigate the uneven terrain. My footwear may be antediluvian, but I have adapted well over the years to wearing tire treads for sandals. Reusing the tires is better than burning them, and the callouses on my feet only help cushion any missteps on the rubble.

With age, my feet have grown hard; I cannot feel the ground as well anymore. With age, my vision has grown hard; I cannot see where I am going while walking, much less while driving a car. Since the death of my son, my grandson Ali has become the head of our household. At fourteen years old, he is my caretaker and the backbone of our family. His mother and older sisters are only women, unpermitted to function without the approval of a man. My bones rattle gently as the remains of hand-fabricated bricks crush beneath my feet. The ruins of Kasim Yazin’s home still have not been cleaned up since it was destroyed by the infidels two nights ago. Even in death, he finds ways to make my life more burdensome. It is difficult for me to feel sorry for the rest of his family that was martyred with him. Kasim was an ungodly man, and Allah’s righteous will was bound to catch up to him. I feel no remorse for the men who I help to martyr. The dry, dusty morning air feels good in my nostrils. In the afternoon, the air will grow stale and lightly charred from that harshness of the sand, wind, and burning refuse. Although afternoons were typically safer (martyrs despise the midday heat as well), there were far fewer vendors, and my body is not as well equipped anymore to handle the heat. Despite the longer drive, I always came to this market for my wares; it’s the safest market in town. With few buildings taller than one story, it was unlikely that a sniper would try his hand at one of the Marine patrols in the area. Voices grow louder as we entered the epicenter of the market. The sea of people is thick, a crowd that often attracts the less-talented thieves. It’s foolish to keep money in a pocket in a place like this. I pause for a moment to take in all the sensations of the market. Walls filled with Anti-American graffiti lay juxtaposed next to American markings made during conquering campaigns. Bullet holes are now part of the artwork.

Although my vision is weak, there are still a few groups of figures I can decipher from afar. Even outside the range of their voices, their mannerisms and posture are my cues. To my left were three women making Hobus, a type of unleavened bread forged into its characteristic flat shape by the pounding of appendages. When their arms tire, they put their feet to use, sometimes even pulling their Abaya up to their knees. That was the real treat. Beneath and around me are the shadows of children cutting through the crowds. Surrounding us is a rapid and unending exchange of crumpled swaths of money and the complimentary exchange of leafy vegetables or live animals. A cheap man bargains with a stubborn one. A man throws a fresh batch of lamb on a grill, burning off some of the spices. The brief waft of culinary aroma is a pleasant change from the typical city smells of burning trash and car pollution. I catch a glimpse of an unmistakable shape, the gaudy outline of a Marine on patrol in the distance. Their posture is too stiff for normal people, and the added bulk of their helmets and body armor make them look like disfigured turtles carrying oversize weapons. They are a sharp contrast to the slender men in Dishdasha who surround them, parting their path as the patrol advances through the crowd. Ali could sense my hesitation. “What is it grandfather?” “We should go.” Trouble follows these infidels. I should know; I used to bring some of that trouble their way. It wasn’t worth sticking around to see if a shooting breaks out, or if any of them recognize me. It’s already been two months since I’ve been filtering information to the Americans. In this game, notoriety is not a virtue. *** I have yet to resign from my position as a bomb-maker. Not that I have any control over that situation. If I said no, the martyrs would force me to join their departed ranks. So out of rebellion, I have

been passing off devices that explode prematurely, or not at all. It isn’t worth the risk to leave a breadcrumb trail from a dead infidel back to my doorstep. Equally, it isn’t worth the risk to say “no” to any of Zain Hasan’s underlings. Two months ago, my son was murdered using a device I built. When I heard the news, I knew it was one of mine. I considered suicide. Allah would never forgive me. That night, I fell asleep with wet tears still running down my face and the barrel of my Kalashnikov still against my head. I awoke the next morning still bargaining with myself. This was not my fault. I built the weapons against my will. I was thrown into the middle of the American war. I was given two options: build bombs or die. My long peaceful life as an electrician finally got me into trouble I never could have imagined. I swore revenge. I would kill every single man responsible for this ungodly act of violence. For too long, Zain Hasan’s faction pitted me against the infidels. This gave me an opportunity to learn their networks, information that has already lead to the deaths of 24 martyrs. I was playing the Americans as my puppets, my personal war dogs that I would strategically send out in the night. The day after my son died, Marines raided my home. They came swiftly, and without warning. It was a matter of moments before my hands were bound behind me, my own rug kissing my cheek with its rough lips. All of this before they could even find my collection of explosives and electronics. I made a deal with the devil; all it took was the drop of a name: Ibrahim Ahmed Mussel. I drew one of my trump cards that night. The first martyr was a local cell leader with a few large caches buried on his land. The Marines were obviously pleased with the tune I was singing; they came back two nights later for an encore.

Many nights a week, I confess my sins to a boy not much older than Ali. He’s bright for an infidel, and only comes at night in order to keep suspicions low. He wants to narrow down his target list, and I want my revenge. He has the firepower, and I have the gunsight. All I need to do is point it at my next mark, and they do all the dirty work for me. *** Ali walks me back to the car as quickly as my decrepit body can navigate the war-town landscape. Staying in the market with infidels is a bad gamble; I will buy my wares another day. As we approached the car, a single gunshot cracks through the air, igniting an uproar and a scattering in the market crowd. Only a sniper would fire only one shot. This was good news; most martyrs are sloppy with their weapons, haphazardly scattering bullets into the crowds. Allah knows I’ve had more than my fair share of close calls since the Americans invaded two years ago. At least the sniper will only shoot at the infidels. “Ali, the car. We need to go.” More Marines will be arriving any minute now. And there is no telling how many martyrs are part of this attack. We are sitting ducks in the middle of a battlefield. I climb into the passenger seat of our car. Ali’s breath is heavy as he fumbles to place the keys in the ignition. I reach over and guide his hand, immediately feeling anxiety taking over his body. If only I had the vision to drive this damned machine myself! The car starts. “Ali! Drive!” The rate of gunfire increases, none of it in our direction. The car launches forward, throwing me back into my seat. I let out a sound; I did not expect him to gas it that much. His hands are uneasy; he is having trouble keeping the car in a straight line. A bright light flies by our car, almost scraping the hood. “Grandfather, they are shooting at us.” There is no telling who it was: infidel or martyr. At this point, it doesn’t matter. “Stop the car!” “What?”

If it was the Americans, stopping the car would stop the shooting. If it was the martyrs, nothing would stop the shooting. Infidels shoot straighter than martyrs; stopping is smarter than running. “Fool, stop the car!” Again, I am thrown back into my seat as the car leaps forward. “Damn boy!” He panicked and hit the accelerator. My heart is racing. I try to catch my breath, searching for another chance to repeat myself. My vision narrows. I turn to Ali; fear is an unmistakable facial expression. I weakly reach over for the steering wheel. Crashing the car would stop us. Ali’s fear turns to shock. A high pitched ringing in my ears drowns out all sound. I finally have breath again to speak, but cannot hear my own words. Slowly, the windshield transforms into a spider web. The upholstery pops like corn kernels, sending puffs of cotton from the backrest into the air. The deafening sound of ringing slightly fades, and the heavy rhythm of a machine gun’s barrel could be heard through the whizzes, cracks, and dings of the bullets enveloping us. The car’s engine is dead, and we roll to a stop. I am too traumatized to move at first. I can only look in horror at the unrecognizable bloody visage of the body that used to belong to my grandson. My arms reach out for him, begging him to still be alive.

White Lands, or Anvil Zack Amato The crash of the waterfall shattered the morning quiet. It was early, too early for the inevitable onslaught of tourists, families, and those who couldn’t give a shit about the world around them, but only about how cool some falling water would look on their social media accounts. I had given up social media when I came to Puerto Rico. I didn’t need updates on the people I intentionally left behind. The pool below La Mina was frigid, as always. I ran my hand across its surface, distorting my reflection. I placed my pack on a rock along with my shoes and shirt and dove in. I stayed under, eyes closed, and let myself half-swim, half-drift. When I heard a roar above me, I broke the surface and let the falls of La Mina wash away the week before.

I have repeated this tradition every Saturday for three years. As a college student, it’s tough to find some time alone. But here with La Mina, in the heart of the El Yunque Rainforest, I have found my peace. El Yunque owns me, I’ll admit it. I live for the unmarked trails, echoes of frogs and birds, the feel of sunlight filtered through the tropical canopy. The mountains carry my spirit along sloping paths and sharp breaks. To me, heaven lives in this forest, Mount Olympus is in Sierra de Luquillo, and the gods watch over, under, and around this land with a mystic distance, yet imminence. Others may view El Yunque for what it really is: a bunch of trees and some ups and downs. Some might take it at its word, but even that changes depending on who you ask. Some will call it “white lands,” others “anvil.” It’s all about how you read it, I suppose.

I emerged from the pool with an awkward grace. I sat on a slick stone next to my things, letting the warm March morning dry me. I closed my eyes again. There were soft, distant noises of animals

beginning to wake, putting the symphony of nocturnal creatures to bed. It smelled like rain. I looked up and could just make out a scattering of clouds through the leaves. It would be a few hours still. I reached into my pack in search of my water bottle. I pushed aside some snack bars, then felt my fingers graze the leather binding of my journal. I paused for a moment. Not yet, I thought.

I started keeping the journal about three months after I began visiting El Yunque. I wanted to record my favorite moments in the forest. I have one from each visit. I never leave until there’s an entry for that day. Seems like a good way to live life. Don’t end a day until you have something interesting to say about it.

I took a long drink, replaced the bottle, pulled on my shirt and shoes, and began the hike back up the La Mina trail. I figured to head toward El Yunque Peak. With the rain coming, it would be covered in a calming fog, “the cloud forest.” I could watch the clouds breathe with freshly formed rain. Then they would go on their way, leaving behind the roof of the tropics extending to the sand and the sea. I reached the visitor’s center and trudged forward without looking at the ghastly attempt to commercialize nature. I was nearly out of its range before I heard: “Excuse me!” It was an overeager voice, bordering on shrill. I turned to see a woman jogging clumsily toward me with a man and two children behind her.

A family of four. Typical. Mom, Dad, Daughter, Son. Typical. White. Typical. The children looked more like the mom, thank goodness, even though she was kind of mousy herself. The dad was a

bigger gentleman, balding with gray speckled into his remaining brown hair. He was sweating a bit too much given how mild it was. The daughter, the elder child, was a replica of how the mother would’ve looked if she was thirty years younger, and the son had his father’s nose but his mother’s eyes, straight light brown hair, and thinner body. I’m still wondering why they stopped me, why they couldn’t have just waited a few hours until other confused tourists showed up so they could embark on some blind stagger to their destination together. Probably because I looked local, but not too local. Tan, but not too tan. Hair a dirty blonde, eyes a soft blue, instead of silky black hair and brown eyes. I bet I looked safe to them, like I wouldn’t tempt them into the aura of the jungle. Typical.

The mother smiled at me like we were best friends. “My name is Jolene, this is my husband Greg and our children Mary and Francis.” “Hello,” I said bluntly. “We were looking for someone to take us to…” She hesitated and looked around wildly as if the name of her destination would materialize next to her. “El Yunque Peak,” Greg chimed in. “I’ve always wanted to stand on top of a mountain!” said Francis. Jolene smiled at me again. I wondered if her face could do anything else. “We know there aren’t any formal guides, but we have never been here before.” She left the question part of her question unsaid. The four of them stared at me. There was something pathetically flattering about this situation. I wanted a reason to refuse, but could not think of a

good one. I could tell them I was leaving, but lying is for the weak, and the moment would be even more awkward than this one if we somehow crossed paths again at the peak. I could simply say no, tell them this was my time to be alone. But the boy and his mother had hope plastered on their faces, and the father and daughter didn’t appear interested enough to walk the trail on their own. “Okay, sure” I said. What followed was either a soft gust of wind or their collective sigh of relief. I turned away from them, started walking. Immediately, Francis appeared by my side. “What’s your name?” he asked. I answered. “Do you go by Nicholas or Nick?” Either is fine. “Why are you here today, Nick?”

His query hurt me for some reason, as if this young boy was questioning my general purpose in life rather than my motive for being in El Yunque on this Saturday morning. It’s amazing how children can accidentally touch life’s more hidden nerves.

I looked down at him. He was no older than eleven, and thus carried that youthful optimism that forces itself upon all those too naïve to know better. He was holding my gaze. “I… I always come here on Saturdays,” I finally admitted. “That’s so cool! I wish I could do that!” “Francis, let the man be,” Greg said. “Yeah, kid. Single file once we hit the trail, okay?” “Okay,” Francis said, his grin fading only slightly as he drifted behind me.

We hiked in silence for several moments, and I refocused on El Yunque. It was quiet, the creatures having taken a rest and the wind sitting still for a while. The rainforest seemed wider than before. Like it knew I needed room to breathe. Thanks, I practically prayed to it. When the mouth of the main trail came into view, I stopped and turned to the family. “The trail is about two and a half miles to the top. Change in elevation will be 1400 feet or so. Tell me if you ever need me to slow down or stop.” I paused, waiting to see if they had anything to say. Jolene was smiling again. Greg and Mary’s faces had nothing to offer, and Francis seemed like he would run ahead of me and all the way up the mountain if I didn’t start walking soon. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s climb.”

I’ve found that the start of a hike is actually the hardest, contrary to what most may think. See, at the beginning you have to pace yourself. You can’t start too fast or you’ll burn out halfway through. But you also can’t start too slow or you’ll never pick up enough steam to carry yourself through the whole hike. It’s a delicate balance. Finding it is part of the fun, part of the challenge. Part of the craft, really.

I felt the rain coming when we were about forty minutes into the hike. Greg had already forced us to take five breaks and we were making poor time up the mountain. I knew there was a small shelter up ahead, but we would have to move quicker if we were to get there before the clouds opened. The first drop hit my shoulder roughly a tenth of a mile later. Then a few splattered on the path in front of me. This is always how the rain here starts. Like the sky is trying to decide whether to commit. “Is it going to rain?” Francis asked. I could almost feel his breathe on my pack.

If anyone else had asked this question, I’d have considered them moronic. But as I glanced over my shoulder at the boy, I saw genuine concern in his eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “Come on, there’s a rain shelter nearby.” I quickened my pace, which elicited a loud groan from Greg. Soon we were piled underneath the shelter. It was a simple gazebo that offered a roof, nothing more, but to this family the sanctuary must have seemed God-sent. Greg crashed to the ground. Jolene held fast to her smile as she pulled some snack bars out of her bag and passed them to her family. She offered a bar to me in a fashion that was too motherly for my liking. I waved it away and gestured to my own pack. Then we took a seat next to the others as the rain started to pound down.

I once got caught atop Mount Britton, one of El Yunque’s smaller mountains, in the rain. This was before I started the journal, otherwise there would be an entry. It was October and the rain was cold, the only sign Puerto Rico would ever offer that it was supposed to be autumn. I remember thinking that back in Raleigh this rain would be striking orange and yellow and red leaves. But watching the powerful green of the rainforest at first recoil at the drops then strike back with an upward flip filled me with a sense of security. This was the last time I had thought about Raleigh, until now.

I could sense the family was getting restless after the rain had been falling for half an hour or so. They were starting to speak in short, jittery phrases. From what I gathered, they were from Cincinnati, Francis was, in fact, eleven, Mary had just started high school, and Greg was an accountant. Jolene turned to me. “So tell us about yourself, Nicholas,” she said.

I hesitated. “What do you want to know?” “Are you from here?” “No ma’am. I go to school here. I’m from North Carolina.” “Oh goodness, so far from home,” she said. Without thinking, she touched Mary’s shoulder, but her daughter flinched and she pulled her hand away. “Do you miss your family?” “No.” I hoped that my tone would deter Jolene from that line of questioning. Fortunately, Greg took over. “What are you studying?” he asked. “Environmental science.” “Is that why you’re out here?” “It’s a convenient excuse, at least.” Not a lie, just not the whole truth. Francis plopped down next to me. “I want to be like you when I grow up,” he said, once again thrusting his full attention and interest upon me. “Francis,” Jolene said, shocked. “I don’t know about that, kid,” I told him. “You seem so happy here, though. That’s what I want!” “What makes you think that?” I asked. I was genuinely curious. “You smile at the trees,” he replied.

I’ll be honest, Francis bothered me. He is ten years younger than me, but he seems to have a better grasp on himself than I have on myself. A better grasp on me than I do. What is your secret, Francis? And don’t tell me it’s just youth.

The sky gave up and began to clear after an hour. I stood and walked out from under the gazebo. Small rivulets traced curling paths along the rock wall. The leaves high above still dripped lazily. As the sun began to beat through the scattering clouds, the air became thick. Greg was going to love this. I turned back to the family; they were beginning to gather their things. “It’s probably going to be slippery the rest of the way,” I told them. “We can turn back if you want.” Jolene was, of course, grinning again. “Of course not! We’ll keep going.” Francis nodded vigorously in agreement. I took Greg and Mary’s lack of reaction as consent with the family matron. I only raised my eyebrows in response. I turned away and stared into El Yunque as they finished preparing. The forest seemed to speak: “I’m still here. Battered, but here.”

It pains me to admit, but I started to think about this family during the second part of our hike. What are they like when they aren’t out of their element, when they are resting comfortably in their Cincinnati home? I imagine that they live in some two-story house, the children’s bedrooms hidden upstairs to give the parents some peace. I bet Mary spends every second in her room, and Greg plops in front of the TV in the living room watching MSNBC. He seems the type. Jolene is probably one of those who treats her iPad like a third arm, and Francis… I think Francis would deploy his time in the backyard. Doing what, I don’t know. But just being out there, using the space. Going to that one big tree in the back corner, trying to climb it, getting a little closer every day until he finally reaches the top when he’s thirteen. Running

between the hedges that separate his world from the neighbors. Exploring with insatiable curiosity. Playing with their dog. I bet they have a dog. Golden Retriever. The dog and Francis are best friends. Family. They run and play together, watch movies together. Cry together, sometimes. When the dog passes on long before Francis is ready, he will hurt, hurt worse than anyone. He’ll feel like, with the dog, his connection to the rest of his family will also pass on. Things will start to fall apart. Nothing will ever be the same. He will spend much of his time in that big tree in the backyard, becoming friends with the branches and the leaves. He will let the wind speak to him, tell him the secrets of the universe that were meant only for his ears. He will inevitably leave, feeling like he was abandoning the tree more than his family. They had barely spoken in a few years anyway, why would it matter if he left? But the tree. The tree would miss him, and he the tree. But both would continue to grow, to spread their roots. Just in different places. I hope, for Francis’s sake, that I am imagining his life wrong.

We came to my favorite spot on this trail. It was a fork, but they wouldn’t know that. To the left, the trail wound to the peak, only about a tenth of a mile walk. To the right was a mess of branches and leaves that extended over a hidden path. I paused and took a deep breath. There was less oxygen here, but only to trained lungs. The family would only be breathing humidity and exhaustion at this point. I turned back to them. “Are any of you afraid of heights?” I asked. Jolene, Greg, and Francis all shook their heads, and I was again forced to assume an answer from Mary’s nonresponse. I made a move toward the branches. “Um…” Jolene started. “Come on,” is all I offered back.

I pushed through to the other side of the branches, heard the others struggling behind me. A few steps away were rocks, climbable, that extended about ten feet up. I scaled them rapidly from muscle memory and stood on the rock platform above.

The outcropping offers the best view of El Yunque. Better, in my opinion, than the official El Yunque Peak. The view from here is unbounded, unaltered by man. Here is where Nature allows Man to dangle on the precipice and witness her true glory. Here, I feel limitless.

It took a few minutes but the four of them made it onto the small plateau. They were obviously cautious, but something else crept in quickly. Awe. I watched their faces. Jolene, gripping Francis’s shoulders as if he would be blown away any second, scanned the treetops below. Francis focused intently on the beach beyond the forest. Greg observed the mountains. Mary spun slowly, absorbing the whole scene. All had mouths slightly ajar and eyes wide. I quietly climbed down from the plateau to allow them to experience this for themselves. Mary was the first to come back down. I realized she hadn’t said a word the whole hike. “Family dragged you on this trek, huh?” I asked, suddenly curious. She gave me a stare that was somehow simultaneously blank and forceful, then she focused her attention on her backpack. I knelt down, not close to her, but close enough to be noticed. She continued to dig around inside. I pulled off my own pack and opened it. I took deliberate time to find my water bottle, then pretended to still look when I had my hand on it. She looked at me, and I looked back. She raised her eyebrows, and I cocked my head. She looked away, and I stood up.

There was a softness in the way she sat down then, like she had just discovered a vulnerability to life that had been unknown to her before. I empathized with her for the first time; learning you are not impenetrable is a leap for a lonely child. She glanced back at me when I had stared for too long. She turned away quickly and her body tensed. I felt her presence turn to gravel once again. The others came down from the outcropping together. Francis was recounting every detail of what he saw, though if he was talking at someone or for his own recollection I could not tell. Jolene was smiling wider than before, which I did not know was possible. Greg seemed more content than he had all day. I gave them a moment to gather themselves again, then I turned toward the peak.

The peak drew a similar, yet somehow less authentic reaction from the group. Reaching a final destination always seemed to manufacture a required response rather than allowing instinct to take over. We spent about twenty minutes up there. The journey back to the visitor’s center proceeded smoothly. Greg seemed to enjoy the downslope much more. Their time on the rocks and at the peak had clearly vitalized the family, and they were interacting with a passion and spirit I had not yet seen. I caught myself smiling a few times. “You guys know how to get out from here, right?” I asked when we stood at the end of our time together. “Yes, we do,” Jolene said, beaming once again. “Thank you for everything, Nicholas. It was a wonderful day.”

Francis ran up to me. For a moment, nothing moved. We stared at each other. Finally, the corners of his mouth curled up. He extended his hand to me. I laughed at the formality but responded in kind. “Goodbye, Nick,” he said. “Bye Francis,” I said. Good luck, I thought. Satisfied, the boy turned to his mother. The two of them began to walk away, and Mary immediately followed suit. Greg shook my hand. Along with a brief, “Thanks,” he offered me some folded bills. I shook my head and waved it off. He shrugged, nodded, and sauntered after the rest of his family. As I watched them walk away, I felt something leave me. But I also felt something arrive. I sat down on the nearest rock and reached into my pack. I pulled out my journal and pen, flipped to the next blank page, and began to write.

Sophia

Jack Inguanti

INT - BEDROOM - MORNING

A slow moving shot of SOPHIA as she’s lying in bed in the morning. It’s as if we are the person lying next to her. Bright sunlight pours into the room and glows on the white pillows and sheets. Sophia’s eyes open and she smiles warmly. CUT TO: Title Card: Sophia INT - LIVING ROOM - DUSK We’re at Sophia and Andrew’s house- a modest, two bedroom place perfect for a couple in their late twenties. The house is clean, but not immaculate. Neither of them are neat freaks. Sophia is sitting on the couch eating popcorn while talking to her mom on the phone. INSERT- VIDEO GAME CONTROLLERS INSERT- ACOUSTIC GUITAR ON A STAND INSERT- PICTURE OF ANDREW AND SOPHIA ON THEIR FIRST DATE SOPHIA Yeah mom I’m being productive. I actually went for a run earlier. Oh wait, (almost under her breath) no that was yesterday. Sophia drops a few pieces of popcorn on her shirt and quickly retrieves them. ANDREW enters, looking like he’s about ready to leave. He gives Sophia a quick kiss. ANDREW I’ll be back in a couple hours. Okay, love you.

SOPHIA

Andrew opens the door and is about to walk out. SOPHIA Wait, Andrew, my Mom want to know when you’re gonna propose. Andrew gives Sophia a look. This isn’t the first time he’s been asked.

(CONTINUED)

[Type here]

CONTINUED: ANDREW Should I do it right now? Ask her. SOPHIA Mom, should he do it right now?...No she said that would be quite lame. ANDREW Damn, well I’ll think of something. Cya. Bye babe.

SOPHIA

We linger on Sophia for a few seconds. She’s just smiling, listening to her Mom. She looks very content. CUT TO: EXT - BAR - DUSK Andrew is walking towards the entrance to the bar. As he’s about to go in, he opens the door for a couple that’s just leaving. They seem to be fighting. The woman is walking faster in front of the man with her arms crossed and the man follows behind trying to explain himself. Neither of them thank Andrew. He looks at them for a moment and then walks in. INT - BAR - DUSK INSERT: TWO BEER BOTTLES BEING UNCAPPED INSERT: BEERS BEING SLID TOWARDS ANDREW AND MATT Andrew and MATT are sitting next to each other at a typical looking sports bar. The lighting is dim and classic rock plays on the radio. Matt and Andrew have been friends since their sophomore year of college. Matt is a little less good looking than Andrew. He wears a blue collared shirt and jeans. We jump forward just a few minutes into their conversation. ANDREW Okay so run me through this again. MATT About a week ago Kate told me that she had never gotten high, not once. I don’t really smoke weed but I figure it’d be fun. So I picked up a few brownies from Dave..

(CONTINUED)

[Type here]

CONTINUED:

Of course.

ANDREW

MATT (CONT.) And we each took one, ordered Chinese, and watched The Avengers. Then, the next morning at breakfast, she said that she had realized in her "enlightened state" that she wasn’t reaching her full potential in life. And she thought that in order to do so, she had to start fresh...which apparently involved breaking up with me, among other things. ANDREW What kinda other things? MATT I don’t know I can’t remember...I think she’s gonna die her hair red or something. A beat. ANDREW So basically...a pot brownie ended your relationship. MATT Yes, it would appear that way. There’s a beat, and then they both just start cracking up. There’s no more tension at all. ANDREW (still cracking up) A toast- to single Matt. Andrew and Matt clink bottles and they each take healthy sips. The camera tilts down and a timelapse shot shows much many more bottles appearing on Matt’s side, but still only one on Andrew’s. It’s about a half hour further into their conversation. INT - BAR - NIGHT MATT We kinda just stopped having fun too. I honestly can’t remember us laughing a whole lot the past few weeks. I don’t know...I guess it could’ve been my fault. (CONTINUED)

[Type here]

CONTINUED:

Andrew is still listening but his mind begins to drift. He starts to think about his own relationship with Sophia. CUT TO: INT - BEDROOM - MORNING Andrew and Sophia are sitting in bed with a bag of trail mix. They’re picking out the raisins and trying to make them in the trashcan across the room. ANDREW No, not the cashews. Andrew picks the cashew out of her hand and eats it. Just the raisins.

ANDREW

Matt throws one and sinks it. They both yell and high five. ANDREW Alright that’s two for me come on. Okay, Okay.

SOPHIA

Sophia takes a deep breath. She shoots a raisin and scores. We hear them both celebrating out of frame. INT - LIVING ROOM - DAY Andrew is teaching Sophia how to play Mario Kart. ANDREW Okay now drift, drift. SOPHIA I really don’t understand what that means babe. ANDREW Hit the right bumper! See, you fell right off. Sophia just falls back in frustration. ANDREW Come on, I believe in you. This is a hard track.

(CONTINUED) 89

[Type here]

CONTINUED:

SOPHIA Why would you start me out on the hardest track!? ANDREW That’s how you get better! INT - KITCHEN - AFTERNOON Andrew is making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the kitchen. He’s spreading peanut butter onto one half of the bread when Sophia walks in and pulls his pants down. She walks away laughing- victorious. Then Andrew takes the half of bread and playfully reaches towards her face, like he’s about to smear it all over her. CUT TO: INT - BAR - NIGHT INSERT: TWO DARTS HITTING A DARTBOARD Matt retrieves his darts and Andrew steps up to throw. MATT A couple weeks ago I told her she had too much perfume on and she literally left the room. As if I had just said, "Hey babe, how was your day? You kinda smell like you’re dead". We couldn’t jab at each other at all without things getting all weird and uncomfortable. CUT TO: EXT - SIDEWALK

- DAY

Andrew and Sophia are running together and Sophia is starting to gain a serious lead. ANDREW Could you please slow down for a minute. SOPHIA Didn’t you do track? Andrew stops and put his hands on his knees, panting.

(CONTINUED)

[Type here]

CONTINUED:

ANDREW Yeah ten years ago! And I was a thrower. He whispers "Dammit" under his breath and tries to keep running. INT - APARTMENT - DAY Sophia and Andrew are standing by their door just about to leave for lunch. Andrew opens the door and starts nervously cracking his knuckles as he sometimes does. Ready to go? Yep.

ANDREW SOPHIA

Sophia notices Andrew cracking the knuckles on his right hand. SOPHIA Babe I love you but you have to stop doing that. It’s a bad habit.

ANDREW

Sophia begins to walk out the door. SOPHIA I’m just saying that if you had been doing that when I first met you I probably wouldn’t be here right now. Andrew stiffens up and pauses before he leaves. He makes a point of stretching his fingers out. Brutal.

ANDREW

INT - DINING ROOM - DAY Andrew and Sophia are seated at the dining room table having a steak dinner with red wine. SOPHIA How’s the steak?

(CONTINUED)

[Type here]

CONTINUED:

Andrew tries to answer but he just can’t stop chewing. He puts his finger up as to say- ’wait’. He keeps chewing. A few more seconds and he’s finally able to swallow his steak. He pauses for a second and thinks of what to say. ANDREW Do we have any ice cream? INT - BAR - NIGHT Matt throws a dart and then seems to have an epiphany. MATT And she was really bad at driving too. Andrew nods his head as to say- "Yeah, I know what you mean" EXT - CAR - DAY Sophia is driving and Andrew is in the passenger seat. She’s trying to parallel park in a pretty tight spot, and she keeps trying to adjust it with these jerky movements. We see Andrew’s face, and it’s just this look of quiet submission. Clearly this has happened before, and it’s really not worth trying to help her. CUT TO: INT - BAR - NIGHT Matt and Andrew are now sitting in a booth in the corner of the bar. At this point they’ve been there for about 2 1/2 hours. Matt is still drinking beer, but Andrew has switched to Coke. Their demeanor is more serious now. MATT I don’t know man...I’ll still miss her. Being single is fun but, at our age it gets old fast. It’s just nice to have someone to come home to. CUT TO: INT - BEDROOM - AFTERNOON MATT (V.O) Someone who’s there when you need somebody. (NO AUDIO)

(CONTINUED)

[Type here]

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Andrew is sitting on his bed talking on the phone with his boss. Initially he’s nodding his head and he seems hopeful, but then his face turns cold and the hope drains from his appearance. He manages to shake out one more nod and a polite "thank you" and then he hangs up the phone. He just sits there for a moment, and then puts his head in his hands. His breathing becomes labored, and tears well up in his eyes. Sophia comes into the frame and sits next to him. She doesn’t say anything, she just wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his shoulder. The camera moves back in the hallway and they both slowly leave the frame. INT- BAR - NIGHT MATT I’m sorry man I’ve been ramblin’. What about you? How’s Sophia? Andrew is still somewhat lost in thought, but he comes to. ANDREW Yeah we’re doing great man. It’s gonna be... He pauses for a second, he’s taken back by how long it’s been. ANDREW (CONT.) ..three years on Saturday. MATT Three years...holy shit. A beat. Matt raises up his drink. To Sophia. To Sophia.

MATT ANDREW

They clink bottles and each take sips. CUT TO: EXT - BAR - NIGHT Music starts to slowly build in the background. Matt and Andrew are walking out of the bar as two girls about their age walk past them. Matt’s head turns on a swivel and he start to walk towards them, but Andrew is quickly there to yank him back in the right direction.

[Type here]

EXT - MATT’S HOUSE - NIGHT We see Andrew walking Matt towards his door, Matt is kind of slumped on Andrew’s side, struggling to walk in a straight line. EXT - ANDREW AND SOPHIA’S HOUSE - NIGHT Andrew pulls up in front of his house, takes the key out of the ignition, and just pauses for a second. His mind is racing with images of Sophia- images of her smiling, dancing, laughing, crying. He thinks to himself, "3 years...3 of the best years of my life". It’s hard for him to comprehend. He looks towards the house, thinks for a few moments, and then his mind is made up. There’s no turning back...this is long overdue. We see him walking up the stairs, practically running in eagerness. INT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT The music is almost to its full build. Through a back window, we get a view of their living room, this shot holds throughout the scene. Sophia is walking towards the couch as Andrew walks in. He drops to one knee and pulls a small box out of his jacket pocket. Sophia puts her hands over her chest in shock. She can tell by Andrew’s face that he’s serious this time. He speaks, and we can clearly make out the words through the window- "Will you marry me?". Sophia is still but then starts nodding and can’t seem to stop. Matt pops up and they embrace each other- holding on tight. CUT TO BLACK

Systems

Hayley Zablotsky

I didn’t use to tell people I went to kindergarten at a cult school. The reason for this, of course, was because I didn’t realize I went to kindergarten at a cult school. I didn’t realize that it was even remotely cult-ish until many years later. I’ve been told that everyone involved with cults says something to this effect. My parents didn’t want to send my older sister and me to “normal” public school because the public school system in California is a steaming disaster. I’ve been told. I wouldn’t actually know, because I never went to “normal” school. My sister Kaitlin and I understood in a vague sense that “normal” school was bad on account of the System. Our parents didn’t want us in the System. “What do you think happens there?” I asked Kaitlin one time. “Terrible things,” she told me. Two years younger and immensely respectful of Kaitlin until she said something I didn’t agree with, I clicked on my flashlight and pointed it at her face like a spotlight. We had the covers on her bed over us like a tent. It was stuffy and close, the perfect place for paranoid speculation. “Like what?” I prodded. “What kind of terrible stuff?” “System-y stuff that happens in the System.” “Oooh,” I said like I knew. But I didn’t. I have since come to the conclusion that the terrible stuff must include the following: socialism, crack cocaine, pregnancy, and unwholesome cafeteria lunches.

The name of the cult is Waldorf. No, I did not go to kindergarten at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. This is an important distinction. Although the image of kindergarteners wreaking havoc at a five-star hotel is definitely something that appeals to me -- Play-Doh food for room service, Legos blending in with the hallway carpet designs and causing tremendous catastrophe, glitter glue smeared across the elevator buttons -- it was not my reality. Waldorf the school is different. And not. A luxury. Hotel. The first Waldorf school was established in 1919 in Germany near a cigarette factory for the factory workersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; children. The school took on a philosophy and a spirit, thanks to thinkers Rudolf Steiner and Emil Molt, and spread around the world. Spread all the way to the Northern California suburbia of my childhood. The philosophy is Anthroposophy. I think the general idea here is that spiritual development can lead us to change ourselves and the world for the better. The importance of the spiritual dimension cannot be emphasized enough. Think about long flowing skirts and denim jumpers. Think about Mother Nature and the people who love Her. Think about bread made with Ancient Grains and seeds that you havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ever heard of. Think about triangular harps and lavender water. Think about Middle Ages music. Think about faeries, spelled with the e and not childishly spelled fairies with the i. Think about gnomes -- real ones that live underground, not the ugly cute ones your grandma has in her garden. Think about hand-made lanterns. Think about acorns and pinecones. There. Hold that image -- that rustic twine of images -- and then inhale them with the scent of a lit unscented candle, earthy and warm and somehow hallucinogenic. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Waldorf.

There were two kindergarten classrooms: Red Rose and White Rose. I was part of the Red Rose Kindergarten. And though I wouldn’t say there was outright hostility between the two classrooms, I will tell you that I had exactly zero friends in White Rose Kindergarten. I think when you’re part of something as spiritually cohesive as Waldorf, you sort of ache for conflict. Some kind of party lines. Some kind of war that will make you awaken from the waxy stupor of oneness with Mother Nature. But any inklings of hostility were kept hush-hush. We found the White Rose kids to be babyish, and no doubt they found us to be stuck-up. But our teachers never knew this. Instead, our teachers taught us songs about spring time and setting ponies free and made us snacks of rice cakes and almond butter.

Inside the kindergarten, the dolls are faceless and cloth. There is no Play-Doh; instead, real beeswax dyed different colors. We learned to knit. We chopped vegetables for Stone Soup; the person who gets served the stone will have good luck -- that is, if they don’t break a tooth or choke on the real pebble. We took nature hikes to Crystal Mountain, where we were instructed to bash small rocks open with larger rocks in hopes of finding something beautiful inside. Our PE was a strange physical medium called Eurythmy, which attempts to transform music and speech into physical movement and bodily artistic expression. Not quite dancing, not quite yoga, not quite like anything you’ve ever seen before. We celebrated Michaelmas day, which included an elaborate reenactment complete with happy village people and a dragon slaying. We danced around the maypole on May Day, wearing real flower crowns and weaving the ribbons tightly and intricately around the pole. Maybe none of these things shock you. But you might be interested to know that they go on all the way through Waldorf high school. Faeries and pagan holidays and things don’t stop after kindergarten. They never stop.

We didn’t have a class guinea pig or goldfish. But we did raise silkworms. Silkworms are fascinating and, for lack of a better word, just plain wonderful. You have to refrigerate their eggs until it’s the right time of year, and then they hatch, tiny specks. They grow to be the size of your pointer finger, gray-white and soft, marshmallow-y but dense. Their bodies look textured like papier-mâché but feel as smooth as the inside of your wrist. Their stout little feet stick to your skin as they meander -- step and peel and step and peel -- up your arm, but they leave no residue. They eat only Mulberry leaves, and if you listen very closely, you can hear them munching. It was never clarified for me, though, whether they have teeth or not. They have funny black eyes with a constant expression of concern and pinkish brown noses. I know these worms sound fantastical, something out of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but they’re as true as anything. You can Google it. We kept them in shoeboxes, lined with Mulberry leaves. The humid little ecosystem smelled like cardboard and warmth and the color gray. Silkworms spin cocoons and emerge as moths. The cocoon is the silk. Yes, I mean literal silk thread. Where did you think your silk lingerie came from? In order to gather the silk thread, you have to unravel it while the silkworm is still inside transforming into a moth. This kills the little creature, but it’s the only way to gather the silk intact. When the moth chews a hole through the cocoon to escape, the silk thread is ruined. They’re tiny friends. Sweet, sacrificial companions. Their gentle weight as they crawl along your arm quietly announces I’m here, but don’t mind me. I really loved those silk worms. “Hayley. Hayley.”

“Sorry -- what?” I get really excited reminiscing about silkworms and suddenly have the feeling that my name has been shouted by someone in the real world a few times. “Earth to Hayley. I thought you hated bugs.” It’s my roommate Rebecca. And she is right. I’ve said many times that I hate bugs. But. “Silkworms are not bugs,” I say, indignant for them. “They are the larvae of domesticated silk moths.” It is moments like these when I wonder if I’ve truly escaped at all.

I guess I should pause here and make this clear: I never felt trapped, and I never felt any sort of sinister force at work. I thought I was a normal child attending a school of relatively normal children. We played, we sang, we went on walks, we learned what plants were okay to eat. These aren’t bad things, and it certainly wasn’t until much later that I realized there was anything strange about my early schooling whatsoever. In fact, it wasn’t until college that the word cult even came into the dialogue. “It was not a cult,” I said, laughing, the first time Rebecca called it that. “It totally was,” she insisted. “Listen to yourself. Normal kindergartens don’t teach kids how to -what’s it called? -- do that thing to wool.” “Card,” I said automatically. “Card wool.” Carding wool is when you take two course brushes -- they kind of look like dog brushes -- and brush fresh sheep’s wool between them to soften and separate it for spinning. It’s really very soothing. “Exactly. That’s not normal.” “Normal is overrated,” I like to say. I think there was some brief point in my life when I thought I might be normal,

that I might like to be normal. Note that I have since given up this notion entirely.

Punishment. Every child must experience it. Are you worried? Are you excited? Eager and salivating to hear what strange and terrible atrocities the cult leaders inflicted upon us? This kind of thing is a spectator sport for you, isn’t it? A delicious kind of wide-eyed torture. You can’t believe I lived that way, can’t believe you weren’t there to rescue me from it. You love that you weren’t there to rescue me from it. From what? Time-outs. The patronizing use of “we” as in “We don’t hit our friends” and “We don’t throw things at people.” Getting sent home early. Did I lead you astray? Or did you lead you astray? Did you think they locked us in basements? We were punished in much the same way as “normal” kids at “normal” school. Gently but firmly. Instructively. There was one thing that might be of interest to you animals, though. The Golden Ball. The Golden Ball was a sort of timer. The teachers had a ball of mysterious golden material stored in the freezer, and the kid in timeout had to stay in timeout until they warmed the ball completely in their tiny, miscreant hands. As someone whose hands are perpetually cold, I find this exercise cruel. In preparation for this punishment, the teachers would develop wispy, melodic voices and sing, “Hayley, you may come to me.” To which Hayley thought, melodically, oh SHIT. The reason for the singing leading up to Golden Ball timeout remains unclear to me to this day. Sometimes I like to picture people fighting in song like this, scolding, lashing out -- all in the slowed down rise and fall of a melody.

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I don’t remember how long it usually took to warm the Golden Ball, but I do know that time works differently for squirmy kindergarteners. I also know that frozen meat can take hours to thaw when left to sit on the kitchen counter. Mostly I wouldn’t know about the Golden Ball anyways because I was a cooperative child and generally a suck-up, which meant that I didn’t personally experience the Golden Ball with much frequency. Perhaps it was fear that kept me and my cold little hands in line. Maybe this is what you were expecting -- a spherical torture device nestled among the frozen peas. Maybe not. If this is what you wanted to hear about, you’re welcome. If it’s not gruesome enough for you, I apologize.

They say that people join gangs often because they want to feel like insiders. They want to be a part of something bigger than themselves. They want to be part of a family. And this might be because they are gluttons for acceptance or maybe because they have no other family to speak of. It’s not my place to say. These are only things I’ve heard. But it makes sense to me. I think humans are herd animals. Just watch a group of girls all get up from the table to go to the bathroom in a pack. Just watch a soccer team huddle before a game. Just watch a tour group stumble through ancient ruins, clinging to each other. We like each other. We need each other. And so we form groups. We form cults. Or we join them.

I asked my mom about Waldorf the other day. She laughed and fondly called them the Wal-dorks. I asked her if she thought it was a cult. She laughed again and rolled her eyes in the way she does when I’ve said something questionable and melodramatic. I told her that a lot of people think it’s a cult, that I’m starting to think it’s a cult. And she laughed some more and shrugged.

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“Maybe it is,” she said. “But that kindergarten is best kindergarten on Earth, and you know it. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” I know she believes this to be true, or she wouldn’t have sent my sister and me to school there.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d stayed at Waldorf. We could have stayed there all the way through high school. We could have taken on the lifestyle for the rest of our lives. If we’d stayed any long than we did, I think we might have stayed forever. I could be running barefoot through a field right now, my legs tan and pocked with the white scars of exploring Mother Nature unprotected. I’d be snagging leaves of Miner’s Lettuce to snack on. I probably wouldn’t be registered to vote. I might make my own soap. I wouldn’t have an iPhone. Hopefully I’d know how to read by now. And I feel with an unexplainable certainly that I’d have pet goats. But we did leave Waldorf. And my reality now is one of a different universe. The only scars my legs have came from shaving while my skin was prickled with goosebumps. I eat pre-washed organic spinach, packaged in sealed plastic. I voted. I spend way too much money on hand soap that smells like desserts and fruity little drinks. I’m planning to update my iPhone soon. I read constantly. The last goat I saw was at an overpriced petting zoo at the fair. And sometimes I wonder if this is what it means to live in the System.

So what am I supposed to do with all of this? With this halfway cult, with the stories and the faeries? I’ll tell you. I went to kindergarten at a cult school. I was in a cult.

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It’s all become a party trick. Something I say to fuck with people. A second date story. But the frequency at which I tell it, the amusement it elicits -- these things don’t diminish its sacred place in my memory. I loved kindergarten. And I don’t say this in an offhand way -- oh, I love feta cheese, too, it’s like my favorite cheese ever. No. I loved kindergarten. Truly, dearly loved it. Those days were some of the purest, most magical of my life. There’s no shame in running with faeries. You might find that they’re better, lovelier, than the people you know in the System of the real world. If you let them, if you fall back into their gravity, they might teach you things you’ll need to know someday. Or just things. Things that make the world a more scintillating place.

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Love Me Tinder

Hayley Zablotsky

http://personal.tcu.edu/jasonhelms/Games/Zablotsky/index.html

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Our Duty: Stop the “Brink of Collapse”

Olivia Heinen

Hunting and fishing are extremely common outdoor activities in my home state of Louisiana. Many Louisianans hunt for mammals in the woods as well as fish for aquatic animals in lakes and the Gulf of Mexico. Growing up, I had always heard about the strict limits placed on hunters but not fishermen. There are no fishing limits in order to protect communities and/or economies from disaster as “fisheries are a vital component in the livelihoods of people in many parts in the world, in both developing and developed countries” (Easton 209). This has resulted in overfishing, or the fact that “fishermen have started capturing more and more fish at a rate that is much faster than they can reproduce and replenish the water bodies with more fish” (Jetson). These irresponsible fishing practices have also caused problems such as habitat loss, water abstraction, and pollution. Even though humans are taken care of, the fish are not. Ocean fish numbers are on the “brink of collapse”, therefore, several steps should be taken to limit all of the human activities that cause overfishing. This would ensure that the fish population would be just as populous and healthy as the human population. Many marine scientists believe that overfishing is one of the largest environmental problems that our world is currently facing. “An estimated 70 percent of global fish stocks are ‘over-exploited,’ ‘fully exploited,’ ‘depleted’, or recovering from prior over-exploitation” largely due to commercial fishing (Easton 201). “Wild marine ﬁsheries comprise nearly 15% of all animal protein in the human diet” and the fish they are using are being taken advantage of (Allendorf, Berry, and Ryman). Commercial fishing was more sustainable in the past due to a lack of resources and technology along with having small vessels. Now, it has become a multimillion dollar industry due to “well-equipped ships and hi-tech facilities that enable fishermen to explore new shores and deeper waters to keep up with the increasing demand for

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seafood” (Jetson). This has made it extremely simple for fishermen to catch and store an inappropriate amount of fish (Jetson). Fish can be caught in mass amounts in two forms: drift netting and trawling. Drift netting is when fishermen spread a large net in between two boats to trap smaller fish (Jetson). Trawling is when fishermen drag a large net through the water as the boat is moving, trapping larger fish in it (Jetson). These actions “supplied the world with about 142 million tons of fish in 2008” (Easton 208). 115 million of those tons were used as human food and that number is an all-time high amount (Easton 208). These commercial fishing activities feed humans by killing fish. Even though humans are fed by commercial fishing, most of the general public, along with environmental activists, agree that overfishing could lead to disastrous situations for both fish and humans. A smaller amount of the general public, along with fishermen, believe that this can be prevented without ending commercial fishing. There are several alternatives to consider implementing. One of these alternatives is the approach of tradeable catch shares. Some regions have “fishery managers allot to fishers specific shares of the total allowable catch and give them the flexibility and the accountability for reaching their shares” (Easton 204). These allotments only go to working fishers and not to corporations and processors. This decreases the amount of fishers at sea, which decreases the amount of fish caught. The tradable catch shares approach makes the job safer for fishermen as well as helps them earn a decent living. However, it has so far made no difference in the fish population, as the Alaskan halibut population stayed the same even though managers of fisheries were keeping a tight cap on them (Easton 205). A different alternative has not just maintained but worsened the overfishing situation. The federal government’s subsidy reform is improperly designed. Many subsidy amounts should be reduced and redirected towards supporting cleaner technology efforts. The subsidy reform has only “propped up bloated and overcapitalized fisheries that have systematically removed too many fish from the seas” so far

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(Easton 206). A more successful approach so far has been mixed zoning areas. “A comprehensive zoning program should designate areas that are entirely open to any kind of fishing at any time, areas that are closed to fishers, areas that are closed in some seasons, and areas that are fully protected no-take zones,” which forces harmful activities to stop while allowing harmless activities to continue (Easton 205). Even though they have good intentions and have the potential to protect fish populations, all of these alternatives need to be seriously modified before depending on them to fix the overfishing problem. Many fishermen recognize the large amount of fish dying as a significant problem. Unlike some marine scientists and members of the general public including myself, fishermen believe that their commercial fishing is not the cause for overfishing. One example of a fish sanctuary with declining health is McKinnon’s Pond in St. John, Antigua. A fisherman from St. John, Brent “Frankie” says that his fellow citizens’ lack of concern for the environment is to blame for this declining health and not overfishing (Butler). A pond that once was a focal point for outdoor entertainment is now “plagued by a dire seasonal stench, almost annual fish kills, and has also been used as a dumping ground for dead animals, garbage, and other waste” (Butler). “Frankie” now has to go further out to find healthy fish to catch to provide for his family’s seafood restaurant. Even though fishermen take the lives of fish, fishermen can also be negatively impacted by unhealthy fish. Communities and developments are responsible for the raw sewage and waste oil that has been found in the pond, but overfishing is still the largest reason for this dire situation. Mass amounts of unhealthy fish are why “conservation and preservation are vital and it’s extremely important to maintain these efforts even when prospects seem to be getting better” (Goff). Many people disagree with fishermen in that their commercial fishing has no effect on overfishing, which

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is why they put forth effort in decreasing or even stopping commercial fishing. An example of people limiting commercial fishing is in Canada and the eastern United States of America. These two areas placed a suspension on the fishing of the cod species in 1992. By the late 1980s, the cod population was extremely diminished. This is because “cod has historically been a significant supply of cheap and plentiful food” (Goff). Even though cod is “a staple of many Canadian and eastern American diets,” these people recognized a problem and are trying to rectify it (Goff). These efforts that started in 1992 are finally starting to pay off now in 2015, as cod fish numbers are soaring. Since northeast America and Canada allowed cod to have room to reproduce, the biomass of these commercially important fish have only been increasing for the past seven years (Goff). This demonstrates that nature is able “to snap back from adversity, but it also demonstrates how humankind can learn to harvest natural resources without causing ecological disaster” (Goff). Humans can help fish populations if they become adamant about stopping overfishing. A key motivation for humans to try and stop fish populations from decreasing is so the genetic diversity as well as the effectiveness of those populations will not decrease as well (Allendorf, Berry, and Ryman). “There is increasing concern over the potential genetic effects of the harvesting of marine ﬁsh” that can result from a genetic drift or natural selection (Allendorf, Berry, and Ryman). A time series of samples from scientific studies have proven that many fish populations have already lost or are currently losing their genetic diversity and effectiveness. One of these studies was performed by Pinsky and Palumbi in 2013. Marine fish species begin as populous and connected populations and should try to remain that way as Pinsky and Palumbi suggested “that populations with effective sizes of around 3,000 or less are at greatest risk of erosion of variation” (Allendorf, Berry, and Ryman). Pinsky and Palumbi reported an average two percent reduction of heterozygosity at the conclusion of their study (Allendorf, Berry, and

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Ryman). This may not seem like a large amount, but as it continues to impact generation after generation, it becomes a significant problem. Humans should perform evolutionary impact assessments and genetic monitoring to ensure that fish populations do not eventually lose their viability due to continuous heterozygosity reduction (Allendorf, Berry, and Ryman). Fish are not alone in being negatively impacted by overfishing. The main motivation for humans conserving and preserving fish populations is to prevent the negative impacts that unhealthy fish have on humans themselves. Overfishing has caused a decline in almost all species of fish, which includes fish that are productive or the fish that are the healthiest for humans to eat. The more productive and even unproductive fish that are captured, the more likely ocean ecosystems will collapse. If ocean ecosystems collapse, fishermen and fisheries will eventually go out of business, directly affecting those who depend on them for income and/or nutritional needs. These ecosystems have not collapsed yet, but it has been adversely affected by overfishing because it “can wreak havoc and destroy the environment and marine ecology and completely disrupt the food chain” (Jetson). It is also hypocritical for the general public to express concern for some fish species by labeling them as endangered or protected only to harvest these same species. Also, fish species that have little to no commercial or recreational value can also be harvested. Even though these endangered, protected, and useless species are usually discarded at the sea or shore, this is still a major problem. “Action is required to secure conservation of aquatic ecosystems and safeguard the resources that form the basis for inland fisheries” in order to protect both fish and humans from disaster (Easton 210). Although ocean fish are on the “brink of collapse” due to several factors such as pollution from communities and developments, overfishing is the main reason for this occurrence. Fishermen are able to

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catch too many fish at once with large nets and this is done every day. This puts the fish population at a dangerously low number. We cannot completely stop commercial fishing due to it being a great source of both food and income for most humans. However, we must limit our fish catching like we limit our animal hunting. All humans should be able to enjoy hunting and fishing without seriously altering animal populations.

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Works Cited Allendorf, Fred W., Oliver Berry, and Nils Ryman. "So Long To Genetic Diversity, And Thanks For All The Fish." Molecular Ecology 23.1 (2014): 23-25. Academic Search Complete. Web. 18 November 2015. Butler, Rory. “Fisherman: ‘Overfishing is not the problem.’” The Daily Observer, 17 June 2013. Web. 4 November 2015. Easton, Thomas. Taking Sides: Clashing Views on Environmental Issues. 16th ed. New York: McGraw-Hill Education, 2015. Print. Goff, Kody. “Fish population saved from overfishing highlights human ingenuity.” The Daily Athenaeum, 29 October 2015. Web. 4 November 2015. Jetson, Krysten. “Impact of Overfishing on Human Lives.” Marine Science Today, 9 April 2014. Web. 4 November 2015.

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Real Love

Margaret Leboeuf

It’s so frustrating to not know what love feels like when you really want to write about it, but can’t because to write about it would be a lie. You look to your past, but nothing’s there. I mean, my parents love me, but their love isn’t what I’m looking for, you know? I’m looking for someone who’ll just lie around with me on a rainy day, like watching tv or dumb movies, yelling to the characters who say lines I could write better. I want to give them the right things to say in their fantasy world to their onscreen love, but no. I can’t write like I know what it is to love, to lie to someone you love, to lie to myself by pretending to write someone in love, like I know what they’re going through? I don’t know what it feels like to get broken up with two days before your birthday, or to lie around in a depressive state because you know your husband won’t come home right on time because he’s screwing his secretary and their happiness is real, unlike your sham of a marriage. Like, I can’t tell you what a real love feels like because I don’t have any experience to reference. I don’t like to think about it, but there is a thought that occurs to me every so often when I’m caught in this lie. What if I had love, right? But it wasn’t what I was expecting, so I dismissed it because I didn’t know? That’s my biggest fear that they’re with someone else and my life is a lie

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because I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like what real love was and my expectations were too high to notice it or to see that it was right under my nose.

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The American Wake

Aubrey Fineout

My grandda used to rock me back and forth outside our old whitewashed cottage, whispering tales in my ear. Sometimes he’d tell me true things about how he and Gran used to live in a house with glass windows and blue china. But on long autumn eves, Grandda would stare out into the twilight and spin the tale of Balor and the Evil Eye, lowering his voice to a scraping menace when Balor locks his daughter in in the Túr Mór on the Isle of Toraigh. When frost curled up the lane and threatened to freeze our noses, Grandda would pull his chair inside and speak of the Dark Times and how he’d watched a mother sell her children to keep from starving. Grandda’s stories sunk to the bottom of my stomach like mossy stones, the weight of our history seeping into my bones. After he finished his tale, Grandda would shake himself as if waking from a spell and run his gnarly fingers through my hair. “Don’t be sad, love,” he’d say. I’d look into his milky gray eyes and he’d tap the spot over my heart where God put my soul. “Keep our stories in here and they’ll never die.” But even I couldn’t keep Grandda’s chest from trembling and going still.

Heather pushed against me in a rough purple wave, scratching my legs as we waded into the field. I held tight to my da’s burly hand as the box came by carrying my grandda, propped on the shoulders of faded Baileársa men. I couldn’t see my mam, but I knew she was somewhere close, silent and hard in her worn black bonnet.

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The men set the box down as gentle as they could, but I still heard the thump. I squeezed my eyes shut and started down my Hail Marys so the Devil wouldn’t snatch me for being so near to death. “Lass.” My da patted my shoulder to stop my muttering. “Will you sing for your grandda? The one I taught you?” I leaned into Da’s side, his rough wool coat scratching against my cheek. “I can’t, Da,” I said weakly. “Grandda can’t even hear me in that box.” Da crossed his arms over me and whispered in my ear, “No one else can sing as well as you, lass. Your grandda was a great man in Donegal. It’d honor him if you’d sing before he’s put in the earth.” He hummed a pitch so I could get my bearings and then nudged me forward. I closed my eyes as a brisk wind caught my hair and swept it across my face. A chréatúirín leóinte is brón liom do dhreach… I sang quietly, nodding my head with the lilt of the verse. I paused to swallow and then started on my favorite part. Didery aighle dam dodle di am the dam dam… The words rolled smoothly off my tongue like sea glass. My da joined me, his voice coarse, but rich like a peat bog. The woman next to me began to sing the familiar chorus and soon all of Baileársa formed a circle around my grandda’s rough casket, singing the tale of An Lacha Bfacach. Our voices rose together, lifting Grandda’s spirit into the heavens like smoke from the pagan fires of old. “Well done, lass,” Da murmured after our last note died. The men snatched off their caps as Father began to pray for Grandda’s soul. “I found this for you,” Da whispered, pushing a stem of heather into my fraying buttonhole. Instead of the usual purple, the bell-like flowers were white with crimson centers. The blooms glowed against the dark gray of my coat.

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“For luck,” Da added. I breathed in the flower’s tart scent and wrapped my fingers over his. “Aye, Da. Grand luck.” Ireland was never the same to me after Grandda’s funeral. Mam’s eyes were swollen and red for weeks, though I never saw a tear. My brothers and I tried to cheer her by gathering bunches of her favorite dog violets and daisies. Da even bought a lavender ribbon for her hair. But it seemed Mam held a grudge against the land itself––not even ribbons could tempt her to smile.

I scuffed my boots in dirt as I walked next to Mam, wildly swinging our empty egg basket. “I feel almost rich today.” I skipped to catch up with Mam’s long strides. “Mrs. McGinley gave me two pennies for sweeping the Arkwright’s kitchen yesterday. Two pennies!” Mam nodded like she’d heard me, but stopped short at the newsstand. “Let’s see that, lad,” she told the boy selling the stack of papers. “Two p,” the boy said, tipping back his cap like he owned the street. My mam put her hands on her small hips and bent down like a pecking goose. “George O’Neill, I sold your mam the last of our eggs for half price, so.” “Aye, Mrs. O’Donnell,” George muttered as he offered Mam a fold of smudged gray paper. “Just taking a gander.” Mam turned her back to George and flipped open the paper. “I’ll hand it right back.” “What’re you looking for?” I asked at her elbow, trying to make sense of the marching letters.

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“Last week I received a letter from my great aunt in Dublin.” Mam snapped the paper as she turned the page. “She said there was an advertisement for able-bodied miners in a place called ‘West Virginia.’” Mam’s voice shook a little, but she didn’t sound afraid. “The mines are searching for lads since they out and kilt their own in that war. They might even help pay for our voyage and––aye!” She pointed to the bottom left corner. “That’s it.” Mam glanced down the street and then swiftly ripped the section out of the paper. “What’re you doing, Mam?” I asked in surprise as she stuffed the advertisement into her apron pocket. Paper was an extravagance and I’d never seen Mam deliberately tear a sheet in my life. “Hush, Clare.” She folded the paper neatly and turned back to George. “Bless you, lad,” she said coolly. “Are there any more Dublin papers?” George pulled his cap down over his eyes and crossed his arms. “Only one more of the January 1912.” Mam leaned toward me. “You said you had two pennies?” “Aye, from Mrs. McGinley…but that paper’s almost four months old, Mam. You can’t be wanting it.” Mam put her hand out like the blind beggar that stood outside our parish every Sunday. “Be quick about it, Clare.” I dug my fingers into my pocket and pulled out two small coins. They were cold against my palm. “Here.” I dropped them into her hand and turned away as she picked up the other Dublin paper.

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I pushed my hands into my empty pockets, scowling at the back of my mam’s head. I’d earned those pennies fair and had as good as spent them on a string of sweets. I grudgingly followed Mam down the lane, trying to keep my big toe from poking through the hole in my left boot. What did American mines have to do with us here in Baileársa? If only I could read the advertisement for myself. Mam always said she’d teach me to read some day, but she hadn’t yet and I stopped asking after Grandda died. “Why’d you buy the paper, Mam? You always said they were luxuries we couldn’t afford.” “There are plenty of miners looking for work in Baileársa and I want your da to have a chance to answer the advertisement first.” Mam folded the paper into a fat square as we walked, hiding it under her shawl. “That bogger Declan O’Carroll won’t beat us out this time, no.” Da used to be miner in County Cork, but the mine ran out of coal and he headed north to look for work. That’s when he became a day laborer and met Mam. Da said mining was in our blood fierce––O’Donnells had been mining since the time of St. Patrick. “Some people are made to walk under the earth,” he’d tell my brothers and me with a wink. “I thought you didn’t want Da to mine again,” I said, coming up to Mam’s side. “You said it’s a danger.” “Clare…” Mam’s voice dropped as she said my name, lips straightening into a tight smile. “It’s not a matter for weans.” She shook her head. “Don’t tell your da about the paper. Let me tell him in my own way.” I sighed. “Aye, Mam.” I was eleven––hardly a child. “Good lass.” Mam gave me a quick kiss on the crown of my head and then picked up her pace. “Feed the chickens when we get home, will you, love?”

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“Aye, Mam,” I said again. I’d been feeding our hens since I could walk and selling eggs soon after. It wasn’t hard since we had regular buyers, but feeding the hens enough grain to keep them fat and laying during the cold season was a struggle fierce. Sometimes I wondered if they ate better than we did. “This could make him smile again, Clare,” Mam breathed, her words so low I barely caught them over the wind. Could mining do that? Da’s old pickaxe hung above our hearth, blackened with soot and covered with bunches of wild herbs Mam had hung to dry, but I’d never seen Da use it. He worked for our landlord as a handyman, gardener, and sometimes even an entertainer for our landlord’s extravagant English company. I used to follow Da to the Big House and watch through the rippled glass windows as he sang ballads and airs for the lords. He’d explain what a sean-nós was try to show them how singing in the old style, in our native Gaeilge, connected us to our ancestors. The toffs smiled to our faces, but smirked at our backs, laughing in amusement as if they were watching a cockfight. My twin older brothers, Séamus and Graham, were coming back with me from harvesting wild ramsons one evening when we heard shouting from inside our thatched cottage. We left our buckets by the chicken coop and hunkered down, creeping to our thin door. “Colm, I’ve lived my entire life in Donegal. I don’t want to die here like my da. My mam’s dead and my sister’s dead and Ireland’s a hateful place to me. Éire killed my family, Colm.” Mam’s voice was low, but brittle like a piece of shale that could shatter in a moment. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Séamus whispered, raising his dark eyebrows. Our parents never disagreed in front of us.

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“Don’t take God’s name in vain!” I gave Séamus’ side a quick jab to remind him God could send him straight to the Pit of Hell. “Stop being so holy, Clare,” Séamus hissed, rubbing his stomach. “Quiet.” Graham frowned at us and leaned closer our house’s whitewashed walls. “What do you want me to do, lass?” came Da’s soft voice. “You always said you loved mining. Be a miner in America where at least our children will have the chance to make something of their lives.” Something slammed down on the table–– probably Mam’s wool carders––making another knick in the wood. “Our children are out picking garlic for the Arkwright’s table because we can’t pay rent! Graham and Séamus are fourteen and have no prospects. We can hardly afford to feed the lads anymore.” Da didn’t say anything for a moment. “I stopped looking for mine work because you asked me to when I married you, Máiréad.” “You quit mining because no one would hire you,” Mam said flatly. “Every man and his blind uncle can hold a pickaxe. Ireland will never recover from The Hunger. We’ll always be caught in the wake, trying to earn enough to have food at the end of the week!” Mam began to sob, her words coming out in hiccupping breaths. “I don’t want our children to grow up in a famine, watching their friends and family wither until only dust is left.” I looked at Graham, but he was staring at the ground. Séamus put his hand on my knee, but didn’t say anything. We’d heard our mam scream and shout and curse before, but never actually cry. My chest grew tight like there was water crawling into my lungs as we waited for Da to speak.

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“We’ll go,” he finally said. “Wherever you want, we’ll find a way and we’ll go.” Everything was quiet for a long moment. Graham pulled me back by my collar. “Let’s leave them be.” We crawled away from the door and scampered off into the tree line that bordered our landlord’s cornfield. I perched on a rotting stump and dug my toes into the carpet of dead leaves beneath me. “Do you think we’d really leave Ireland?” Graham leaned against a tree and crossed his arms, looking out over the cornfield. “Plenty people have. Grandda said his best mate rowed all the way to Scotland during The Hunger." Séamus shrugged. “I’d rather go to America. I heard they have so much land they give it to anyone who wants a slice. It’d be an adventure––like those sagas Da used to sing about.” “You’re an eejit.” Graham glared at Séamus. “America already won her independence from Britain and we should do the same. We should stay and fight.” “Don’t be a holy Joe,” Séamus retorted as he sat down next to me on the log. “A war like that will split Ireland in two. Mam’s right––it’s best we shove off now.” Séamus looked at me. “What d’you think, Clare?” I grinned sly like a fox cub. I knew something my brothers didn’t. “Mam ripped an advertisement out of the paper a few weeks ago. It was about a coal mine in West Virginia that’s searching for miners like Da.” “She ripped it?” Séamus rubbed his nose, smearing dirt across his face. “Mam’s pure knackered.” “Where’s West Virginia?” Graham asked.

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“I dunno. Some place called Blue Hollow.” My stomach rumbled as I finished the words and I pushed my fists into my middle. My stomach would stop making noise if I held it long enough––Lordy knows I’d had enough practice. Séamus slid off the log and pulled me after him. “Jesus, I’d eat the backdoor buttered. Let’s go see if Old McGinley will give us any slops.” Mrs. McGinley was a hunched, sour-faced woman who cooked for Lord and Lady Arkwright. She grew up during The Hunger and had no children of her own. All the kids in Baileársa knew that Mrs. McGinley would give out scraps when children came begging, but my brothers and I had first rights because Mrs. McGinley was Mam’s fourth or fifth cousin removed. We were family.

By the time we ventured back home with our spoils, Mam was weaving in the corner and Da was mending a mule’s harness for Lord Arkwright. “About time you’re back.” Mam didn’t look up from her tight strands. Graham dumped the sack he carried onto our notched table. “We brought tattie farls for supper from Mrs. McGinley. She said we could have some peas on the morrow, if we wished.” Séamus snorted. “Seems Lord Arkwright’s daughter doesn’t care for her English peas, hi.” Mam looked around at us, her gaze coming to rest on the small sack of farls. “Damn the peas.” Her voice was thin, but sharp like a newly sharpened loy. Mam hunched over, hiding her face in the folds of her skirt without making another sound. Da calmly set his tools on the table and cocked his head toward the door.

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Graham sighed and picked up the sack. “Come on.” Séamus and I followed him into the garden. We sat in the dirt as we munched on the bread, watching the sun sink like a rock tossed in a pond. “Mam hasn’t got her full shillings,” Séamus said around his mouthful of bread. “She’ll be fine,” I told him as I pinched up the crumbs that’d fallen into my lap. “Da’ll calm her.” “I’ve heard Americans don’t like Irish,” Graham said suddenly. “Now where’d you hear that?” Séamus smirked at me and rolled his eyes. “I keep my ears open instead of my arse. Jack McGuiness and Harry Irwin were talking about it at the pub the other night. They’ve got family over there and they said Americans don’t like to hire Irish, so why is this Blue Mine looking for Irish workers?” I shrugged as I wrapped up the last half of my farl for breakfast tomorrow. “Does it matter? I don’t suppose we’d actually leave Ireland.” Séamus ignored me, scowling at Graham as if he’d betrayed him. “Why didn’t you take me with you to the pub?” “‘Cause you’re a bogshite, Séamus.” Graham sounded like he meant it, but the corners of his mouth turned up like a sly cat. “You––” Séamus launched himself at Graham, pinning him on the ground. Graham hooked his legs around Séamus’ middle and tried to pull him off, but Séamus was too quick. Golden dust curled around my brothers as they wrestled, catching the last rays of the Irish sun. “You gombeen,” Séamus said between his teeth as he tried to keep Graham from pulling down his trousers. I snatched up the last pieces of tattie cake as the boys rolled toward me, a

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walloping ball of legs and arms. Séamus began to laugh as Graham targeted his armpits and soon the two were sprawled on their backs, panting at the peeping stars. “Harry said he’d serve anyone who can hold their ale,” Graham finally said, chuckling as he wiped his face with a dirt-streaked sleeve. “A man can’t get plastered like you do.” “I don’t…” Séamus started, but the door opened and our da came out. He stood on the threshold a moment looking down at us, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. The night hid his face. “Were you earwigging?” “No, Da, we’d never listen in.” Séamus laughed from his spot on the ground. Graham whacked Séamus’ shoulder. “Don’t be thick.” Da rubbed his hand across his face and then spoke. “Your mam and I have made a decision. We’ll be moving to America. There’s a mining opportunity and the coal company is going to lend us money for the passage.” The tattie farls tumbled out of my skirt, dropping into the weeds. We were leaving Ireland? O’Donnells had always lived in Ireland. Even when Grandda’s fellow Irishmen left County Donegal like drowning rats during The Hunger, he stayed on knowing he’d die here. Grandda told me once that only true Irish had strength of will like his. But our family must’ve lost our strength somewhere amidst the rows of corn and rotting black potatoes. For the first time since Grandda’s death, I thanked Mother Mary and the stars above that he wasn’t here to see us leave the home he’d carved out of the land he loved.

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The next morning, Graham, Séamus, and I hauled buckets of wild ramsons and a dozen fresh eggs to Mrs. McGinley’s kitchen at the back of the Big House. We’d barely put our buckets down when Séamus told Mrs. McGinley we were swimming for America. She didn’t seem surprised––we certainly weren’t the first family to leave Baileársa––but I didn’t expect her to look as grim as she did. “Ye band of gurriers. At least I won’t have to save you cake no more.” Mrs. McGinley pushed her wiry hair back under her stained cap and wiped her forehead as if it were a warm day, though it was cool in the Arkwright’s stone kitchen. “You won’t miss us?” Séamus prodded, leaning against the counter like a larking schoolboy. “I’ll be glad to be rid of you.” Mrs. McGinley snorted as she turned away to inspect our ramsons. “My niece Roberta and her lad went to America––the Montana area––to mine. She used to write, but not so often now.” Mrs. McGinley slapped a garlic head on the counter and I jumped. “What happened?” Séamus asked as he slipped a slice of apple into his pocket. I shot a glare at him for his sinful thievery. It was one thing to steal from the Arkwrights, but Mrs. McGinley was family. “She turned American, that’s what. Her letters were always smudgy with coal dust and I told her that if she didn’t want to take time to write me proper, then she’d best stop writing all together.” Séamus snorted. “That’s all? Jesus, what if the Virgin Mary sent you a note with dust on it? I’m sure you wouldn’t shirk her.”

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Mrs. McGinley smacked Séamus upside the head with a garlic bulb, but he just laughed and ducked away. I would never get away with such a pert comment. Séamus had a way of charming people to the point they didn’t see what an eejit he was. I tried to not be jealous, but it was rough when you were supposed to do everything you were told and your empty-headed brother was still favored. Mrs. McGinley patted Séamus’ cheek and handed him a bruised pear. “You’re going to be in the middle lands for a long while yet if you keep speaking to your elders like that, lad.” “What did Roberta say about America?” Graham asked, steering the conversation back to facts. “Not much.” Mrs. McGinley’s lips turned down like she’d tasted briny water. “Alls I know is: the longer Roberta stays in Montana, the less Irish she becomes. She never did have the Irish constitution.” How could a person become less Irish? I knew that’d never happen to me––Grandda’s stories were intertwined with my soul and I carried our history within me. I smiled at the thought and looked to Graham, but he’d already turned his attention back to unloading the rest of the ramsons. Mrs. McGinley roughly patted Séamus’ shoulder like she knew he’d always be Irish. “Anyhow, I sent Roberta off with an American wake ‘fore she left, seeing as how her mother was dead, the Lord rest her soul.” Mrs. McGinley turned around and peered at me. “Is there anyone to give you a wake, lass?” I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

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Mrs. McGinley gave me a gummy smile and smacked me hard on the cheek. I tried not to flinch, but Mrs. McGinley always scared me a bit with her tiny wild eyes and bare gums. “Well, a course not––they wouldn’t know how it’s to be done. I’ll give ye one.”

Mrs. McGinley invited the whole of County Donegal to our cottage the day before we left for the docks at Sligo Bay. She told me she even ventured to invite Lord Arkwright, but I kept an eye out and he never turned up on his proud, white gelding. Graham said it was just as well since Lord Arkwright didn’t belong amongst “true sons of Éire.” Mam and I spent the week wringing and plucking half our laying flock so Mrs. McGinley could stew them up in a large kettle that hung over the peat fire next to our cottage. I could smell steaming potatoes and onions from my spot next to the hencoop as I waited for the guests to arrive. I pulled my feet up under me as I listened to the warbling cries of the thrush sound across the fields. It was a warm evening, even for July, and it felt like every other July I’d lived through–– as if we weren’t sailing tomorrow, making for a country we’d never known. Da and the boys had spread a new coat of whitewash onto the mud plaster that held our house and one window together. I’d never see our cottage so snowy––like elderbush blooms in the summer. Mam stood a little ways off from our cottage as the guests arrived, looking embarrassed of its smallness, but Da stood at the door and smiled a welcome that made up for Mam. I couldn’t tell how many people came, but they all brought a dish of stew, a jug of brew, and an empty stomach. Most of the people were older with wide lines in their faces like a ditch after a rainstorm. Everyone was crying and singing and carrying on like we’d never see them again. Mrs. McGinley

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even baked a pie special for us filled with minced lamb because she knew I was partial to mutton. She hugged me into her stomach and made me promise to write to her. I told her I would as soon as I learned my words and Mam nodded and promised Mrs. McGinley the rest of our laying hens as a gesture of goodwill. One of Da’s friends from the pub––Harry Irwin––brought his fiddle and Da took out his bodhrán and began to give the heartbeat of a jig––my jig. Da said he always played Out on the Ocean for me alone. Our guests organized into a dance, though most of the men, and some of the women, were already washed up on black stuff and smoking fingers of tobacco. I perched on the threshold of our cottage, watching the merrymaking and wondering why Mam and Da wanted to leave it all behind. We were Irish; we belonged in Ireland, didn’t we? I surely didn’t want to turn American like McGinley’s niece. I’d only met one real American in my entire life. He was a guest of Lord and Lady Arkwright one summer. I remembered him using abrupt, curt words and never taking time to listen to Da’s songs. I heard the man call us “white niggers” one time when Mam and I were in Baileársa selling our eggs on market day. I didn’t know what it meant, but Mam’s cheeks grew red and she gave his back an eyeful of Irish wrath. “Move over a bit.” I looked up as Graham sat down next to me, balancing his second glass of dry stout. “What’re you doing over here?” I tucked my feet under me and smoothed my skirt. “Just watching,” I told him. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your mates?” I shrugged. “Don’t really have those.” “I thought you and that Chloë from down the lane?”

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I shook my head. “We just don’t fancy the same things. I showed her the sean-nós Da taught me and she said I was thick for trying to sing songs in Gaeilge. She said she wants to move to England when she gets older and drink out of china teacups.” “I see.” “Her family hardly ever goes to Mass––I think they’re soupers in secret. And when she does go to Mass, she always stares at Séamus like he’s made of sweets. I don’t have time for her anyhow.” Graham and I silently watched the dancers as they twirled around each other, clapping their hands with Da’s rhythm. Séamus was there too, drunkenly dancing with Patty Campbell–– the floozie who always sat behind us in Mass. He looked fine in his waistcoat and neat breaches that frayed at the knees. Séamus tossed back his ruddy head, laughing as Patty whispered in his ear. I wished a wart would grow between her weasel eyes. I turned to Graham. “Aren’t you going to say your goodbyes?” Graham shrugged, staring down into his nearly empty cup. “Already did. I told the lads that if Éire decides to fight, I’ll stand with her.” I didn’t think one boy could make much difference in Ireland’s independence, but I didn’t tell him so. Graham’s face was already too old for his age. My brother set his pint down on the step. “Don’t be down, Clare. America will be an adventure. You’ll see.” “I’m not down.” “No? Looking at you would bring tears to a stone.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Want to dance? You’ll likely not get a better offer.”

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I grinned and took Graham’s outstretched hand. He swung me around until I was laughing and the world was spinning––no Ireland, no America, just a blur of people and colors and sounds.

Lord Arkwright rode down from the Big House the next morning and shook my da’s hand from the back of his white gelding. I stared at the black spot in the middle of the gelding’s chest as Lord Arkwright wished us good fortune and told us he was right glad he didn’t have to evict us for not paying our rent. Mam cringed and shut her eyes tight as he talked, but didn’t respond. I hoped I’d be as strong and proud as her someday. We each packed a bag, boarded up the one room cottage my grandda built, and sailed out of Sligo Bay on a boat more crowded than a pub the day after Lent. Mam didn’t even look back as the last strip of Ireland faded into blue waves. Da leaned on his pickaxe like a cane and began to hum a ballad I didn’t know the words to. I watched the sun fill in the lines on his face until his skin was a harsh white like the bleached shells I used to collect on the shore of Donegal Bay. I tugged on his elbow. “Why don’t you play your bodhrán, Da? I’m certain we’d like to hear.” Da glanced at me and then pushed his lips into a smile as he tapped the deck with the head of his pickaxe. “I gave my drum away, lass. Won’t be needing it.” I nodded like I understood, but I felt something boiling in me, threatening to spill over like a blistering kettle. Why hadn’t he told me? Jesus, I would’ve taken out my good dress and stuffed the drum in my sack. How could he give our bodhrán away? It was the finest thing we owned, passed down from his grandda. That bodhrán carried the beat that brought Mam and Da

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together back when Da was a lad busking on the streets for a bite of stew. The thought of our drum resonating in someone else’s hands made my chest feel tight and strangely empty like I was a hollow bone the village dogs had picked over. I knew Da’s music could never fill me up again. I put my elbows on the rail with my back to Da, frowning against the glare of the water as Ireland melted into the ocean. I swore on the sinking waves that someday I’d come back and find Da’s drum. That circle of wood and skin was tied to his soul and I didn’t know if we could be whole without it.

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New England Butterfly

Decha Cullen

Carolyn lounged in her sunroom reading the Hartford Courant on her tablet while she sipped a warm cup of tea. She sat on the cushioned white wicker chair with her feet propped up on a matching ottoman. After her husband, Richard, passed some four years ago; Carolyn had moved home to Connecticut to care for her aging mother. She had sold or donated most of her possessions before she left London. It was surreal to move back into her childhood home with only a few suitcases to represent her entire adult life. Her mother had been an active, well-maintained woman until the last few years of her life. But when she fractured her hip after a spill while dusting the ceiling fan in the living room, Carolyn knew it was time to come home. Though she knew her mother had aged, she was taken aback by just how small she looked. She was no longer the vibrant woman Carolyn had left when she followed Richard to London in the mid-80’s for his work. It depressed Carolyn profoundly to observe her mother: her hands too pained from arthritis to peel potatoes, too exhausted to tend to her tulips in the backyard, and too weak to carry a pumpkin pie from the countertop to the wall oven. All the little things her mother once enjoyed were becoming foreign to her. Carolyn bathed her mother and dried her off. She tended to open sores on her mother’s rear from her constant immobility. The circle of dependency had encapsulated them both until her mother’s death eight months ago. Carolyn lowered her e-reader to take a look at the early morning scenery. London had been an intriguing place to live, but she felt rooted to the fall in Connecticut. The varying tones of the trees that lined the back of her property: gold, crimson, tangerine, and the strong-willed foliage stubbornly holding on to spring’s green glow. Squirrels frolicked and chased each other along tree trunks and flung

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themselves from branches in a furious game of tag. As Carolyn marveled at the nuances of nature, she noticed a large white lump, lying just inside a natural alcove created by the lower tree branches. Carolyn reluctantly crossed the large back lawn to the cluster of trees. What is the likelihood that’s a dead ewe in my yard? she thought as she approached the clump of matted, solidified wool. The stench of dirt, sweat, and something foul Carolyn couldn’t quite place stung her nostrils and made her eyes water. The squirrels she saw skittering had vacated, and several flies buzzed around the creature. Carolyn heard the sound of heavy panting and feared the animal might be suffering. She swept a few low hanging limbs out of the way for a better look. Half-hidden amongst the muck of the off-white heap were two coal dark eyes and a wagging pink tongue. She couldn’t fathom being able to wrap her arms around the sheer girth of the dog’s body to move it, nor did she particularly desire to do so. The creature struggled to stand and started to advance towards her in an excruciating, dragging motion. Startled, she took a couple steps back and accidently dropped her phone. Realizing that this encumbered animal was almost certainly not a threat, she willed herself to relax. After taking a few labored steps, the dog laid down and attempted to lean forward to lick her ankle. She quickly moved before it could make contact. Carolyn let out a sigh; she couldn’t leave the wretched canine here to rot. “Stay. Don’t. Move,” she commanded with both hands outstretched towards the animal as she bent down to retrieve her phone. Her eyes firmly planted on the dog until she was upright. “Stay,” she repeated. The dog tried to follow her as she walked away, but only made it a short distance before it collapsed with a whimper. She hurriedly gathered anything she could find- blankets, towels, old shirts- to protect the backseat of her car. Afterwards, she enlisted the two teenage boys next door to load the animal into her vehicle. After the boys heaved the dog into the seat, Carolyn made her way to the vet that she passed on

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her way to the market every Sunday morning. It was the perfect time to shop since the store was thinned of the majority of residents due to their weekly brainwashing at the church. She rolled down all four windows to release the odor. After the overwhelming reeking of grungy coagulated fur that now pervaded her vehicle, the intermingled smell of wet dog and flea shampoo in the veterinary office was an odd relief. “Hello, can I help you?” A young, thin brunette receptionist in powder pink scrubs trilled in greeting. Her silver faux metal name tag emblazoned with the name Britney accented by black paw prints and pink heart stickers. “I’ve found a dog in a pretty bad state. It’s going to need some major grooming.” “Of course,” Britney said, a little too cheerful in Carolyn’s opinion. She pulled out a form and a blue pen decorated with white paw prints and the name Litchfield County Animal Hospital. “...and what is your baby’s name?” Britney looked up, her bright blue eyes curious and anticipatory. Oh, the dog, Carolyn realized, as a wave of irritation swelled within her. “For the record, it’s not a baby. It’s a dog,” she said. The sun slightly darkened on Britney’s pleasant features. “And it’s not my dog. I found it.” “Oh, well…do you have the dog with you?” Britney asked- still friendly, though no longer bubbly. “Yes, but I need help carrying it in.” Britney left and returned shortly with a tall, stocky young man in dark green scrubs and a red name tag, “DAN.” He opened the door for Carolyn without a word. Dan’s eyes opened wide in surprise when he saw the condition of the creature. He gave Carolyn a look of unmasked disgust and leant down to get ahold of the animal. The dog growled in dissent, but did not attempt to defend itself. Dan lifted the animal in one fluid motion, much like one might hoist a large sack of cotton balls.

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“Oh my gosh!” Britney paused for just a moment and then hurried over to the door that lead to the grooming area. The canine gave Carolyn a panicked look. “This could take a few hours, that is the worst case of matting I’ve ever seen,” Britney said. Carolyn wasn’t sure, but she seemed to detect a suspicion to the girls once chipper tone. “If you want to leave me your number I’ll give you a call once we get the pup all cleaned up.” Carolyn internally sighed. Ah, there’s that annoying spirit. Carolyn left her phone number, no longer feeling suspected, but obliged to see this through before leaving the animal for someone else to deal with.

***

A few hours later, Carolyn returned and was ushered into a small examination room decorated with a diagram of a dog’s inner ear and a magazine stand with several issues of Modern Dog and Dogster in various stages of wear. A particularly repulsive heart disease model and glass containers with long Qtips, cotton balls, and Milkbones lined the shelf above a sink and soap dispenser. The incessant yapping of a Chihuahua in the hallway reminded Carolyn of when Richard had brought a small wiry terrier to their flat in London. Carolyn told Richard she did not want it. She knew he was trying to keep her occupied after she retired from the bank, but she thought it was a ridiculous thing to have a dog. Carolyn pondered the collective insanity of dog owners who just awoke one day with the bright idea, “I feel like picking up dog shit for the next decade.” “Take it back,” she said to him. “I can’t do that, Carolyn. That’s awful.”

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“Look, I didn’t ask for this dog. Nor have I ever showed interested in owning one in the twentyeight years we have been married.” The terrier let out a pitiful growl followed by a yap. “You’ve seemed bored lately, sweetie,” Richard said, “Plus you like the dog pictures in magazines and newspaper articles. I just thought…” “Richard when was the last time you saw a newspaper image shit all over the place after tearing up the furniture?” she asked. “I’m serious, it can’t stay.” Richard left, the terrier still cradled to his chest. When he returned the dog was gone. With his face slumped in a pout, he told her his co-worker and his wife were excited about their new addition.

The memory was dashed when the rear door opened and a large, white dog with a stylized mane framing its face and sleek body barreled into the room. Carolyn was shocked by the transformation, and for a moment she wondered if the little twit behind the counter sent her to the wrong room. The dog rushed over to her and licked the top of her foot, no longer impeded by the sickly cocoon of fur. Carolyn attempted to tuck her foot beneath her, but the dog just laid down and rested its head on her other foot. A woman in her late forties wearing a white lab coat and a name tag, Dr. Bennet, followed the tech into the room. Carolyn was struck by the fact that the room was too small for this many beings to occupy. “Hello. I’m Dr. B,” the woman said as she leaned against the small island table reading the file in front of her. “The dog is surprisingly in pretty good shape, considering...” “That’s good news,” Carolyn said. “We removed almost thirty-six pounds of fur and checked her for a barrage of conditions. Thankfully, she seems healthy for an old girl,” Dr. B continued while looking at the folder in front of her. She hadn’t noticed that Carolyn had shifted in her seat, poised to stand, thank the doctor, and excuse

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herself from the situation. “She’s going to need you to keep up regular bathing and I’ll send home some cream that should clear up the skin lacerations and patches on mange, the scaly, rashy skin soon enough. She may have trouble walking for a while, as she gets used to walking unencumbered. However, with a little patience and regular walks she should be good to go.” She continued on about the dangers of heartworms and the importance of monthly prevention, referring to that awful heart figurine upon the shelf, sliced open and bombarded by white squiggly threads. “I’m not keeping the dog,” Carolyn said after she was done with her spiel. “I just wanted to make sure it was okay before I left.” “Pardon me, Ms. Sutton…” said Dr. B. “Carolyn, please. Ms. Sutton was my mother-in-law. Horrible woman…” “Of course, Carolyn. I was under the impression that the dog would be leaving with you today. Unfortunately, we don’t have room to house a Great Pyrenees on short notice. I would have to send her to the animal shelter…unless you could keep her for a couple days…” Before Carolyn could open her mouth to respectfully decline, Dr. B added “Meanwhile, we’ll contact some rescues and possible foster families in the area.” Carolyn felt a twinge of guilt in her stomach as she recalled an article from the Courant about the horrible turnover rate in the nation’s kennels. “Fine.” She reluctantly agreed and looked down at the dog. I guess today is the day I woke up to pick up shit…at least for now. Before Carolyn allowed the dog back into car, she removed the pallet of dirty blankets and shirts from the backseat. Her long sleeves rolled up to her boney elbows, she gingerly stuffed the soiled rags into the trash bag, careful not to let the material touch her bare skin. Carolyn realized she hadn’t performed a task this abhorrent since her mother’s passing. Then she had done her duty with grace, not letting her

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mother know just how repulsed she was by the necessary chores that accompany one’s gradual demise. Carolyn felt tears begin to pool at the memory, but she righted herself before they could fall. After she was done she gingerly removed one of the plastic gloves she stole from a cart of supplies on her way back to the front desk. Again making sure the glove covering the other hand never touched her wrist. Turned the first glove inside out and used the unaffected side of the first glove to remove the second. The dog had situated herself in the backseat and watched Carolyn from her perch. “Wait,” she said to the dog before she took bag to the dumpster at the side of the building. Of course, the bin was closed. She left the bag on the ground outside of the dumpster. No way in hell was she touching that thing. As she walked back to the car she eyed the dog. She’s kinda cute now that she’s not a disgusting mess. Carolyn decided to temporarily name her after the only type of butterfly she knew, Monarch- Mona for short for Monarch, the only type of butterfly she knew. On the way home, she stopped at Petco to buy a pooper scooper and a large bag of dog food. Not knowing what brand to choose, and not trusting the advice of any of the acne-faced children that worked here, she chose the brand “Wellness.” With a name like that it had to be decent quality. Carolyn grabbed a two-pack of lint rollers located near the checkout stand. She cringed at the idea of Mona’s wiry white curls strewn about her home. In a bit of a panic she took stock of her dark furniture- dark blue couch, espresso colored tables. She hadn’t thought this through. It’s only a few days, she soothed herself, closing her eyes while taking in a deep breath and slowly releasing it. Carolyn was thankful for her easy to maintain hardwood floors. Wherever he was now Carolyn was sure Richard was watching her, a smug smirk thinning his already narrow lips. There were very few times in their marriage that she allowed him to win an argument,

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but she could vividly recall the look of satisfaction the spread across his face when he managed to do so. Shut up, Richard, a grin threatened at the right corner of her lip as she loaded the car.

***

That first night Carolyn had planned to implement a system where Mona would not be allowed on the furniture. Before she brought the dog into her home she laid out a pallet of fresh blankets and set two bowls near the edge for Mona. “Okay, you,” Carolyn said when she returned to the car. Mona was standing in the backseat, her large furry tail thudding aggressively against the back cushion. “Sit.” The dog sat, tail fanning the seat behind her. “Okay, slowly now.” She opened the door and before Carolyn could grab her leash, Mona leapt from the seat. She made a beeline for Carolyn’s flower bed. “Oh no, no Mona.” But it was too late, the dog had claimed the pansies for her own. Carolyn took hold of the leash and glared down at Mona’s grinning face. She wondered if the dog was mocking her incompetency. She led Mona into the living room towards the pallet of blankets. “Sit.” The dog laid down. Carolyn rolled her eyes. “Whatever works. Just stay.” Carolyn sat down on the couch, exhausted from the eventful day. The next thing she knew Mona was sitting in front of her. The dog looked from Carolyn to the empty spot on the couch. All the muscles in the dog’s upper body poised to make the leap up on the unoccupied cushion, her body leaned slightly in that direction.

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“Oh, no!” Carolyn lurched forward. “No, Mona,” she nudged the dog with her foot. “Go lay down,” she pointed towards the pile of blankets. The dog didn’t budge. After a bit more prodding, Mona remained incessantly looking from the empty cushion to Carolyn’s face. The dog did not whine, but her kind gaze was relentless. “Ugh. Fine, come on.” Carolyn patted the spot next to her and the dog obliged without hesitation. After she turned a few times in a circle, her tailed slapping Carolyn in the face upon each rotation, she laid down with her head upon Carolyn’s knee. “So, this is how it’s going to be, huh?” Carolyn spoke down to the dog. Mona’s soft eyes gleamed up to her, muzzle smooshed between her paws. Though the dog didn’t say it, she could swear she heard Yup.

***

Mona settled herself on Carolyn’s foot. This was their special bench away from the hubbub of young energetic dogs, and dog owners. Mona would let Carolyn know when she had recovered from her last not-so-labor-intensive retrieval of her favorite blue racquetball. The ball was the kind Richard used to leave about his office during their life in London. Richard was a social man who enjoyed a round of golf or racquetball with clients and coworkers until his health declined later in life. In many ways he was Carolyn’s exact opposite. She would accompany him to obligatory office parties, but duck out long before he was ready to leave. He would return home a little tipsy always with an extra slice of cake for them to share.

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Carolyn looked about the well-maintained green landscape blemished only by a patch of dirt designated for those inclined to dig. A young man, thin and athletic, threw a red Frisbee for a pack of dogs. Each time he flung the disk a half of dozen dogs took off to retrieve it. Carolyn realized that a black and white collie always ended up catching the disk. Several dogs made an effort, but they flung themselves in the air so haphazardly without aiming that Carolyn wondered if their depth perception wasn’t wonky. A chubby black French bulldog took off with the pack, but would only make it halfway before the collie snatched the disk from the air. The Frenchie stood at attention until the others got closer to him, then he’d quickly turned and ran back to the man triumphantly leading his pack back from a victorious crusade. Richard would have loved this place, Carolyn thought to herself. She felt slightly ashamed that she had not experienced pet ownership with Richard and the terrier. She wondered if she could have come to care for the terrier like she had Mona. Carolyn imagined Richard, especially as a younger man, very much would have enjoyed throwing the Frisbee for that motley canine crew. It had been a long time since she had remembered the Richard she had married so many, many years ago. They both had been such different people in the end. Tears threatened to peek over Carolyn’s bottom lashes. She quickly turned her attention to her tablet reading a Courant article about the dangers of microwaving food in plastic Tupperware. She could add that to the long list of doom-and-gloom items that had yet to take her down. A few minutes passed before Mona tapped Carolyn’s shin with her paw. The signal. Carolyn used a Chuck It to throw the ball a mere ten feet. Once she had thrown the ball as far as the advertisements had, but Mona just sat down- whether obstinate or defeated Carolyn was not sure. It had taken a few tries to test how far was too far, but they had a steady rhythm now. Mona didn’t have to trot too far and Carolyn never had to touch the slobber slick ball which was peppered with pieces of dry grass. Once Carolyn had

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wondered what the disgusting orb must taste like in one’s mouth. The mere thought sent critters under her skin and heaviness to her tastebuds.

*** Almost a month had passed without word on a suitable place for Mona. Carolyn had given up on training Mona by the fifth day of couch struggles. If Carolyn was being honest it was nice to have a warm body to snuggle next to on cold nights. Carolyn sat on a faux-leather marbled-sapphire colored couch while Mona warmed her feet. She found her surprisingly cute, affectionate, and funny. Mona had her moments when she’d forget her age and lack of grace and start exuberantly trotting around the backyard. Usually she’d fall then find herself perfectly content to roll around in the leaves. It was silly how little things pleased her. Carolyn often found herself wondering what unfortunate circumstances had led to their serendipitous meeting. “Okay, Mona,” Carolyn carefully removed her right foot from under the dog’s head. When she went to lift the left one Mona pressed her head down in a failed attempt to restrain Carolyn. “I know, girl, but I’m going to go make food.” With this Mona was on her feet, Carolyn’s bumbling sous chef. As Carolyn reheated a plate of the bangers and mash, the dance began. Mona was annoying as shit anytime food was around: following Carolyn around, sniffing the floor for contraband, sitting right in front of Carolyn’s face as she ate. After fruitless attempts to get the dog to move, Carolyn resigned to ignoring her, but that didn’t seem to affect Mona. “Mona, down.” Nothing. Over three weeks of working on basic commands and she still wouldn’t lay down when told if food was present Carolyn rolled her eyes. Mona’s eyes, soft and widened with

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intent, shifted from Carolyn’s face to the bowl and back again. Carolyn wondered if the dog was also attempting to train her to do a trick these past few weeks. The last time she was annoyed this much by another being, Richard was alive. She tried to give him the silent treatment when she was mad. He didn’t even seem to notice, which only pissed her off even more. It was frustrating to her that he honestly didn’t know she was stewing. Yet, Carolyn missed him. Especially the tiny things, like how he would hurry ahead to open the door for her, wash the dishes at night, and always finish off all the leftovers so there wouldn’t be food wasted, which he knew she hated. She used to bitch about all the little daily irritations of married life, but now she missed these inconveniences. Mainly, she missed having someone to take care of. “Lay down,” she said again while snapping her fingers and pointing to the floor. For a moment their eyes locked, another moment later Mona slowly lowered her long lean body to the carpet. Carolyn smiled and scratched Mona under her chin. “Good girl,” she said. Mona looked expectantly at the bowl. The negotiations were interrupted when the phone rang. It was Britney with the news that a foster family had been located. They could come get the dog in a few hours. Carolyn’s stomach sunk and she felt her blood rushing faster through her veins. She wasn’t prepared for this. Carolyn looked over at the dog frantically devouring her dinner. She felt annoyed, but surprisingly not at the scene before her. “That won’t be necessary. Mona is home.” “Oh, that’s wonderful! We’ll email you a copy of the bill.”

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“Thanks..” Carolyn rolled her eyes. She hung up the receiver. So, it begins. Mona gave her a “Sorry I ate your food, but not really” face, potatoes dangled from her bottom lip. With a pat on the head, Carolyn placed the dish on the ground in front of her dog.

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The Rest of Us

Annelise Severtson

“What makes you feel alive? Do that.” As if it’s that easy. My therapist is a wannabe hippie and real life optimist. I find both equally horrifying and disappointing in turns. I turn from Carla, the overwhelming number of beads around her neck and the teetering tower of gold bangles clanking up and down her arm, and toward the walls behind her. It feels trite for a therapist’s office to have yellow walls, as if they’re aggressively telling me to: BE HAPPY. DON’T BE SAD. DON’T THINK ABOUT THE FACT THAT YOU’RE SLOWLY DYING EACH SECOND OF EVERY MINUTE OF EVERY DAY IN YOUR ONE SINGLE LIFETIME. The shrink is my mom’s attempt at redemption for failing as a mother. That’s what she said, cupping her sobbing face with worn, tired hands and whispering it so softly she thought I couldn’t hear: I failed. “Janie.” Carla’s face is slowly reddening and I wonder how many silent seconds have passed. I’ve now counted twenty-six scratches on the yellow walls, faint and satisfying to find, so I suppose it’s been a while. “What’s the question again, Carla?” My voice is falsely sweet and I force a pained smile. I swing my long brown hair over my right shoulder and sit up straight, letting the tension sprawl up my spine and gather at my neck. “What makes you feel alive, Janie?” I know she wants me to say something like running in the rain or painting pictures of nature or some other stupid activity found in a romantic comedy montage. The forced smile quickly falls from my face and when I speak again, all of the sickly sweetness has vanished.

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“Have you ever smoked weed before?” For a wannabe hippie, Carla doesn’t appear fond of the hippies’ main source of energy --- or, lack of energy, I suppose. Carla’s face colors itself a deeper shade of red and I think about the sign outside of her door: Dr. Carla Garrett, phD. Garrett Family Therapy, Specializing in Ages Three to Ten. The warm pep that charms her child patients falls flat with the few older ones that sneak in, scoffing at the children’s toys in the corner. Carla offers the lowest deductible on my health insurance plan, so here I am, among the sneaking and the scoffing. “It makes you feel everything so much…more. Everything is amplified. Music, food, even the chair you’re sitting in feels more real when you’re high. So, yeah, I’d say that makes me feel alive.” I’m surprised to hear my voice, cruel and harsh, make its way across the desk with ease. Carla takes deep breaths, trying and failing to be subtle, and lets her wrists reflexively move in circles. She knows her yellow walls are losing their battle yet again. “Well, Janie. It is illegal. So.” She says each word slowly and carefully, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair as if she’s won. I feel angry all of a sudden, her brightly colored beads clanking together cheerfully while I scowl in my seat. “Not in Colorado. Or Washington. Or probably the rest of the country pretty soon here, and then you won’t have a problem with it, huh? Once it’s legal, you won’t give a fuck. That’s the problem with people. They let everyone else tell them how to live.” I lean back, my heart thumping and my hands clasped tightly in my lap. She places her hands over her eyes in a moment of defeat, and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet and cautious. “Janie, I’m just trying to help you. You’re going to be a junior soon and you need to pick a major, any major, before it’s too late. You need to do something with your life.”

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I say nothing and stare at the wrinkles around her eyes, emphasized in her exhaustion. I’m about to apologize, maybe, until I see a second of hope fall over her face. As if she thinks she can fix me. As if I’m something to be fixed. *** The next day, Jake picks me up after class and I hurl myself into the backseat of his black Jeep. The rest of us are already in there, and the three in the back slide to squeeze me into their row. Unlike me, everyone else stuffed into the car’s dirty interior is set on a major. Alexandra, who makes us use her full name (four syllables and all), is a theater major who can’t act and knows it. So far, she’s been assigned to take tickets at every show except for one, in which she rang a triangle in the back of a high school marching band scene. We all went to the show, but no one told her that she wasn’t tall enough to be visible and her triangle even less audible. Maggie is majoring in Russian Literature but doesn’t want to be a professor or writer or researcher of any kind, and certainly doesn’t want to go to grad school. She mostly hates Russian Literature, actually, but there was a really hot guy in her introduction class and she declared the major in hopes that he’d be in more of her classes. He wasn’t, but she never got around to going down to the registrar’s office and changing it. Carter is Maggie’s boyfriend. That’s pretty much all I think of him as at this point, considering I can no longer separate him from what she complains about him. They met on Tinder. He doesn’t go to St. Thomas like we do, but instead goes to the community college down the road. He keeps telling us that he’s headed to the police academy next fall, but no one has the heart to tell him that his fail-proof plan (faking his dog’s urine for his) to pass the weekly drug tests is unlikely to prove successful.

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Lance is a finance major, but we don’t bitch him out like every other business major who’s only in it for the money. That’s because he does more drugs than any of us and constantly complains about “The System,” whatever that may be on any given day. He also scored a perfect 36 on his ACT, but he’ll tell some ridiculous, obvious lie about how he cheated if anyone ever brings it up. Jake is a film major who’s mainly interested in classy, artistic pornos and who claims there’s a high demand for it in the adult film industry. Jake is also pretty much a dick, but we broke up eight months ago so I’m not allowed to say that out loud. We fly down the highway, Jake driving twenty over. Everyone else competes for the car’s momentary attention but I’m silent, letting the lingering uncertainty of yesterday’s conversation with Carla sink into my skin. You need to do something with your life. The words skid down the road, each arising possibility squashed under the car’s trembling tires. I let my uneasiness lift away as I see The River rushing towards us through the blur of the car window, the mountain of rocks and dirt and trees leading down to the crashing blue water. It’s the perfect spot for family picnics, a spread in the “Visit Minnesota” pamphlets that clutter gas station floors, and teenagers planning to smoke weed in public. Jake pulls into the nearby parking lot, parking diagonally across two spots. Maggie would call him an asshole and Lance would tell everyone to Just chill, man if the lot was crowded, but in its empty state, everyone climbs out without a word. Jake goes to the back of the Jeep to grab a 24-pack of beer and we all wander down to our usual spot, isolated from the main trail by an uproar of trees. Alexandra lays down a ratty blanket, scarred with cigarette burns and rips in the stained fabric. Jake settles the beer in the center of the blanket and Lance pulls out rolling papers and weed, enclosed in a Ziploc bag, from his khaki pants pocket. He drops them onto the blanket with a dramatic wave and Carter does the same with the lighters, an assortment of colors

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and patterns he stole from the gas station where he works. We crowd around the shrine, drinking then smoking or smoking then drinking. “So, let’s celebrate,” Lance says, lifting his joint in the air. His words are slow and soft, each word sounding more important in my haze. “What are we celebrating?” Alexandra squeaks, coughing slightly. “A Tuesday afternoon, of course.” I hear halfhearted laughter but don’t fully comprehend it, feeling numb under a thin sweatshirt barely shielding me from the unforgiving cold of a Minnesota springtime. We hoist our beer cans and joints to one another, giggling and bumping wrists, because a Tuesday afternoon is as good a thing as any. *** “I’m not going to fucking teepee a playground,” Maggie says once Saturday night arrives. We’ve exhausted the meager thrill of drinking games and parties filled with people we barely tolerate. Now, every weekend calls for high expectations we can never meet. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” Carter says. Decking an elementary school playground with toilet paper to “teepee” was originally Lance’s idea, but Carter is enthusiastically on board and Jake is nodding along. “Carter, will you stop being an idiot for one single second?” Maggie stares him down as the rest of the group exchanges tired glances, wondering yet again how they’re still together after months of nasty arguing. “Will you guys please stop already?” Alexandra says, her belly button ring glinting in the moonlight and calling attention to the fact that she’s wearing a crop top in forty-degree weather. “If you think this is bad, just wait until your parents get divorced,” Jake says. Jake thinks everyone’s parents are bound to get divorced eventually.

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“Come on, guys. There’s nothing else to do,” Lance says. My face is sour for a few seconds, but then I realize the truth to his words. “I’m in,” I say. The boys high-five each other, their smugness immediately making me regret my decision. “Janie, god, why are you agreeing with these assholes?” Maggie whines as if she’s already lost --which at four to two, she has. “Lance is right. We have nothing better to do than fuck with people.” I hear my voice, drained and distant, but I struggle to swallow words that don’t feel like my own. “God, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. . . That’ll be such a fucking mess.” Maggie crosses her arms and Alexandra nods aggressively beside her. “That’s the point,” Jake says, smiling cruelly in a way that makes my body tense. I wonder how I ever dated someone who feels delight in creating another’s mess. I wonder how I’m no better. After twenty more minutes of arguing, we file into Jake’s Jeep and stop at CVS to buy twenty rolls of toilet paper courtesy of Lance’s parents’ credit card. Jake, half buzzed or fully high (I don’t know which), drives to a nearby elementary school with a monster of a playground. We climb out of the car, the toilet paper stacked on our laps haphazardly falling to the pavement, and Carter and Jake shuffle to the trunk to retrieve bottles of whiskey. Lance removes the green Frisbee, the one we sometimes use to roll joints on, from the floor of the car and whips it across the empty parking lot. He looks around with a blazed, stupid smile on his face and pats his pocket to no one in particular. Maggie pulls a colossal bottle of pineapple-flavored New Amsterdam vodka from her tote bag and begins to sip like it’s nothing more than water, her face unchanged. She passes the bottle to Alexandra

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who swigs it for six long seconds and grins. We form a wide, uneven circle in the darkened parking lot and I watch across the circle as Jake pours whiskey into his flask. When he’s done, he looks directly at me standing a few small steps back, my hands shoved in my jean pockets. “Wait, are you sober right now?” He asks, his eyes fluttering half-shut and voice drenched in disdain. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t really get the chance to drink until now,” I say, irritated and oddly embarrassed at the same time. “Shit, that sucks. I can’t imagine being sober right now. I’ve been drunk since morning.” He laughs, his black hair falling across his forehead. I move a few swift strides forward before taking his flask, pouring the strong liquid down my throat and handing it back without a word. “’Atta girl. Drink it all away,” he says, his words stumbling. A sickening pit sinks to the bottom of my stomach as I hear his words, the all so much more and so much less than he could ever know. I walk over to Maggie and Alexandra, shaking their heads and talking about Carter’s latest act of stupidity. I join the vodka rotation and add irrelevant agreeing murmurs as Maggie rambles on. After a while, we make our way to the playground with bottles and Frisbee in hand. Before we’ve rearranged our circle, I lay myself on the ground at the bottom of the slide. The playground’s mulch is beneath me, the wood chips tangling my hair and prickling onto my clothes. Soon, Maggie and Alexandra join, and then the boys too. All of us lie on the ground, our toilet paper project abandoned beside the Jeep. Before long, the others abandon the mulch for the flat octagonal landing waiting patiently before the slide’s entrance, the girls squealing and the boys laughing deeply as they stumble standing up. I sit up slowly, my legs in a childish criss-cross, and smile as I watch my friends fumble in the drunken darkness. Carter pretends he’s a superhero, climbing up the rope ladder and shouting out words no one can

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understand before toppling onto the landing in unapologetic defeat. Lance ceremonially holds the green Frisbee high above his head with one hand and lets the other carefully guide his slippery incline up a short slide, moving in gentle, calculated motions. Maggie and Alexandra tumble over one another, laughing hysterically as they make their way up the steps, and I notice Jake eyeing their asses as he follows behind. I feel the constantly nagging urge to call him out on being a perverted asshole, but it’s easier for all of us if I clench my fists and exhale my ever-increasing frustration instead. “I’m gonna stay down here, okay?” I say. A chorus of okay’s travel through the night air and now I’m standing, following my drunken footsteps toward the swings. I slowly rock atop the hard plastic swing and hear the shouts of my friends climbing to the roof of the playground. I say a silent word of thanks for their willingness to let me be alone tonight. They don’t mind much when I want to be alone. They don’t mind much of anything. Carla’s words are still trailing and my hands are beginning to shake like they sometimes do when it feels like the nothingness is too much. The nothingness is what I wish I had the words to explain to Carla, to anyone, but as with everything that matters most, there are no words. There is only the lingering nothingness. The nothingness that whispers that there is nothing to make me feel alive, nothing to do with my life. *** The first day I went to Carla’s office, sat in the squeaky wooden chair and stared at her stupid yellow walls, she asked me to describe my sadness. She smiled as she asked and I decided that she deserved a fake answer to match her fake smile. I said something dumb, cliché about a fish out of water, but her question furiously followed me for months until I finally had an answer.

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If you could peel back my skin and see my sadness, I decided, you would find a chaos. A dark, spinning chaos that never stops spinning, never calms down, never screeches to a halt. This is what I think of now, Carla and her yellow walls and her cheerful inquiry about the tugging sadness at my core. This is what I think of as I see it, slow-motion like the movies, rapid-speed like the way life surprises you. I hear it first. Low, slow rumblings in the distance. It sounds nice, a background noise calming my ringing ears. But soon itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s louder and louder, and I look up from the wood chips beneath my swinging feet to see two cars. Two small, unassuming cars on a dark, empty road. They speed forward and forward and forward in opposite directions. The rumbling grows louder still and now itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s anything but calming, anything but slow. I watch the rumbling and the speeding and the two small cars on a darkened road until the rumbling and the speeding and the two small cars on a darkened road are all one ---- a collision, and then a chaos. And now there is a dark, spinning chaos splashed onto the pavement, my skin unopened but putting on a show in front of my eyes. The cars spin with one another, intertwined in their smoking and screeching and sliding. They spin and spin and spin for seconds or eternities, smoke turning to fire and metal twisting to a molten masterpiece and glass shattering the sidewalk in a waterfall. The spinning and spinning and spinning chaos engulfs the darkened road, the darkened night, the darkened universe. And then it screeches to a halt. And now there is only silence, the rumbling eerily vanished. There is only smoke, filling the night air with its harsh stench. There is only stillness, the chaos lost to the crumbling debris. There is only me, my skin sealing my dark, spinning chaos inside once again. ***

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The thundering noise startles my friends into their surroundings, climbing haphazardly off the playground’s roof, but I don’t move from the cold plastic swing beneath me. The others run to the car and yell for me to hurry, leaving the toilet paper toppling and half empty bottles scattered as a memorial gift. My eyelids feel heavy but I refuse to blink, watching the road ahead as neither a single person nor sound escapes the twisted metal. I press 911. Jake’s engine roars in the background, the others swearing and shouting at me to get into the Jeep. I put the phone up to my face, still seated on the swing and unable to shift my eyes away from the crash. When the operator answers, I stutter out the name of the elementary school playground and the words car accident and help, the words feeling useless and inadequate rolling off my tongue. Before she can take down my name, I hang up and sprint to Jake’s car. *** The next morning, we meet at campus’ main parking lot and stand in a circle, letting the cold wind hit us. I stare at the asphalt beneath my feet, afraid to look up to see unchanged eyes. I see the boys shuffle in a sympathetic sway and Maggie compulsively roll back and forth in her Converse sneakers. I watch Alexandra’s sandals waddle over to me and I feel her head on my shoulder, letting it rest for a second before my tense shoulders reflexively shrug her off. Last night, after a smattering of swearing and promises never to say anything to anyone, we returned to campus, our bodies still buzzing. The boys hid their drugs and alcohol deep in their dressers, paranoid of policemen and envisioning confessing to their mothers about yet another charge. The girls and I drifted back to our apartment and silently separated to our own rooms, Maggie and Alexandra quickly falling into a comfortable sleep while I lay restless.

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“Want to go down to The River?” Maggie’s voice is quiet, timid. She’s asking the group but I feel her eyes directly on me. The wind inhales our pause for a few seconds, and then I know exactly where we need to go. “No. Let me drive.” My voice is strong and sure. Jake wordlessly hands me his keys, and everyone piles into his Jeep without asking any questions. I drive for nearly forty minutes, away from a campus where we don’t care and trees that shield our secrets. I see the fading wooden sign in the distance and slow down as everyone squirms in their seats, peering at the window to see where I’ve brought them: Flowery Valley. I pull onto the wide dirt path I used to visit with my dad during early summers and park the car off to the side on a dying patch of grass. I push the car keys deep into my pocket and motion for everyone to follow. It seems the sun finally agrees that it’s springtime and joins us, its rays relieving us from our warmest layers. “Leave it,” I say when I notice Jake slowly moving towards the trunk. “All of you.” Lance warily removes the Ziploc bag of weed from his pocket and Alexandra takes out the flask from the inside of her jacket, both looking apologetically like toddlers fearing a timeout. I move quickly across the dirt path and soon we’re at the bottom of a steep hill, one of the only escapes from Minnesota’s notoriously flat landscape. I hear the others whispering as I push forward, a few steps ahead and confident in my stride. The hill is small and we scale it in a matter of minutes. It overlooks a lake, brightly colored houses and an abundance of trees, but I didn’t bring us here for the modest view. Once everyone reaches the top, I wordlessly drop to the dirt and lie on my back, guarding myself from the bright sun with an upturned hand. Each of the others quickly drop beside me, everyone lying on their backs as we did last night. The air is quiet as they join my silent salute to the sunshine, hands folded over our eyes and words unsaid. I

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press my fingers to my forehead, my nails biting crescent moons into my skin. The meager pain is nothing compared to the questions sliding around my skull: Why didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you stay? Why didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you care? I close my eyes tight as last night relives itself. Feeling it in my bones, hearing the screeching scratching in my eardrums. Watching the two cars, twins in their fatal faults --- both an invisible shade of black against the night, both driving too fast and with their headlights burnt to a dim haze --- but opposite in their directions. And now, worse than the scraping metal or the whirl of smoke, I feel my footsteps running away. I feel the pounding of my feet, each step emphasizing the end of pounding heartbeats, the end of lives lost last night. And yet, the rest of us are still here. The rest of us are lying on this hill and shielding our eyes from the scolding sun, all too alive.

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Endings

Aarika Novelli

Janie Hannah Martin was Denver’s resident seventeen-year-old socialite- the typical blonde and beautiful. Never having known the state of want, Hannah was the kind of girl who expected everything, apologized for nothing. Despite the entitlement, she was infectiously spirited; everyone wanted to be her friend, but of course not everyone could be. Not me, for example. I believe the reasoning was I was too socially-disabled. Hannah had developed her own language when it came to criticizing others, where all personal attacks were framed in a way to equate one’s perceived flaws to a handicap, which she thought hilarious, but most found disturbing. Unfortunately for me, she was never satisfied ruining a life just once. She berated me incessantly. In the gym locker room freshman year, Hannah walked over to my locker and retrieved a folded up paper I hadn’t noticed, gathering everyone around so she could read it aloud. There was a messy, red heart scribbled onto one of its sides. “Let’s see who’s writing love letters to the disabled girl!” Hannah announced to the crowd. I immediately suspected she had written it, as she was precisely the degree of evil necessary to do something so cruel yet feel no need to take credit for it. Hannah covered her mouth like she was trying not to laugh before composing herself with the dignity of a practiced actor. “My dearest Janie. You were quite the act last night.” Girls were shouting now, and I was pleading with her to stop. My suspicions about the letter’s writer were now confirmed, and I couldn’t bear to think of the possibilities that lied in that letter. I reached my hand over to steal it, but Hannah raised it in the air, getting even higher by standing on the bench.

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“I can’t stop thinking about that one move you did. You know, the one where your legs got all twisted up in that-” “Stop it, Hannah!” I demanded, using my taller frame to my advantage by meeting her on the bench and forcing the letter out of her hand. “Who knew the Jesus freak was really just . . . well . . . a freak,” Hannah giggled, unfazed by my interruption. As one of the few girls at school who took pride in wanting to wait until marriage, Hannah’s manipulation of my reputation hurt me more than anything else she had done. I spent the next two years of high school navigating haphazardly between making it worse by defending myself and making it true by accepting it. Perhaps that’s why I was relieved when the news was showing her face, over and over, caption: missing. Detective Ethan Powell “Hannah Rose Martin was reported missing Tuesday, October 15, 2010 at approximately 11:30 pm by her parents after failing to return home from school,” lead detective Sharon Bennett announced as she clicked the projector to life, displaying a teenage girl’s yearbook photo. “A search of her locker turned up nothing of significance, and her phone seems to have been turned off.” Others around me were shifting anxiously, as we all did upon the introduction of a new case. We were all the same in that way. While we knew the gravity of our work, it wasn’t what compelled us to the field. We were detectives because we liked the hunt. “As of now, the last person we know to have seen Hannah Martin is a gas station attendant at the Shell across from the charter school she attended. Surveillance cameras at the gas station show her heading eastbound at 5:15 pm, but the trail goes cold there.”

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Detective Bennett clicked to the next slide, which showed a pixelated black Range Rover with a large bumper sticker reading “TOO BLESSED TO STRESS” parked at a pump. There wasn’t enough detail to see inside the vehicle, but a picture taken a few moments later showed the vehicle leaving and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. After a few questions, we began the process of assigning duties. One team of young patrol cops were responsible for locating the vehicle, and they eagerly left the conference room to begin their task. Another team was charged with questioning the parents for a second time to make sure they checked out. The team I was put on was responsible for compiling what our department referred to in short as The List, which held the names of all the possible suspects. The two other men I was to work with thought we should start at the high school, and I obliged, under the condition that I drove; holding passive positions in investigations made me anxious. We climbed into a patrol car and headed westbound toward the charter school the missing girl attended. I preferred to ride in silence, but I had long ago discovered that preference wasn’t shared among the other detectives, and this ride was to be no exception. “Can you believe they have us out here chasing after some entitled runaway?” asked Detective Coke, who had lost his real name years ago upon the discovery of a soda addiction. “You guys know who she is, don’t you?” Ralph Martinez, who had just been promoted after nine years on the force, laughed in agreement. “That girl is infamous. We’re gonna have an easy time finding people who don’t like her.” Coke shook his head. “This is all a waste of time. She’s probably partying it up in Aspen right now with Ashton Kutcher or some shit.” “Getting her tongue pierced as a fuck-you-tribute to her parents,” Martinez offered.

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“Holding out in a cabin with every newspaper that’s written her name and fanning herself with the publicity.” I raised my eyebrows at their childish musings. “You two realize she’s seventeen, right?” Coke threw up his hands in defense. “I know it. I don’t think she does, though.” Fortunately, the school was only five miles from the station, so I was already pulling into a visitor’s spot before my patience could be tested further. I put the car in park and turned my head so both men could see I meant business. “We’ll talk to friends first. Enemies second.” “How much time do we have?” Coke laughed, interrupting me. I ignored him. “Keep your eyes open for anyone who seems suspicious and let’s keep this brief. We don’t want to disturb these kids any more than they already have been.” Meredith I was so over pretending to like Heather. She’s such a slut. That’s not even being mean- it’s the truth. Laine’s parents were so convinced she was going to Hell, though, that they forced her to take on charity work, which is how the school’s notoriously sexual redhead ended up sitting at our table. I noticed Parker Collins leaning over the vile Janie Sutterton like there was something there, and I grimaced. It just made me look bad if one of my exes was seen with a girl like that. Introspectively I wondered if I was being bitchier than normal, which was more than possible due to the drama playing out these days, but dismissed it. What with Hannah Martin’s disappearance and all, I barely had time to tend to my cuticles, much less fret about my soul. And right on cue the universe dropped down a friendly reminder that my life was about to seriously suck. “Ugh, as if it couldn’t get any more Dateline in here,” I whined- an added eye roll for effect.

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Three men who had cop written all over their too-wide-at-the-shoulder suits walked into the cafeteria behind the directive of Principal Lockwood, scanning the crowd with all the discreetness of a blow dryer. Suddenly my quinoa tasted like saltwater. I pushed my food to the side. Laine turned around to see what I was looking at, and when she faced me again, her porcelain skin was crimson. “Why do you think they’re here?” “Do you think they’re here to talk to us?” asked Heather in a panic. “Oh, shut up,” I snapped. “Could you be any more spastic?” Both Heather and Laine looked personally offended, but I truly could not care less. They were blowing our cover. Cops could smell anxiety like I could smell designer-imposter perfume. Surely enough, the cops were coming right for us thanks to the pointed index of Principal Lockwood. I was crossing my arms before the first cop could so much as introduce himself. “Afternoon, ladies,” said the tallest, not bothering to smile. “Mind if we talk to you for a moment about your friend, Hannah Martin?” Heather perked up; I sensed she was about to say something stupid so I stepped in. “Actually we do. We’d like our attorneys present.” Laine stifled a laugh, which seemed to piss off the Mexican cop. “Look, we just want to know if you can tell us anything that could help us find her. No one’s in trouble.” I smiled. “She’s probably getting her toes sucked on by Bradley Collins. He lives by that vegan ice cream shop on Sunset. You should start there.”

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Before any of the cops could give me shit, all of their pagers went off, and whatever it said didn’t seem good. They shared a look before deciding they were ready to leave without a kiss goodbye, but my trained ears caught the last of their conversation. Body found in the Marston Lake. Laine and Heather didn’t seem to hear, and I didn’t want to watch them panic if I told them about it, so I kept the terrifying news to myself. All I could do was pray to God that the lake carried everything far away. Bradley Collins I wasn’t sure what I expected when red and blue lights flickered through my bedroom window, but winding up handcuffed on the floor sure wasn’t it. My father was irate, standing fixed with his arms crossed, moving through the room only with his voice. “What the hell is this about? What are you doing to my son? Don’t you know who I am?” I saw one of the cops hand my father a slip of paper. “We have an arrest warrant for your son. Are you aware you have a vehicle in your driveway belonging to a young woman whose body was found in Marston Lake earlier today?” “Hannah Martin?” I asked incredulously. Words no longer had meaning attached. I watched people’s mouths move in the way I knew meant they were talking, but I literally heard nothing. My ears were ringing. My eyes weren’t focusing. I don’t know how I traveled from my living room to the back of a patrol car, but at once I was there, handcuffed and pressed against the window, trying to capture the faraway place in my mind left in reality. I struggled to reach it for what felt like an eternity. Physiologically, I was feeling more like myself by the time I was walked into the interrogation room - its only decoration patched-up holes in the wall shaped

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like fists and untended mold in the far left corner. It smelled like rusted metal, which made me think of a jail cell, which I then dismissed as an intentional mind game designed to make me nervous. Was I being paranoid? I watched the cop in front of me carefully as he fingered through a manila folder. Eventually he let out a breath of air and stretched his arms out across the table. I realized he was asking for my hands, so I presented them, slowly. “Where’d you get these cuts?” he asked, cutting right to the chase. I hadn’t even thought about the cuts since Tuesday. That day was a blur. I remembered driving Hannah to the lake, laughing off her idea to go skinny dipping until I was too drunk to say no, Hannah sneaking off to talk to someone while I lit up. And now she was dead? Truly dead. The eccentric, unashamed, alluring, temerarious Hannah Martin was stripped of the one thing no one could deny she ruled over: life. And I, the boyfriend, with cuts on my arms. “I want a lawyer,” I immediately announced. “My father, specifically.” The cop looked irritated. “That’s your right. But we could get you out of here a lot quicker if you just explained why you have her car.” Weighing my options, I decided to talk. I had nothing to hide, except the small stuff. I definitely didn’t kill anyone. And if I got out of here quick enough, the reporters might not even know I was here. Harvard could be left in the dark about all of it. “She asked to keep it there,” I told him. “At my house. She wanted me to take her out to the lake that day and, just, swim and stuff.” “When was this?”

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“She came over Tuesday after school. I wasn’t even expecting her because normally she has soccer practice.” The cop, whose badge read Powell, seemed interested. “So when did you go to the lake?” “We got there around 7. The sun was just starting to set and we- I’m not going to get in trouble for drinking, am I?” “Continue.” He seemed serious enough to not care about underage drinking, so I relented. “We were drinking in the bed of my truck. Just having fun. When the sun set, Hannah said we should go skinny dipping. I didn’t really want to, but I had a buzz after a while and it started sounding funny. So we do that for a bit.” By now, the memory was starting to get fuzzy. I had just started drinking a few months ago and was a real lightweight- a term I learned through my older brother’s asshole group of friends. “I honestly don’t remember much after that except I did something really, really stupid.” Detective Powell raised an eyebrow, but I waved my hands immediately to rid himself of the possibility my stupid action had anything to do with Hannah’s death. “Look, I liked Hannah a lot, but she could be pretty evil. I’m pretty sure we got in a fight. All I know is the next thing I remember is . . . doing stuff with Heather in the grass with all those trees around us. That’s probably where I got these cuts from.” “Wait,” said the cop. “Heather Schwartz? How did she end up at the lake?” I shook my head. “She just kind of showed up. Look I was so buzzed-” Another cop came in, then, seeming insistent on talking to Powell. They exchanged words and whatever was said led to Powell asking me to stand so he could remove my cuffs. He looked me in the eyes.

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“You’re free to go. For now. Hannah Martin’s car has been impounded so you won’t have to worry about that. But don’t go too far.” Meredith “For the last time, I have no idea how that got there,” I told him, looking to my mom for reinforcement. Not long after the news broke that Hannah’s body had been found, me, Laine, Heather, and just about anyone who knew her were being dragged into interrogation rooms. People didn’t just show up dead around here, and the media would just get worse the longer things went without knowing who did it. “The girls go to the lake frequently, sir,” my mom offered. “That could have been there for months. Years, even.” No one was buying the story, as was obvious by the use of my should-be-trademarked eye roll on the face of the handsome detective. He pushed his chair back, and I looked down at the eyeglass case for the first time, dreading the monogram that had given me away, but dreading even more what lied insidethe possibility that one of the cops had read it. Hannah was a bitch even from the grave, it seemed. It must have found its way back to shore after she chugged it into the lake. Ugh, it pissed me off even now. She was so damn smug, smiling right at me while she tossed it away, laughing at my crying. “Shouldn’t have told me your hiding place, sweet Merry!” If the skank wasn’t already dead, she would be. The questioning dragged on. I dodged questions so gracefully, so masterfully, I impressed even myself. I could only hope the other girls were as tactful. Eventually, though, as to be predicted in the poorly-written TV-movie that is my life, the cop pulled open the eyeglass case. He didn’t seem surprised to find a folded letter. My mom, however, was.

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“Would you prefer to explain?” asked Detective Powell, who I’d learned by name over the past two hours. I made a face suggesting that wasn’t likely. The detective decided to take the reins. “Your daughter had written a suicide note and hidden it in this eyeglass case,” he told her, so dryly that it didn’t seem real. “We have reason to believe Hannah discovered it, and your daughter here decided to make sure she got it back.” I turned to my mom. “I didn’t write it, mom. You have to believe me. I’m not God-damn schizophrenic or something.” My mom didn’t know what to think, and at this point, neither did I. “Am I being charged with something?” I asked, remembering from my crime shows that they couldn’t just hold me against my will. “That depends,” said the Detective, his brown eyes surveying me with the skepticism of a journalist. “This letter as it stands is motive. My buddy over there in the next room has your friend Heather, who I’ve heard has been more than cooperative and can place you at the lake, where Hannah Martin was last seen alive. All that together makes a pretty strong case against you. So what can you give me to let you walk out of here?” My first thought was wanting to wring the neck of that wretched Heather Schwartz. Laine really could have chosen a better use of her time than dragging around that Gap-wearing slut like a house pet. The last thing I would allow is to be sold out by that whore. I sighed loudly. “Fine. I’ll tell you everything.” My mom leaned over, probably to ask if I was fucking crazy, but I lifted up my hand to stop her, maintaining eye contact with the detective. He really could have been hot in a different life.

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“But I want full immunity. I didn’t do shit.” Detective Powell was sold despite the absence of a formal agreement on my terms, and as I went about divulging the details of that Tuesday night at the lake, I could see that he was buying it. As he should, I mean. It was the truth. “I don’t know who wrote that suicide note, but it ended up in my locker one day with a note attached saying someone had found it and taken a pic. My name was signed at the bottom in literally the worst forgery I’ve ever seen, but the high school population is obviously too stupid to connect the dots. I hid it in my eyeglass case until I could figure out what to do with it, but I guess I lost it or something somehow, ugh, I don’t know. But that day, Laine and Heather wanted to defend my honor, basically, since I’m the only reason they exist at school. So they drove me down to the lake where they knew Hannah and Bradley would be. You see, Bradley has this guy friend who fucks Laine every other weekend or something like that so-” “You can fill us in on the social drama in your formal deposition,” the cop waved off. “Stay at the lake.” “Just the boring stuff, ok. So we get to the lake and Hannah and Bradley are skinny dipping. So typical. I didn’t even care. We all got out and walked up to her, demanding she give me back the letter. The fake letter.” I turned to my mom to make sure she got that point. “If you can be sure of anything with Hannah it’s that she’ll keep her weapons close.” Detective Powell was jotting things down on his notepad fervently, eating my words right up. It thrilled me. For once, I was the girl with the power. At once, I realized what Hannah’s death really meant for me and my prospects. So much possibility. . . “Anyway,” I continued, bringing myself back. “She’s obviously drunk at this point because she’s stumbling over to Bradley’s truck, giggling and all that, and she pulls out my eyeglass case. She starts

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teasing me about it, saying she’s going to send it to the newspapers and maybe even CNN. Obviously faking, but still annoying, you know? Well, we get in a little fight over it and suddenly she tosses it in the lake like fucking fish bait!” Detective Powell stopped writing, looking up from the pad with just his eyes. “And what did you do after that?” “Honestly,” I told him. “I slapped her. Like, seriously who does that to someone? Throws their personal stuff in the water? I mean I was literally begging her not to. But that’s all I did. Ask anyone who was there. Heather went off somewhere, I didn’t care where, and Laine and I just left. I didn’t see anything after that, but Hannah was definitely alive.” The detective, who I anticipated to be hanging on my every word, seemed more preoccupied with his pager. “Thank you for your cooperation.” “Are we free to leave?” asked my mom after a few seconds. “Not quite yet,” he confessed, just as another detective entered the room. The detective handed my mom a slip of paper. “We have a search warrant for your residence and all vehicles belonging to you.” “What is this about?” my mom asked, fumbling through the paper with no clue as to what it meant. I panicked. “An anonymous caller reported witnessing your daughter kill Hannah Martin,” he told us, looking me over as if his mind was already made up. “If anything at your residence ties her to the murder, we’re going to have to arrest her.”

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I couldn’t believe this was happening. I accidentally voiced my thoughts. “Who the fuck would say that?” Janie The sun had broken through the dense, Denver clouds and was sending its warm beams right to me, its rays swimming through my skin with a deep tingle that made me feel invincible. It was unusually warm for October and I was determined to enjoy it. I reached over for my glass of sweet tea, pondering how life had led me to this precise moment, as I often did as a pastime. I remember reading some obscure book in high school that talked about how fun it was to trace your chain of thoughts back to the original thought, and ever since then, I’d marveled at the randomness of life- one long series of events clashing into each other, folding around each other, forming new sequences which could have never been predicted at the beginning. Had you told me a few months ago, for instance, that I would one day be holding a girl’s head under the water on purpose, I wouldn’t have believed it. Or worse, to say I enjoyed it, to say I watched the life fade out of a person’s eyes and got delight from it, would surely have surprised me. Three and a half years of relentless torture from a high school tyrant was apparently all it took for me to go from Sunday school volunteer to first-degree murderer. I choked on my tea, coughing hard as I struggled to return the glass back to the end table. The memory of that night never left me: Using Hannah’s tried and true letter-writing punishment to blackmail Meredith, the school’s second-in-line tormentor. Waiting for Meredith to go looking for it once I stole it, knowing she’d pin it on Hannah. Making sure Hannah got the eyeglass case and following Laine’s car to the lake after hearing of their plans to confront Hannah, enthralled my plan had actually worked.

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I saw it as if I was there. The tall, moss-covered tree I was hiding behind until Hannah was alone, walking toward her with the deliberate stealth of one who knows the capacity of her willpower. I made my presence known abruptly. “Why did you choose me? To bully all these years. Why me?” If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. “Oh, please. Don’t feel so important, Janie. You’re hardly the only person who’s had a rough time in high school.” I stepped closer. “What did I do to deserve it?” “Jesus, Janie, you need to-” “You ruined me!” I accused, not caring if anyone was around to hear me. “I was perfect and you harassed me until I was irreparable.” “Perfect? Holy shit, Janie, you really are fucked up. You’ve been mental way before I came along. Don’t try to give me all the credit.” The rest of the memory was tainted, the edges dripping of blood-red fury, the drops pouring onto the image like acid rain. I pushed her hard, and her disoriented body hit the ground with an unmistakable thud, her hair seeping into the water. I filled the distance between us, immediately working to push her body further into the lake. As I moved, I was immersed in a joy I had only ever read about. I was tasting the beginning of freedom. She screamed for the first twenty-one seconds, but the water muffled it. Her slim body was easy to get on top of and hold under. I counted carefully each passing second so I would know how long it takes for someone to drown, being mindful, though, that she was drunk and that could mess with the figure. 3 minutes and 11 seconds. That’s all it took to end the life of Hannah Martin. 3 minutes and 11 seconds to end the years of torment she directed at me. 3 minutes and 11 seconds, and suddenly I was the girl changing the course of a life.

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I washed down the fleeting anxiety with another sip of tea, relaxing once more under the comfort of the sun’s rays. I began to wonder how long it would take for the cops to find Hannah’s class ring on Meredith’s dresser. The ring she never took off. The ring her parents got on the news and pleaded for someone to return after discovering their daughter’s body without it. That ring, I smiled, would save me. And it would save every other person who would have encountered Meredith or Hannah’s ruthless selfishness. By sacrificing my own happy ending, I saved countless other people’s endings, and that was the only reason I could lie here and enjoy the sun.

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Love Letter Jennifer Hester

Close eyes. Open eyes. Close eyes: we are in Aruba. Remember Aruba? Sitting on the beach for hours not even knowing a minute went by. The beaches were so mesmerizing. We had only been dating for a few months, so we were still in the have-sex-all-day, getting-to-know-you stage. I remember lying in bed all day with you with the patio doors open, listening to the steel drums play downstairs. Open eyes: we are getting into a limo. My sister is on one side, on the phone with her ex-husband. My mom and Kaitlyn are talking about make-up or hair or something nonsensical. Close eyes: we are on our honeymoon in Cancun with our new friends we will never talk to again, including a Bradley Cooper look-a-like. We spend most of the time double-fisting mango daiquiris at the swim up bar in the main pool or downing tacos from the taco truck by the dance area. Remember how the resort smelled? It was this orange, citrusy smell that I swore couldn’t be natural. “It has to be piped in from somewhere. It smells so good!” We were so happy, so peaceful, so sunburned, and so in love. Open eyes: we are getting out of the limo. My sister says, “Here we go.” Dad says, “Are you ready?” to someone. Close eyes: Our first date. The first time we met. I know we talk about this all the time and you remember what I was wearing, but I can’t for the life of me remember what you were wearing. Maybe it was a long-sleeved shirt and jeans? I was too worried about how I was looking and how stupid I sounded to pay attention. I do remember that we spent three hours in the booth at the restaurant just talking. I

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loved that you were a musician and an engineer and you loved that I knew who some of your favorite bands were. I remember when you went to the bathroom and left your cell phone at the table. I thought two things: “This guy actually trusts me” and “This is the best date I have ever been on. I have to keep this guy in my life. He will either be my best friend or the love of my life.” That night, after our first kiss, I knew you were the love of my life. Open eyes: sitting in a pew, in a church? Mom, Dad, and Stephanie are on one side of me, with Kaitlyn, Elizabeth, and Alex on the other. All three of them are holding hands with each other. Close eyes: Our first kiss on that first date. We talked at the restaurant for three hours, went back to my house, and watched some silly Sandra Bullock movie. When you were leaving, I was so done waiting for a kiss that I grabbed you and kissed you. That kiss changed my life. I can still feel your lips on mine. I had to push you off of me to get it to stop. Oh, how I didn’t want it to stop. Open eyes: Vaguely recognizable faces are talking to me, telling me how sorry they are for my loss, telling me how amazing you were, how friendly you were, how they will miss you at work, at concerts, at band practice, in general. Why are they talking about you like this? They don’t even know you. It wasn’t until I saw my dad’s face turning red that I realized why they were talking about you: You are gone. The love of my life, my reason for living for the last 10 years, my best friend is gone. I bury my face in my hand. Close eyes: Our wedding day, the happiest day of my life. Everything was just happy. Explosions could have been going on around me that day, but everyone kept it happy around me. I remember feeling like a princess after getting my hair and nails done with my mom and my bridesmaids. My sister walked

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in the room after I had been yanked and stuffed in my wedding dress with a letter from you. You were so thoughtful and you knew your words would breathe life in me: My Love, I am so thankful and blessed to have you in my life! I can't believe that I get to spend the rest of my life loving you and one day having a family with you. You've given me so much more than just a love; you've given me your heart and soul. You see in me what no other woman could see. You make me want to be a better man. I know that I sometimes don't do the right thing or say the right thing, but I know that I can't fail you. You're the only thing in my life that matters most. I never knew I could fall in love and fall hard! I never believed in love at first sight, until I laid my eyes on you. Your personality and compassion are by far the most attractive parts about you. You've found a way to open up my heart and allow myself to love. You're not my Anti-Muse! You were just able to put love in my heart that has triumphed over my gloomy demeanor. You're my breath of fresh air for my drowning soul. You're the morning dawn to my eternal night that I lived unknowingly. I could not wake up day after day with this much happiness in my life without you there with me. My life began when I met you and I am so grateful that after today I get to call you my wife, my partner, mi esposa! Love, Greg I walked down the aisle with my dad to you and just remember your face. You were glowing with happiness. From the cupcake tower, the guitar picks with our engagement pictures on them, the kids’ coloring pages that our adult friends enjoyed more than the kids did, and the guitar groom’s cake. My life began on that perfect day. Even though we had to spend an hour after the reception cleaning off the KY Jelly, shaving cream, and penis drawings our friends put on our car, it was a perfect day. As a little girl, I didn’t dream about getting married. I didn’t practice my wedding with Ken, Barbie, my sister, or even the dog. I didn’t run around the house with a towel on my head and the hallway flowers in my hand. I pictured myself as a senator or as the President of the United States, a picture I still have, Democratic Party, if you are ready for me.

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“And then she met him.” The narrator would now say. Open eyes: We were married for ten amazing years. Ten years and three kids later, I was saying “Goodbye” to my best friend. I didn’t have enough time with you. We talked about this day many times in passing. You wanted me to move on and find happiness and a new best friend. The kids are eight, six, and three. They still need their dad. “Find someone new and be happy” you would say. “Easier said than done, jerk.” Close eyes: I picture when we bought our house together. It went from: “Maybe it is time for us to start looking for our starter home, maybe a fixer-upper” to “I like this two-story, four-bedroom, three thousand-square-foot house.” Your friends laughed at you in the beginning when you told them we weren’t buying a house and that we were just looking. “Dude,” they said, “if your wife says you are just looking at a house, you are buying a house. You are practically in escrow, man.” They were right. Open eyes: I moved in with my parents. I needed their help, financially and mentally after you left. I know you are with me. I can feel you next to me most nights. Stephanie and Mom have been hounding me about getting back out there. I’m not ready. They don’t get it. You were my best friend and without you I am empty. Lately, I feel like all I am doing is surviving. The kids started their new schools today. Kaitlyn loves her teachers and is the tallest kid in fifth grade. Elizabeth is a little nervous about starting third grade. She said she misses her Daddy’s kisses and can’t go to school without Daddy’s back-to-school pancakes. Alex is still young, but even he asks about you. “Where’s Daddy? Is Daddy making the money? Tell him to come home! DADDY HOME!” he runs

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around the house screaming. He’s at the stage where he wants all the toys he sees. I try to be the voice of reason and keep them in line, but it’s hard to do without you. I still feel guilty for the pain they have endured, so I want to do whatever I can to make them happy. Am I screwing them up? Will they have daddy issues that turn them into strippers or executives? Close eyes: “It’s time, baby.” It wasn’t like the movies at all. I was six days overdue with our first and they were inducing us. Well, whenever they had an open bed, they would induce me. We were supposed to go into the hospital at nine, but they called right before we left and said they didn’t have any open beds, that they would call when we could come in, and to “try and get some rest.” “Fat chance,” we both said. How the hell are we supposed to rest and fall asleep? Both of us toss and turn all night until we finally got the call at three o’clock in the morning. We go in, so excited and so happy to finally meet our little girl. It took twenty-one hours, two hours of pushing, and an emergency C-section (Not at all like in the movies), but she was finally out. She cried immediately, but when they brought her to me and I said, “Hi, little girl. I’m your mommy,” she instantly stopped crying and fixed eyes on me. We both connected with her right away. She made us parents. Open eyes: there’s Kaitlyn screaming at me, shaking me. “Wake up! It’s time to go!” It has been two years since you left. It’s time. It’s my first day of school all over again. This time is different. This time I’m not a scared freshman roaming the halls twenty minutes after my first class started. I’m not wearing yoga pants and hoping there’s not a pop quiz on the first day. I’m still wondering if I brought everything I

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need. After being a stay-at-home mom for ten years, I have finally accomplished one of the goals that you pushed me to work toward and, this time, I’m the professor. I walk up to the lectern and hook up my laptop to the projector. On the screen in big bold letters reads “Prof Hester” with “Intro to Communications” under it. I set out two pictures of our family, the reasons I am here today, and let out a sigh of relief or panic. I decide to figure out which later. “You know, the last time I sat in this room was in 2006. I took this class when I was a student here and ironically, this was the only class I ever dropped. I hated the professor and hated the work. I went on to take four and five other communications classes, but the one I needed? Nope, never took it officially.” Wow, I’m inspiring a lot of minds right now! “But, in all honesty, that professor didn’t know what I know. I know what you need to learn. I know how to teach you to communicate effectively in all walks of your life. What I know is that this isn’t just a class for college credit; this is a class for your life. You need this class so that you can talk to your peers, your colleagues, your future bosses, and your children when they think they know more than you. Here at Texas Lutheran we strive to get you ready for life. There is actual real life application to communication and this is where it begins.” Close eyes. We were lucky to have my parents live an hour away from us and to have them so close to our girls. That led us to take lots of quick trips together, just us. We needed alone time and to remember that we liked each other. I remember one trip to Niagara Falls for our fifth anniversary. It was so much fun to head over to Canada to see the Canadian side of the Falls. I remember you telling the border agent, when she asked what we were going into Canada for, “Poutine. That’s it, really.” She was taken aback, but it was true. We wanted to indulge in the glory that is fries, gravy, and cheese curds. We swore we would bring poutine to the States and open a poutinerie. Open eyes. Today I found a funny meme on the "Single Dad Laughing" Facebook page. On my screen was a screenshot of the results from a Buzzfeed-type quiz: "Which Beatle are you?" The answer was John, but it was posted by Ringo Starr. He wrote, "Well, this is bulls**t!"

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I immediately texted it to you to brighten up your day. Got a reply: "New phone. Who dis?" I remembered and thought, “Oh, right.” Needless to say, not what I was expecting. Still a funny meme though. Maybe you laughed in heaven? Sometimes I picture you with me, especially during the particularly rough and/or funny times. We laughed a lot when you were here. Close eyes. You always made me laugh. I think that is what we did for each other. Even when we were super mad at each other. We bickered about the smallest things, but you always had a funny way of defusing the situation. We always said marriage was asking your partner over and over again what they want for dinner. You always got mad when I did this: You: “What do you want for dinner?” Me: “I don’t care. Whatever you want.” You: “Marco’s Pizza?” Me: “Eww. No.” You: “Mexican?” Me: “No.” You: “Chinese?” Me: “No.” You: “Okay, what would you like then?” Me: “It’s up to you. Whatever works.” Many times you told me I was lucky you loved me. You always said, “Your parents warned me when I asked for their permission to marry you. They told me that you were a handful. I knew from the beginning.” And I would just smile. Open eyes: So far, so good. I have made it through my first couple of months. Just like when I was a student, I’ve joined some clubs and organizations (as their advisor this time). I’m the advisor of the Beta

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Alpha Sigma sorority, my sorority in college. It’s pledge season, so all around I see girls in pinks, blues, greens, dressed up as cowgirls or in TLU spirit gear. I see signs everywhere about different organization to join. Part of being an advisor means the girls must come up to me, introduce themselves, and submit to my questioning. The last part was my idea. Before I give them my signature to confirm that they have met me, they must successfully answer a question about the history of the sorority. “When were the Betas founded? What are the colors of the Betas? What is our motto? What is the handshake?” (Note: the sorority does not have a handshake really, but do they know that?) Every night I go home to the kids. Kaitlyn, Elizabeth, and Alexander are the lights of my life. I walk into my house and the first thing I smell is dinner cooking. It smells like Nana’s enchiladas. I see a portrait of you on the wall and smile at it. Sometimes I still cannot believe you are gone. A lot has changed since you passed, but a lot has stayed the same. Kaitlyn has become Mommy’s helper and is so smart. Elizabeth has finally warmed up to school and is really enjoying it. Alexander knows you from your pictures and we talk about you all the time. I’m convinced you come and visit them often. I know that you are so proud of me too. I’m thankful for friends who work in higher education for helping me get where I am. The kids barely miss our old home and love where we live now. Seguin may not be the metropoles Houston and Katy are, but they have made some great friends at school. “Hey, Momma!” they scream at me as I walk in the door. “Hey, ya’ll!” I envelop them in my arms and squeeze. “What smells so good?” “Nana made enchiladas!” My parents have really been my saving grace through all of these changes. Whether letting us move in with them, helping us move into our own place, or even helping me watch the girls while I went to school or worked, they have been there with a smile. Dad even helps with the yard work and comes over every Saturday to work on his “Daddy-Do List” and to bring the kids donuts. They have also been encouraging me to get out of the house and see my friends. They have really been the best support. “Thanks, Nana!” I said, placing my bags on the floor. “Anytime, hon. How was school?”

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“Good.” This conversation gave me a déjà vu vibe from my own teenage years. “Meet anyone interesting today?” “No, Mom.” The one annoying thing about my mom has been her “encouragement” for me to get back out in the dating world. She always tells me that it is time. What does that even mean? Who knows when the right time is? I’ve been there, done that. I’ve met the man of my dreams. I married him. Everything else is just icing on the cake. She sits down on the couch with me to eat dinner, and I know we’re going to have another long discussion. “Mom, when it happens, it will happen. I’m not looking for anything and not expecting anything. That’s how I met Gregory in the first place.” “No, honey, you met him through an online dating site. You were searching for him.” she reminded me. “Mom,” I sighed. “It will happen when it happens.” I don’t even know if I am ready. Am I ready? I keep waiting for some P.S. I Love You sign from above telling me what to do. I was heading to the Administration Building to sign some papers for a set of grades that I submitted when two bubbly Beta pledges bounced in front of me. “Yes?” I asked. Being a communications professor, I stressed the importance of their making the first move in the conversation. I wanted to make my pledges feel awkward around me. It’s good to get those awkward moments out early in life so you get more comfortable speaking in front of different groups of people: In this case, authority figures. “Umm, Mrs. Hester, can we have your signature?” one of the bubbles asked. “Whoa, hold on. Who are you? Why do you want my signature?” I probe to get them talking more. It is great fun as a professor to mess with an undergrad. “We, umm, need your signature because we are Beta pledges. My name is Amanda and this is Kendra.” “Sure, you can have my signature, but first you must sing one of the songs. How about some Jimmy Buffett?” Margaritaville is one of the theme songs of the Betas. They host a party every year and travel to a beach town every summer for retreat. Betas truly are the women to blame. They look at each other nervously and start singing:

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Nibblin' on sponge cake Watchin' the sun bake All of those tourists covered in oil Strummin' my six-string On my front porch swing Smell those shrimp hey they're beginnin' to boil I sign their forms, smirk a little bit, and send Bimbos 1 and 2 on their way. I turn to leave and hear, “Excuse me? What just happened here?” Oh man, busted by the fuzz. “I was just working with some students on an oral report.” I tried. “An oral report on margaritas?” he asked. “Don’t judge me, I didn’t pick the topic. What’s it to you?” I tried again. “Well, I’m Mark. I’m the Dean of Students.” Oh, crap, busted for teasing the undergrad. “Look, I’m a sponsor for their sorority and I was just having a little fun, making sure they knew the info about their organization,” I replied. “Oh, I got that. Why don’t we go into my office and discuss it further?” He opened the door to the main offices, but no way I was going in there. “I can’t right now, I have a class. How about later on? Say 4:30 in the Student Center.” Always meet an enemy on mutual territory. “Sounds good.” He closed the door as I walked away. Ugh. I can’t already be in trouble. It’s only my second semester here. “Look, I was just messing around. If what I did is really bad, just say so and we will be on our way.” I say at our meeting. “What?” He says. “That’s why we are here, right? For you to reprimand me and lecture me about hazing or something.”

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“No, I thought that was hilarious. I just thought we should talk.” Surprised, I reply: “Oh, okay.” He asks me about my classes and how I came to be a professor at Texas Lutheran. I talk to him about my days as an undergrad there and how much it has changed. I realize time was flying by and I needed to go pick up my kids, so I start to leave. “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? Say, BJ’s pizza place around 7:00?” He asked and I accepted. Dinner went great the next evening and we spent few hours just talking about ourselves. I told him about my kids and my parents and he tells me about this crazy chick he met on Match.com. I laughed, remembering your story of a crazy chick you met on Match.com before me. Close eyes: You told me you were seeing this chick for about a month but started to become disenchanted with her and was about to break up with her. She wanted to hang out that night, but you needed to go grocery shopping. When you came home to your apartment, she was there. You and she got in an argument and the cops were called. It was the first and only time you were ever handcuffed and placed in the back of a squad car. Once the officers talked to her and realized what a nutbag lunatic she was, they believed your story of what happened. They released you after she screamed obscenities at them and drove away. You told me how lucky you are to have met me, a non-psychotic chick. Open eyes: Before dinner was even over, he invited me to dinner at his place for the next night and I accepted. I dropped the kids off at my parents’ house for the weekend so that I could clean some things around the house and have a break, so it was perfect timing. He walked me to my car. I opened the door and face him. “This was really fun” he said, smiling. “Yes it was.” Oh, boy, I hate the awkward moments at the end of dates. Is he going to kiss me? Should I kiss him? Should I stick my hand out? “Oh screw it,” I leaned in to kiss him. Oh man. I think as we are kissing, fireworks! I lean into the kiss and it keeps going. I literally have to push him away from me to stop the kiss. I haven’t had a kiss like that in a long time, not since our first date.

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“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he whispers as I turn and get in my car. I sat in my car for a few minutes, replaying that scene. What just happened? Why did I stop it? Because you are a lady! Oh, but it felt so good. I finally start my car and head home in a daze, replaying that night over and over again in my head. It probably wasn’t as good as I was remembering. I bet I built it up too much in my head. No kiss could be that good or mean that much. It’s just not possible. The next day, with my head cleared, I drove to his house for dinner. It was just a kiss. It wasn’t full of fireworks or anything ridiculous like that. Be cool. I knocked on the door of this beautiful two story house standing in front of me. Oh man, this is “Dean money”. He opens the door and I am overwhelmed by the smell of homemade pasta and his cologne. Oh, he smells so good. “Hey! Come on in!” He welcomes me. I remark on the house and he says, : “Let me give you a tour!” This is the kitchen, the living room, blah blah blah, and here is the master bedroom. “Oh, it’s lovel…” He attacks me with his lips and all of the sudden we are on the bed and he is on top of me. Holy crap, this is so hot! We have sex and I lose my “Oh, but I’m a lady” card. Whatever, it was hot! For the next few months, it was a flurry of making out in my office, secret glances and conversations, picnics on the main lawn, and lunch with my kids. That’s right, the kids. They love him. He plays the guitar for them and taught Alex how to ride a bike. When they first met, Kaitlyn was a little hesitant to open up to him, but by the end of the night they were singing “Let it go” together, so I knew he was a hit. He’s been very sensitive to the changes. Every once in a while I bring you up and he seems to actually enjoy listening to stories from our past and learning about you. He said that it’s like you and him are in a club together. Holy crap. I think I really like him. I did not believe I would be in this position again for a very long time: actually falling for a guy, but I think I am. My mom keeps smirking at me with these I told you so eyes. I hate it when she is right. We’ve talked a little bit about the future and so far I haven’t run away scared. Today is Texas Lutheran’s Spring Graduation day and all I can think about is the man sitting in front of everyone and our lives together. I see myself marrying him and raising the kids together. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, “this has been an amazing year for our graduates, faculty and staff, and university. This year has come with many surprises and new faces.” I grin. I did just complete my first year as a full-fledged professor here.

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I started the year needing a new start and found it. My life has been a whirlwind of emotions, but happiness is the one I choose to feel right now. This is the new beginning I was looking for. I felt relief for the first time in many years. I think I am going to be okay. I think I can get through this next chapter of my life without you. For a while there I didn’t know if I could. I’ve been waiting for you to come home for a very long time and for the first time, I can breathe and know that even without you, my life will go on. Close eyes. I think that’s why I had to write this for you, babe. I think it’s time to say goodbye, my love. I had an amazing 10 years with you, but I have to open my heart to other people. I have to be open to this next chapter of my life. Our memories were perfect but it’s time to make new ones. I think for once in our marriage you were right. I do need to move forward and be open to new love. I love you more than I can ever describe and I can’t wait to see you again. Goodbye, my love.

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Bruised but Not Broken

Genna Kegley

One of the names in this personal essay has been changed to protect the guilty. Our society provides protection for the rights of the guilty but the rights of victims go largely unacknowledged. According to ThisNation.com, There have been, in fact, several efforts at the national level and in the states to enact ‘victims’ rights’ laws…. The constitution, however, keeps the balances tipped decidedly in favor of the accused. In this nation’s criminal judicial system, the assumption is that mistakes will be made. Instead of erring on the side of punishing the innocent, however, it is a system that is more likely to let a guilty person go unpunished (ThisNation.com American Government & Politics). I know a little something about being a victim of domestic abuse and I know well the risks of telling my story. My abuser was never shy about leveling his threats at me. “I can’t take this anymore! I’m gonna leave and move back to Arkansas,” I said to Don, my husband, with tears streaming down my face. “If you ever leave, I’ll take him away from you!” he yelled referring to our son Danny, straddled across my left hip, who was only a few months old. As Don shouted the words, he picked up his steel-toed work boot and threw it hard. I tried to move, but with Danny on my hip I couldn’t move fast enough. To protect Danny I stepped to the left and turned my body into the path of the object hurtling toward me. The boot landed with a thud, as Don’s blows usually did, this one on my right shoulder. It stung, but not as much as his words.

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Alongside the issues that surround a lack of victimsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; rights, modern society often terms a family with divorced parents as a broken family. It is also common practice to refer to children from these homes as children of a broken home. I disagree. From personal experience, I know families more often experience brokenness before a divorce ever happens. A few years after my first marriage of 13 years ended amicably, I remarried. During the years between the two marriages I returned to school to work toward obtaining a masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree. Don, my second husband, was someone I had known in high school and I had been in touch with, through mutual friends, for about 20 years. I thought I knew him well, but he had a violent side I had never seen before. The first glimpse I got of his abusive side was the week before our wedding. I had just finished my semester exams and was staying at my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; home during the last week before the wedding and the move to Texas to live with Don. My parents were having the interior of their house painted, and the painters had disconnected the phones from the wall as they worked. Don had been unable to reach me by phone. When I called Don that evening, he broke into profanity, hurling accusations at me of infidelity and calling me names. I explained why the phones were disconnected earlier, but he raged on. I broke off the wedding over the phone that night. He apologized, begged, and pleaded. He told me he was just stressed about the wedding and about me and my daughter moving into his home with him and his daughter. He promised he would never speak to me like that again and I agreed to move forward with our wedding plans. The day after our wedding the verbal and emotional abuse began. For the two and a half years that I stayed with him, the abuse continued and quickly escalated into physical abuse. At the beginning of my marriage to Don, I convinced myself that the well documented difficulty of blending two families together was the source of our issues. Don and I had hoped to have a son together, and two months into

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the marriage I got pregnant. By the third month of my pregnancy, the physical abuse had begun in the form of pushing and shoving, and I considered leaving him, but I took my marriage vows seriously and wanted desperately for the relationship to work. I also felt a sense of obligation to stay for the sake of my unborn son. I didn’t want to divorce again and face the shame of having two failed marriages. I feared the judgment that society passes on people divorced more than once. I wanted to be married and to have a good home for myself and my children. I had left behind my family and friends in another state when I moved, so I was very isolated, just what an abuser wants. I needed someone to talk to, but I didn’t know anyone in my new home state and when I spoke to my family by phone I was careful not to tell them too much. I didn’t want them to suffer with the knowledge that my husband was abusing me. I didn’t want to give them a negative impression of Don because I believed we could turn things around. I wanted things to get better and for our blended family to be happy and functional. I tried to use good communication and conflict resolution skills to address our issues, but good communication skills only go so far when it’s a one-way street or when you’re being physically attacked. I wanted the new people I met to like and respect me. I wanted my daughter Suzy to make friends at school and I didn’t want them or their parents to know that our home was in daily chaos. I was embarrassed about how Don was treating me, I kept it all buried deep inside. Suzy and I seldom invited people over. I put on my wedding rings and a false smile every day as I interacted with the teachers and parents at Suzy’s new school. She was only eight years old, but I could see how sad she was. She missed her friends from her previous school and our family. She also missed her dad and his family, whom we had left behind as well. She and I were both becoming sad and depressed. I suggested she talk to her school counselor and that was helpful for her. Don was not physically abusing Suzy, but she had never seen any

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kind of abuse or violence before, and the things she was witnessing were traumatizing her. She was becoming afraid of her step-dad because of the way he treated me. One afternoon, as my pregnancy advanced, my new sister-in law Tamryn stopped by to visit. She and I talked in the living room as Suzy watched afterschool television. “Don is home,” Tamryn said at the sound of his truck pulling into the drive way. Suzy leapt up with a frightened look on her face, ran to her room and quickly shut the door. “Does she always do that when he comes home?” Tamryn asked, almost jokingly. “I’m afraid so.” I said quite seriously in a rather sad tone. Don was cordial when other people were around and Tamryn left soon after he got home. She later discussed the situation with me in private and I told her the truth. She shared with me that an ex-boyfriend had once beaten her with a golf club, breaking her arm. She had saved herself by squeezing between the toilet and tub in their bathroom until his rage subsided. He had never struck her before and she left him immediately. She was afraid for me and shared this with her husband, Don’s brother, who then told my new mother-in-law, Janice. Janice promptly decided that she didn’t approve of the budding friendship between me and Tamryn and pressured Tamryn to side with the family, ending our friendship. I attempted to control the situation by addressing whatever aroused Don’s anger. I tried to make everything, including myself, perfect. If he got angry about it, I changed it to suit him. At his insistence, I didn’t answer the phone or door when he was not home. I didn’t go into the front yard because he would accuse me of “advertising to the neighbors.” I only wore baggy sweat pants and oversized shirts, giving up wearing jeans, shorts and dresses. If I wore make-up or fixed my hair before I left the house, he would fly into a rage. For the first year of our marriage, I seldom left the house, but when I did venture out, usually to the grocery store, he would often accuse me of infidelity when I returned home. During the second year

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of our marriage, I began taking classes again, working on my masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree, which was a source of constant conflict. Don reliably turned his contention on me when I needed to study or had a project for school. In an attempt to assuage his anger, I went to school looking like a homeless person, not daring to wear decent clothes or fix my hair and make-up. He complained about the finances but refused to allow me to work. I tried to keep the house perfectly clean and in order. I attempted to put dinner on the table just as he walked through the door, even though he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t call ahead to tell me if he was working late or leaving early. Don and Janice did not allow me to give his daughter, who was four years older than Suzy, any limitations on her behavior, although they often left her in my care. Anxiety began to overtake me because whatever I did, it was never enough. Don would come through the front door yelling, cursing, throwing things, and usually carrying a tall-boy Budweiser. He could always find an excuse for his rage. Depression was also overtaking me, and I often went about my daily chores with tears streaming down my face. For the first time in my life, I had suicidal thoughts. Before this time in my life, I had no understanding of such feelings. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to have these thoughts and I was ashamed to admit that I was having them. Out of nowhere, a vision would pop into my head and I would see myself putting a handgun to my head and pulling the trigger. This vision lasted only a second. Then the realization of what had just crossed my mind would sink in. I felt hopeless, trapped, helpless. I did not want to wake up each day and face the situation I had gotten myself into. I had no solutions, no way out, no one to talk to. The situation continued to deteriorate, with Don becoming increasingly physically abusive. I hated the person I had become in the face of his abusive ways. I knew that Suzy was terrified at the things she saw and heard, and even at her young age she began to grab her baby brother and whisk him away with her to the safety of her room. I, strangely enough, did not feel fear or pain. I knew how much bigger

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and stronger Don was than me, he weighed twice what I did, and I had never been in a fight in my entire life—until he began attacking me. I tried my best to defend myself, but I was ineffectual. He probably could have killed me, but what I felt was outrage. I grew up in a non-violent household with parents who didn’t use profanity or raise their voices. Skilled at using emotional abuse to pick a fight, Don knew how to push my buttons. I vowed not to allow him to manipulate me. I vowed to be strong to protect my children from the hell our daily lives had become. But he seemed to thrive on the chaos. He was relentless, so time and time again the violence would erupt. The last violent episode we ever had encompassed an entire weekend, beginning on a Friday night and ending on a Sunday afternoon. At one point, I cried out to Suzy, who was trying to take care of Danny, “Call the police!” Don promptly left me and walked to our only telephone in the dining room, took it off the wall, and smashed it onto the brick hearth of the fireplace. Suzy later recounted watching him grab me from behind in a choke hold. His arm wrapped tightly around my neck, he began kicking the backs of my legs to force me to move down the hallway into the bedroom. What I remember most prominently about the violence unleashed on me in that bedroom is being forced onto the bed, where he sat on top of my chest, with his legs dangling off the side of the bed to my right. “I can’t breathe!” I gasped, my arms and legs flailing to no avail. “Good,” he said in a calm sinister voice. This moment was the one time I remember fearing him, and I feared for my life at that point. As I struggled to get out from under him, his right forearm came close enough to my mouth for me to sink my teeth into it, the adrenaline of my fear making the bite a fierce one. This bite mark is what he showed the police officer when he arrived on Sunday afternoon. Don had to leave the house eventually and when he left that Sunday afternoon, to buy cigarettes, I slipped to a neighbor’s house and called the police. As I waited on Don to return home, I quickly snapped

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some photographs of the numerous holes in the walls, the brown sticky stain on the wall where he had thrown a glass of tea, and the shattered frame of the bedroom door that he had broken down when I tried to get away from him by locking it. Don answered the front door and stepped outside to talk to the officer when he arrived, and I could hear their voices as they stood just outside our glass storm door. Don minimized his behavior as he explained his side of the story, blaming the incident on me, as he always did. He and the officer actually chuckled slightly as Don showed him the teeth marks on his arm and the officer said he had recently arrested a woman who bit him as she resisted arrest. When the officer came in, I told him my side of the story and he interviewed Suzy separately. She glanced my way with fear in her eyes as the officer took her to another room, “Just tell him the truth, sweetie, it’ll be okay,” I reassured her. After the officer concluded his interviews, he stepped outside the front door, and I heard his words as he radioed in to headquarters. He referred to our domestic abuse situation as “mutual combat” since we both had marks on our bodies from the incident. He then came back into the living room and addressed me and Don. “Do you see the looks on your children’s faces?” he asked. He then made eye contact with me and said, “If we get another call from you like this, we’ll take both of them away and arrest the both of you.” His remark devastated and confused me. Was I to cower in a corner while my husband pummeled me? Doesn’t a person have the right to defend herself when attacked? The policeman asked if Don or I had somewhere else to go for the night and since I didn’t, he insisted that Don leave. Don had threatened me enough for me to know exactly what would happen when the officer left and Don returned home, so I asked the officer if he would stay with me until Don left. He agreed. When they had both gone, I frantically packed some things for myself and my kids and I left, too, never to return.

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I had made my decision. If I couldn’t defend myself when attacked, without losing my children, then it was time for me to go. I finally had to wake up and accept the fact that things were getting increasingly worse, not better. I had to face leaving an abusive relationship and the risk it posed to my physical safety, as abusers don’t like it when their victim finds the strength to walk away. I had to hire an attorney and face my abuser in court. I had to fight for primary custody of my son because his father had always threatened to use any means necessary to take him away from me if I ever left. I had to face telling my family and friends that my marriage was over and I would be a divorced, single-mom yet again. I had to face the financial difficulties of raising my children in a one-income household. Uncertainty about my ability to finish my master’s degree while I put food on the table plagued me. I had to face my friends back home who only knew the kinder side of my abuser. I had to face the shame and embarrassment and the possibility that I might be alone for the rest of my life. But along with all these negatives, came so many positives. I found a good family attorney who remarked immediately about the substantial bruising I walked in with. She told me to photograph my bruises. I got primary custody in the emergency hearing two weeks later. “I would not want to be his attorney right now!” my attorney said to me as she joined me on a bench, just after the hearing. “Don’s out in the corridor tearin’ him a new one! He is raisin’ some hell!” She threw me a sidelong glance, “You better watch your back.” “I know,” I said with a sigh, “I know.” After staying in a hotel suite with a kitchenette for three weeks, I moved into a gated apartment that had individual security systems in each apartment. My parents helped me financially as I worked on finishing my master’s degree that year because my internship paid very little. I chose an apartment that came with a washer and dryer, refrigerator, microwave, dishwasher, and stove. When I married Don, I

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had sold my home, second car, furniture, and washer and dryer since I was moving in with him and he already had those things. I had used the money to pay off my debt and give me a clean start. When I first left Don, my kids and I didn’t have any appliances, a dining room table, a bed, or a couch, but we made do by sleeping on air mattresses and picnicking on the carpet. My brother made a trip from Arkansas in his pick-up truck to help me get some of my personal belongings from Don’s house. “Come get your stuff out of my house by this weekend or it’ll all be in the dumpster!” Don had threatened me after the hearing. My brother and I managed to rescue a few personal effects, but Don was shouting and cursing us the entire time. “Just leave the rest of it,” my brother told me, “it’s not worth it.” He was right, and I agreed to leave everything else. I lost pretty much everything, but it wasn’t worth the fight. As long as I didn’t lose my kids, that was all I needed. I got call blocker to block Don’s attempts to continually harass me, but he drove from payphone to payphone to call repeatedly. He filled my voicemail with his verbal abuse, and I successfully filed telephone harassment charges on him, as this form of abuse leaves its indisputable evidence behind. When the harassing phone calls ceased, my kids and I experienced some peace and quiet for the first time in years. We got to come home in the afternoons to a safe home where we could laugh and be happy. We didn’t have anyone yelling and throwing things at us, making our lives a living hell. We got to enjoy our peaceful daily routines. We swam almost every day that summer at one of the two beautiful pools at our new place and got to experience having Suzy’s friends over to visit and play. I gave myself time to grieve the loss of a dream. I had dreamed of having a loving husband, a supportive relationship, and a traditional two-parent home. I experienced a sense of failure, a fear of being alone, and a fear of retaliation from my ex-husband. The family court system gave visitation of Danny, not

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yet two years old, to his father Don. Watching Don take Danny away crying and calling out to me was torture, and I carefully checked him for bruises after each visit. Due to Danny’s young age, the emergency court order required Don to contact me if Danny became inconsolable during his visits, but I knew that Don would not comply. My stress mounted as the final divorce hearing approached, many months later. Each time the court set a hearing date Don’s attorney requested and obtained a continuance until the date proposed was the day before my birthday. “A little birthday surprise for you,” Don told me. “Touché!” When the court date arrived, I remember as I dressed that morning feeling as though I might collapse. I wished desperately for my family to be with me, but they were unable to be there, so I faced my abuser alone. Two weeks after my fortieth birthday and the final divorce hearing, I had a Transient Ischemic Attack—a mild stroke, and spent four days in the hospital. The doctors diagnosed me with a heart condition. I started medication and recovered fully. My recovery was much more than physical, though. I had to recover emotionally as well. “We are going to be all right!” I told myself and took the necessary steps to insure it. With time, I gave myself permission to let go of any feelings of guilt, despite widely held negative societal views about divorcées. I came to know that it was okay for me and my children to be happy. I came to a new understanding of my own definitions of success and failure and applied them to my circumstances. I rejected the terms broken family and children of a broken home, and I redefined family. My children and I are a family, a whole family, not a broken family. We do all the things families do. We have family board game, pizza, and movie nights. We take family vacations; we have built our own set of unique family traditions. We have family portraits taken. We love and support one another and we work through difficult times together.

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We have our ups and our downs, but we have nothing broken about us now, except for our memories of how bad things were. We got out. We moved on. I have been happily divorced for sixteen years now. Though difficult, balancing work, home, and family is doable. I am happy at home and my children and I are a close-knit family. We do still have some lasting effects of the abuse we encountered. I have experienced a loss of my sense of personal safety and my ability to easily trust others. I am intensely aware of my physical vulnerability. Before the abuse, I was perhaps naĂŻve. Suzy and I both have anxiety issues that crop up from time to time. Danny has no memory of our living with his dad but has had his own issues with his dad over the years. Two years ago, Don began physically attacking Danny, so Danny then refused to visit his dad for over a year. Don harassed Danny via his cell phone. He stalked us by watching our apartment from a nearby parking lot, and following us whenever we left home. We called the police numerous times, but they did very little. Danny and I got new phone numbers, and when our apartment lease expired we moved to a new apartment complex. Danny chose not to inform his dad of our new location, and I understood his decision completely. We went on with our lives. Apparently, Don grew tired of lashing out since no one was on the receiving end anymore, and he eventually stopped the harassment. After a long period of silence from Don, he approached Danny, now eighteen, with a different attitude. He seems to have realized that if he wants a relationship with his son, he must treat him with respect. I believe I set a healthy example for my children. When someone abuses you, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time to take action. Walking away from an abuser can be a dangerous prospect in domestic abuse situations, however, and many victims do not have happy endings to their stories. I still feel a sense of frustration with the lack of victimsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; rights laws in our society.

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In 2001, the year of my divorce, I turned forty, got divorced, got primary custody of my son, had a TIA, earned my Master of Science Degree in Agency Counseling and Biofeedback, and watched the terror attacks on the United States of America unfold on September eleventh. My sense of security may never be the same, but I also learned that I have tremendous personal strength. I experienced profound sadness and faced many changes and challenges that year. I also experienced profound personal growth and gained a new awareness. Now a Licensed Professional Counselor, I encounter many victims of domestic abuse and many people suffering from anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. To help them, I can draw not only on my education and training, but also on my personal battles with these issues. Society might deem our story to be one of failure but my children and I know that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a tremendous success story. We emerged bruised but not broken.

Works Cited ThisNation.com American Government & Politics. n.d. Web. 8 November 2016.

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The Sea and the Moon

Saffyre Falkenberg

The Man in the Moon gazes at the Sea from his dark and lonely realm above. Bejeweled with conches and sand dollars, ropes of kelp adorning her neck, her grey blue green eyes observe his presence. Stretching out his long silver fingers to tangle in her strands of seaweed hair, he tries to seduce her with each tug. But she plays coy, withdrawing from his advances with a thundering wave. He is alone in the night realm, cold, silent, and forever seeking his fickle beloved down below. .

2014

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Against All Evidence

Jerry Bradley We share the morningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s intimacies while outside the chickens flap and stretch in the early sun. Then we rise and fold the quilt, closing it like a book and straightening its soft pages. All night we were as silent as birds on the breeze, sleeping back to back with the patience available mostly to the dead. But this morning our dreams have left us stranded, both speechless in love, unable to say just how wonderful it is to waken with neither of us still angry.

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Shabnam

Bailey Betik

Shabnam’s eyes are like cat’s tails, curling around the nearest pieces of the world and holding them there, hostage. Today, per the usual, she is scheming how to avoid getting married, though she is already engaged, and has been since her eleventh grade science exam, since they jeweled her feet with toe rings and scrubbed her face with lemon juice to make her skin lighter; ever since they began to remove her from herself. She asks me to tell her about a boy I’ve loved and I tell her I don’t think that’s ever happened. “Then tell me about a boy you wish you’d loved.” And I tell her it’s not that easy to put into words; it’s hard to pin it down, the phantasmagoric almost-before contexts shifted, before airplanes, before doubt achingly grew like wisdom teeth, before he meant the right amount of ambiguity for me to be able to leave. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. “See,” she says with tired eyes, the only time I have heard her whisper. “I do not have an ounce of that. I do not turn to emeralds when I think his name.”

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Marina Keegan’s “The Opposite of Loneliness” and the Beautiful Left Unsaid

Annelise Severtson

Marina Keegan left stories unfinished when she died four years ago, just five days after graduating from Yale. Keegan was an aspiring writer, and in accordance with the praise and attention her viral piece “The Opposite of Loneliness” received just days after she died in a car accident, she was a really good one. Marina Keegan had ideas and characters and stories humming away on her laptop and forming in her head; she had more to think, to write, to share. A collection of Keegan’s short stories and non-fiction essays, also titled The Opposite of Loneliness, was compiled by her family and published posthumously in 2014. Unaware of Marina Keegan until last spring, I picked up her book over the summer and raced through it in a matter of days. Keegan’s writing is sincere, creative, and wildly impressive in every regard. She was the kind of writer that I envy, but also the kind of writer I strive to be. I’ve watched and re-watched each of her spoken word poems posted on YouTube, always feeling newly inspired as each video fades to an end. Whenever I feel a little bit lost or lonely, I find myself listening to her poem “Bygones” on repeat and returning to these particular lines:

“And I’m tired of justifying with tomorrow’s bliss, because Yesterday’s tomorrow is today and Someday the sun is going to die And then the human race will end and I’ll still be texting to see if that other party’s better. Do you wanna leave soon? No, I want enough time to be in love

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[Type here] with everything.” Listening to these words, I don’t feel quite as alone, even though I’m left in a world without their author. In Keegan’s essay “The Opposite of Loneliness,” she writes about the organizations and people she’s found at Yale who have given her this feeling of the “opposite of loneliness.” Yet, I’ve found that Keegan’s words themselves have provided a sense of the “opposite of loneliness” for me and fellow readers. Marina Keegan’s work brings admiration and awe, but also an overwhelming sense of grief for a young woman I never even had the chance to meet. In both her spoken word poetry and writing collection, Keegan wrote casually about death. In her essay “Song for the Special,” she described her tombstone: “You can be anything, they tell us. No one else is quite like you. But I searched my name on Facebook and got eight tiny pictures staring back. The Marina Keegans with their little hometowns and relationship statuses. When we die, our gravestones will match. HERE LIES MARINA KEEGAN, they will say.” In a piece about her gluten allergy entitled “Against the Grain,” she even details what she’ll eat on her death bed: “A box of Oreos, a bag of Goldfish, a McDonald’s hamburger, an assortment of Dunkin’ Donuts, a chicken pot pie, a Hot Pocket, a large pepperoni pizza, a French crepe, and an ice-cold beer.” There’s an ease to the way she writes about death, her death, which is both eerie and oddly reassuring. Marina Keegan wasn’t afraid of death, and of this, I’m both heartbroken and envious. Writing makes me feel more alive with each careful keystroke and scribbled sentence, but it also carries a heightened fear of dying. I’m afraid to leave scattered post-it notes around my room and heartfelt letters only halfway complete. Short stories in which I write about an angry father or an unkind best friend make me cringe, my body tensing at the thought of never clarifying to my own father and best friend that these stories are in no way inspired by them. Leaving my very rough rough-drafts and ranting Word

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[Type here] documents and horrifyingly humiliating middle school poetry for anyone to read makes me want to fold up in my own coffin. However, I force myself to keep on writing and reminding myself that being afraid to die is no way to live. The way Maria Keegan wrote is the way to write, and the way Marina Keegan lived is the way to live. My mind is always wondering, and I wonder so much about Marina Keegan. I wonder if she left illegible scribbles in her notebooks, jotted down ideas in bullet points that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make sense to anyone elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind but hers. I wonder if she hugged her mom the last time she saw her and if she left any arguments unresolved. I wonder if we would have ever crossed paths, and if I would have had the courage to tell her how much her words mean to me. I wonder if Marina Keegan left something beautiful unsaid. I decide to live my life with bright eyes and unabashed curiosity, fierce courage and a wide open heart. I decide to live my life as Marina Keegan lived hers, trying to find the beautiful still left unsaid.

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The Seeds

Annette Wren

I really would've preferred a Chia Pet. A cheesy one. One shaped like Han Solo's head, or even a cute little crocodile. Something that screamed “gag gift” but that was also completely acceptable and normal. Most of all, normal. Because I'm partial to normality, and I appreciate gifts that are so normal that there is no way that it would reduce me to screaming on the pavement outside an industrial, glass and metal, sterilized skyscraper in Dallas, Texas. But before I begin, let’s back up. I’m going to rewind back to the margaritas, the band playing birthday music, Mags singing along loudly and with drunken enthusiasm. I was turning twenty-nine, and not a moment too late for my parents, who by now expected me to be married, pregnant with a third child, and definitely not out drinking on a Monday night. Despite my parents’ misgivings, I was perfectly happy with my life: single, a secure and fast-paced job in a Dallas publishing office, good friends, and takeaway food containers always overflowing in my trashcan. I relished it all. When I first opened Mags's gift, I laughed so hard that I snorted and almost lost some of my margarita through my nose. It was a “grow-your-own-boyfriend” kit. Yes, you heard me right. It came from some up-and-coming adult toy company, and Mags explained to me that she had stumbled upon it at some business fair. After my sides ached from laughing, Mags made some witty remark, we both ribbed each other over still living the single life, and ordered a round of shots. I didn’t pay much attention to the gift at the time, placing it haphazardly on one of the empty chairs at our table. The rest of the night passed in similar frivolity, as we passed from bar to bar, the queso and TexMex mixing together with tequila, vodka, and as many free birthday shots as we could wiggle out of the

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bartenders as we hopped from bar to bar in a hopeless state of intoxication and excitement.

The box looked even hokier in my sterile apartment lights, and Mags goaded me on until I took it out and examined it more closely. The company’s name was GAG (Grow-A-Guy) Gifts, Inc. The man on the cover was naked, a leaf tastefully and suggestively hiding his manly bits. Much to my amusement, the illustrator or designer or whoever had made sure the man’s abs were photoshopped to perfection, and had also given him luscious, rich black hair and a smoldering soap-opera smile. The kit itself was actually rather large in diameter – as big as my kitchen trash can. I opened it to find a large, oblong planter: definitely, I thought amusedly, wide enough to accommodate a grown man’s torso. What, did he grow like a tree? Mags poured herself a glass of wine from the open bottle in my refrigerator and danced around my apartment as she hummed Lady Gaga, her feet lightly tripping on the hardwood floor as I took out the planter, which was pre-filled with soil and seeds, according to the directions. “Plant it! Plant it!” Mags chanted. I wondered vaguely where the company got the seeds, and couldn’t help giggling over my own joke. The box’s cover advertising boasted that this man would fulfill my dreams: fully functional at “birth,” he lived for his “gardener.” I watered the planter thoroughly, set it on my balcony, and glanced at it for a few minutes while Mags and I gulped down some last sips of liquid joy before she crashed in my guest bedroom. Overnight I completely forgot about the kit. Coffee was my only thought when my iPhone alarm buzzed angrily by my ear the next morning. I had set it so I could say good-bye to Mags before she left; I had taken Tuesday off, but she had to be back at her salon by noon.

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I stretched and heaved myself out of my obnoxiously large king sized bed; last night's clothes were still scattered on the floor, arranging themselves artistically alongside discarded pumps, Tory Burch flats, and a few too many handbags. After all, nobody was going to tell me tidy up, and I had my own method of finding my stuff. I mentally high fived myself for taking Tuesday off. It would be a nice, relaxing morning. Slipping into my robe, I found my slippers and padded over to my bathroom to quickly brush out my hair and wipe away streaks of mascara from under my eyes. And that’s when I heard Maggie shriek from the living room. I dashed out my bathroom, robe streaming haphazardly behind me. Maggie stood by the sofa, her mouth in an oblong, horrified gape and eyes as big as the clichéd saucers. As I slowed down to a cautious walk, she looked at me and pointed a shaky finger at my balcony door. And that’s when I saw the naked man sitting on one of my Pottery Barn balcony chairs. I realized I was screeching like a banshee before I actually felt the screams erupting from my throat. I grabbed my too thin robe and wrapped it tightly around my waste, fumbling for my iPhone to dial 9111. Then the planter caught my eye. I paused, finger hovering dangerously over the green call button. The planter was empty. It wasn’t possible. Just, no. “The planter…” I started, turning quizzically to Maggie. She looked. “Oh. My. Gawd.” The man stared back at us benignly, almost sheepishly. He had risen from his seat when he saw me, and stood there in his full glory. I tried to keep my eyes trained on his face instead of trailing up and down his body.

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Maggie wasn’t so shy. She whistled slowly and softly, her face now one of open curiosity and admiration. “Maggie,” I hissed. “Girl…” she replied, “he’s covered in potting soil.” Maggie was correct. The man smiled reassuringly and he gave me a sort of half wave, half shrug. He had perfect teeth. And luscious black hair. “He’s looking at you,” Maggie pointed out, nudging her head towards him. She motioned me to head over to the sliding glass door. Maggie and I exchanged looks. And then we looked at the man. And then back at each other. I cautiously neared the door and slung it open slowly, sticking my head out a few inches. The man didn’t move. “Ummm…who are you?” I asked, gripping the door’s handles and prepping myself to fling it shut again at a moment’s notice. I tried to remember if I had any mace in my purse. “I’m your boyfriend,” he said simply, not moving forward, and not covering himself up. Maggie made a gagging sound behind me. I blinked, not comprehending. He cleared his throat, and pointed to the empty planter. "I grew out of the seeds that you planted last night. I'm here to serve you." He flung me another reassuring smile, wider this time. He looked…grateful. Revenant? And he certainly didn't look like a plant: he was tall, over six feet, and his skin seemed soft, but he was so caked in dirt it was hard to tell. I wondered vaguely if he had any chest hair. Or abs. I blinked again. "What's your name?" He smiled again. "Whatever you want it to be."

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What the fuck. "How old are you?" "However old you say I am." "…what do you like to do?" "Whatever you like to do." “Sweet baby Jesus,” Maggie whispered in a tone of utter amazement. She had snuck up behind me. I pushed the glass door open a little wider to accommodate her. Maggie poked her head out and examined him more closely. He still didn’t move. “You might as well invite him in,” she told me authoritatively. I paused, my hand loosening a bit on the door handle. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer. I thought for a second before making a decision. "Well...come in, I guess." I awkwardly held out my hand and motioned him into the apartment. Why the hell not. This was either a horrible dream or the beginning of a true crime novel. Maggie and I backed up to give The Man some space. We moved over to the kitchen counter as he made his way into the living room, and I cringed slightly as he made his way over to one of my plush armchairs. I didn't exactly want male genitalia and dirt all over my faux cowhide. But instead of sitting he stood there, placing his hands on his hips and taking in the room. That same, reassuring smile still plastered on his face. “You have a lovely apartment.” Maggie giggled. I felt a weird pang of compassion. “Erm…thanks, I guess.” It was lovely, actually: slightly French country with Texas accents. My bedroom might’ve been a mess, but I was proud of my kitchen and living area. The guest bedroom, too, was in perfect working condition.

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Maggie was licking her lips. I shot her a mortifying stare and decided that a naked man in my living room was no way to start my morning. "I think I have some old boy clothes somewhere that will fit you." I ran into my bedroom and rummaged through the back of my closet. Perfect: sweatpants, some boxers, and a LA Lakers tee. I think I had once entertained plans of burning these old Caleb clothes in the winter, but had never gotten around to it. Now, however, I was engaging in an act of charity instead of vengeful destruction. I handed the clothes to the man, and motioned to the guest bathroom across the hall. "Why don't you take a shower? There are extra towels, soap, and shampoo." Now that he had been in the apartment for a few minutes, he smelled distinctly of fertilizer and dank air. "Of course," he replied, taking up the clothes and heading towards the bathroom door. "If that will make you happy." Once we heard the shower sputter on and the sliding glass door close, Maggie and I both lunged for my kitchen trash can. “I know it’s in here somewhere…” I said as I dug through the old pizza crusts and bottles of wine. “Oh my gawd, oh my gawd, OH MY GAWD,” Maggie chanted as she watched me, “I can’t believe he’s actually alive.” She beamed at me. “Don’t I just give the best presents?” I finally found what I was looking for: the GAG box. I yanked it out and ripped the top open, fumbling around for the instructions. “Read it, read it, READ IT,” Maggie exclaimed excitedly. I quickly scanned the little pamphlet until I found what I was looking for: Congratulations on your new gift! GAG Gifts, Inc. hopes that our dream man is everything your heart desires. There are just a few quick details we need you to

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know. First: your boyfriend knows how to cook, clean, do the laundry, read, write, take care of himself, and make sensual, beautiful love. However, that is all: you’ll have to do the rest. Second: he’ll need a name, so don’t forget to give him one. Third: your boyfriend is only interested in YOU; he’ll never cheat, flirt, or interact romantically with another woman (or man!). I finished reading and looked at Maggie. “Where on earth did you get this thing?” Maggie shrugged. “Some woman came into the salon with business cards. The company just opened up an office here in Dallas. Over on South Field Street, across from Manor House Apartments.” Maggie took the pamphlet from me and examined it more closely. In our complete absorption we had completely forgotten about the actual man himself. He opened the door and stepped out in a faded (and yet still too bright) LA Lakers jersey and some black basketball shorts. I cringed slightly. Maggie gave me a mischievous look. “We’re hungry…why don’t you make us some waffles?” “Maggie!” I hissed. The man turned to me. “Are you hungry?” My stomach let out a slow, tortuous, traitorous groan. The man went into the kitchen and began sniffing around my cabinets and refrigerator, checking my pantry and fiddling with my stovetop. I opened my mouth to tell him to cut it out but Maggie stepped on my foot and motioned for me to sit down on the couch. I shook my head violently and we both struggled: me to get to the kitchen and get the strange plant-man away from my stuff, and Maggie to make me relax. We finally settled on sitting at the barstools

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and watching him work. Lacking the necessary waffle maker to make waffles, it looked like plant man had decided on pancakes and bacon instead. My leg jostled along at 100mph as I watched him use my favorite WilliamsSonoma mixing bowls. “So…” Maggie asked, “you really don’t have a name?” He smiled cheerfully, whisking together some eggs. “Not until she gives me one.” He seemed completely unconcerned over that point. I didn’t know why I was going along with this song and dance, but what else could I do, really? The Man, as I’d decided to call him, took several plates from my cabinets and arranged them on the bar top in front of us. He then expertly flipped the cooking pancakes, scooped them up, and gently eased them on to the plates. He did the same routine with the bacon, finishing it all up with a smooth presentation of syrup and butter. Maggie dug in heartily while I moved the food around my plate before taking a cautious bite. I groaned. It tasted amazing. The Man began washing the dishes as Maggie and I scarfed down our food. “So,” Maggie asked as she washed down her pancakes with orange juice, “are you going to keep him?” I looked at The Man. However, that is all: you’ll have to do the rest. The note from the GAG box resonated in my mind. I examined him quickly while I ate. He seemed to be breathing, and he was munching on some of the leftover bacon. On impulse I reached across the countertop and poked his arm. It was fleshy and warm. The Man looked at me quizzically and offered out his free hand. Five

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fingers, with clean, almost manicured nails. I turned his palm over. Life lines and veins riddled it, not dissimilar to my own palm. “Oh shit,” Maggie cried, looking at the digital oven clock, “I’m going to be late!” She flew into the guest bedroom and came out with her clothes from last night overflowing from a huge tote. She gave me a huge hug and whispered, “Think about it!” The Man held out his hand politely and Maggie shook it, sighing as she drank him in with her eyes. I rolled my own. An awkward silence settled over The Man and me once Maggie shut the door behind her. “Do you want me to finish cleaning up?” He asked. “…sure,” I answered, a little taken aback. The original owner of the LA Lakers jersey had never been so considerate. Couldn’t cook, either. The pancakes felt pleasant and warm in my stomach. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I threw off my robe, grabbed some jeans off the floor, and picked up a faded blue tee from the laundry basket that I could never quite empty. My hands shook slightly as I brushed my hair in the bathroom mirror and took a good, long, hard look at myself. I still looked the same: long auburn hair, bags under my eyes, faded blue irises, cheeks a little too pale from too much indoor living and too little exercise and sunlight. I heaved a big sigh and cast a thoughtful look over my bathroom and bedroom. I loved it: the chaos, the overflowing laundry, the unkempt and slightly stale air. I didn’t want some plant-hands and plant-germs fixing me, even if the plant was in fact a tall, delicious man. I went back out into the living room. The Man was in the kitchen finishing up our plates and washing out the glasses. Maggie had said South Field Street. I grabbed my phone and car keys.

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“Can I do something?” I turned around. The Man stood there by the kitchen sink, his inquisitive eyes looking at once both helpful and totally, completely, devotedly sincere. It was unnerving. “Nope,” I said, forcing myself to sound cheerful, “We’re just going to take a little road trip to your company’s office. So that they can take you back.” The Man cocked his head to the side, eyes furrowing. “Have I displeased you?” I sighed again. “No…but look, I don’t need you. You weren’t supposed to actually come to life. I was drunk. I thought it would be funny. And I don’t have the time to train you or to give you a name or take care of you. If I wanted another warm body around, I’d get a dog. It’s nothing personal. You just don't fit into my life, and I'm not going to be your babysitter. Or girlfriend.” “But do you like me?” I sighed. “No more questions, okay?” The Man thought for a moment. He looked quizzical. I picked the pamphlet up off the counter and turned it over. The company had a customer service representative: Michelle Harrington. “Come on,” I said to The Man. “Let’s go.” “Where?” “Remember what I said about no questions?” The Man meekly bowed his head. I felt a little pang of pity. I hadn’t asked for a plant to magically do a Cinderella act and turn into a living human, but it wasn’t like he chose to come out of the ground and ruin my Tuesday morning. And it wasn’t like he had technically done anything wrong. And he was a good cook. I took stock of him through my periphery as I led him down the stairs and into the parking garage.

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He kept up with my quick, natural pace. I glanced back at him as I held open the door that led out to the garage. He was definitely gorgeous. When we started walking swiftly across the parking lot I heard The Man yelp in pain. He had stepped on a piece of metal lying on the floor. I had completely forgotten that he was shoeless. I backtracked and pulled out the small make-up bag I kept in my tote full of band aids and Vaseline. It paid to always be prepared. I stripped a band aid free of its cover and motioned for The Man to bring his foot up to me. The cut was just a scratch, and I plastered the band aid on quickly. I sighed. “Look,” I started as I motioned him into the passenger side of my Honda Civic, "you seem like a perfectly nice guy. And perhaps if I was younger, or whatever, I'd be perfectly happy to have you around. But I like my life the way it is. I don't need somebody to wash my dishes or clean up my place or tell me whether or not my outfit makes me look fat. I can do that all by myself." The Man didn’t reply. GAG Gifts Inc. was housed in one of Dallas’s minor high-rise buildings: not important enough for corporate Dallas and its skyscrapers, but also warranting more attention than your average small business. I parked with a little too much force and slammed my car door shut. The Man got out more slowly, taking in his surroundings. The pamphlet was right: everything was new to him. I yanked him by the sleeve of his jersey and hauled him behind me to the building. The directory in the lobby said that GAG Gifts owned the first floor, down the right. Michelle Harrington had her own office. Perfect. I felt my body tense with anticipation. It would be all over soon.

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Michelle Harrington was, in a word, stuffy. Her outfit was a monochromatic neutral, with perfect lipstick and hair that didn't move an inch as she rose from behind her desk. She didn't come around to greet us. Her look changed from annoyed patience to outright horror when she saw The Man in his gaudy LA Lakers jersey and shoeless feet. “Hi, may I help you?” She began, gesturing towards the two lumpy chairs in front of her desk. She looked determined to make the best of this situation. I didn't sit. I instead pointed to The Man. “So, here's the deal: my best friend gave me your boyfriend planter kit thing last night for my birthday. I opened it, followed the directions, yada yada. And when I woke up the next morning,” I pointed more emphatically to my companion, “he was on my balcony. Take him back. Please.” Michelle eyed The Man. Her expression didn’t change. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. See the seeds aren’t supposed to germinate into a man –” “And yet,” I said exasperated, “here he is. Take him back.” Michelle gave me a frustrated look. “If you would let me finish. The seeds aren’t supposed to turn into a man, but I’m afraid occasionally they do.” “Excuse me?” Michelle shuffled a few papers on her desk, avoiding eye contact with me. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s just a hiccup in the formula. You see, the seeds are supposed to turn into a one-of-a-kind daisy. But, unfortunately, there seems to be a bit of a genetic…anomaly.” She eyed the man up and down, giving him the same appreciative look as Maggie. “But don’t worry. He’ll turn back into a flower by tomorrow morning.” “I won’t remain human?”

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I turned to look at The Man, still processing Michelle’s statement. The Man looked confused, the kind of confused that comes with life-ending news. I felt another pang of compassion. “What the hell kind of company are you?” I turned, raging at Michelle. “You can’t just give someone life for twenty-four hours and then take it away.” I felt my voice quivering. “My apologies,” Michelle said, turning to The Man, “that’s just the way it is.” The Man nodded his head slowly. “I understand.” I didn’t. I didn’t want this man, but I didn’t want him to turn into a pathetic little daisy, either. “Well,” Michelle said briskly, standing up, “I think that’s all we can do for you today.” The Man got up from his seat next to me, smiled at Michelle Bitch-Face, and offered her his hand. "Thanks so much for meeting with us today." I slapped his hand away before it came into contact with hers. “No,” I said firmly, and pivoted on my heels, storming towards Michelle’s door and out to the lobby. The sunshine beat hard against my face, the full force of midmorning Texas coming at me like a freight train. “You seem upset. It’s okay. You don’t need me anyway, so my job here is done,” he said helpfully. I kept my eyes on the pavement. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. “You know what?” I turned to The Man. “What?” “I’m going to name you Nathaniel.”

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“Hi, I’m Nathaniel,” he replied, “what’s your name?” “Natalie.”

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Eudora

Adam Nemmers

The rain smelled of worms. She could hear its furious plop against the loose single of the roof; through the dampened screen, the harried clucking of her hens. She pictured them huddled under the low eave of the cop, watching fretfully, waiting, for the ground to sog up and rainwater to trickle into the green grass; then a longer, more maddening wait, for the steady drizzle to ebb and subside, the clouds to break, the sun to shine through. The rooster would be nipping at them now, saying stay back, wait your turn, keep your feathers unruffled and dry. The yard was his province and he its ruler. Her last had been rather slovenly about his duties but under Red’s authority the run was clean and well-kept, the pecking order plain and gospel-followed. The hens lay each evening like clockwork. Yet his imperious cock-eyed gaze held no sway over what tunneled beneath the earth or fell from the sky. Rain, hard rain like this, mad lakes in the ruddy scratch of gravel, and from them rivulets running downhill to the low-lying sea of her lawn. And the slow wriggling of worms, up, up from their waterlogged caves. There would be no eggs tomorrow. It was dim in her bedroom and chill, the sparse rays of the morning partner to the blustery thrash of the storm. She stood naked in front of the mirror imagining the soggy outline of her body—but she could not be sure of anything now. Her sight had gone gradually, then all at once. A narrowing, a darkening, and nothing. Things felt the same, mostly, and she found her smell and taste sharper—at times unbearably so. What she heard, the noises and voices, filtered and out like the sweep of a dusty radio. In her head a violent fuzziness, scattered blotches of white: swirls, shapes, lines and whorls, galaxies of thought that she could seldom perceive or understand. She shivered, standing there, and began to reach for her dresser. Just yesterday her church friends had visited, worried, saying it wasn’t like her to miss a week, much less a month. She hadn’t been up to it—that was all. The sermon and singing, perhaps, but there was coffee beforehand and lunch afterwards, and fellowship long into the afternoon, sitting in tight grim circles of chairs that had for years been roundabouts. And so bathing, and pressing, and buttoning, and carefully applying her face as a thing presented to the world. She couldn’t see herself doing that. But this morning the wind had changed and she rose with the kindling crow of the rooster and lay in bed motionless as dawn came and went, and in her bones the pressure shifted and left her aching. In the top drawer she felt for a slip. Her finger slid through garments of cotton, polyester, elastic. These had been lace and frill once; even if they had not yellowed and hardened and become rags for floorcleaning they’d now be antiques, exhibits of an epoch past, needful of track lighting and helpful captions. She slipped her undergarments on. Her husband had called them her delicates and with a wry smile said he’d just as soon stay out of lady business. There was a lot of that, she’d told him. And he was wise to be leery—it was a fierce business and heartfelt, something you could never get clear of once it clung to you. A woman’s work, a wife’s work, a mother’s work was never done: worrying, weeping, being strong in the moments when none else would. What she had not said, then, was that a woman had to go on living after everyone left her. That he would have scoffed at, and rightfully so. But it didn’t make her wrong, either.

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It took some effort to get the slip over her shoulders but when she finally did it fell to the floor loose against her body and she stood amid the empty room like a ghost in the darkness. The phone rang: a harsh, clamorous sound. This she could find through echolocation if the caller were patient enough. There was but one line into the house and that had arrived with her second son; she had always identified it with him and though immediately of his nine pounds seven ounces and twentythree inches and the prideful calls of congratulation that had carried him home. He had not been by for many years. “Mother,” her daughter said. “You’re there. Thank God. I thought you’d fallen, or had a stroke, or run into something, or—“ “I’m not so blind I can’t find my way around my own house, Carol. I didn’t answer because I am busy.” “Busy? Doing what?” “I am going to church today.” She adjusted her slip so it hung straight on her frame. “Oh,” Carol said, and there was a long pause. The growing patter of rain made it difficult to hear. Such a hard rain, for October. “Listen, Mother, don’t move, I’ll send the kids with Dough, I’ll be over to help you, give me…. ten minutes. I’ll bring the curler; I’ll bring the curler and… do you need some stockings again?” “I was going to have Bernice drive me, but if you’d like to that will be fine. And I don’t need you to dress me, Carol. For Heaven’s sake! I’ll be prepared in half an hour. You may pick me up then.” She sidestepped the kitchen table, slipped between the reclining chairs, her feet skirting the outfling rug, now shuffling over the cracked linoleum. This she had done in those thousand lightness nights when the moon was low or overhead or new, and could or would not shine for her. A burden then, a blessing now. Her hands were not outstretched but instead clutching the bare skin just below the hem. As far as she could tell her body felt the same, had always felt the same, though she knew the plodding decay of time belied what change the years held. She’d been nineteen in first coming through that door, carried in the brawny arms of her husband, and as near as she could imagine she’d be carried on her last trip out, only then it would be some witless orderly, probably a Kenneth, or a Dave, and she frail and birdlike in his arms, the way the elderly in the very end hollow out their bones and are no more substantive than a straw doll. She reached the dresser, tracing her fingers down the face of it, encountering a gulfing crack here, there, further down now, across the glossy smoothness of stained wood, finally grasping the brass handle. It felt cool and dingy. This would be her hosiery drawer—she tugged it open. In among the belts and stockings she snaked her hand this way and that, coiling under and between. So many holes to be lost in! She could feel no differentiation, no progress, just a shifting mass of fabric and straps, and never was there a bottom to it.

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She grasped the drawer by its sides and yanked, hard. It squeaked and stuck; she braced a foot against the breast of the thing. She pulled and pulled and did fall backwards when it came free. Her balance off, she fell clasping each side like an accordion and hit the bed hard behind her. Fortunately the damage was only to her pride. She had not much of that left. But she laughed begrudgingly and lay still, and brushed a hand over her face to clear the debris. Only in the last week had she been able to sleep well in this darkness. Which was funny, because for decades the only illumination after curfew had been the Mattson’s porch light, down a road a spell, and their own barn-light high on the eave of the hayloft. It had been no feat on overcast nights to walk completely around the house, eyes open, arms like a tightrope walker, seeing, feeling nothing—the nearest thing to it was swimming deep and unbreathing in the lake nearby. But that had been a comforting dark, a natural dark. If anything the lights were in the wrong. This latest dark endured no shade of gray. It cloistered, it swallowed, it blacked out any possibility of sight. And that had taken some getting used to. The pantyhose had fallen in a clump together. She began to pick through them, figured one was good as another, and wriggled her way into it. A sudden clash of thunder; a burst of rain fell on the roof all at once a sound like a thousand pins dropping, a shower of pine needles. She couldn’t remember a rain this hard this late in the year. Usually it was snow flurries, light and driving, powdery. Sitting upright again she moved a hand slowly down and up her legs, checking for runs. Miraculously there were none. She struggled to stand and moved to the window. She considered fresh air to be the best palliative. In the summer it brought a sense of wholeness; in the spring sweetness; in the fall briskness; in the winter a reminder that elsewhere it was warmer. Whenever possible the windows were open, for she was of the opinion (regarding the world) that there was nothing to keep out and much to let in. Over the din of the storm she could hear the dog barking. She’d named him Bobby some years ago after a television star with dark eyebrows and a clean-swept forehead. He was not afraid of the rain; once when it was dropping buckets they’d ventured out together to drive the sheep in from the back pasture. She suspected that for him rainstorms were just another periodic occurrence, like the rise of the sun or the turning of the seasons. But the lightning, and especially the thunder, were fearsome to him, unknowable, alien bolts and growls without cause or warning. The worst storms he braved under the rotting roof of the woodshed. She longed to call out to him some comforting words—be still, don’t worry, that it would blow over, soon it would pass. But there came another deafening clap of thunder and this struck at the axis of her being. She doubted her voice was strong enough to carry the distance. Turning away, she felt her way back to the bed, and as best she could gathered the garments together and jimmied them into the drawer, and the drawer back into the dresser. It pressed closed with a firm kiss. She sighed. Time was hard to tell anymore. There was a wall clock in the kitchen that rang on the hour; if need be in between chimes she could always touch its face and read it as Braille. But feeling for the hands subtly altered their reading afterwards—which was funny, if you thought about it, but not really harmful; for her the minutes were no matter, the light and dark the same, there being nothing urgent to attend to. How long had it been since Carol phoned? She felt she must be getting on. In short order she

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assembled the rest of her underclothes and stood in front of the mirror, pleased that she’d at least made herself decent—she would not suffer the ignominy of being found helpless and in the nude. Her dress and shoes would be no trouble at all. In foreknowledge and the fading clarity of vision she’d made sure to memorize her closet, where her shoes and scarves were lined up, to organize her blouses by color, tell by touch the difference between plain and print. And during her loneliness and darkness and bouts of self-pity, if she woke to sunlight, when she dared to hope, when she asked why me?—all throughout—she’d been picturing what she would wear to church this Sunday. A lavender dress, airy, pastel—an Eastery hue with red accents and a splash of white around the collar. She stepped into it. Pearl earrings, of course, and a necklace of turquoise shells, the one that she’d received during their anniversary vacation in Taos, high up in the New Mexico mountains, with the wind at night sweeping hard down through the valleys and passes, but during the daytime it was bright and clear, with rare air, and outside the hotel and old Indian woman selling jewelry, an ancient, hunchbacked woman with green twinkling eyes and gnarled hands reminiscent of Bernice. --Bernice! She rushed back through the house, nearly toppling over the desiccated fern in the hall. She reached the phone and hurriedly dialed the number, and for once her fingers did not fail her but instead pressed firmly on the grid where she willed them to. It rang, once, twice. “Hello?” “Bernice!” “Eudora? Well, how are you? I was just—“ “You haven’t left yet?” she demanded. “Well no. I was just on my way out the door.” “Oh,” she said. “I was only calling to inform you that I won’t need a ride, after all. My daughter will escort me to church.” “That’s nice of her,” Bernice said. “For her to come all that way to help you out. I was asking my daughter just the other day why it was that she didn’t—“ “I’m sorry, I need to finish preparing, Bernice. You understand I’m sure. Goodbye for now.” And the click ushered in the silence, a lull in the storm, a dying of the wind, and she standing there wondered if one more week mightn’t be prudent in case she might make a fool of herself, stumble into the pew or choose the wrong chalice. She returned to her room and to her jewelry box, and began to attach the earrings. A gale picked up that tore through the lean shelter belt; the rafters swayed as the house settled on its foundation; she

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could hear the weather vane spinning, creaking, shifting this way and that. With patient trembling fingers she donned the necklace and while back there zipped her dress up, using one arm to push the other far enough to reach. There. Now for the makeup. She’d always been considered pretty. At sixteen she’d become the Strawberry Princess at a local pageant. The adjective had been fixed upon her then and made her companion ever since; it was not something that wandered from you, unless you made a fuss about it. And it had served her well, though it was at times tiresome, to be always thought of and fawned over, and looked to and at. Even at this age she fielded jealous compliments from the other ladies—though she considered herself no longer pretty but well-preserved, like a Mason jar of jelly that had been canned and stored properly. In the small bathroom it was quite cold, the rain spilling in aslant from a high window. She cranked it closed and retrieved her powder case from the cabinet below. In this weather she’d better be light about it. Besides, no use drawing more attention to herself—after all this time and gossip, her appearance would be spectacle enough. She first went about building her foundation, feeling outward in small circles from nose to ear. Then dabbing some power, to hold things together. She batted rapidly in readying her eyes, and her hand automatically reached for the clamshell compact mirror, and she’d nearly extended it before realizing her mistake. She composedly put it away. With a feathery, almost fearful touch, she made up her eyebrows, her eyelashes, added shadow, liner, mascara. Heavy on the rouge—her cheeks would have no blush of their own. The ritual was nearly complete. As she felt about and grasped, extended the tube of lipstick and rolled it around her lips with smooth precise strokes her vision cleared, and she was sixteen as before, primping for the pageant, twenty-one and newly married, twenty-seven and again with child, preparing for her fortieth birthday party, her husband’s funeral, her daughter’s wedding, and each lap around was another year of her life, the story of her triumph and heartache, the way a tree’s age and history can be told in the thin-wide repetition of its rings. She nearly cried, to consider herself. When she finished she didn’t dare touch her face or even picture the look of it. At last she went to the bedroom, for her shoes, and sat on the easy chair in the corner to put them on. It was so nice sitting there, listening to the patter of rain striking against leaves, a mist seeping through the air, clinging to the house-side, settling into the ground. She nearly fell asleep. Then came the squelch of tires on the gravel, a car pulling into the driveway. She raced to the front hall. Her coat was hanging there, and next to it her umbrella. She pressed her ear to the windowpane. A car door opened and shut. Carol’s footfalls, light, feline, gliding up the steps. She made a quick cheerful knock to let her mother know she was there. Eudora pulled open the door. She was dressed in her rain-coat, her lavender dress, her blackstrapped shoes. Her eyes were clear; she wore no hint of darkness.

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“Oh, Mother, you look beautiful!” Carol said, offering an arm as Eudora descended the stairs. “Here, let’s get you into the car. You won’t need that umbrella anymore. Watch your step!” For the rain had slowed and skies closed, and the hens were crowded at the coop entrance again, anxious to get at the worms wiggling on the dewy grass. She allowed herself one small smile, one true smile, and took her daughter’s arm stepping in tandem down the path, careful to keep her feet to the stones, and not to dampen her stockings.

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