THE MYTH OF THE PEGASUS
The winged horse of Greek fable is said to have sprung from Medusa’s body at her death. Pegasus is also associated with the inspiration of poetry because he is supposed, by one blow of his hoof, to have caused Hippocrene, the inspiring fountain of the Muses, to flow from Mount Helicon. As a symbol of poetic inspiration, poets have sometimes invoked the aid of Pegasus instead of the Muses.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Editor
Rebecca Ewing
Readers
Lacey Veazey-Daniel
James Miller
Christine Dettlaff
Andrew Soliven
Art Jurors
Suzanne Thomas
R.J. Woods
Cover Design
Makiah Thompson
Pegasus expresses its special thanks to President Jeanie Webb, Vice President of Academic Affairs Travis Hurst, Liberal Arts and Sciences
Dean Toni Castillo, Associate Dean Jeff Conkin, Katy Sorenson of the Humanities Division, Mass Communication Program Director
Darcy Delaney-Nelson, and the Rose State College Board of Regents for their continued support of this literary journal.
Pegasus is for and by the students, faculty, and staff of Rose State College and is the property of the Humanities Division of Rose State College, 6420 S.E. 15th Street, Midwest City, Oklahoma 73110.
© 2024 Copyright reverts to the author or artist.
Table of Contents
1 ............................................... “To Grandmother’s House,” Hailee Henson (Axley Award Co-Winner)
6 ........................................................................ “Pins,” Jasmine Ignacio (Axley Award Co-Winner)
11 ........................ “Love-alo the Buffalo,” Delaney Cruzan (Axley Award finalist and Merit Award winner)
15 ........ “Ode to My Longest Love/Hate Relationship,” Billy Landry (Axley Award finalist and Merit Award winner)
17 ............................................... “Bingo,” Marissa Stride (Axley Award finalist and Merit Award winner)
18 .................................................. “Nothing Is Ever Yours,” Michalann Clark (Merit Award winner)
22 .................................................................. “Prescription,” Lauren Anderson (Axley Award Finalist)
23 ................................................................................. “Dandelion,” K. Poteet (Axley Award Finalist)
24 .................................................................. “Who Am I?,” Kendrick Simpson (Axley Award Finalist)
25 ................................................................................ “Numb,” Brittany Todd (Axley Award Finalist)
28 ................................................................................................. “Adolescence,” Marceline Conkin
29 ..................................................................................................... “I Am Woman,” Crystal Avilla
30 ...................................................................................... “Daughter of Polonius,” Jasmine Ignacio
32 .................................................................................................... “Momma’s Boy,” Toby Servis
33 .......................................................................................................... “Mirrors,” Mason S. Dailey
34 ............................................................................................... “On the Fence,” Christine Dettlaff
35 .................................................................................................... “True Freedom,” Rachel Rivera
36 ........................................................................................................ “Traveler,” Lauren Anderson
37 ............................................................................................................. “Bodies,” Kristin Hahn
38 ........................................................................................ “Goodbye, Babygirl,” Jasmine Ignacio
39 .............................................................................................. “Cycle Breaker,” Michalann Clark
41 ....................................................................................................... “Clara Luper,” Huey Robinson
42 ......................................................................... “The Survival of Mental Illness,” Jasmine Ignacio
43 ................................................................................................................. “Brood,” Kathryn Kerr
44 ............................................................................................................. “A Lady,” Bobbi Bresett
45 ..................................................................................... “Hawaiian Farmer’s Market,” Gail Carone
46 ................................................................................................... “Three Women,” Bobbi Bresett
47 ................................................................................... “Deceiving Butterfly,” Destiny Thompson
48 ..................................................................................................... “Thundercat,” Huey Robinson
49 ........................................................................................................... “Elegance,” Kathryn Kerr
50 ........................................................................................................ “The Garden,” Crystal Avilla
55 ............................................................................................... “Before Our Butterfly,” Jeff Palmer
56 .............................................................................................. “Thrown Out to Sea,” Zane Carter
57 ...................................................................................................... “Beautiful Mess,” Grace Huff
58 .......................................................................................... “Layers of Mysteries,” Jaylin Wilson
59 ........................................................................... “A Second Poem on the Nail,” James Miller
60 ...................................................................................................... “The Storm,” Michalann Clark
61 .............................................................................................. “Bottle of Rum,” Marissa Stride continued
Table of Contents
62 ....................................................................................................... “We Await,” Hailee Henson
63 ................................................................................................ “Kintsugi?,” Lacey Veazey-Daniel
64 .......................................................................................................... “Rebirth,” Crystal Avilla
65 .......................................................................................... “Battered and Broken,” Jeff Palmer
67 .............................................................................. “Open, to Love (for Paul Bley),” James Miller
68 ............ “Pandemic Retrospective (or What to do When You’re Bored and Lonely),” Christine Dettlaff
67 ........................................................................................................ “Zechariah,” Billy Landry
74 ................................................................................................. “Her Own Prison,” Crystal Avilla
75 .................................................................................................. “Faint Red Glow,” Jeff Palmer
76 .................................................................................... “Grayscale vs. Rainbow,” Kathryn Kerr
77 ................................................................................ “The Power of Books,” Jasmine Ignacio
78 ...................................................................................... “Woe to the Stream,” Michalann Clark
To Grandmother’s House
by Hailee Henson Axley Award Co-Winner
When the Eden militia took control of Denver, they cut down all the flowers around my home. I heard my parents arguing in the other room, but I was looking where the plants used to be. The green stalks with orange flowers twice as tall as I was; the rosebush I wasn’t allowed to touch that stretched all the way between our house and next door. The long, fuzzy, purple plants that came up to my waist. Now, there was nothing there but patchy, yellow-green grass.
“At least we can still own land here,” I heard my father snap from the other room.
“You can still own land here,” my mother said.
“You don’t trust me? You would rather go crawling back to that old bag?”
“This isn’t about her, Robert! She has a stable home, in a stable place! What kind of life is our daughter going to have now that this is part of Eden? Stay behind locked doors until she gets chosen for a wife by some boy?”
I wrinkled my nose. Boys are gross.
“I’m done arguing about this, Henrietta. Our daughter will be better off here than she will learning to hug trees and forgetting how to speak English.”
Mom woke me up before sunrise, which I thought was weird, because Dad said I wasn’t going to school anymore. When I looked in my backpack and saw, not school supplies, but clothes. I thought I understood, and I added my teddy bear, because if we were going on a trip, I couldn’t sleep without him.
We took a long drive, just Mom and me, southeast through the pretty orange deserts until we reached green again. When we reached a sign that said Entering Tulsa, Mvskoke and a dark metal gate, a man and woman with long, black hair wearing suits stopped us.
“Please exit your vehicle,” the woman said, not unkindly. “What’s the reason for your arrival?”
“I’m here to stay with my mother, Julienne Neale,” my mother said.
I watched over the woman’s shoulder as she typed Julian Neal into a tablet computer. The only result was a corrected spelling, number, address, and satellite photo of a plot of land. She tapped the blue-lit phone number and started explaining the situation.
“My Henrietta has a little girl?” The voice on the other end sounded pleased and amused. I thought that must be what Mrs. Claus sounds like.
“Mom!” My mother shouted over. I had never heard her sound like that—strained, angry, desperate. It made my stomach flip.
“Henri?” The voice on the other end was different, serious. “Let them in, please, yes. I have room for them. Two spare rooms.”
We had to leave the car and instead ride a pristine white bus filled with conversations both in English and a language I’d never heard. We came up to the house from the side, and when we disembarked, I got a good look at the backyard and gasped in delight.
“Momma! Are we gonna have Halloween again?” My parents had informed me weeks before that no one was allowed to have Halloween anymore and thrown all our decorations away.
I heard a laugh from the porch of the house. Matching my previous intuition, she looked like Mrs. Claus—tall and plump, with long, grey hair and a fluffy, red dress.
“It’s only the best holiday,” she said. “Who’s been trying to keep it from you?”
“Mom.”
My mother’s lips were a thin line.
“Henri,” she said with a little nod, her face neutral-pleasant. “You gonna introduce us?”
“Mae, this is your grandmother. Mother, this is my daughter Maria Easley.”
“Are those your pumpkins?” I asked.
Her face widened into her smile. “I raised them up, like I raised your momma here. They’re the pumpkins of whoever wants ‘em, though. But hey, you want to help me get the treats made for the big day? We’re only a few days out, and I gotta have enough.”
I nodded vigorously, my golden-red pigtails flapping around my head.
My mom carried our bags inside the house, while I followed my grandmother into the backyard. I noticed little flowers in the grass under my feet— they looked like tiny, light purple daisies. They were an alien version of a flower I knew, and I smiled at them as we walked.
“What’s that?” I asked my grandmother, pointing at a square glass house that hadn’t been visible from the road.
“Oh, that’s the greenhouse, Honey. That’s where I keep my special stuff.” She smiles. “Nothin’ we’re after’s in there.”
A village of brilliant orange pumpkins sat partially shaded by a line of enormous, redleafed trees that shed their leaves in the autumn wind.
“It smells like pancakes,” I said.
My grandmother nodded sagely. “It’s the maples, honey.” continued
“Mae-ples!” I grinned, very proud of myself.
My grandmother laughed, a full, rolling belly laugh. “Alright, Maples. Let’s pick out some pumpkins.”
“For jack-o-lanterns?”
“For eatin’!”
I gasped, and then went to pick the least-photogenic pumpkins I could find. I made a small pile by the door and saw my grandmother standing at a tree. She took an amber-filled glass jar from some device stuck to it, and the two of us lugged the lumpiest pumpkins into her kitchen. My grandmother cut each of the pumpkins open so I could scoop out the guts, and as I finished each one, she would cut it into bits and lay the bits out on a tray. While they baked, she asked me about me. My favorite subject in school?
“Not math.” My immediate answer made her laugh. “Mmmmmm… social studies?”
She smiled down at me. “You’re gonna like starting school here, I think. The history programs are great. And you’re gonna get to learn another language, Maples, ain’t that exciting?”
“The language people were talking on the bus?”
“Very same. That’s Muscogee. Language that was spoke here before our folks showed up.” She frowned, tilted her head. “Well, not here-here. Off southeast, but the land where they spoke it first’s all waterlogged now.”
When the oven dinged, she piled the now-soft pumpkin into a bowl and handed me a potato masher. I delighted in turning it into mush, and my grandmother gradually drizzled syrup from her jar into the bowl until the whole thing was a sticky-sweet paste, too thick for me to smoosh any further.
Rather than a pie plate, she pulled out little cookie-cutter sized molds with plungers on the backs. She showed me how to roll the paste into little balls and pop them in the molds, and then when we pushed the plunger on the back they popped back out in little shapes stamped with decorations—arch-backed cats, witch hats and broomsticks, and my favorite, little pictures of little pumpkins (I thought it was the funniest thing in the world, to shape the pumpkin back into a littler pumpkin)—and then we wrapped them up in parchment like old-school taffy.
“That can’t be sanitary,” my mother said from the doorway. “No one’s really going to take that.”
“What do you think anyone’s giving out nowadays, Henri? Can’t have plastic. And continued
importation’s limited in all of this—”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Every gallon of fuel used to ship things across the world makes the summers get hotter and the waters rise faster, Henri. The tribe’s doing their best to limit it.”
My mother rolled her eyes and left. If I had done that to her, I would have gotten a strong talking to, but my grandmother just sighed. I guessed that was because mom was a grownup.
My grandmother pulled a cauldron from a closet to display our pumpkin-taffy in. A real black iron cauldron! Not like the plastic ones I was used to use at trick-or-treat, but the kind a witch in a fairytale would have simmering over a fire.
“Are you a witch?”
My grandmother only smiled.
My mother asked me to help her put my clothes away, and I told her all about my day. Her face was tight when I looked back at it, which confused me, but I forgot it after she left. I had other business.
I left my room and crept to the backdoor, out to the yard and off to the greenhouse. I couldn’t see much inside despite the glass, between the glare and the condensation, just a vague greenness. Witch stuff. Or Christmas stuff. I hadn’t decided whether I was fully dropping one theory for the other.
The glass door was unlocked, and when I entered, I was bombarded with the smell of perfume. A jungle of dark green bushes in planters, delicate vines climbing the walls, all of them covered in fluffy white flowers. I touched one of them—it was as soft as velvet. I stuck my whole face in one and sniffed. I didn’t care that it made me sneeze.
The glass door slammed open behind me, and I darted behind one of the planters on instinct.
“What’s so ‘special’ you’ve gotta hide it from prying eyes? I didn’t think it was possible to underestimate you—what the hell have you gotten up to?”
“Henrietta Maria, have you ever known your old ma to touch anything harder than a glass of wine?”
My mother stood blinking at the green and white, my grandmother right behind her. “What is this?”
“Well, you got me. A habit I just couldn’t kick. We ain’t allowed to grow non-
indigenous flora, see, if you need a kick of caffeine you use yaupon.” She stroked a flower appreciatively. “But I just couldn’t resist buyin’ a plant or two before the laws were set. A nice cup of jasmine green… nothin’ like it.”
“Tea.” My mother looked disappointed.
“It goes for tons at the market. I’m sure Maples’ll love visiting the market—”
“What did you call her?” My mother snapped.
My grandmother just looked at her.
“I call her Mae. You use the name her father and I gave her.”
“Is that right?”
My mother’s eyes went volcano hot. It made me panic.
“I like it!”
My mother swung her whole body around to look at me. My grandmother only turned her head. She didn’t look surprised.
“Maria Easley, what in the hell?”
“I like it when she calls me Maples.”
Slowly, the tension fell out of her. “You like it.”
I came out from behind the planter and hugged her.
“Well. That’s good,” my mother said, her voice watery. “That’s good.”
Pins
by Jasmine Ignacio Axley Award Co-Winner
She looks at me like an exposed insect pinned and hung up on a wall.
I shift my attention around the area, picking at the loose threads of her loveseat and at the small room that’s engulfed with her blank, charcoal gray walls.
Doctor Alvis clears her throat and taps her ballpoint pen on the edge of her clipboard. Three taps, another, and another.
The tapping makes me want to explode.
Maybe break her clipboard in two. Maybe set this place on fire.
Finally, she breaks her eye contact with me.
“Michaela, we’ve been here for at least two and a half hours, and we haven’t reached any progress,” she presses.
2 hours too long.
She scoots toward the edge of her chair and leans forward.
“I know since what happened to-”
I wince and she cuts off.
“Your sister…that you’ve been very upset. It’s vital you talk about it.”
I say nothing. I feel as if everything in my world has shifted, and nothing feels correct anymore. My standing, my sitting, my breathing.
She continues, “When someone experiences trauma–”
I stand up from my seat, breathing heavily.
“Michaela, please, we aren’t done yet.”
I finally meet her gaze–whirlpools of deep blue.
“I want to help you,” she continues.
I hesitate when the whirlpools calm, only revealing a sea of genuineness.
I sit back down again, shifting my body in the seat.
“Good. Now,” she places her phone on the table and hits the “record” button.
“Start from what you know.” …
The weather this time of year was perfect to walk through the Everglades. The crisp smell of autumn and swampy waters helped me relax. Though the weather is always the same, it was especially less hot that day at that time–9:24 pm to be exact.
I briefly left the house once Mariah’s friends came over. Those girls buzzed more than a whirligig beetle when it met water.
I walked down a sort of pathway as the dry mud clung up to the soles of my boots, shaking all of the branches of the trees that I was able to reach.
After a couple more hours of walking and shaking, I finally stumbled upon a beautiful lubber grasshopper. It was a colorful thing–orange, red, yellow–easily blending in with its surroundings.
I crept toward it, avoiding sticks and crunchy leaves beneath my foot. I inhaled, leaned forward and cupped my hand around the grasshopper, feeling its rough, panicked movement flicking the surface of my palm.
When I walked inside the house at around 11:03 pm that night, the living room was dark and smelled of stale, burnt popcorn. Mariah’s friends all piled onto the couch; their eyes glued to the screen.
“Oh, hey, M,” said Nico from the far side of the couch.
He smiled at me with his 2 beautiful dimples and 2 rows of perfect teeth. He wore a flannel that day, red and green and black, and a Cardinals cap. His hair escaped from the hat and revealed the perfect fine strands of silken honey.
Nico was my best friend since the first grade. We were science fair partners in the second grade, piano lesson partners in the sixth grade, and chemistry lab partners junior year. He’s kind, thoughtful, curious, intelligent, and perfect in every way.
He’s also Mariah’s boyfriend.
“Wanna join our movie night?” Nico asked, “We’re watching a true crime documentary.”
He reaches his arm toward Mariah, and she sits on his lap, kissing his right dimple, then his ear. She whispers something in his ear, and they giggle touching each other’s faces. We used to always hang out until he found out I had a better twin sister.
I felt bile and fire threatening to be released.
“I’ll pass,” I managed.
I looked at Mariah. “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.”
Before I left the room, I heard her friends having a conversation with her.
“She is nothing like you.”
“How are you comfortable with her…hobby?”
“I can’t believe you were ever friends with her, Nico.”
I bolted the whole 13 steps toward the basement door before I could hear either Nico or Mariah’s response.
11, 12, 13. I finally made it to the basement and walked down the bottom of the staircase, flicking on the dim basement light.
The four walls were mostly glass encased with my large collection of every insect I ever found. The room smelled of ethanol and isopropyl and was usually cold due to the extra-large meat freezer I kept in the corner of the room. The large, black table against the very back wall was scattered with all my pins, aspirators, nets, glues, containers, and hardto-pronounce liquids in plastic bottles.
Every inch of this 600 square foot room had become my safe place, my home.
I sat down in my velvet rolling chair and scooted myself toward my desk, grasshopper still in hand.
I laid the insect on a slab of styrofoam with excitement and anticipation. My hands itching to work, my body trembling with content.
I leaned in, inhaled.
My heart began to race so much that I had to still my entire body so I could steady my hands. I carefully placed an insect pin ¾ down the middle of its thorax, the life rushing out of it. A rush of exhilaration. I then placed 2 pins in a crisscross technique over each set of legs–6 legs–securing them, and carefully avoiding their spiracles on each side. 9 on one side, 9 on the other, 18 in all. My mind began to race, and my eyes couldn’t keep up with all that I had to observe. Oh, it’s 3 beautiful, beautiful colors. My eyes began to dry so much that I had to force myself to blink every now and then.
After using the same crisscross technique with its hind legs, I used my silver forceps to gently splay out its wings, only pinning the forewing a ½ centimeter into the styrofoam. I took my last set of pins and placed one between the entanglement of its antenna–dividing them for a more observant view.
I leaned back, exhaled.
I opened the freezer and carefully placed it in the bottom. I took one last look, knowing I wouldn’t see it for at least 6 months and closed the freezer.
I glanced at the clock on my desk and read 2:14 am. I realized it had been more than a couple of minutes but rather three hours that I had been working.
I listened next to the door, the silence telling me everyone had gone home.
I turned the basement light off, took a long shower and let exhaustion wash over me.
I woke up only to the sound of an alarm the next morning. I ignored it for the first couple of minutes but became angered when I realized it wasn’t mine.
“Mariah…” I said in my pillow.
“Mariah, turn off your alarm!”
But the alarm kept ringing. Frustrated, I got up, rubbed my eyes hard and made my way to her bedroom door.
“Hey!” I yelled. I knocked twice and yelled again. “What’s the point of having an alarm if you don’t wake up to it?”
Still no response.
I walked into her room to find her phone on her bed, ringing and at five percent.
“What the hell? Mariah?” I walked into the bathroom to find that it was empty.
I walked through the entire house to find it was empty.
I began to grow worried and quickly grabbed my phone.
I typed in Nico’s cellphone number from muscle memory.
He explained that he and all her friends left last night after Mariah went to her bedroom to turn in. Growing even more worried, I explained every detail of the morning to him, unable to hide the fear in my voice that I’ve looked everywhere.
“Michaela, call the police.”
It’s been four days since Mariah went missing. The whole community participated in the search. There were posters plastered all over our neighborhood, investigations from neighboring streets, follow ups from nearby public transportation services. And still, nothing.
I broke out of my daze when a knock was on the door. I hurriedly opened it, expecting it to be the police but it was Nico.
“Hey,” he said in a small voice.
I looked up at his soft brown eyes.
I never knew I needed my best friend most until this moment.
I shook and fell into his warm embrace as he shushed my cries. But I could only think about the moment, finally being held by him, feeling engulfed by the scent of peppermint and dust. What worried me was that the cries weren’t sprouted from loss, but from longing. I looked up and kissed him. That same rush of adrenaline finding me. He was here. I felt something in my belly rise and calm at the same time. It felt wrong. I knew it was, but I didn’t care. He was my sun, and I am Icarus.
I blacked out.
“And that’s all I remember,” I tell Doctor Alvis. She hits the “stop record” button. She gave me a hesitant gaze, picked up her things and walked out of the room.
Another woman, tight-lipped and alert, came in and sat in front of me.
“Michalea, I’m sure you remember me, Detective Juleka, lead investigator of your sister’s missing case. I have news.”
This is it.
“We found Mariah,” she says.
I began to breathe so hard I almost choked, I smiled and wept and almost laughed. “Thank God,” I said as I wiped my eyes. “Hell, where did she even go all this time? When can I see her?”
But her face was straight and focused. “What?” I whispered.
“We couldn’t find her for days because she was right under our noses. We found traces of Mariah’s blood in the shower drains. It was all over the house. Must’ve been from that night all your friends were there.”
I felt myself about to fall out of my seat. My mouth felt dry with a strong metallic taste. “Are you saying she was murdered?”
3 nods.
“We searched your entire house again and found her body there.” 2 blinks.
“In the basement,” 1 word.
“Pinned.”
The memories flooded me like a broken dam. My head began to burn and my eyes stung. The intensity of the pinning of flesh, the blur of her outstretched limbs, the soreness in my arms, the shower drain filling with red water being washed from my hands.
I looked at her lifeless body that I placed at the very bottom, like an insect pinned and hung up on a wall and closed the freezer.
Love-alo the Buffalo
by Delaney Cruzan Axley Award finalist and Merit Award winner
So, this is why buffaloes are almost extinct. Love sighs as Sticky Kid holds him out of the car window. The car hits a bump, and suddenly Love’s hooves are tangled and the wind tears through his fur as he falls. After what feels like decades of regret, and bargaining with the stuffed animal Gods he is slammed onto his side. He recognizes the prickly feeling of mulch from all of the playgrounds Sticky Kid used to bring him to. He shudders. He hopes this afterlife is not a playground. The screaming, the snot-nosed children, the hard plastic slides . . . Love hates parks. Love the buffalo really just hates belonging to a younger child in general. Love hopes with all of his heart that his afterlife is not a playground. He feels that after all he has gone through with Sticky Kid he truly does not deserve that level of hell. Love slowly blinks his eyes open to see what awaits him.
From his observations, Love appears to have been thrown onto a curb. This curb is surrounded by buildings and honking cars. Sticky Kid is nowhere to be found. A feeling of excitement grips his entire 2 lb. stuffed body. He is free. He is nowhere near being dead; in fact he is the closest to living he’s ever been. Love looks for anything he might have seen before. He is relieved to see the Bullseye store. Sticky Kid’s Mom called it the “Tar-jay” and spent hours there. Love winces and rubs his backside. He can still remember how hard those metal shopping cart seats were. He takes a deep breath. Those days are long gone. He can finally begin to live his new life of peace and freedom. He is no longer tied to a small human! Love is unsure of where to start first. Should he go bungee jumping? Which building is Australia? All of the things he watched with Sticky Kid on National Geographic are at his very hoof tips. Love is FREE! He gleefully starts to trot over to the building that claims to be Texas Roadhouse. However, just as he is about to step off the curb he hears something.
“Mom, stop the car!”
The urgency in the voice causes Love to stop as well. What if the voice saw a tsunami or a lion? He had better make sure nothing bad was happening. He glances to one side of the road. All clear. He looks to his left and nearly jumps out of his stuffing. Tall black boots are clomping towards him. Without even giving him time to think, Love is lifted into the air by a pair of hands and tucked under an arm. Love is plopped into a car and realizes all too late that the Voice had planned to kidnap him all along.
“Mom, look what I found! It’s a stuffed buffalo of all things! He was on the curb across
continued
from Target and Texas Roadhouse.”
“Oh, Delle, he looks like someone’s favorite - I hate that he’s lost,” Mom replies. So, the kidnappers name is Delle. As Love is being shown to Mom, he studies this “Delle.” Love is uncertain. Delle has purple bags underneath her eyes, but not enough wrinkles to be a fully grown adult yet too tall to be a kid. Her brunette hair is falling out of her ponytail, and she talks incredibly fast. There is a coffee mug in her cupholder and a backpack by her feet. Love glances at the eye bags again. Ah, so this is what a college student looks like.
“Mom, he’s adorable! Look at his tiny hooves and chocolate fur. And, he’s so chunky too!” Delle says, sitting Love down on her lap.
Love is beginning to get irritated. What does this Delle want with him anyway? He had plans to go to Texas and then Australia. The whole world was waiting for him! Now he is back in bondage and being fat shamed by a girl who is much too old to be carrying around a stuffed animal. Then Love starts to get scared. What if Delle wants to keep him forever? What if Delle decides that buffaloes are her favorite animal, and he can never escape!?
Terror clenches his frame, and he can feel his plastic eyes start to well up. But wait!
Love spent too many years with Sticky Kid to give up now! In the midst of his internal pep talk he hears Mom say something.
“Don’t worry Delle, we will do everything we can to get this toy back to his kid.”
Love gulps. So the escape begins.
Once at Delle’s house, Love decides his best plan of action would be to hide and then escape out the back door. Simple, clean cut, easy to execute. Love is a genius; he is sure of it.
Delle places Love on the bed with her bags. She gets a phone call, jumps excitedly, and runs out of the room. Weird, Love thinks. All of that for a date? Love is more of an apple person himself. He waits for her to come back and take him with her. Sticky Kid never went anywhere without him. Love believes in boundaries and personal space. Sticky Kid did not.
The minutes tick by. The house is quiet, and Love is happily surprised. Delle must have forgotten him. Yes!
Love surveys Delle’s room for possible hiding spots. It is wide and cluttered with only a few real hiding places. Maybe he can hide in Delle’s desk? Never mind. The amount of papers and notebooks are giving that desk back problems. And why are so many of the papers highlighted with odd words such as “scholarships” and “internships”? Definitely the sign of a serial killer with that much pink highlighter.
Love decides to take the classic under-the-bed route. Every time Sticky Kid had a tantrum, Love would roll under the bed for some much-needed peace. Certainly, Delle’s continued
bed would provide that same amount of rest, too. Wrong! Immediately after stepping into the dark abyss, Love begins to panic. Underneath Delle’s bed is the opposite of clean and serene! Thick dust threatens to strangle him and in his frenzy he gets his horns stuck on a water bottle. What is probably a phone charger, but also could be a cobra, wraps around his leg. He’s too young to die! Love begins to hyperventilate until he sees a small passageway at the end of the bed. Heaving himself over a mountain of throw pillows, Love makes it out. He vows to never step foot into that darkness again.
The closet could be a good place to hide. One step in and Love feels himself slipping. It’s quicksand! Green quicksand, blue quicksand, so many pairs of slippery quicksand. Pairs? Wait, Sticky Kid’s Mom wore these. Workout leggings, not quicksand. Quicksand or not, Love flips over on his back and uses the same emergency maneuver he learned on PBS Kids. Once he is out of the quicksand or leggings (whichever), he drags himself to the door, but before he can leave an avalanche of snow is trapping him! The thick sleeves wrap around his neck and pin him to the carpet. He waits to freeze to death. But why isn’t this snow cold? He squints and feels around. Sweaters… The avalanche is of sweaters not snow. Love huffs in disgust. He carefully wriggles out from underneath the sweaters. At this point in his escape Love has had enough. He decides to give up on hiding and run. From Delle’s window he can tell it is nighttime and Delle still isn’t back yet. He could easily run out the door to freedom! It was now or never.
Delle had left her door wide open. He runs as quickly as he can through the door and out into a very long hall with cream carpet. There is stray fur everywhere. How odd. He turns right and slides across tan tiles to a bright red back door. There is a flap door through the middle of it. How convenient! It takes a bit of wiggling, but Love makes it out and onto a back porch.
Now Love’s adrenaline is dying down, and it is very dark outside. Love realizes how alone he is, yet he must carry on. Love steps off the concrete and into the grass when he is snatched up by a snarling monster! The monster has huge droopy eyes, yellow teeth, and a swinging tail. The monster begins to toss Love up in the air over and over again. This time Love is certain it’s the end.
“Muffin, DROP IT!”
Is that Delle back from eating dates? It is! The monster runs for the hills and Delle takes Love back to her bedroom. Delle works at her desk and Love begins to think. The traveling world seems to be more than he bargained for. Avalanches, quicksand, and cobras all paled in comparison to the outside monster. He looks around Delle’s room and begins to see the things continued
he hadn’t before. Hiking boots, seashells, and travel magazines were everywhere. Delle likes adventures too! Maybe Love does want to be someone’s stuffed animal. College Kids seem okay. At the very least she is better than Sticky Kid. He’d give it a shot.
The next morning Love reads a book called Calculus. It is incredibly boring, but judging by how much Delle looks at it, Love thinks it could be useful in their future adventures. He can hear Delle and Mom having a conversation in Mom’s office.
“I just hate how he’s stuck with me and not his kid!” Delle complains.
“Delle he’s just a stuffed animal, he will be fine.”
“I know, but that poor kid! We’ve tried everything!”
“It’s true,” Mom agrees. “I tried every social media I could think of! And still nothing!”
Love hears all of this and sighs happily, leaning into Delle’s pillows. He takes a sip out of the grass water she left on the bed (Delle calls it matcha). Sticky Kid will never find him and adventuring with Delle is much better than adventuring by himself. Besides, she’s never home anyway! She might as well have just gifted him a free hotel room! This freedom was unexpected, but nevertheless it is what Love had always wanted. College kids or bust!
Mom and Delle continue to talk.
“Hey, how old is Preslee again?” Delle asks.
“Your beautiful niece is three years old! Why?”
“Oh, I dunno, you think she would like to have the buffalo?”
Ode to My Longest Love/Hate Relationship
by Billy Landry Axley Award finalist and Merit Award winner
I wake up every morning, and the first thing I do every morning, before I do anything else, before I get up, before I brush my teeth, before I drink my coffee, is give you a kiss.
I would remove your outer covering, open you up, and fumble with my fingers. I would get you fired up and hot, then put my lips on you. Your taste is so calming, yet you take my breath away.
I’ve known you since I was nine when we had our first kiss. Nothing serious, I only saw you, maybe once a week.
I remember when we got serious. I wasn’t even after you.
I was trying to get with one of your friends. I knew you and her hung out, so I used you to get close to her. It didn’t work out, she had eyes for someone else. But you stayed with me anyway. We have been together, off and on, ever since I have been infatuated with you ever since, but here lately, I have begun to despise you.
I noticed things about you, things I never really wanted to admit. You were always a jealous lover. You would rub your scent on me, like marking your territory, pushing some people away. You were a fair-weather friend, leaving me when I had no money. Yet you always seem to know when I got paid,
because every time I had money, you came back to me.
You always leave your mess all over my house and car. I am constantly cleaning up after you. All you do is take, take, take, and give very little.
I love the way you make me feel, but I hate the way you make me feel.
I don’t want you in my life anymore. I have tried to leave you behind many, many times, but I would always break weak, and run back to you.
But I am determined to leave you alone, forever. My longest love/hate relationship,
Whose name is Cigarette.
Bingo
by Marissa Stride Axley Award finalist and Merit Award winner
Blackout--
In Bingo it means every number on the card
To drinkers it can mean a job well done
To alcoholics it can mean another Tuesday
To someone with trauma it means a nightmare
My nightmare is blacked out.
I couldn’t tell you what all happened, How many times, How old I was,
Or how long it lasted.
All I know is that it happened, It was real.
But do you know how hard it is to tell yourself that when you don’t remember?
When all your mind conjures up is a blackout?
I don’t feel valid in my fear
When I can’t remember a damn thing about it.
Because I can’t remember, Because I blacked out, He walks unaffected, Happy with his beautiful wife
While I sit on the sidelines
Trying my hardest to be okay
But losing the battle everyday
For some, a blackout is a win, For me, it’s a nightmare ~bingo
Nothing Is Ever Yours
by Michalann Clark Merit Award winner
Based on a True Story
I’m seven years old, clutching my siblings close as we drive away in a stranger’s car from my mother, who is crying and screaming as my older sister Chloe holds her back. Their last words running through my mind. My mom tells us that we’ll live with strangers now who may hurt us, so protect each other and that she loves us very much. She told us she’d have us back by next week, she promised us that as she clutched us painfully to her chest, her voice frantic and trembling. I have doubts that what she is promising is true; my mother tended to leave and not come back for long periods of time. These last couple of months since my dad passed away have been traumatic. Us children were skin, bones, and brittle rotten teeth with a lice infestation to match.
My sister Kylie’s voice brings me back, asking the man, “Where are you taking us?”
The man replies, “You’ll see when we get there, everything will be all right.”
I clutch my brothers tightly and whisper, “It’s going to be okay.”
We finally make it to a huge building, which I learn is an emergency shelter for children just taken from their families. We follow the man into the building. My heart is racing, and my hands are trembling, a feeling I’ve had a lot these days. I am constantly preparing myself for the worst, due to what life has been for me lately. The man leads us into an office and begins to question us. We’re ages two to eleven, so when he asks us questions, we’re honest.
“What’s been going on?” he asks.
“We’ve been running from my mom’s scary boyfriend,” my brother says.
My sister chimes in, “Yeah and he hurts Mom, and we’ve been living in a car, scared he’ll catch us.”
I nod my head in agreement, not saying much because I don’t like strangers, and I’m terrified and distrustful of everything. We give him more details. The man breathes in a deep sigh as if what he’s hearing is draining him. He takes notes and reassures us everything will
be okay. I have a feeling that everything will not be okay. I just silently observe, waiting for the other shoe to drop, just as it always seems to do.
The man proceeds to take us to another room, and they give us new clothes and take away our old ones. I’m sad about this because I’m wearing the shirt my dad bought me before his death, but I give it up. I later see my shirt on another kid in the huge facility. The facility takes your things and repurposes them, but you don’t get them back. My brother, who is two years old, has a teddy bear that he takes with him everywhere; he cries if he doesn’t have it. But they take his toy, and we later see it with another kid. We quickly learn the lesson that nothing is ever yours.
They give us a Ziplock bag with toiletries in it and proceed to take us to another room with cartoons painted on the walls and they let us pick out a stuffed animal from a box. I pick a pink pig with soft fur and comforting brown eyes; it’s big enough to cuddle close. I hold on to it fiercely, I’m determined to not let anyone take it. We finish our intake into the facility and expect to be together, but they split us up. They take my two-year-old brother Daniel to a place we never get to see and my brother Philip to another area. We’re angry. Sobbing as we clutch each other and try to stay together.
My sister and I grab my brother Philip kissing his wet face, telling him empty promises, “We love you; it’s going to be okay; we’ll be together soon.”
My brothers are my lifeline, I spent my whole short life protecting them and now they are being taken from me by strangers. Nothing is ever yours, not even the choice to be with your family.
My sister and I are crying as we’re pushed toward another part of the facility, its fluorescent lights and white walls hurting our eyes. We make it to the place where we’ll have to stay, and my mouth drops open. We see countless kids. The building has three floors. You can look over each of the railings and see the main floor. These railings wrap around the square so you can see everything going on. There is room after room, door after door. There is the main floor, where all the kids can roam, then the second floor is the boys’ floor,
and then up another floor is the girls’ floor. Each room has multiple beds to fit the kids, thankfully my sister and I get a room to share with just us.
We’re shown the shower rooms, the smell of chemicals and urine fills my nose, and the yellow tile walls and fluorescent lights hurt my eyes. The showers are the ones with just a curtain to hide behind and we’re told we only have five minutes to shower within our allotted time; if we miss it, we don’t get to shower. Thankfully, there is a boy and a girl’s shower room, but they’re right next to each other so some of the kids sneak into each other’s and do stuff they aren’t supposed to. Nothing is yours, not even your privacy.
We’re shown the cafeteria where we’ll eat, it’s like the ones at school. The food is just as bad, too, but at least we get to eat. I’ve been living off 7-Eleven packaged food and canned corn for the past few months, sometimes even resorting to eating dirt. I will eat anything just to feel something in my stomach. We see a little playground; we’re told kids sneak over the fence and go AWOL. They are trying to find their way back home, but sometimes they end up in human trafficking instead. The workers are overworked and don’t always make the best effort. We’re shown a gym, but when you put a bunch of angry, sad, and traumatized kids together, there’s going to be issues. Later, my brother came crying to my sister and me, his face red and breathing hard, clutching his neck.
He gurgles out “I was playing with the basketball and this big girl tried to take my ball and I wouldn’t let her so she picked me up by my neck and slammed me into the wall and forced me to give it to her, I couldn’t breathe!”
My brother is six and the girl is a teenager. My sister and I are angry and go to tell one of the workers and they say they can’t do anything about it. Nothing is yours, not even your safety.
We’re shown a walk-in closet, a very small walk-in closet that all the youth share. This is where we line up to get clothes, we don’t have our own to wear. Of course, the clothes I came in weren’t the best, but they were mine and the facility took them from me. Nothing is yours, not even the clothes on your back.
My sister and I finally go to our little room and sit on two small beds with rough green continued
sheets and what feels to be a mat as the mattress, the smell of dust in the air. It’s scary but it’s better than worrying about where we’re going to sleep; for the last few months we didn’t have a bed. We slept on floors, couches, or in a car. My sister comes over and holds me close and we just cry. She tells me through her tears, “Mom will get us back, I know she will.”
I let her hold me and I cry too, but in the back of my mind, I know this is just the beginning.
My sister and I are taken from the facility later one night, not knowing where we are going, and we must tell our brothers we have to leave them behind. We sob and hold each other and are once again ripped from each other’s arms. I watch my little brother’s red, tear-filled face with arms out crying for me as I am forced to leave him there. My sister and I are taken to a stranger’s home, and we are told this will be our family for a while. The family gives us a hesitant smile and puts us to sleep.
When I wake up the next morning, however, my sister is gone. I am scared, franticly searching for her. I do not like strangers and my sister is nowhere to be found. The foster parents had decided they did not want my sister and shipped her off to a group home. I did not get to say goodbye. I did not get a say at all. I am the kid who would hide behind my father’s legs and avoid people’s eyes, watching my siblings like a hawk, always protective. Yet now I am stripped from my dad, and stripped from my siblings, and I am placed with people I do not know who took my sister away; in a home I do not recognize, and I am stuck here.
When the foster mom tells me my sister is no longer with me, I go to bed and cry. I sit and cry and I hide away, hoping that things will magically change and that it is all just a bad dream. But it isn’t, it is real life. I cry for my mom, and she never comes, I cry for my siblings, and they are not here. I cry because I am seven, and I know this life is not fair. Nothing is yours, not your family, your life, or even your voice. I wish that things were not the way they are.
Hopefully, one day I will create my own story, that I will be able to use my own voice, and that maybe I can help change things for others. Maybe, one day, I can help others not to feel like nothing is ever theirs.
Prescription
by Lauren Anderson Axley Award finalist
Look out. Upon water, upon fields dressed in dawn. Look out upon the skyline where peace is wrapped in the hazy hues of eventide.
Look down.
At grasshoppers and cicadas, at feet cradled by earth. Look down and take in your form, your own vessel of livingness, and thank it for all the ways it serves you.
Look up.
To stars, to heaven’s expansive embrace. Look up to the sunlight whose golden glow glitters through the branches of trees.
Look inside. For courage, for strength renewed by quiet. Look inside, further than your wounds, where your spirit sits whole and whispering, ready and able to begin again.
Dandelion
by K. Poteet Axley Award finalist
Dandelion
Shackled
Rooted
Bound
Awaiting Death’s
Cold creep
Across
The lonely ground
Longing
Lost
In warm nostalgic reveries Dreaming of days Long dead Of a fleeting youth
Where
For the briefest of moments In freedom It soared Across a sky of endless possibility
Dandelion
Shackled
Rooted
Bound
Awaiting the sweep Of the Reaper’s Last swing
To make its way around And finally
Mow it
Down
I am Kendrick Simpson
Who Am I?
by Kendrick Simpson Axley Award finalist
I am my Grandmother’s favorite grandson
I am my mother’s loving son
I am the hyphen in between African-American
I am Section 8 American Made
I am the good and the bad of my country
I am regret and remorse profound
I am complexity
I am such more than hurts, wrongs or murders
I am responsibility
I am stagnant Katrina water
I am empathy and far better than prior me
I am transformative experience by way of fire
From a gun
Who am I
I am Kendrick Simpson
Numb
by Brittany Todd Axley Award finalist
The constant beeping, poking, and parading in and out of my very public room has become maddening. I have no time to process what is happening, yet the medical bracelet on my wrist tells me I have been here for five days. Five long, unbearable days. I want peace. I want to scream.
Six Months Earlier.
I wake up in a sweat. I am still in my slutty race car driving costume that I wore the night before and my hair is a mess. The extensions my mom paid for are ruined. I sweep it out of my face and reach for my phone. It’s ten in the morning and I am lying on the floor where he left me. The night before was a blur, but it comes to me like a Formula One car.
I had sex with him.
He is lying on the bed above me when I hear my friend wake up. She looks at me slyly and I want to die.
“I know what you did.” The words sound like the worst song I have ever heard. I run to the bathroom to throw up when I hear him walk out of the house. He leaves without saying goodbye. He is disgusted by me, too. I start to cry but quickly stop and walk outside to my truck to find a cigarette.
I chastise myself for feeling this way. “Isn’t this what you wanted, stupid girl? Sure, it wasn’t exactly the way you imagined it, but it’s over now,” I say to myself as I stomp out my cigarette with the force that shocks me. I have to get out of here, but if I go home looking like this I will be grounded for sure. I find my borrowed heels and I throw them in the passenger’s seat of my Chevy before throwing it in gear. Here goes nothing.
Six months later.
I am rushed to another room by a nurse who compliments my toenails.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile. “My boyfriend painted them for me.”
“Well, they are very nice. Will he be here for the birth?” She says with a tone that is prying. She is desperate for it. Something to go tell her husband when she gets off work. She’ll say, “You’ll never believe it. Another teenager pregnant. Her body was not ready, and she gave birth three months early. Such a shame.”
“Yes, he is on his way. But he’s not the father.”
I give her what she wants. The gossip. It’s what everyone wants. It’s all I am now. I am a spectacle. My life is entertainment for the jaded.
continued
My mother looks over at me and I don’t know how to take it. Is it sympathy or disappointment? I make my own conclusion.
There are now people surrounding me with clipboards asking a million questions, all of which I feel completely unqualified to answer. Some nurses ask my mom about days and times, but she looks over at me as if to say, “She is the mother, treat her like one.” We haven’t been getting along, but she protects me like a lioness when she is not critical of my choices. I watch her clutch a rosery as the specialist leans down next to me.
He starts listing off horrible things. I must seem confused because he looks at me with concern.
“Do you understand?” the doctor asks with compassion. “No, sorry.”
I muster up all the maturity that I have. This is important.
“So unfortunately, you may not hear crying because she won’t be breathing. Please don’t worry. They usually come out not able to breathe at first. Also, be aware that we will probably rush out of this room. We need to take her to the NICU as soon as possible.”
And this is it. I can’t hold it any longer. I start to laugh.
“Uhm, I am sorry?” the doctor questions as he tries and fails to hide his bewilderment.
“I am so sorry. I am trying so hard to be serious, I really am. This is truly so scary. But you have a trail of blue cartoon picnic ants running across your face right now. I am so sorry,” I say sounding as unhinged as anyone could.
The doctor looks over his shoulder at my mom who is standing as stoically as she can while standing at just five feet. I look over at my boyfriend who is uncontrollably laughing at me now. My mom can’t help it either; she starts to laugh.
I notice my family leaving as the doctors start to silence. It’s time. I look over at my boyfriend and silently plead for him to take me away from this place. My mom is stroking my hair and whispering something I can’t quite make out, but it is comforting. The nurses ask for my legs as they are put into stirrups. The students are still here with their clipboards, and they are no longer talking amongst themselves. The action is starting so I have their full attention. My body is the show and I have no control over myself. I haven’t had control of my body since Halloween. I am just entertainment.
I glance again at my boyfriend who is now smiling. His eyes comfort me and remind me I am not my traumas. This little girl will be loved. He loves us.
My body starts to feel like it is being ripped apart as I submit to its needs. The pungent smell that surrounds me comes in waves.
“The placenta is infected. We are doing this just in time,” the head doctor explains continued
to the students. There are no longer ants crawling across his face and for that I am disappointed.
I give it all I got as I squeeze with the vigor only a mother can muster.
I feel release, and as I look up to the ceiling, I hear it.
A soft, muffled cry.
I am a mother.
Adolescence
by Marceline Conkin
Who am I?
No, really.
Who am I?
Take away the drugs, the pleasure, the highs
What am I really?
Some might say I’m resilient.
Loving.
Strong, even.
Wow, I like that.
The image I’ve made for myself.
I do try
Really try.
Sometimes too hard, other times not caring
Always black and white
Up and down
Veering and careening back where I always end
In my room, poisoned and empty
Attempting to fill a space that was never there
Bare, empty in the home housing all my triumphs
Love, joy, iridescence
Resignation, anguish, adolescence.
I am woman
Soft and strong
Determined shoulders
Carrying the world
I am woman
Broken and patched
Swallowing ashes
And spitting fire
I Am Woman
by Crystal Avilla
Daughter of Polonius
by Jasmine Ignacio
A daughter, a sister, a lover. A member of the royal court entourage. Yet, no matter how high a pedestal I am placed upon, There will always be those higher than I For I am also woman.
Reveal my lover’s intentions!
Obey my brother’s commands! Get thee to a nunnery! For I am woman, And thy name is frailty.
Run to the ends of the Earth, and perhaps he shall follow. Perhaps I will be lifted into the air and We both run in the grassy fields of Elsinore I, future queen. Should he succeed in his obscure intentions. Perhaps then, he and all else shall look at me.
But I cannot run forward. Perhaps my imaginations overwhelm me. I run in circles, in delightful turns and twists. I dance barefoot on the cold stone Face revealed beneath the moonlight, Laughter and imaginations being outspoken, Ricocheting against palace walls.
“Mad!” someone screeches
But who? The music is loud and joyous! And I block out all noise that is not joyous!
Free! Free!
Yes! Freedom is what I yearn!
How must I break free from these bonds of society?
Of these expectations of loyalty and leadership?
Oh, the pressure!
Pressure.
The pressure fills my heart
Fills my head
Fills my lungs
I reach my hand up, up, up,
But continue to drop further into a sky of blue.
I feel a fluid cover of warmth and tenderness that envelops me wholly
Until I feel
Nothing at all.
Momma’s Boy
by Toby Servis
I’m about to be home, Mom, sure wish you were here, Knowing that you’re not always brings me to tears.
I know you’re up in heaven smiling down, Hopefully I am succeeding at making you proud. I remember our last visit, watching you walk away, A lump in my throat as I fought to be brave. Struggling to prevent tears from flooding my eyes, Wishing just once I could let go and cry.
Goodbye, Momma, don’t worry, I’ll see you again soon, Never considered it possible those words were not true.
The last words I spoke were the same I heard from you, I said, I love you, Momma, you said, I love you, too.
I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way No better words to hear or that I should want to say. Our dreams are still alive, Mom, I’ll make them come true, After all you’ve done for me, it’s the least that I can do. It may not be the ending we thought that it would be, But we’re still in this together, my momma and me.
You were my world, Momma, my heart and my soul, Sure wish God hadn’t decided it was your time to go.
Goodbye, Momma, don’t worry, I’ll see you again soon, Until then I’ll cherish the memories I have of you.
Always remembering the last words I spoke and heard from you, I said, I love you, Momma, you said, I love you, too.
Mirrors
by Mason S. Dailey
All these mirrors hanging up around me. Reflecting what people think they see, What they think they know, isn’t the real me.
The images start to change, The mirrors start to shatter
As glass falls down around me, It cuts, it digs, it gets embedded within my skin. I’m bleeding out, screaming loud. Trying to push through the pain,
As I walk through the rain of memories past. These cuts, nicks, and scars don’t define me. They are details within my story, Old baggage scribbled into my past.
As I walk away the reflections start to change, I no longer see my face tired and ragged.
The mirrors hanging around me, Glass; old and dusty covered with grime, Wiping away the deterioration of the past, Revealing a pristine shine.
I see myself walking away, With a smile upon my face.
On the Fence
by Christine Dettlaff
Ten years we’ve tended this place; Kept up with the upkeep, Battled the bamboo, Weathered ice storms without power, Poured money into the pool, Been bugged by ticks, Plagued by poison ivy, And stuck with stickers. And we’re done with all of it, Ready to move on –
But it seems it’s not done with us; Our roots have dug in deep, And it tugs at our hearts
Like an unruly child.
True Freedom
by Rachel Rivera
The warmth of the sun on my face
The crashing of the waves
The sand between my toes
The laughter of children all around
Beautiful sounds of freedom
Not heard in a long time
Darkness has tried to drown them out
Day after day it screams louder and louder
“you will never hear these sounds again”
My faith screams even louder
“you will see this freedom, but true freedom lies within”
The light begins to shine through a tiny hole
Suddenly it grows larger as I seek my savior’s face
Those iron bars that once held me captive
Can no longer contain me
True freedom has finally arrived
Traveler
by Lauren Anderson
She is always with you, Weary Traveler, so be gentle.
Journey far and journey wide, it matters not where you go or why. Because she is always with you.
In all your quests for new, and in all your courage-seeking waves, do not forget to be kind.
Be kind to the wells of worried wonder, to the unclaimed memories, and to the divots of untamable pattern.
She is always with you, Weary Traveler, so be brave.
In all your longings for change, and in your discontented angst, do not forget to be patient.
Be patient with the eloquent stories of evergreen, the frail corners of feeling, and to the quiet that brings voice to them all.
She is always with you, Weary Traveler, so do not forget to be here.
After the car crash
my brother’s ashes covered me but my father was smug in his shoes
Holiness sold on street corners he was buying
Even fetching the paper now could cause me to fall
Slipping off the surface of this poem I will sink like a fat opossum to the bottom of the lake
An accident a fat chance my body an imposition I will silently drown until the absurdity of my position fills my lungs with laughter
Then my terrible gills will push me to the surface as all the faces fall away
Bodies
by Kristin Hahn
Goodbye, Babygirl
by Jasmine Ignacio
The world has become darker today. It was a habitual sort of illusion.
The winds blew quiet
The sun had beamed the same
But the animals held a moment of silence
Knowing of a world that had shattered in glass panes.
The world has become darker today.
Though at first it looked like a regular day
But there was much mourning
On this bright, yet dark Saturday morning.
A young soul was taken back.
A soul that had made the sun shine just a little bit brighter. A soul that made the winds dance
The sun happily ignite in oranges, and reds, and yellows
That made the animals sing and praise and bellow.
A soul that had brought out the joy and laughter out of ourselves.
But then Silence rang
And misery sang.
Oh, dear, you will be missed dearly.
You were a beautiful story that made people yearn for more.
A story with pages that were substantially torn
One that had ended much too soon
Where we can’t help but be reread it
Every time there is a sea, a horizon, a moon. We will reach our hands towards the skies
And let the cold air run past our fingers
As the reminder of you will eternally be the reminder that lingers.
The world has become darker today.
Everything has been drained of its color
But there scorches a flame, a light, a love.
One that will forever be held within your brother, your father, Within your mother.
And from across the globe
This brief message I will send Dear you, until we see each other again.
Cycle Breaker
by Michalann Clark
Weaving my way through life, like a flower growing through concrete. As the rough edges scratch at me, trying to keep me from finding the light, trying to keep me from growing.
I fight for this life of mine, fighting the current, that people say is predetermined for me to fail, as my bloodline before me. It’s a cycle for my family. They rise, they hurt, they fall. Never getting back up, just roaming the empty halls of what could have been, if they had done things differently.
I am a cycle breaker; I am all alone.
I am tracking this life, falling into the unknown. I’ve been tossed into the ocean with no hope, with nothing but a compass and a little float. No directions on where to go, just the hope I will make it through, and do the things my bloodline couldn’t do.
I get up each day, fighting the hate. Fighting the stigma and the heartbreak. Chanting I’ll make it through to another day.
Praying to God for everything to be okay. I’m just fighting to stay above these waves. Paving my own direction, hoping it’s the right one, hoping I’m swimming the right way.
Away from the hurt and pain, the loss and heartbreak. Hoping to make a difference, however small, with this pain, that was meant to be my downfall, but instead, is my strength. This fight for my life to be something different,
than what people have said is predetermined. I will make it. I will use this pain, to find the right way and use the path I learned, to help others do the same. This will not be my downfall, I will learn to go with the waves, and I will find the light at the edge of the concrete. That’s what it means to be a cycle breaker, to not let the pain defeat me, but fuel me to make a change. I am a cycle breaker, I will not break.
Clara Luper
by Huey Robinson
The Survival of Mental Illness
by Jasmine Ignacio
Brood
by Kathryn Kerr
A Lady
by Bobbi Bresett
Hawaiian Farmer’s Market
by Gail Carone
Three Women
by Bobbi Bresett
Deceiving Butterfly
by Destiny Thompson
Thundercat
by Huey Robinson
Elegance
by Kathryn Kerr
The Garden
by Crystal Avilla
Evelyn blinked into the fading light of day, afraid to admit to herself that the thing in front of her might be real. It looked real, but it certainly didn’t belong in the middle of her garden. In fact, the thing might seem more at home deep in the forests of the Amazon than in the middle of a twenty-acre farm in Oklahoma, sandwiched between some beefsteak tomatoes and the cucumbers she planned on brining next week. How in the world had it gotten there? She frowned, thoroughly puzzled. She was sure it hadn’t been there when she’d gone to bed the previous evening; she would have noticed it. It had to have sprouted up while she slept. But that was impossible, because things just didn’t grow from nothing to the size of a compact car overnight.
The object of her astonishment stood oblivious to her confusion, content to reign silently over the shorter vegetation around it. Its stalk was constructed of numerous thick, greenish-tan stems. They twisted upward in a random orgy of cellulose, culminating in a gnarled mass at least seven feet above the red dirt below. The top was a scraggled tangle of large, waxy leaves and unfurled buds; anemic vines dangling down like spider’s legs to brush the ground. Nothing about it made sense. The longer she chewed on the nature of the phenomenon, the more Evelyn became convinced of only two things: that it was the ugliest thing she’d ever seen in her sixty-odd years on Earth, and that something about it was very, very wrong.
Tentatively rounding the other side of the thing—from a safe distance, of course— her brain feverishly worked on how she should deal with the situation. She couldn’t just leave it there, she knew. What would the neighbors think? They would surely accuse her of growing the strange thing on purpose. As if she would do something like that! No, she needed to treat it as she would any other weed and pull it up before somebody saw it, or before it destroyed the last two rows of her good tomatoes. Nodding decisively, Evelyn glanced at the trowel and spade she’d left on the bottom step of the back porch. A quick
calculation of exactly how long it would take to remove the distasteful object with the meager tools sent her retreating to the small garden shed beside the home.
Once inside, Evelyn perused the neat pegboard that ran the length of the wall with hands perched on ample hips. The selection wasn’t the greatest, but she carefully considered the choices laid before her. Lawnmower? No. Hedge clippers? They hadn’t been sharpened since before her husband had passed and wouldn’t make a dent in the substantial branches. The rake? Absurd. Hoe? Maybe. Chainsaw? Well, hello, Beautiful. For the first time that evening her eyes lit up. Not with happiness but with expectant glee. The resulting smile pulled her lips tight over her dentures. Anticipating the thrill of all that stimulating power coursing through her body, Evelyn eagerly reached to lift it down from the wall. Then, she remembered a promise she’d made and froze, hands aloft.
Because of a silly little incident involving the near-miss of a pinky toe, her son had made her swear that she would never again attempt to operate the dangerous machine without his presence. Damn. She’d almost forgotten. Irritated by the restrictions, she briefly considered breaking the promise and using the chainsaw anyway. After all, it was her property, and there was no way her son could have known what would happen when he’d made her swear to avoid the machine. It was possible he’d be okay with her decision to go ahead and use it under the circumstances. On the other hand, maybe not. Greg wasn’t the most understanding of people. He could be downright mean, in fact.
Mulling through the scant options left to her, Evelyn decided she had better just break down and call her son after dinner and ask him to come over in the morning to deal with the problem. That way he couldn’t be angry with her. At the very least, he might relent and allow her to deal with the situation herself. One more night wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway, she reasoned. It wasn’t as if the demon plant was going anywhere.
Evelyn sat up and yawned, shaking herself from the clutches of sleep. Sliding out of the bed, she landed on arthritic knees and exhaled sharply at the familiar twinge of pain.
Wobbling to the bathroom, she relieved the pressure on her bladder and washed down a handful of prescription medication with tap water. She thought seriously about sitting down and waiting for the pain reliever to kick in before making the bed but knew she had to keep moving or the inflammation would only get worse. When the distant chime of the grandfather clock in the dining room announced it was ten o’clock in the morning, Evelyn rushed through the remainder of her morning chores. Sweet Jesus. She’d never, in all her adult life, slept in so late. What was wrong with her?
Uncharacteristically distracted by the change in routine, she managed to forget all about the odd events of the day before. It wasn’t until after she’d stepped onto the back porch to enjoy her first cup of coffee that something jogged her memory. One very large something. She’d just lifted the cup to her lips when a colossal tree filled her vision, dominating the otherwise normality of the yard. It took a second for her to realize that everything on the other side of her humble garden was gone. The shock caused her to lose track of her coffee. When hot liquid dripped on her foot, she cried out and dropped the thick mug, leaving the remaining liquid to absorb into the weathered boards.
It’s so much bigger, she shuddered. The thing that had started out the day before nothing more than an abnormally large weed seemed to have grown a hundred feet while she dreamed. It wasn’t just its vertical growth that worried her, however. The bizarre tree seemed to have become infinitely sinister, contaminating everything that lay under the shadow of its branches with the stifling scent of dread. Evelyn was troubled to see the whole atmosphere of her home had become saturated with a strange, malevolent energy. Even the birds that usually flocked to the pedestal birdbath were missing, as was the tomcat that obsessively stalked them. The ever-present drone of insects was also absent, the air heavy, flat, and dead. It was like the seed of a malicious presence deep within the Earth had germinated and spilled forth its seed overnight, lending the thing at the center of it all a dark power it shouldn’t possess. Barely comprehending the sight before her, the confused woman felt the sharp gouges of fingernails in her palms and forced her hands to unclench.
What in the world?
Evelyn moved with all the enthusiasm of a sleepwalker. Her mind screamed at her to stop, but she couldn’t. Her legs seemed to be following their own agenda. The wind stirred, blowing through the large, palm-like canopy of green as she walked under it. The noise of the dancing foliage was akin to knives being sharpened, and Evelyn was tempted to cover her ears in self-defense. Suddenly, she keenly felt every second of her sixty-some-odd years. Her eyes shifted upward to the greenery blocking out most of the daylight. Now that she was within its shade, there seemed to be no end to it. Mounting anxiety caused her to feel incredibly vulnerable and weak, which, in turn, made her more nervous. She focused on trying to decipher the shapes generated by the interplay of shadows in the overlapping leaves, but they were constantly shifting, changing too fast to follow.
Something was up there. Purposely hiding. At that moment, it was probably slinking through its invisible aerial realm, maneuvering to get a better view of its target. It reminded her of the way the ratty old tomcat would stalk the birds. How he would crouch down, waiting patiently for them to relax their guard so he could pounce and chew them up. The thought made her break out in goosebumps, and she crossed her arms to warm herself. She didn’t want to die like one of those birds.
She was several feet away from the trunk when she stopped. Dear God, it’s ugly! The formerly smooth stalks had developed small, bumpy, rash-like nodules. The greenishtan color had also changed, developing a distinctly reddish undertone that made it appear flushed. In any other thing it would give the appearance of health, but not in this plant. There was only an evil, mocking superiority that overwhelmed sanity. She wondered at the wisdom of touching it, both curious and disgusted at the thought of actually going through with it. What if it hurt?
Rounding the far side, her breath quickened. She fervently wished she’d returned home before now. Or better yet, had never gotten out of bed in the first place. Then she wouldn’t have to witness the horror in front of her. A naked man lay, entangled and half-
buried, within the complicated root system. Evelyn automatically leaned down to help until she noticed a cocoon of lace growing like mold over his body, obscuring his features. Sickened, she turned away and almost retched. Looking back, she realized it wasn’t really fuzz growing on him, but rather extremely small tendrils digging into his skin through the tiny pores in his flesh. Shocked, she almost missed the thicker ones which pierced his skin in strangely strategic locations—groin, neck, inner elbow, abdomen. In her scrambled state, Evelyn fought to make sense of it.
Then his eye opened.
His iris was the ashy color of death. A whimper issued from his throat and Evelyn fell backward in horror. He’s alive. Oh, my God, he’s still alive! She clawed to her feet, scraping both palms in the process. She needed to get to a phone.
Her breathing was ragged as she tore through the otherworldly shadows, tears flowing. Her hip was on fire, but she made her way home as quickly as she could. It wasn’t until she’d stumbled up the steps and threw herself onto the kitchen floor did the vomit come, and, afterward, the dry heaves.
When she was positive she would be able to speak coherently, she reached for the phone. As she dialed 911, Evelyn stared at the garden through the window. It was from that vantage point that she saw it. Her son’s new pickup truck, parked in the driveway.
And then she couldn’t stop screaming.
Before Our Butterfly
by Jeff Palmer
We can still do that
We are not on the hook yet
The nights of wine and candles
The expensive dishes taste terrible
We could hit a ritzy restaurant
We can dress glitzy and fake flaunt
We keep receipts and hide the tags
We feel good to get out of these rags
We could barely afford this trip
We can’t slow time, so we sip
I love you from June to May
I love our love has stayed this way
I promise that will never change
France will never be the same.
Thrown Out to Sea
by Zane Center
Water lashing limbs raw, like hot iron scorching skin.
Water flooding lungs burning them in a blizzard of glacial isolation.
Water muffling screams for aid and support.
Water blinding the sight of lifeboats that lie just out of view.
Water slipping those under who cannot find the strength to swim.
What I would give to drive the water away from your limbs.
What I would give to empty the blizzard from your lungs.
What I would give to amplify your voice to a chorus of harmony.
What I would give to clear your eyes of deception and insecurities.
What I give to throw myself into the waves of your despair and force you above water.
But I am only human, so here I sit at your side rapping you in my embrace.
Hoping that for a moment my arms can be sanctuary from your troubles.
Hoping that in this small moment you can know you’ll be alright.
Beautiful Mess
by Grace Huff
As the electric melody plays outside my window
I begin to think of you.
I was half empty before I met you.
Now I am empty
You came into my life like a thunderstorm, Shattering the windows of my heart.
The clouds groan, aching for sunshine
The same way I ached for you the day you left.
As I went outside to look at the dark, ink-stained clouds, I thought I heard you calling my name.
But the rain stopped anyway.
You can’t have the rain without the sunshine.
And I still think the rain is beautiful, too.
Layers of Mysteries
by Jaylin Wilson
Waves crash against sand, Ocean’s vastness soothes my soul.
Deep blue and unknown,
Mysteries hidden beneath, Seeking to uncover me.
This morning you find a nail driven deep into the black rubber of your sandal.
You pry the nail loose with a flat knife from the kitchen.
The nail has left a gash across sandal’s skin.
A stain crowds round, like summer roaches feasting after a fever rain.
The nail rests on the counter, an inch that unsettles our certainty of inches.
There is no seeing the nail entire, no holding it in the mind as a finished thing.
A Second Poem on the Nail
by James Miller
The Storm
by Michalann Clark
Raindrops hit the ground, in a cascade of crystals. The dimmed sky setting off their iridescent glow. They heal the ground. The land taking thirsty gulps. The flowers open their petals like hands. I wish that this rain would heal me, just as it does the withered land. That if I just lifted my head to the sky, and let the rain soak into my skin, I would be healed.
I wouldn’t be feeling like I am missing something, that I could wash away all the hardships, I could just rinse it all away, opening up my heart like the flower petals, and letting the rain give me, what I have been searching for. That I could be fulfilled with a simple storm, Instead of always feeling like I am the storm, doomed to be pouring forever. The rain leaves and the life around me stills, Maybe instead of being the storm, I should be like the dry grass, and take what I need from the storm, and just let it pass.
Bottle of Rum
by Marissa Stride
My best friend’s house is filled with lots of nice things:
Yarn, decorations for every season, little figures
Her house bleeds comfort.
Mine does not.
Mine smells like smoke constantly, My dogs don’t like people, And if there is Dr. Pepper on the counter, I don’t bother asking her in.
Because that Dr. Pepper means that up on the fridge, Way high where I can’t even reach,
Sits Captain Morgan.
Captain Morgan has been there for most of my life. Going away for very short periods of time, But coming back quickly.
Captain Morgan lets me know not to invite anyone over, And to watch my parents. Because he makes them different.
When he visits,
They are not the parents who took me to soccer practice Or helped me with homework Or helped me move. When he visits, They are my parents who are alcoholics, Who have a problem that they can’t ever seem to fix.
Captain Morgan and I don’t get along. And I don’t see us ever wishing the other was around.
We Await
by Hailee Henson
Warm winter séance perfumed in apples, candles, their paper nest
Two girls sat skin to skin reading red book close-held to their chests
Buzzing in the fallen apples yellowjackets joining in Enraptured girls ignore the threat awaiting spirits more like them
Oasis hidden in snow holds girls entwined and in each other plain and bad and ordinary sticky sweaty lovers
Fogging glass and flipping pages slick and clammy twitching hands
Friends and teachers think they know what only two can understand
Summers lost to separation far apart ‘cross rolling waves Autumn brings them back together One day they’ll stay so ‘till their graves
If in Japan the broken can be made new with a little skill and liquid gold, leaving the mended worth far more than the whole, then we add value to one another, you and I, both molten gold in a world of ash, filling in the fractures of our delicate lives, holding each other together.
Kintsugi?
for tw
by Lacey Veazey-Daniel
Buck the icy haze of death
Hope found in the grave
Rebirth sleeps within each breath
More than soul can save
Necropolis of pain and lies
Devouring cancerous sin
One day soon release its prize
To flutter free again
Vast oceans of blood and tears
Reclaiming what thought lost
Though it be years and years
The end is worth the cost
Rebirth
by Crystal Avilla
Battered and Broken
by Jeff Palmer
I have a glass heart it shattered.
More times than I can remember
Piecing it back together isn’t worth the pain. Passion between us is like freezing rain.
If this is what love is then crush it into tiny pieces
I don’t need it it’s not worth keeping A soul riddled with holes will never be whole
I need to move on with my life
But without you I don’t know how to survive with the shattered love blind eyes I’ll miss the bliss of your empty promises
Well, here I am again never learning my lesson
I slip your knife behind my back as we finish our last dance
I struggle to stay in step
I know how ruthless you can get
I’m slipping on the blood from my wrists retract your fangs I am already dead Inviting you in was my biggest regret If love is the solution, I’ll ignore the problem
I cut myself out of everything My own life is empty. I’m slipping sanity is in the corner, bleeding you came back you’re no good for me but the beast in my brain feeds off the pain it won’t let me stay away
I need to move on with my life
But without you I don’t know how I’ll survive with the shattered love blind eyes I’ll miss the bliss of your empty promises
Open, to Love (for Paul Bley)
by James Miller
When cold comes, music is like a roar of turbines.
Ask after keys—slowly, slowly, snow.
When warmth returns, hands grow still to listen.
Pandemic Retrospective
(or What to do When You’re Bored and Lonely)
by Christine Dettlaff
Tiger King
Panic buying – no toilet paper, no hand sanitizer
Making masks
Wearing masks, hating masks
Going back to the car for the forgotten mask
Social distancing – six feet
Flatten the curve
Fauci and the CDC
Singing “happy birthday” while washing your hands
Lockdown
Essential workers
WFH: work from home
Earth gets a breather
Zoom school
Zoom yoga class
Zoom happy hour
Baking bread
Letting your hair grow
Sea shanties on TikTok
Waiting in line in the car to be tested
With that detestable swab
Hospitals overrun – no PPE, no ventilators
Bodies stacked up in trucks-become-morgues
Nurses our new heroes
Clapping at 7 p.m. on the balcony
Finally, at long last, a vaccine
And slowly, a new normal.
Zechariah
by Billy Landry
“And this shall be the plague wherewith the Lord will smite all the people that have fought against Jerusalem; Their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth.”
Zechariah 14:12 (KJV)
It’s been 14 months and 12 days since it all began. There have been many theories and assumptions about how it all began. Some said it was a virus released by the Chinese; some say it was caused by the bite of a rabid chimpanzee, some even say it is a curse from God. All they really know is that the Zombie Apocalypse is real. All they really know is that there are decaying and rotting corpses, human and animal alike, walking around with an insatiable appetite for healthy flesh. These ambulatory cadavers are in various states of decomposition, some with eyes hanging out of their sockets, some dragging their intestines on the ground, some missing jaws, or arms; some even missing legs, dragging themselves, still trying to eat. Everywhere, the smell of death is so pervasive it has become normal, like living next to a sulfur plant or a cattle feed yard, after a while it’s not noticeable. By now, everyone knows zombies are real. Everyone knows, not to get bitten by them, or even get their body fluid in an open wound. Everyone knows, the brain must be destroyed to stop them. What they didn’t know was how quickly the infection sets in. It takes 14 hours and 12 minutes for the first contact. What they didn’t know was how quickly it would spread. It is already worldwide except for a few safe zones, or communes, where the unaffected have established defensive perimeters. No one knows how it really started, except one man. He recalls that day as he is sitting and writing in a journal.
14 December 2023: 12:00 hours, Tinker Air-force Base, Midwest City, OK
14 days and 12 hours ago, the US Government shut down. Everyone, except the politicians, has been affected and civil unrest is rampant. The National Guard has been activated and placed on high alert, combined with fighting in the Middle East, the world is
in dire straits. It is the first time in history that the US has sided against Israel. Troops from Tinker Air Force Base will soon be heading to the Middle East for police action, including the Air Force Special Police Unit (SP) of Lieutenant John Haskins and Sergeant Nicholas Reed. Before leaving, Haskins and Reed have been sent to check on Doctor Phillip Chance, a government scientist doing research from his home. Dr. Chance’s residence is a fully equipped medical laboratory, where he conducts most of his research. He has not been heard from in a couple of weeks.
Lieutenant Haskins and Sergeant Reed drive up to the front gate of a fairly large estate. An eight-foot-tall white-painted brick fence surrounds a large neoclassical manor.
Lt. Haskins tries the intercom, to no avail. “Sgt. Reed, climb this fence and open this gate pronto,” Haskins orders.
“Roger L-T,” Reed replied.
Sgt. Reed grabs the black wrought iron gate with his calloused hands, places his black spit-shined boot on the crossbar, hefts his six-foot, muscular frame up, and begins to climb.
As he nears the top, he notices the sharp diamond-shaped points on the top of each rod. He carefully crosses over the top and tries to jump down. Reed’s foot slips and he catches his arm on one of the points, ripping his sleeve and slicing his arm. Sgt. Reed manages to land on his feet, turns, and notices the look of concern in Lt. Haskin’s sky-blue eyes.
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Well try and be more careful, I’m only five foot ten and don’t think I can carry you out of here,” Lt. Haskins says with a chuckle. Haskins and Reed served together in Iraq and Afghanistan and are no strangers to danger and combat. Both have encountered death and destruction on the battlefield, and war has a way of making strangers into brothers.
Reed opens the panel and manually opens the gate for Lt. Haskins. They begin the long walk up the circular driveway. Reed notices his arm bleeding, but it’s not bad. He applies a little pressure with his gloved hand and the wound quickly stops bleeding. They approach the front door and Reed tries the doorknob. Locked. Haskins and Reed move around to the back of the house and approach the back door, again, locked.
“Kick it in!” Haskins orders.
Reed takes a step back and kicks the door just beside the knob. The door bursts forward and cool air rushes out, the smell of death and decay slams into their nostrils like a freight train. Haskins turns around, bends over, coughing and gagging, trying to keep from vomiting.
Reed takes a step back and thinks out loud, “This can’t be good.”
Haskins regains his composure and both pull out a bandanna and tie it around their mouth and nose.
Reed draws his government-issue Beretta M9 sidearm and looks at Haskins, “Ready?”
Haskins pulls his and replies, “Let’s go.”
Lt. Haskins and Sgt. Reed enters the house, moving slowly down the hallway, clearing each room as they go. They walk into a large foyer with white double doors on each side. Haskins goes right. Reed goes left.
Lt. Haskins carefully opens the door and enters an office. On the desk, he notices a newspaper, the front-page headline states, “Local Doctor on the Verge of Curing Cancer.” He reads that Dr. Chance’s son, Zechariah, has a malignant brain tumor and has taken a turn for the worse.
Sgt. Reed walks through the open door into what looks like a hospital room, the smell is so overpowering, even through his face covering, it seems he can taste the sour, bitter tang of rotting flesh. He discovers a dead body sitting in an armchair, the back of its head blown off by a single gunshot wound, the pistol still in its hand, a bite mark on its wrist. The flesh is rotting and the eyes bulging out, the name on the badge is Phillip Chance, Ph.D. Lying next to Dr. Chance is the body of a woman with half her face and the top of her head blown off.
Haskins grabs a log book off the desk and begins reading. “Day 1 human trials: It has been ten days; mice are in full remission; no negative side effects noted; can’t wait; must proceed with treatment on Zechariah. Serum named for Zechariah; using lot #14, vial #12…”
Back in the med room, Sgt. Reed spots another body, a male child around 12 years old. It appears his stomach and intestines have been eaten. He sees two gunshot wounds to the chest and one to the center of the forehead. Maggots squirm around on its rotting flesh and in its opened wounds. Reed chokes back his bile.
In the office, Haskins continues reading, “Day 7: Patient in full remission; Zechariah 14:12 is successful so far.” continued
Reed checks the female’s body, the badge on the body has the name Gloria Chance, RN. Her flesh is also rotting, with maggots doing their dance all over her pale lifeless body with its flesh sloughing off. Blood, like black drying molasses, pooled up underneath her head.
“Day 14: Subject is lethargic; bit his mother on her arm and drew blood.” Lt. Haskins spots a piece of paper with letterhead and drops the logbook. Picking up the letter he reads, “I Failed! My serum has turned my son and his mother into monsters. God forgive me!” Haskins grabs the logbook and a vial marked Zechariah 14:12 and sets off a couple of incendiary grenades as he leaves and goes to meet Reed in the other room.
Sgt. Reed hears a sigh coming from the child’s body. He turns slowly, moving towards the bed. His heart was racing. Sweat poured down his brow. He nudges the body with his weapon. Air escapes, sounding like a deep sigh, and the eyes are bulging. Relieved, Reed lets out his own deep sigh.
“REED!”
Reed jumps and turns with a start.
“Did you touch anything?” Haskins ask.
“No.”
At that moment, the eye popped and blood and pus splashed onto Reed’s cut. Neither noticed.
“Torch it! We’re outta here,” ordered Lt. Haskins.
Reed tosses in three incendiary grenades and watches as the bodies ignite. He stands a moment, staring until the smell of rot combined with charring flesh overwhelms him. Reed turns and walks away.
Lieutenant Haskins and Sergeant Reed leave the estate and head off to meet up with the rest of their unit.
26 February 2025: 14:12 hours, US Embassy, Jerusalem, Israel
Lt. Haskins is sitting at a dust-covered desk in the bombed-out remains of the US Embassy. He is writing down the accounts of that day 14 months and 12 days ago. “After burning down the home laboratory of Dr. Chance, Sgt. Reed and I met up with our unit at the airport and boarded a plane for Israel. Near the end of the flight, Reed seemed lethargic. He suddenly began convulsing and foaming at the mouth, his eyes rolled back in his head. Then he just went continued
slack and the light left his eyes. He was bleeding from his ears, eyes, nose and mouth. One of the other airmen checked his pulse. He just shook his head. Reed was dead. The airman covered him with a blanket. No one knew what was going on. A few minutes later Reed jumped up and began attacking the airman, biting him. He was eating his throat. A few more airmen grabbed him and pulled him off and he began biting them as well. By the time it was said and done, he had bitten 10 other airmen. With the greatest of sorrow in my heart, I pulled my sidearm and shot him in the head. Everyone was confused, angry, and afraid. Not long after landing, the airmen who had been bitten did the same thing. I killed more of my own soldiers that first few days than I had killed enemies in two tours at war. It had been 14 months and 12 days and I have been killing these rotting mutations ever since. I am exhausted. As I write this, I see the bite mark on my wrist, and I know. I know what Dr. Chance was thinking; I know what he was feeling; I know why he did what he did.” Reed set down his pen and picked up his sidearm.
Her Own Prison
by Crystal Avilla
Flesh Branded
Raw, bloodied for all to see
Trampled and flattened by many heels and many years. . .
She trembles, stained with life
Entombed by regret, she paces. And paces.
Fueled by RAGE and propelled by crazy she paces. What do they see?
Nothing!
Nothing but time pulling in on itself. Hungry and Weeping that insistent, swirling vortex sucking her into reality. You must go in in order to get out, Wise MEN say
But she knows the grueling sandpaper of time smooths all, fixes nothing.
Dulling the ANGRY red patina of misspent youth
Crushed and Broken, but never silent she paces. And she waits.
My mind is a darkroom
The red-light glows with no windows
So much time is wasted
Developing the negatives
The monster outside Only lets in the sadness
The season change ache my bones letting me know years have passed I am still alone
The wall of brick Is cold and thick
Not one weakness I quit, Escape is impossible
Hope is just another obstacle
If anyone was coming to save me They would have done it already I will let the monster win
At some point
The torture of loneliness will have to end.
Faint Red Glow
by Jeff Palmer
Grayscale vs. Rainbow
by Kathryn Kerr
place is darkness with spots of light. overlap is shadow.
in this life we claim to strive for black or white, good or bad, no grayscale in the middle. but purity’s unbearable.
the shining star droops slowly to kiss the ocean as it boils. Rainbow deployed; two are joined.
I’m at ground level, can’t go any deeper, back stuck to the sand, my sunset view could get no steeper. when it drops into the ocean I’ll jump up to see two sunsets in one day.
then laugh briefly with my victory until gravity pulls me down again.
buried by my friend, beneath the sand. swallowed whole. six feet down, Earth turns to clay, there, all my efforts to be Gray have become literal.
The Power of Books
by Jasmine Ignacio
I leafed through the thin pages that hold great weight.
The pages hold words, identities, history, magic.
It holds the passage of time, worlds like no other.
It holds characters we can’t help but love hate, cherish, understand. It holds stories that carry us through journeys, experiences, love, loss.
Sometimes, we wonder how the author was able to tell stories too similar to our own.
Yes, yes, this is exactly how I feel. The writer, Weaver of Magic, May never know how much they have affected us. broke our hearts, filled it, replenished it, and destroyed it all over again because it has ended.
This, this is the magic.
I look up.
The journey is over.
Oh, to lie, oh, to die!
Oh, but ‘tis life!
Woe to the Stream
by Michalann Clark
Oh, this time, I really did try!
Oh, this time, Maybe next time, It’ll be different.
But oh, ‘tis life! It comes, it goes, The way in which
A stream of water flows, Connected in an endless loop. Oh, to lie. Oh, to die, Oh but ‘tis life!
There is no time, yet too much. This one moment, Is the past, present, and future.
Woe to life, And those little lies.
Woe to the stream that never seizes, Woe to the time that flies,
Woe to the ever-changing seasons.
Woe to death, The end of our time
But yes, to birth
That is another timeline. The feet that walk the earth Shall soon fall deep into it, All your hurt, Put to rest.
Woe to life, And the stream it is.
Woe to the lies that stream within it.
Woe to the reader,
As your time comes near.
As you sit here and read this Wondering why you care.
Breath in its words, And may they seep deep into your skin, Just as the earth will, When your time ends.
Rose State College is accredited by The Higher Learning Commission of the North Central Association of Colleges and Schools, 230 South LaSalle Street Suite 7-500, Chicago, IL 60604-1411, Telephone:1-800-621-7440. Rose State College, in compliance with Titles VI and VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, as amended; Executive Order 11246, as amended; Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972; Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, as amended by the ADA Amendments Act of 2008 (ADAAA); Genetic Information Nondiscrimination Act of 2008 (GINA); and other federal laws and regulations, does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, sex, age, national origin, religion, disability, genetic information, sexual orientation, or status as a veteran in any of its policies, practices, or procedures. This includes but is not limited to: admissions, employment, financial aid, and educational programs, activities or services. The Affirmative Action Officer is the Executive Director, Human Resources/AAO. This publication is issued by Rose State College, as authorized by the Board of Regents. 500 copies have been printed by Mercury Press and distributed at a cost of $4,000.
