Upcountry Spring 2020

upcountry

spring 2020

upcountry university of maine at presque isle spring 2020

Editor: Professor Richard Lee Zuras Student Editor: Sarah Harris Upcountry reads submissions from all current University of Maine at Presque Isle students for the annual Spring issue. For specific submission information, contact Professor Zuras at richard.zuras@maine.edu.

Upcountry is a publication of the University of Maine at Presque Isle’s English Program. A literary journal dedicated to showcasing poems, short stories, and visual art from students, the journal is published annually during the spring term. The views expressed in Upcountry are not necessarily those of the University of Maine at Presque Isle or its English Program.

The University of Maine System does not discriminate on the grounds of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, including transgender status and gender expression, nation origin, citizenship status, age, disability, genetic information or veteran’s status in employment, education, and all other programs and activities. Please contact Dorianna Pratt, Senior HR Partner, 207-5813732.

Poetry Katrina Dakin Sleep Paralysis

5

The Trinket Shop In Prague

6

Margaret Dickinson Alzheimer’s

7

Dancing Drops

8

Sarah Draper Bazooka Bubble Gum

9

Melanie Griffin Grampy’s Desk

10

The Twins’ Play

11

Brooke Hallett Fading Light

12

Sarah Harris Prom Walk-In

13

Another Night To Watch The Bats

14

Not A Valentine’s Day Poem

16

Hailey Johnston Kitchen Window

17

The Old Mill Town

18

Pat Karpen PLATO WAS RIGHT ABOUT APATHY

19

THE STREETSWEEPERS

20 3

Ines Ngoga Child of No One

21

Lilacs

22

My Blackness

23

Manish Pandey In my Head, I Roam Places

24

Fiction Bjorn Bartlett Prayer in the Form of Prozac

25

Katrina Dakin Lucy

31

Melanie Griffin Espionage at the County Fair Pat Karpen

36

OLD TREE

44

Ines Ngoga Night Out

53

Contributions

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Cover Photo Evan Zarkadas It Is All a Utopia

4

Sleep Paralysis

By Katrina Dakin The air was tangible and stagnant, sweat trickles down my forehead and into my mouth, the taste tanging. Encased by a miasma, it is my cocoon, I’m unable to move. There is a sense of urgency a foreboding feeling, he’ll be here soon foresee his arrival for your untimely demise. A beak slightly protrudes from the corner.

What manner of creature is this? Alas a man, swaddled in coarse cloth his mask shadowed by his wide brim leather hat. A dapper fellow, oak cane in hand held cautiously. Ashes thou wert and art, return to dirt you shall, the smell will be masked by roses and carnations, he carries them in his pocket. He gives a quick jab to my abdomen and afterwards he is absent, his figure dispersed like fog on a chilly day it. I come to the realization that he was nothing but a visitor, a voyager of the night.

5

The Trinket Shop In Prague

By Katrina Dakin Around the corner of a cobblestone street, Lies a store nestling between bank, and bakery.

Curiosity swells in me as I approach opening a door to a different time.

A bell chimes above me, soft music Graces from the rear of the shop.

Watches tick loudly arranged in their box houses.

The neighboring books on the shelf take refuge From the harsh noise.

A gaggle of solemn swords for the public sat closely.

Once used for entertainment, but now they rest for Eternities as entertainment to curious passersby.

There are violins retired in the corner, With only each other as company.

A medic bag hangs off the bookshelf, The purity of its leather is alarming.

My only reservation from taking him home is 2600 krona tag.

A painting of a nude woman overlooks the umbrellasQuite backwards if you ask me.

I wonder who she might’ve been.

Perhaps a student, a scholar, but certainly not a saint.

But the most peculiar piece in the shop was the shop itself.

A time capsule for the past, and an apartment for the wares within.

6

Alzheimer’s

By Margaret Dickinson Like a goldfish in a bowl, My mind swims in endless Circles, never resting Never reaching a destination.

Wispy, silver stranded thoughts drift By, floating deliberately out of reach A hand that resembles mine, Wrinkled with years of wisdom, Reaches for the closest one Trying to grasp and gather Some form of meaning, The instant the fingertips graze The rumination, it disperses Leaving unintelligible mist in its wake.

As if staring into the lens of a viewfinder, A pictorial record of my existence Blinks before my eyes In no particular order. Slowly At first, but each consecutive click Races faster until all I see Is one continuous blur.

A timeline of events stretches Before me, scattered, unorganized.

I labor to try to connect the dots My past becomes my present, My present turns into my future I am left wondering, Where will I go, who will I become When I have forgotten where I came from And who I am?

7

Dancing Drops

By Margaret Dickinson I drive alone along a stretch of endless road with only the thousands of raindrops pouring from the sky to keep me company.

They are not bad company really, just a bit noisy. I can no longer hear my radio, only the pitter patter of tiny raindrop feet sprinting across my roof and windshield. The men wear hand-sewn soft suede oxfords that make rounded thuds as they saunter over and around my car, while the women step sharply in their red soled Louboutin heels. They swirl, twirl, float, and glide in an intricate waltz around me. Left forward, right forward, left back, right back, the men lead their partners through the night sky, pay no attention to the fact that I am barreling through the middle of their ballroom in my car.

8

Bazooka Bubble Gum

By Sarah Draper A decrepit white structure on the biggest hill at Birch Haven Campground.

Not quite a barn or house, barely a shed.

So old that the earth seemed to swallow it up with prickly shrub teeth and moss covered gums.

If it weren’t for the faint pings and bells emanating from the ripped screen door and cracked window half covered by plywood, it would be seen as abandoned.

An 8-year-old girl sees Wonderland. Once through the time-warped door, the pings and bells were accompanied by lights and aged graphics.

Two arcade games, Mr. and Mrs. Pac-Man, nestled between wood beams and metal shelves, added light to the dusty cavern. A single naked bulb hung above the doorway. The girl stared at the games, wriggling the joystick, playing pretend, but soon turned away to the man behind the counter.

Two small fingers slid two smaller coins across the counter.

“Two Bazookas, please.” The man chuffs, takes the dimes, and holds the bucket of gum over the counter.

She picks two—“Thank you!”—and slips out of Wonderland.

Popping a pink square into her mouth, the girl giggles at Bazooka Joe’s antics in that piece’s comic.

Pocketing the other for later, she leaps onto her metal steed named Huffy to go fight off imaginary dragons at her Mémère’s and Pépère’s campsite.

9

Grampy’s Desk

By Melanie Griffin It sits atop a hardwood floor against a window over-looking the evergreen woods at the yard’s edge. I tap a purple-glitter manicured nail on the glass surface cool beneath my fingertip. On my right a stack of textbooks and worksheets reaching the ceiling requiring completion first thing in the morning.

I recall when this desk was pushed against floral wallpaper in a carpeted room the only window with its curtains drawn shut an effort to keep out the heat. The only objects covering the glass surface a black laptop with an online game of hearts, and two leather bound books, a bible and a copy of the CCC. The card game behind the screen enthralled my ten-year-old self or at least the old man playing it. I stood at his left watching his gout plagued hand resting above the mouse as he played the correct cards winning every game; Heart shape bubbles floated up the screen to proclaim victory. He smiled at me offering to teach me to which I always shook my head. I never learned how to play hearts, but I wished I could have sitting at the desk’s large chair inside the cool-dark room on the black laptop as the old man explained which cards to play and which to hold onto.

10

The Twins’ Play

By Melanie Griffin Cross-legged on the carpeted floor two girls sat across one another like staring into a mirror, children with the same face only wearing it very differently. One with a grin lacking several teeth, freckles from hours spent outdoors covering her nose, brown hair pulled into twin ponytails tousled by the wind. The other with fewer freckles and loose strands of hair, her smile although not showing teeth was no less genuine. In that small square room their bunkbed could be a wide cavern the duo must navigate or a tower in need of defense hurling pillows at enemies only they could see. Somedays a pink tutu clad teddy bear would become an undiscovered species and a coloring book filled with crayon scribbles became secret plans that needed to be delivered to the president, pine cones smuggled from the park: dragon eggs rescued from gluttonous trolls.

At sun set they would don their matching cat pajamas and return to their bunkbed tossing a quilt over the top bunk so that it hung over the bottom a tent, where they dreamed of further adventures for the morrow.

11

Fading Light

By Brooke Hallett He was staring at me Like no one ever has before With mysterious eyes A magnificent turquoise Just like a tropical ocean.

Even in the darkest of days He could make light with those eyes Eyes that could hold a thousand stars With pupils that could hold the galaxy Because he is my world.

Just as quickly As the sun can set And it turns to night His eyes can go dark And he no longer has light within him.

12

Prom Walk-In

By Sarah Harris It’s May 23, 2015. Snow falls from the sky, collecting on heads of the sizeable crowd gathered outside Wisdom Middle/High School.

Family, friends, and community members who know at least one of the 40 couples wait for the walk-in to begin eagerly, impatiently. At the DEB going-out-of-business sale, I got my prom dress for 65 dollars.

Deep violet tulle with cheap crystals send a peppering of glints, sparkles across the dashboard. My handsome date, my boyfriend of 5 months, matches with his purple bowtie.

We’re in his Pépère Ted’s new 2014 Sierra, White Beauty, first in the line up.

F-150s, Silverados, and tractor units rev while sedans and the one Corvette blare horns across the school yard, asking how much longer until we start?

The principal stops badgering the DJ who just agreed to announce the couples, wandering to where we wait. She says, “It’s about time you two got together!” takes a picture with her cell phone, okays us to start driving, and shuffles on. Chewing on his remaining fingernail, my boyfriend sinks further into his black suit. I remind him I can still drive us over there, just say so.

A small smile and laugh, he points at my heels I’m definitely not driving the truck. We go forward, stopping at red carpet laid on asphalt.

13

Another Night To Watch The Bats

By Sarah Harris Since the age of eight, I’ve caught bats.

They’d sneak through new additions of the house, trapping themselves indoors. We’d find them flying around, from living room to kitchen. Armed with a dog-washing towel, I’d corner the bat slowly until it tired and threw itself onto my towel, clinging with small thumbs. I gently bunch the towel, bat clicking and squeaking inside, then unbunch outside on gravel to release. Easy for human and bat.

I remember climbing up to the roof with my dad and sister on warm evenings to watch the bats. We left the lights off, full moon illuminating ground and sky.

Dipping and rising, bats dodge one another while gorging on a mosquito feast. At bedtime, I would beg my dad for another minute of bat-watching while he lowered my sister down the ladder. He helped me grab cold metal rungs and tell me there’d always be another night to watch the bats.

Winter of 2011 wasn’t completely cold, unusual for northern Maine. I didn’t notice, I had just started middle school. Too much going on to pay attention to a fungus embellishing the northeastern population

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of little brown bats with white fluff on noses and wings, disrupting their winter naps, slowly burning through energy reserves until they starved to death. I had to deal with best friends, boys, and bad decisions.

No time for bats.

15

Not A Valentine’s Day Poem

By Sarah Harris The midnight ski at Lonesome Pine Trails fell on Valentine’s Day, super romantic for high school couples on the slopes.

Volunteers on ski patrol draped red tape, closing outermost trails, snowmobiling down the mountain to their warm musty shack and cocoa-filled thermoses.

I rode the T-bar up with my friend.

I knew he liked me. Hanging out before and after school, Skyping every night, dropping obvious hints. We were laughing at our previous run as the T-bar tugged us into the unlit part of the lift. Our skis crunched on groomed trail, snowflakes fluttering around us. In the dark, I could still make out his cheeky smile crinkling his eyes. Captured in a snowglobe-esque moment.

The world waited with him for me to lean in, but I didn’t. I turned my face toward the pines admiring needles until the light posts returned the moment, left behind in the dark.

16

Kitchen Window

By Hailey Johnston After the snow melted, the crabapple tree blossomed. Slowly, the buds formed into small flowers covering the old branches that we climbed when we had the energy and time to spare. The flowers were a deep pink, the aroma sweet and fresh during the late spring.

For a while, I enjoyed the tree. A bright contrast to the abundance of green that took over the tiny backyard.

As a child, I stuck my foot into the little crevices of the rough branches, climbing higher and higher until my father came to the rescue.

When the flowers were fully in bloom, the bees came.

I was terrified of the bees, memories of getting stung lingered; the sharp, burning pain that came at an instant.

The buzzing grew louder as more bees arrived to pollinate until it could be heard from the kitchen window.

I observed the tree from a distance, dragging the old wooden chairs in the dining room to that very window, listening to the relentless buzz and watching as the tiny round figures circled the tree. Eventually, the bees left. The air got colder, and I had to wait another year to see the bees again.

17

The Old Mill Town

By Hailey Johnston I wonder why people still move into the old mill town. Maybe the cheap houses, the small-town comfort with its premise of safety, even with its drug-infested reputation. Or The closeness to Baxter, where getting eaten alive by horse flies is all part of the experience. Maybe the cracked roads that needed to be fixed years ago, but never were. Or the closeness of the town, where rumors spread like wildfire in a field of tall fescues and doors and cars are always kept unlocked. Maybe it’s the late-night campfires that last for hours on end, chatting about nothing, listening to Country Gold radio. Or the drives to the only convenience store open past 9 o’clock. The early morning kayaking trips, the old tire swing, or the teenage hang-out spot. Maybe it’s the care and support of the community, from fundraising dinners to old coffee cans by the cash register, to show love for those that need it the most. From health scares to family tragedies, funeral costs to house fires, people of all backgrounds link to form a community. One that loves, cares, and protects. Maybe that’s why people still move into the old mill town.

18

PLATO WAS RIGHT ABOUT APATHY

By Pat Karpen In this limning wink of almost invisible sky I worry that my snow crunching will stir The polite -- still snoozing -- chickadees and send The crows out to awaken the world.

In this light my mittens clutch at the mug – Taking turns – of the sort of hot coffee As I pretend that the already awakened Highway rumbles are a burbling creek.

In this light the Moon and Venus can best The florescent haze trapped in skittering snow And I can pretend that courage will shriek Through those hallowed halls of oaths and promises.

In that light as you lay dying in your garb of tubes And needles, I let myself believe that if I could align The squiggles of the monitors into the shape Of a memory that you would live. Sitting next to you On a chair, I put my face down right to yours And watched the proof of disappearing oxygen As black spots started to show in your eye whites.

I watched the exhausted flutter in your neck depart for good.

In that light I put my fingers to your throat and pronounced you dead; I kissed you for the last time and told you I’d see you on the other side – Whatever the hell that meant it felt good to say it – And with all the love still dripping through me In this light I can say that I’m so glad That you’re not here to see this.

19

THE STREETSWEEPERS - With gratitude for Greta Thunberg

By Pat Karpen Someone said or someone wrote that we know who we are By what we do when no one else is watching.

An old woman walking with an ancient dog Through a city so cold that the snow is shivering, Snatches off both mittens; drops them And grabs the roll of green plastic baggies (That have little doggie paws imprinted On them for God’s sake!) out of her pocket.

Yanking off one, she spits on its compressed top And rubs it with already numb thumb, index And middle fingers. Finally the bag drags open; One hand on the leash she scoops up the steaming mass.

The collector twists and ties and then maneuvers On her mittens while restraining a dog dying to sniff All the other piles of piles left behind by people – Too important, too cold, too arrogant.

She throws the warm bag into a bigger plastic bag As she curses all the plastic in the world; nods to her sins And begins, perhaps as a penance, to bend to the droppings Of the disdainful, scornful and contemptuous: Frozen greasy wrappers, cans for sodas and cups for coffee, Hundreds of cigarette butts, the discarded dresses of Slim Jims And candy. Then she thinks of all the wars begun in the name Of gods, guano and gold. She thinks of the streetsweepers Who sop up blood, brains and bones; who stitch together souls And hold the dying and weep with the mourning. She thinks Of a young girl crossing the oceans in a catamaran Whose steady eyes deny the whining of the grotesque.

The old woman straightens her back and goes home To look for her broom.

20

Child Of No One

By Ines Ngoga I am a child of no one.

A dark skinned foreigner from Africa Burdened by the chains of history I am a Rwandese American A product of a genocide I never witnessed An immigrant, and the daughter of Slaves The same blood that ran through the veins of the People who made this country what it is, Runs through my veins.

The scars that marked my ancestors as property Are branded on my back.

I speak English with conviction and disdain Disdain for a language that takes what doesn’t belong to it.

I am African American, rooted to the history of both Continents.

I am not European, but Europe lives in the roots of my history.

I am not Native American, nor Jewish, or mexican But our shared history of oppression makes us one.

I am diaspora in my home country, a sell out.

The place I call home wants nothing to do with me.

I am judged by the color of my skin instead of my character, And reduced to nothing but a single hateful word.

I have a bullseye on my back and simply being me is a crime.

I am told to go home but where is home?

We are all immigrants living on stolen land.

I am a child of no one, with pieces from all over the world making me whole.

I am shackled and chained. I am weary. History is my curse and my blessing. The universe is my playground And I am homeless.

21

Lilacs

By Ines Ngoga She opened her mouth to smile, revealing a set of beautiful white pearls. Her deep dark complexion glowed in the sun as she bopped to a tune only she could hear. Her cheeks shone golden as the sun danced across her face. Her hair was stacked on top of her head adorned in beautiful white flowers, all the while defying gravity. I watched her watch me, her dark chocolate eyes beaming at me. As I reached my hand out to her, the fire in my heart grew and burned more deeply. As she got closer, the sweet smell of lilacs overwhelmed my senses. Before I could clasp my hand in hers, she disintegrated into dust. A cold breeze spiriting her away.

Away from me. The dust swirled in the sky, still bopping to that tune unknown to me. My scream echoed in the vast emptiness as the dust dispersed, leaving me to shrivel away. Left behind was the sweet smell of lilacs, the only evidence of her existence.

22

My Blackness

By Ines Ngoga I was born in the middle of the night so God decided to cloak me in blackness, from the beehive on my head to the blood in my veins, black is the color, all that you see and all that I am.

I did not ask for it, but it was a gift, and gifts can’t be returned, though I’ve tried and failed and tried and failed again.

My voice is silenced by the cacophony of hate.

My story erased, another statistic, another nameless casualty on an endless list.

My skin is the weapon, my back the target; there is nowhere to run, no Superman to the rescue.

My body is riddled with holes, like a block of swiss cheese, and I’m left to bleed out; your silence saying it all.

23

In my Head, I Roam Places

By Manish Pandey For the longest time I imagined myself in places I shouldn’t be, like a narrow, damp crevice that could squeeze a person in shape, the place so dark, your arms dissolve in it, and whose grainy texture, like sand, coats the pink folds of your brain; or a deep, bright sea, where floundering arms do no good and the pressure caves your head in, and where one, cutting through the light, plummets like an anchor. Virginia Woolf sunk with rocks stuffed in her coat pockets—how light must we be? If I sink, it will be with a heavy heart.

But, of course, I understand there’s a reason I am here. It’s my brain that loves wandering off.

24

Prayer in the Form of Prozac

By Bjorn Bartlett As my Uber slowed down I listened to the worn out brake pads grind against the car’s rotors. As I grabbed my duffle bag and made my way towards the front gate I saw the curtains split from inside the window that had only one shutter. Before I had even reached the top step the door creaked open revealing my younger sister Kate who closed the door quietly behind her.

“Kasper!” Kate exclaimed softly as she gave me a brief side hug. “I’m surprised you made it.”

“Yeah well, some things you have to come home for right?”

Begrudgingly, I followed Kate’s lead and walked into the house as the foul smell of my father’s passing was still lingering clearly through our childhood home. I was thankful to see Kate facing the other way as I tried to scrunch and unscrunch my nose to get used to the odd smell.

“It smells rancid in here still. Why haven’t you opened the house up yet to try airing it out?”

“We did try..” Kate’s sentence drifted off like she was somehow hurt by my blunt observation.

“Well, it doesn’t smell like you tried.” I say as I open the front door all the way.

“Well,” Kate said mocking me behind my back. “Ruth found Mom wandering around the front yard so she thought it’d be best to keep the doors closed. And you learn to block the smell out rather quickly.” She closed the door again before she tiptoed towards the living room, gesturing me to follow.

“Wait. I’m just trying to help, so let me.”

“Haha! That’s a good one. It isn’t as easy as you may think trying to help out around here. It’s a lot of work and I’m sure you have enough work of your own to not come back around until now.”

“Okay then. Want to tell me who in the world Ruth is?”

“She is Mom and Dad’s - I mean...Mom’s in home nurse.”

Kate stayed quiet as she turned into the next room unable to be alone with her thoughts.

As we passed through the hallway, the walls looked as if they were struggling to hold up the warped photo frames. Stopping to scan the photos I try recalling the memories that are 25

clustered there. Kate’s high school graduation, our old dog Vader in obedience class, Kate getting married to her husband Liam, and even a picture of Mom and Dad from five years ago renewing their vows. There were a few other pictures along the same wall that had its wallpaper curling back on itself. Suddenly feeling despondent I noticed how not a single one of the hanging photos had a memory of me.

“Bruce! Bruce I need you sweetie!”

Willing myself to move I finished inching my way around the corner to the living room where I saw Mom sitting in her rocking chair. My palms started to sweat from hearing my mom’s toneless voice.

“Hey there, Nichole. Bruce isn’t here right now.” A heavier set woman said as she bent down to my mom’s level.

“Oh, don’t you go telling me those fibs again. I can see him standing right there in the doorway. Now Bruce, stop playing along with this woman and get over here. Help me get up will you?” I tried not to show my hesitation as I walked over to the woman I called mom.

She reached her hand out without warning and the woman I was assuming to be Ruth, had already moved beside Mom to assist in lifting her out from the safety of her chair. I don’t know what I was expecting to see after almost four years of not visiting her. I could tell the cataracts in her green eyes had gotten worse and the bags under her eyes were still sunken in. I could feel her dry cracked fingers through her grasp on my forearm for support.

“Won’t you help me into bed my dear? It’s the least you could do since you’ve been out all day on me again.”

“Yes, of course.” I said before I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from getting offended at my mom being unable to recognize her only son, rather than her dead husband. The home nurse whispered to holler for her if I needed help before Mom and I headed to her bedroom in the back of the house.

Glancing over I watched Ruth hold up a diverse amount of pills to Kate for directions on how to distribute the medicine. Seeing Kate’s whole body slouch and Ruth shaking her head softly, I figured she was messing it up as she attempted to repeat it back.

“Thank you for walking me all the way in here. Maybe tomorrow you could stay home to help me look after Katie? She’s been giving me a hard time not listening to her momma.”

I pulled the blanket back over my mom as she started to close her eyes.

26

“We will have to see what tomorrow holds, okay?” Shutting the light off on her nightstand I headed back to the living room.

“Are you giving Mom a hard time?”

“What? Why would you even think that.” Kate spat at me with seemingly no patience left in her.

“She said otherwise so I was just asking.”

“It’s just her disease that’s talking. Dementia will do that to a person. Of course, you would know this if you returned any of my other phone calls. She’s sundowning.”

“Well excuse me -” “Hey guys..” Ruth first tried politely to cut me off.

“For having my own life to live and not being so far stuck up-” “ GUYS!” Ruth raised her voice and pointed violently at the both of us. “You should not be doing this now. Your mother needs her rest for the funeral tomorrow and waking her up now won’t achieve that.”

I swung the basement door open as I heavily went down the stairs not caring that the door would dig the wall.

Shifting through the numerous totes and boxes downstairs for extra blankets to bring upstairs to sleep with, I reached for a large unmarked box covered with dust and bits of surviving cobwebs. After regrettably opening the tucked away box I found myself overwhelmed with hollowness before I noticed an odd wet drop had landed on the broken picture that laid among the rest. In the framed picture was me next to my car, about to move away from home to start my own career in detectives. I soon came to a rhythm that with each sniffle another photo was placed onto the cold concrete floor beside me. My graduations, awards and certificates that once lined my bedroom, Vader and I, Halloween costumes, and more.

“We think Mom was just upset that you wouldn’t come home.” Slightly startled by Kate standing midway on the stairs I quickly grab what pictures I could before dumping them back into their box.

“Dad actually tried reasoning with her to leave the photos up around the house.”

“Yeah no it’s okay. I understand it.” I wiped my face dry before I stood and faced Kate. “I wouldn’t want pictures of someone I couldn’t remember on my walls either.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to warn you. But you 27

haven’t been around the last few years so I didn’t think you would even come for Dad’s funeral. I mean after you were absent for Aunt Lily’s not many have been expecting your arrival.”

“Is she only going to get worse?”

“That’s what the doctors think. Especially now that she doesn’t have Dad.” Kate turned to go back up the stairs. “Oh and uh, there’s an air mattress up in your old room you can blow up to use.”

Finally resting onto the uneven bed the only things I could hear were the faint sounds coming from the T.V. downstairs and a tree branch scratching the house’s gutter. It sounded almost like the same tree branch that would tap on my window when I was a kid, sending me into my parents room in fear.

Waking up, I found myself laying deflated on the air mattress I had blown up. I laid in bed for as long as possible as I already felt narcoleptic and my day hadn’t even started yet. I wasn’t awake but maybe five minutes before I could hear the floors creaking of those walking beneath me.

“Mom. Mom please? We need to finish getting you ready.” Hearing Kate sounding exhausted already I checked the time. 8:46 am.

Getting up I tossed my duffle bag onto my now deflated bed. I heard the rattling that came from my bag which reminded me of my medicine I needed to take. Removing the orange pill bottle out I arranged it to fit on my worn out nightstand until after I got dressed and headed down stairs.

“Thank god you’re up. I need to finish getting ready. Can you watch Mom? Thanks.” Kate took off out of the room before I even had the chance to wipe the sleepy sand from my eyes.

“Good gosh, look at you. You look so tired.” Mom sat forward squinting at me through her glasses. “Is Claire taking good care of you?”

“I’d rather not talk about it this morning, Mom.” I looked around the living room as I opened my pill bottle. I couldn’t handle the hurt look on my mother’s face.

“What are those for?” Kate had rushed back into the kitchen to take her last bite of food on the table.

“It’s nothing. Just my Prozac.”

“Oh wow. You’re still relying on those things to make you feel better?”

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Rolling my eyes at Kate I ignored her comment and took out one of the half green half white pills.

“Are those drugs Kasper?” Mom declared an answer at me before she began to cry. “Oh how could you do this to our family?”

I didn’t know what to say or do so I just stood there and swallowed as the one pill went down.

“Right in front of your own mother too!” Mom put her head in her hands as she continued to cry. “You know we don’t believe in that sort of help for happiness.”

“Oh give me a break, Mom. Like you’re one to talk. Last time I checked you were the only one who fried your brains off drugs not me.” The words tasted like poison after I said them and I regretted every word. Kate didn’t give mom a chance to say anything back as she glared at me and escorted her out the front door so we could leave. I let out a sigh as I opened the bottle back up and took one more Prozac out. I couldn’t even finish putting it in my mouth before Kate had rounded the corner and saw.

Getting Mom into the car was a project until Kate told her we could go shopping if she got in. I was glad for Mom being quiet for the first time this morning, I just wish I could say the same about Kate.

“So I may have overheard you and Mom this morning. Is everything okay with you and Claire?”

“I know you heard me say I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m just trying to make conversation with you so the ride isn’t more awkward. And just for the record incase you had forgotten, Mom doesn’t need to be reminded of her past. We all have enough to deal with already.”

I waited until Kate had the car in park at the funeral home before telling her Claire and I were calling off the engagement so no questions could be asked.

The funeral turned out to be like a regular funeral. A lot of people were crying while others gave their speeches about what they loved most about my father and their favorite thing that they will miss about him. It was quiet in the car as we drove to the burial site. As our family and friends stood in a circle around the dark mahogany casket, I watched Kate hold our Mom together.

Seeing my family this broken confirmed my feelings that the phone calls I made prior to arriving back home was the right call to make. Mom was reliving the loss of her husband she was 29

married to for 25 years. The worst part was seeing how she forgot why she was crying when we got back in the car to head home. I felt guilty seeing others cry at both my father’s funeral and burial but not being able to cry myself. I hadn’t shed one tear all day.

There was too much going on that needed to be taken care of around here.

“Hey Kate. Can we talk outside while Ruth watches Mom?” Kate passed Mom’s hand off to Ruth’s and I waited until the door shut before talking.

“I arranged a room for Mom up at Langdon Place. I think it would be the best and safest place for her to be.” I tried my best to sugar coat the news.

“I’m not putting our mother in some nursing home! You may be able to give up on family but I’m not. She never wanted to be put into one of those homes.”

“Kate just hear me out. She needs more care than what just Ruth and you can give her. She will probably need around the clock care pretty soon and we each have lives we need to get back to.”

“Honestly you’ve been absent for nearly four years Kasper. You should just go back to Nashua and stay out of my business.” Kate walked backwards towards the house.

“Excuse yourself but your husband Liam called me telling me he was worried about you not coming home anymore. So now this is my business!” My built up frustration was coming out and I tried to give Kate another nudge. “Stop putting your life on hold and do what is best for you. If you wait too long then there won’t be anything left for you to go back to.”

Kate covered her face with her hands as she began to cry.

I hugged her properly for the first time in almost four years.

“I don’t want to believe you. But I think you’re right. We can’t do this all on our own. But I want to go see this place before we do anything with Mom.” Kate sobbed as she spoke. After another minute of hugging she wiped her tears and we headed back into the house. We were going to figure this out together.

30

Lucy

By Katrina Dakin The room was white like a canvas, the candles illuminating energetically bouncing from wall to wall, dancing as if they were alive. The band’s music as vigorous as the emotions in the ballroom. I turned to see Lucy, my bride. Her face adorned with her brown hair bobbed at chin length, a boyish cut that only she could give such a sultry tone to. She always was a shy one, but when we were together she was anything but timid. She twirled between my arms like a ballerina. No grace could compare to the grace my Lucy possessed and had honed over the years.

“You look lovely tonight.” I said, as she beamed back at me with crinkles forming beside her eyes.

“And you look as handsome as the night we first met.”

She said looking wistfully at the ceiling “Do you remember the night we first met at the drive-in? I was in line at the snack booth when you tripped over right next to me, I had to help you up and when you saw my face you gasped.”

“It wasn’t out of shock but rather because I was quite sure I had met face to face with one of God’s angels.” I smiled as music boomed and I stared into her absinthe colored eyes. I didn’t know it then but that was the last time I’d see those eyes filled with vitality.

The chapel door swung open, practically falling off its hinges. There was a gang of five or so men standing there, dressed neatly in suits and ties. The largest of the bunch who was towering high above me, he was roughly 200 pounds of solid muscle, made a beeline to me. His gang dispersed while he came over, going to their respective tables. He was wearing a fedora, the shadow it cast across his face made me unable to meet his gaze. The most peculiar thing was the white teddy bear he held an envelope betwixt its hands. Once he reached us he outstretched the teddy bear towards me.

“For the newlyweds.” He grunted in a monotone voice.

Lucy’s face lit up when she saw the bear, she always loved the softer things in life. She intercepted “Oh is this for us? Thank you but I’m afraid-” I heard a loud noise akin to a gunshot but it was barely discernible as the song reached its height and the bands tune swelled. I glanced down at her. I stared at her face, it was a ghostly white frozen in fear, her mouth agape. I couldn’t help but 31

attempt to shake her to her senses.

“Lucy.. Lucy, come on this can’t be please wake up honey.” I said tears falling down my cheeks like raindrops creating a monsoon on her corpse. It looked like an accident, as if she had spilled some sangria on her dress but I knew what it was, it was her blood. The stain on her pure white grown grew like wildfire until it had enveloped the surface.

“Someone please get help!” I shouted into the crowd, once they saw her sprawled across my lap a handful ran to get help. *** Eventually the first responders arrived and the consensus was that she died upon entrance of the shot, it was a blow that went right through her heart. They found the bullet inside and said that it belonged to a pistol, but forensics are limited. It had been weeks since the shooting and my grief quickly turned to anger then metamorphosed frustration once I realized that the bullet was meant for me. There were a few eyewitnesses who saw the man with the bear. Their observations were the same as mine, that it was a big guy with a fedora and a lot of muscle. But no one knew his name, I had a hunch though as to who he was and why he attempted to do what he did. Lucy’s father had never liked me, he had some sketchy acquaintances the few times we had met. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was his doing seeing as how he always thought I was a low-life deadbeat. The only issue is he died a year ago, so I certainly couldn’t go after him. I knew what I had to do and what that was was find out who the man with the fedora in the suit was.

I had one clue and that was the bear, I looked at him on my desk. It was half a foot tall and had a bullet hole through his stomach. It was speculated he used it as a silencer for his pistol.

The snow white fur was splattered with blood, the physical blood was gone but the stain remained.

The envelope between its hands, held what I would call hardly a letter, it was more like a note. Just two words in cursive handwriting on thick white cardstock paper “My Sympathies” There was a small signature of just two initials at the bottom “G.V.” If I could just figure out what G.V. stood for perhaps I could find the man in the suit. It was while I was examining the letter when the bear fell off my desk and tumbled onto the floor. I leaned down to pick it up, but that was when I saw the tag on its 32

foot. “Collectibles” It was a store in my town on main street, I quickly grabbed the bear, threw it in my satchel, grabbed my keys, put on my tweed jacket and revolver tucking it into my waistband heading downtown.

I arrived at the store and there was a small elderly lady with a head of hair similar to a ragged cotton bud, she was small in stature and hunched over. I quickly produced the bear from my bag and set it on the counter.

“Do you sell this?”

She silently examined the bear, furrowing her brow.

“We-we sold something like it f-for Valentines b-but it holds a heart, and i-it seems yours has lost his.” Her voice trembling as her hands shook, she pointed at the bloody stain on its chest. “I-is that what I-I think it is?”

I nodded solemnly trying not to indulge her in my tale of woe.

“Do you perhaps have a list of your customers and when they purchased items?” I could tell by her face that she did. She didn’t respond but rather stepped off the stool that allowed her to see over the counter. She headed into the backroom and came back with a dilapidated ledger.

“I’ll sometimes write down the-uh people w-who strike me o-off or I believe may be stealing. Y-you can have a look.”

She heaved the ledger towards me and I opened it up searching for any date near the wedding. She mentioned it being a Valentine’s day item, which didn’t add up since our wedding was in August. It had been on our 5 year anniversary August 20th 1970.

There was a date logged for August 10th, the listing was for some young man with glasses. “No no that’s not it..” My eyes continued to scan the logs, there was only three listings in the month of August and none of them matched our guy.

“Have you ever seen a guy, he looks like a wise guy. He’s about 6 feet tall and all muscle.” I said praying to God he struck her off enough to log him. She snatched the log from my hands and began to flip back to what appeared to be a year ago.

“F-february eighth 1969 a m-man with a fedora walked in r-requesting to see my stuffed animals selection. He wrote me a check with the name G-Giovanni Vastola.” I snatched a pen from off the desk and wrote his name on my hand.

“Thank you so much ma’am!” I said sprinting out of the shop before she could utter another word.

I sat in my car contemplating my next steps, the next step 33

would be to go to a phone booth. The street was practically desolate so finding an open phone booth was easy. I went inside closed the door and fluttered through the phone book until I tumbled upon his name. It had his occupation listed as a landscaper.

“Bullshit” I mumbled under my breath, 47 Spruce Lane was his address. It was time I paid him a visit in the honor of Lucy.

I got back inside my car and drove to the address, I felt adrenaline pumping through me. I was about to do the unthinkable. All the pain he put me through I was going to dish it right back to him a hundredfold and he had no idea.

I pulled up to the supposed house to see a two story house painted a rustic brown. There was a sky blue Volkswagen parked in the driveway- not something you’d expect a man of his caliber to drive. I circled the block and once I came back around I parked a few houses down, just enough to be out of his direct sight. I grabbed the bear and sprinted into his yard, there was a small garden of roses in front of the patio and a swing set in the backyard. I surveyed the inside via the window, there didn’t appear to be any activity. I saw Giovanni inside, he was humming to himself while making a sandwich in the kitchen. I meandered over to the backdoor, surprisingly it was unlocked. I entered the house teddy bear in hand and gun drawn. I heard him nearing the mudroom which I stood in.

For Lucy I thought as I turned to face Giovanni, pinning him against the wall with my gun pressed between his eyebrows.

“What are you doing in my house?” He said in a near whisper.

“I’m getting revenge for what you did to Lucy. You ruined my life you fuc-” That was when I heard it, a shrill voice emerging from the other room.

“Gio darling are you almost done with my sandwich?

Can you get me an aspirin? The baby won’t stop kicking and my head is absolutely killing me!” It was the voice of a woman the one I presumed Giovanni loved. He glanced at me and I could tell there was fear in his eyes, a pleaful look that said God no, not like this.

“Ye-yes angel! One moment I-I’m just trying to find a knife.” He stammered, he looked at me and said in a low 34

whisper, “I was given the money under the table by her father, once he heard of your engagement. Listen if you wanna kill me go ahead, but not her please..” My mind was racing, I pressed the gun against his head. I attempted to pull the trigger but my finger was locked around it, refusing to bend to my will. Exasperated, I dropped the bear and sprinted out of there.

This isn’t what she would’ve wanted and I’ve known that. I’m a selfish man for thinking this would give me redemption or closure to my grief. I’m not going to create a cycle of heartbreak. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind I thought before pulling off the street and onto the road that lead up to the cemetery where she rested.

I arrived and the whole place was empty of any living soul, I approached her headstone. It was just like that fatal night, despite the whole room being full of people my eyes were on her. I rested a hand on the tombstone, giving it a solemn pat.

“I’m gonna do what I should’ve done from the start.” I whispered before heading towards the river that ran past the cemetery in the woods. I stood over the ledge, removing the ammo out of my revolver, throwing the gun into the river. The clatter echoed on the rocks the noise it made akin to a gunshot, before ending with a splash that rang out in the silent woods.

35

Espionage at the County Fair

By Melanie Griffin Before Kaitlyn’s father moved into the county jail and her mother fell out with DHHS, they brought their daughter to the county fair to enjoy rides of questionable engineering and greasy food. Her first time back at the fair in years was not for the teenager to walk down memory lane as she enjoyed the tastes of her childhood. She had come to work, at a face painting booth near the entrance.

“This is last year we are coming,” said the, in Kaitlyn’s mind, very unqualified father to the little girl sitting at her stool.

Kaitlyn kept her mouth shut as she formed the shape of wings on the child’s cheek. One fact never seemed so true to Kaitlyn: the people of Houlton, Maine, loved to complain about how the local state fair got worse with every passing year, yet attended religiously. She considered offering to paint “I’m a hypocrite” on the forehead of her patrons’ parents.

Kaitlyn added the antennas of a pink butterfly. The little girl peered into the dollar store mirror Kaitlyn held up. The child smiled stretching the insect on her cheek. “Pretty.”

Kaitlyn nodded as she put the mirror down on the white fold-out table as the little girl slid off the stool and scurried over to her parents.

“Another happy customer?” came a voice from behind her. Kaitlyn crossed her arms and turned to look at Rafael. The fluffiest-haired teenaged boy in The County. Kaitlyn disliked Raphael for many reasons. 1. He was homeschooled and in her mind, didn’t have any idea of how intelligent human conversation went. 2. He read stuffy books just to sound smart. Kaitlyn doubted he actually enjoyed that enormous copy of Canterbury Tales. 3. He was her only company for the entire day at their face painting booth, and there was only so much one could listen to a lecture of how far back in time English speakers could go until they could no longer understand the language.

She opened a plain steel lunchbox and slipped three dollar bills inside. Her band instructor had provided them with a blue 36

canvas pencil case to collect their funds. However, Kaitlyn found it to be too light and easy to make off with. Luckily, she had carried both hers and Jacob’s, a foster sibling, lunches inside a metal shell that was a little heavier. Kaitlyn closed the lid with a metallic crash.

Kaitlyn reminded herself how her school’s band needed funds for pretty much everything. Kaitlyn was the only one to sign up to help with face painting. At first, she thought it would be fine to run the booth alone, and then she saw that Rafael had signed up. She could not believe the school allowed a homeschooled kid to join the band. His parents wanted to keep him sheltered from the world but still wanted to utilize the services society provided.

“Maybe if we get enough, we can afford string instruments,” Raphael said.

Kaitlyn nodded as she pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. 11:57. Only 4 hours and three minutes to go.

Except it was the first week of the fair and she had five more days to enjoy Raphael’s company. Lucky her. She moved her dark brown braid off her shoulder wondering why she never bothered to cut it. “I have to use the restroom.” She said.

“Okay, good luck,” Raphael replied with a grin.

Kaitlyn looked to him and rolled her eyes. “Jacob, one of my foster brothers who cannot remember anything to save his life is picking up his lunch.”

“So, if he comes just let him take it?”

“No, I enjoy babysitting his stuff.”

Even with the alcohol sanitizer placed on the inside of those plastic portable outhouses, Kaitlyn was certain she must have been exposed to some form of a nasty disease. Maybe if she contracted Ebola, coronavirus, the bubonic plague, or even smallpox, she could skip out of the painting booth. Raphael was finishing up with a flag on a child’s cheek. It was the Fourth of July and their red, white, and blue paint certainly went the quickest.

Kaitlyn’s eyes traveled to their fold-out table. A Tupperware container housing a fluffernutter still stood among the packs of non-toxic paint and paper towels. “So Jacob never came,” Kaitlyn said to herself.

37

Raphael’s customer thanked the boy as he slid from his stool. “No, he picked up the lunchbox.”

Kaitlyn turned towards him. “Please tell me you’re joking.” Kaitlyn brought her hands to the side of her head, “Oh, no,” she said as she slowly sank to the asphalt.

“If your lunch was what he took,” Raphael said. “I can pay for something else if you don’t like fluffernutters.”

Fingers pressed into her temples, Kaitlyn stared at the asphalt below her, “This has nothing to do with food.” She said. “I left everything we earned inside that lunchbox.”

Raphael nodded. “We can just find Jacob and explain.”

Kaitlyn shook her head, “No I can’t.”

Raphael raised his eyebrow, “Pardon?”

She didn’t need to explain to this sheltered kid what it was like to be her. Jacob would never let her hear the end of it until he was transferred into a different home or until she was. She also doubted he would return the lunchbox if she told him what was inside. She snatched the Tupperware from the table and hurried into the crowd. Raphael could handle to booth alone for a minute.

Raphael followed. “I don’t think he could have gotten that far ahead of us. He pointed into the crowd to a teenaged boy dressed in blue-basketball shorts and an orange t-shirt. “Let’s go explain the mix-up.” He began to hurry forward as Kaitlyn grasped his arms.

“What did I tell you earlier?” she said. “I am not going to tell him he grabbed the box with the money, he won’t give it back.”

Raphael shrugged, “I mean, I could see why someone might do that.” Kaitlyn rolled her eyes at Raphael for the third time that morning and wondered if it was worth keeping count of any more. She pushed past a group of kids in front of a “fair” game. She thought it was nothing more than legal gambling.

The smell of grease, salt, oils, sugar, and anything else a health expert would advise against consuming wafted in the air.

As they passed the magenta and pink booth that sold cotton candy, Kaitlyn looked to the sugary clouds suspended from the booth’s ceiling in plastic bags. When she was a child, her parents would buy her a bag on their way out. Kaitlyn and her booster seat was a sticky mess by the time they arrived home.

38

“Did you know the cotton candy machine was invented by a dentist?” Raphael asked.

“Yes, Raphael,” Kaitlyn said as she looked away from the booth. “I also use the internet.” She crossed her arms and peered at the other fairgoers. Jacob must have made his escape while she was ensnared by nostalgia.

“I think he must have been trying to improve his business.”

Kaitlyn grasped the boy’s wrist and stalked past the booths despite the sun-burned employees promising her a guaranteed prize. What use would a 4-foot inflatable hammer be to her?

“Jacob is probably getting ready for one of the shows soon.” She found the red barn-like structures near the bottom of the hill where the soapbox derby was hosted.

The heart-attack smell was replaced with that of manure and straw as the pavement gave way to grass. The barn-like shelters had cubbies built into them with signs above listing the names of the cows resting in the shade. Raphael pointed to a large white tent standing yards away. “Cool, llamas,” he said.

“But, it’s a goat show that Jacob is in today,” Kaitlyn argued.

“But, llamas,” Raphael replied.

“You can look at the llamas after we swap out the sandwiches,” Kaitlyn said as she tried to ignore the cows with flies gathering inside their nostrils. She walked around the other side of the pens and stopped. A metal corral had been set up several yards away. A ring of people gathered around it while four adults sat at a fold-out table in lawn chairs. Teenagers and adolescents stood in line each holding a goat by a leash. Although all of them were dressed in something reminiscent of the wild west, Kaitlyn spotted Jacob third in line, the only change made to his outfit was a straw hat. Kaitlyn thought she could get a seizure if she stared at it longer.

“You are my new favorite thing.”

“Huh?” Kaitlyn turned back to her…comrade. Raphael leaned over a gate to scratch behind the ears of goat kids. Four crowded against the gate pressing their noses against his arms.

The animals were all brown and white, but each one wore the colors differently. Their fur was fluffy and their legs knobby.

39

They also each had a set of big black eyes. Kaitlyn’s hand hovered near the gate. She pulled it back. “The only thing we should be looking for is that lunchbox.”

Raphael pouted as he stepped away from the fence. “I’ll be back,” he said as the kids began to bleat. Raphael stood rigid before Kaitlyn and saluted. The girl began to roll her eyes, but caught herself halfway there and stopped. She shook her head and looked around. Another plastic table was just next to the pens.

Kaitlyn wondered how people got by at the fair before those foldout tables were widely available.

Among the Poland Spring water bottles of varying capacity atop the table, was a silver lunchbox. Kaitlyn looked over her shoulder to the goat show as she approached the table. Jacob was now next in line. She paused at the edge of the table and flicked the box open. Inside rested her green tickets to higher quality band equipment. Tempted to drink from one of the half-empty bottles, Kaitlyn licked her dry lips and promised herself a drink as soon as she returned to the face painting station.

“YEOUCH!” Kaitlyn turned around to see Raphael hunched over with his hands pressed firmly over his right knee. Red in the face Raphael staggered forward and placed his hand atop the table for support. “This is the fifth time I’ve been stung this summer,” he said through his teeth. “And it’s only July!”

“Are you allergic?” Kaitlyn asked.

Lips pressed together, Raphael shook his head. His eyes lifted to Kaitlyn, “But, I do believe the bees must think I resemble a bear.”

“Since it’s clear you are going to survive,” Kaitlyn said, “I am going to get what I came for before offering any nursing services,” she turned around and felt nauseous. With a smirk, Jacob stood on the other side of the table, a bundle of bills in his hands.

“How generous, Kaitlyn,” he said shaking the package in her face, “65 dollars,” he deposited the money into the lunchbox and clicked it shut.

“67 dollars and 42 cents when I last audited it,” Raphael said from his spot on the ground his voice strained by the pain.

Jacob slid the lunchbox from the table and began to turn around. Kaitlyn swallowed before she vaulted over the table the 40

plastic groaned under the weight as she made a dive for Jacob.

Her fingers grasped the metal and she pulled. Jacob swore as Kaitlyn tore the lunch box from him and rolled under the table straw and hopefully mud sticking to her clothes and hair.

“What is wrong with you?” Jacob said as he stomped back to the table. “Give that back or I’ll tell security you stole that.”

Kaitlyn clutched the lunchbox against her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. “It will be my word against yours,” she tilted her head towards Raphael, “And I have a witness.”

Arms crossed Jacob began to quake like he always did when he lost control of his temper. Kaitlyn swallowed as she shakily stood up. Jacob pointed at her, “If you don’t give that back, Kaitlyn,” He leaned over the table as he made a fist and lifted it near Kaitlyn’s face. She stepped back and wondered if this was worth the trouble. She could always tell their band director that it was a slow business day.

“Don’t you dare talk to my friend that way,” Raphael said as he jumped up. Jacob growled as he looked to Raphael, grasped the front of the boy’s shirt, and punched him just below the eye.

“STOP!” Kaitlyn dropped the lunch box and grasped Jacob’s free arm. He shoved her away.

Palms pressed into the grass, Kaitlyn tried to push herself up but saw a pair of large men with orange vests that read SECURITY on the shoulders and backs. They didn’t say anything as they tore Raphael from Jacob’s grasp. The bully’s face was now pale his eyes wide. Kaitlyn scoffed as she retrieved the now dented lunchbox and stretched out a hand to Raphael. A greenishpurplish spot had already formed just below his eye. The boy took her hand.

“Thanks,” he said as he stumbled forward. Kaitlyn wasn’t sure if his lack of balance was from being hit in the head, the sting on his knee, or both.

“Do you need to lean on me?” she asked.

Raphael shook his head, “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I just need some ice and to sit down,” On their way back to their station, the two stopped at an ice cream stand, three booths down from theirs. From the opened window, Kaitlyn felt a breeze from the air conditioner. The 41

middle age woman passed them two zip lock bags filled with ice.

Raphael clutched it against his cheek, “Thank you.”

“Can I ask what happened to your face?” she asked. Kaitlyn and Raphael looked to one another.

Kaitlyn sighed as she looked back to the lady. “My brother was being rude to me, and Raphael here told him to knock it off so my brother punched him.” She shrugged knowing just how wrong it sounded. The last thing she needed was another stranger to make a report to CPS. The lady’s hand went to her mouth, “Oh you poor thing,” she said shaking her head. She lifted the white lid of a freezer and returned with two ice-cream sandwiches. Kaitlyn took the frosty treat, “That’s very kind of you,” she said as she quickly turned around and walked away.

With the booth abandoned for an hour or so, Kaitlyn feared a line stretching out of the fairgrounds and to the high school had formed. The only live being in front of their station was a seagull feasting on an overturned container of French-fries in one of those white and red bowls. Although all their profits sort of went to charity, it was business as usual.

After hours of learning why she could never be a makeup artist Kaitlyn finally closed up shop. She would not have to paint another frog, zombie, and whatever a child wanted until the following morning. She slid the stool under the table and brushed sticky bangs from her forehead. “Well, that was almost a disaster.”

“Was it though?” Raphael asked as he held an ice pack to his knee with his left hand and another to his cheek with his right.

With a sigh, Kaitlyn dropped the damp brushes inside a freezer bag and placed them inside her backpack. She tossed one strap over her shoulder, “I hope our band director appreciates all this,” she said looking at the tie-dyed garments being sold by a long-haired sixty-something man in the booth across from them.

“I’m sure he does,” Raphael placed his backpack straps over both shoulders as he zipped up their tent. He turned around and faced forward. “After all I’ve been through,” he said. “I think I deserve some cotton candy.”

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Kaitlyn focused on a hot pink and olive-green shirt, “Have at it.”

Raphael walked in front of her and shrugged, “You can come too if you like.”

“Might as well,” Kaitlyn replied as she held her hand slightly over her mouth so that Raphael couldn’t see her smile.

43

OLD TREE

By Pat Karpen The graves were notable for the weeping willow that was near. That a husband and wife were buried next to each other and that the dates of deaths were close to the actual ones were part of the choosing. On the first sub-zero night of the coming winter, she would die atop those graves. She would not be committing suicide. A midnight walk to visit graves on a freezing night was taking an amble and nothing more. Falling asleep was folly but not suicide. She was not killing herself. In a world where the old woman had become invisible, she was simply going to visit the people who had known and loved her.

Choosing the graveyard was easy. It was old and small.

There were no parking lots nor gates to lock out the living at sunset. It was close to her home. Setting about five feet above the rural road, casual glances were not inspired. There was no house across from it and the homes to the right and left were not near.

Around Memorial Day, she had begun to examine the graves. No one placed flowers. The small American flags, distributed by the Veterans of Foreign Wars, were few. There was one marker for a Civil War veteran. He got a flag too. After the graves had been selected and the date of the Cemetery Committee’s annual spring clean-up noted (during which she avoided the site), she began visiting “her” graves two-three times a week.

The graves were scrubbed. Moss, mold and dirt from the crevices of words and age were removed with metal picks and soft Q-tips. Weeds were extracted and grass seed laid down. Soil was enriched. Pansies and marigolds planted. Yearning to add blue morning glories, she hesitated. They might be noticed from the road as an addition – an oddity – and invite examination. In mid-June, however, she yielded to her desire.

She had planned to be buried with her parents in that small town in the South. Long ago her father had purchased the plots with room enough for three: father, mother, daughter. Without telling anyone, he buried his sister there. It was not spite.

There was no mean or petty reason. He was just tired and no longer had the energy to fly his sister’s remains to that tiny graveyard in South Dakota to join their mother. Her father’s legerdemain was uncovered when she travelled down to bury her mother and was reminded of it when she buried her father. In her late 70s 44

she admitted that there was no grave and no family waiting for her. Before the reality of her fragile financial status became a constant hum in her daily life, she had planned to unearth her aunt and have her shipped to South Dakota for reburial. Her grave could be reclaimed. After a few years, though, she could no longer afford to send anniversary flowers to her parents’ graves. Even a visit to those graves became an impossibility. She would shroud, bury and mourn herself. It was time.

Something in her DNA delivered confused and wounded people to her. Having been cursed or blessed with compassion, she had grown weary of being pecked to death. What was occasional had become an onslaught. A “born listener,” they would say. People had no skills to cope. They couldn’t define when there was an actual event that required consideration. Every breath, every step demanded support, debate and encouragement.

Every personal failure, every family failure, every child’s failure had to be chopped, minced, dissected and plopped down on someone else’s plate to radiate responsibility. Failure was no one’s fault. It belonged to some other. Mitigate, masticate and spit out the remains of personal foibles. Never swallow them and digest them. She, for whatever reason, drew those whining perpetual children to her.

They had rendered her invisible. It was difficult to be an old man in this country but to be an old woman meant that you had stopped breathing before you were dead. You were a prop dragged out from the bowels of some community theatre to dress a momentary scene. She was an ancient tree into which too many initials – some deep and some shallow – had been carved and now she neared collapse. *************** Her mid-June garden was promising. The goal always was to plant on Memorial Day and this year the aim was achieved.

The tight spirals of corn always gave her relief and joy. Yes, life goes on. As people do, whenever she would plant or harvest a garden; welcome spring or bid it farewell; stand silent in the beauty of a fall or a winter she would wonder if it would be her last. This year she knew for certain that she was enjoying her last garden on this earth. Early, after some weeding, she sat in the garden’s rickety chair and sipped her coffee. Knowing it was going to be a “hot one” and that she had to work the Garden Club 45

sale between 8:00 and 1:00, she soaked the garden and the ground flowers. Last night after potting the plants intended for the sale, she crawled into bed with a shot of Bushmills and began to read for the fourth time Dickens’ Pickwick Papers.

As Chief Gofer of the Garden Club she always got the early morning slot for the sale. She had been paired with a newcomer, Suzi, who had inspired a bit of loathing due to her inability to ever – quite frankly – shut up. Suzi arrived late. On the plant table, she plopped down her phone, a huge cup of something masquerading as coffee and a salt and oil sandwich disguised as eggs and sausage. Her three children clumped in with their own feed bags and electronic devices. One said, “Where are we supposed to sit?” One, “I’m going to sit in the car.” One called the father on his phone and demanded to be picked up “now!”

Suzi had brought nothing to the sale. The old woman’s potted plants were in danger of being dashed to the floor to make room for the slime trail left by Suzi’s globules. When this was pointed out, Suzi apologized and said she would eat and drink quickly. She didn’t because, as noted, she couldn’t shut up. She talked, without exaggeration, for three hours – three hours – about her world, her woes and the droppings of her womb. Her voice was loud and grating. Loud because she really did want the world to hear. Grating from overuse.

The woman didn’t say a word. She pretended to listen and grunted once-in-a-while. At least three years ago she had stopped uttering sympathetic words to anyone unless a death was involved. As Suzi droned and dribbled on – that coffee drink had to be cold by now – the woman started to fantasize: Maybe she wouldn’t…allow herself to fall asleep in sub-zero weather. Maybe she would systematically start killing the loudest and the most rapacious. She had a dirt floor basement. She smiled at Suzi and hoped that, despite whatever Suzi was blabbering about, the smile appeared to offer understanding, support and the warmth of sisterly love. *************** With a brilliant plan she lured Suzi to her basement and “Clockwork Oranged” her. Suzi was tied to a chair. Some sort of mechanism held open her eyes. The old woman rolled hours of film that depicted real calamity, real suffering, real deprivation.

She opened the vaults of evil and forced Suzi to drown in them.

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There were the dispossessed rotting in detention centers, war zones with torture and slaughter, random slayings of innocents.

Suzi heard the keening of people whose lives had been plundered and ravished by the bastards of the world.

Warning Suzi not to speak, the mechanism was removed from her eyes and the video turned off. She was hand fed a meal of vegetables, rice and peanuts. Three glasses of water had to be consumed with each meal. When Suzi started to talk, the meal was swept to the floor to be eaten later by rats and insects. Suzi was left alone in the dank and dark damp to listen to the gnawings and scrabblings. After two months, Suzi had been silenced enough to be considered civil. The woman gave her a scenario to memorize that would explain her absence. She told Suzi that she was going to release her into the world to be a better person. If she reverted to her noisy and self-serving ways or told anyone what had transpired, her husband and her children would be killed slowly and brutally in front of her. That would be the last vision of her vapid life. Then before you could say “Who killed Cock Robin?” the woman sliced off Suzi’s left pinky finger, staunched the bleeding via cauterization with a glowing coal she had handy; and stitched it up with surgical precision. One week later there were 5 mounds in her basement. ************** Had she actually said “Mwahahahahaha” aloud? No. Suzi had shut up long enough to see the woman smiling dreamily and gently at her. She took that to mean that the woman was on her side. Suzi had justified her existence to another. She had won!

She was hungry again and grabbed her one remaining child (the second one had walked home) and left to get something to eat. **************** The summer was spent solidifying the plan. Decades of papers were dispatched and the woman smiled and wondered why she had bothered to save them. It was breath stopping, though, to destroy those pieces that still held heartbeats. She would linger as she reread a letter from a love or gazed into a photo of a still pined for family member, friend or animal. Those pieces went into a special paper bag. They were not mixed in with the ridiculous.

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The garden was excellent. Fresh corn was consumed every night by herself and the neighbors with whom she shared. She lived on fresh salsa and had to correct her thinking when she began to wonder about trying to grow a lime tree next summer.

There would be no next summer. After each correction, she rededicated herself to cleaning out the house of all things personal.

What remained was left to the ghosts and human scavengers. Her Will would take care of everything else.

On the outside everything looked normal: lawn mown, flowers watered, weeds upended. Strangers still walked up to her if she were sitting outside and reading. When they started to slather her with the minutia of their lives, she no longer gave them 30 minutes or more. Instead she said after two minutes, “Well, I have to go take a very important call. I’m sorry for your troubles. You take care of yourself now,” and then she just walked away. *************** Matthew, the husband from two houses down, was always racing about the town on his bicycle. He wore what she called the “Speedo” of cyclists. Whenever she saw him coming she tried to get up from whatever flowerbed she was weeding and move quickly into the house. “Quickly” had faded from her vocabulary.

She started to giggle with her rump up in the air for the world to see as she performed her slow straight legged rise from the ground. She was still giggling after he had parked the bike and was strutting to her in those God-awful pants. He started each conversation with, “Hey, how are you?”

After her short response – the only response she was allowed – Matthew began his lecture or lament with, “Okay… so…” He droned on about family issues and graced her with insights on how best to raise tomatoes (He was the neighbor who asked for MORE corn, beans, TOMATOES or whatever she was gifting the locals!). He was so angry! He was going to run for the Schoolboard, City Council, House of Representatives, Senate, President!! He knew how to fix things!!! When he’d babbled for 40 minutes or more and finally shut up, if the old woman tried to mumble anything, he would cut her off by saying, “Well, I have two little ones at home. I have to be heading out.”

This time when he produced his standard opener and she was allowed her one line, she began to imagine how she would murder him. Probably the wife and kids would want to help.

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*************** It was a dark and stormy night. The old woman called and offered an abundance of fresh vegetables. Encouraged by his wife, Matthew agreed to fetch them. He was going to ride his bike but his wife reminded him that his front light had suddenly and inexplicably stopped working and did he know that the back tire was flat? He put on his bike shorts anyway and jogged over. He wore the ones that glowed in the dark.

He rat-a-tat-tatted on the door in his spunky way. When he entered he saw a new bicycle standing in the old woman’s living room. It was day glow forest green and was a Jaguar Rotunda Villager X953 –something he had always wanted but knew he would never be able to afford. It had been placed in the center of the room on some old blue tarps over which glitter had been spread. It sparkled!

She said, “It’s a gift from me, your wife and children. It’s for you.” In his trance, when he squatted down – God, those pants – to examine the platinum enforced steel shiny round things around which sparkling gold inlaid chains were draped and ran forwards and backwards, he didn’t hear her approach as she slammed the ancient and rusty fire poker across and finally, after 7 blows, into his skull where she left it wedged. Hearing the knocking on the back door, she went to the kitchen and after quickly washing her hands, admitted the wife and children.

The scene in the living room was a bit gory – thank the good Lord for tarps – and she related this to the mother. The mother hesitated just a moment before saying to her children, “Do you want to see, kids?” They answered in unison while jumping up and down, “We want to see! We want to see!”

After the room was tidied and the sixth mound in the basement formed, they all went upstairs said “whew”; washed up and sat down to the best dinner ever. Everyone was given a chance to speak. Everyone listened to each other and there was still enough time for blessed silence. Both bikes were donated to charity. *************** With distant and misty eyes and a beneficent smile, her fantasy evaporated. Matthew could sense that he had moved her deeply with his wisdom and insights. Time to go! He uttered his parting line and skipped back to his bicycle.

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*************** All summer and fall she continued her treks to the graveyard. Reading, picnicking, snoozing and remembering. The old woman had come to feel comfortable and at home. Satisfied that this was as close as she would ever get to her parents on this earth, she was content with her choice. She had no regrets. With her back resting against the ancient willow, she was at peace.

The geese were moving. She stared in gratitude and awe.

When they flew low enough and she heard the sound of their wings, she believed in God and the heavens. She took time to recall her loved ones from those days when she was loved and was not invisible. It was a joyous time. Sitting in silence she sipped some disguised Bushmills and let that warmth mix with the melodies the denizens of her heart sang.

Even though she was not far from 80, she was strong and in good shape. The mile or so walk to the cemetery was easy. Her only concern for that last midnight walk was that a car would pass and the driver would report to the police that “There was a crazy old bat walking around in sub-zero temperatures.” So all summer long she scoped out “hiding places.” Whether she would be dressed in dark colors or white colors would depend on snow coverage. She would be camouflaged regardless. At one point, she had considered removing her outer clothing when she arrived at her resting place to help speed things up. Deciding that that would tip her simple walk into the realm of premeditation, the old woman realized she would have to recline in hat, coat and gloves.

A midnight walk to visit graves was not suicide.

Her neighbors would be told, one day before the chosen night, that someone was picking her up early in the morning to drive her the 2 ½ hours to Boston to catch the train. She was going to visit some relatives in…Miami. She would be gone for two weeks. She was leaving a full tank of fuel and would set the thermostat at 59 so that the pipes wouldn’t freeze. When the neighbors realized that she hadn’t picked up her mail, they would notify someone and get that whole ball rolling.

In mid-November she had started listening seriously to the weather reports. She called the NOAA station several times a day.

She walked every day and hung Indian corn on her front door.

She put out cornstalks. Her garden had been put to bed for the winter. She tore up the last photographs. That was hard; the most difficult night for her. She climbed the stairs to her room with a 50

shot of Bushmills in one hand, David Copperfield shoved under her arm and her right hand on the railing to be sure she wouldn’t fall. *************** December 12th. It was going to be 15 degrees below zero.

At 9:00 PM she unplugged the Christmas tree and the refrigerator and propped open its door. She sat in the darkness and waited.

There was no snow yet so she was dressed in black. There was a small flashlight in her pocket and her house keys. All would be locked up. By 11:30 the lights were off in her neighbors’ homes.

She waited until midnight and donned her coat, hat, gloves and boots. A scarf covered her nose and mouth warming the air before it hit her lungs. The full moon was resplendent.

Without a single car passing, she arrived at the cemetery.

The ground was damp from a two-days- ago brief and shallow snow. That was good as it might hurry the process. She worried a bit about the pain. She knew it would be painful as she froze layer by layer. She curled up on the graves and thought of her parents.

When she started to feel the first grimaces of aches, she apologized to her body for the discomfort it was enduring. She always had too much compassion. She had just gone for a walk and had gotten tired and needed to rest just for a little bit. Telling her body that this would not take more than an hour, she began to shiver.

“Maybe with the damp…only 20 minutes or so,” she slurred. Deciding she wanted to look up and out at the moon, she struggled to turn herself over. Assuming where her legs and arms were because she was no longer sure, she managed to roll onto her back.

The scarf fell from her face. The moon greeted her with the most beautiful spotlight. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was nor what she was doing. Her breath had slowed to tiny little puffs. Her lungs hardly moved at all.

The moon. The moon. Shine on shine on harvest moon up in the sky I ain’t had no loving since january february june or july it’s only a paper moon… moon for the misbegotten. She knew so many songs. She had forgotten that she could sing. Thank you, moon. Thank you. Were her lips on her face? She had stopped shivering.

A car pulled up and stopped next to the cemetery. Her eyes slipped over to it. She pulled and pushed them back to the 51

moon. *********** It had been one of the snowiest winters ever. Some locals said it was the worst they could remember. The valiant crocuses pushed up their green arms. In late April the snow was doing a good melt but still the big snow plowed piles lingered. Lots of limbs down and cleaning up to do.

The car that had stopped by the cemetery 5 months ago on one of the coldest nights of the year was being driven by a young man who had dropped his cell phone and desperately needed to find it.

Her body was not discovered until early May when a member of the Cemetery Committee came to assess the damage.

A branch of the weeping willow helped down by the heavy snows still clung to her by a piece of stubborn ice.

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Night Out

By Ines Ngoga I was a sheltered and naive girl. Growing up as an only child in a small town, the outside world was a terrifying place that I never learned to navigate. Making friends never came easily to me, so I kept mostly to myself. I got good grades, but I was nothing exceptional and doing school work was definitely not something I enjoyed doing. But seeing as I had nothing else to do, it helped pass the time.

As a junior in the Pre-Med program, I’d hoped that by this point I would be doing more med stuff since that’s what actually interested me, but instead I was stuck doing physics and geology.

By going to a college 300,000 miles from home, I had a goal of stepping out of my comfort zone and being a whole different person. Three years later, however, not much had changed. I went from class, to my room and besides the cafeteria and library, I didn’t go out much.

“Guess who’s back!” Kimmy bursts into the room, flinging her stuff across the room before collapsing on her bed.

I’m not quite sure how we were paired up as roommates freshman year, since they are supposed to pair you with your best compatible mate. Whereas I was shy, Kimmy was anything but. I was quiet, clean and spent most of my time watching Netflix or doing school work. Kimmy on the other hand was loud, messy, outgoing and spent most of her time at parties or at a school event. I rarely saw her study but she always found a way to pass all her classes. I’m not really sure how we became friends, especially since she scares me a little bit, but after 3 years she’s one of my only friends on campus. My best friend even.

“Hey Kimmy,” I greet looking up from my computer screen. I was supposed to be writing a story for my creative writing class but after three hours of staring at a blank screen, I sighed and closed the computer, giving her my full attention.

“So, I know it’s not really your thing but there is an event tonight at Aura that I really want to go to but I don’t want to go by myself,” she says crossing the room to hand me a flyer. It’s a simple flyer with a black background, gold designs and white bold letters. It advertises a little black dress event with special DJ “Lambo”.

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“Kimmy you know I don’t party,” I say handing her back the flyer. “Plus Aura is a night club and I’m not 21”.

“See you won’t even have to worry about that! I already asked Lisa and she said you could use hers,” she replies. Lisa was one of Kimmy’s friends and although we’d hung out a few times when she came by to see Kimmy, I wouldn’t really consider us friends. Like me, Lisa was tall and lean with a dark complexion and full lips. Unlike me, she actually made an effort to look decent for school whereas I was always mucking around in an oversized hoodie and sweats. Oddly enough, I’d been mistaken for her a few times while walking with Kimmy.

“I don’t know Kimmy, I don’t really…..”

“Come on please,” She begs cutting me off. “I really want to go but Lisa isn’t feeling well and everyone else either already has plans or they’re not interested.” I’m unsure of how I feel about being asked only as a last resort but after some more begging, I finally give in. After all, if I’m ever going to step out of my comfort zone, it was now or never.

The line at the entrance is not as long as I expected. The bouncer at the door is linebacker big, and wearing a shirt that’s a size too small that barely covers his bulging muscles. As the line gets shorter and shorter and we get closer and closer, I start to break out in a cold sweat. No matter how much Lisa and I look alike, if you look closely at her ID photo, you can tell it’s not me.

I don’t know what they do to people with fake IDs and I don’t want to find out. I whisper to Kimmy who’s behind me that maybe we should go back to campus, but she assures me that everything will be fine. I hand the guy the ID and he looks down to study it. The blue light over the doorway casts a shadow over my face and I pray he doesn’t look up.

“You’re good,” he says handing me back the ID. I flash him a quick smile before entering the club. Kimmy is right behind me as I take in the scene in front of me. The flashing lights take me a minute to adjust to and so does the loud music. I self consciously pull down on my dress.

Seeing as I don’t go out often, or at all, I didn’t have the appropriate attire for a little black dress event. Kimmy lent me one of hers, but due to the fact that I tower over her, the already short dress barely covered my ass. I felt exposed and out of place even though every other girl in the room was wearing similar at54

tire, including Kimmy. But unlike me she wore hers with confidence. The kind of confidence that made people stop what they were doing and look at you.

I seem to be the only girl wearing sneakers instead of heels, but being awkward and six foot tall, I look like Bambi on ice walking in heels. I thought I’d spare myself the embarrassment and stick to my worn out converse. Kimmy orders us drinks at the bar even though one of my conditions for coming tonight was that I wouldn’t drink.

“Just one drink, I promise,” she says with her pouty face, which makes saying no impossible.

I tried my dad’s beer back in high school and found it disgusting. My mom’s wine wasn’t too bad but I only drank it on special occasions when I was home. It’s hard to hear over the music what Kimmy orders but the lady behind the bar hands me a reddish drink and I take a tentative sip to appease Kimmy and it’s actually not that bad. After refusing to dance with her, Kimmy ditches me at a table in the corner and moves to the middle of the dance floor. Within seconds, she’s giggling and dancing with random strangers and even from across the room, I could see the pure joy oozing out of her. I envied her ability to make friends and enjoy herself without a care in the world.

“Do you mind if I join you?” I look away from the dance floor and come face to face with a beautiful pair of light grey eyes. “I’m Liam,” he says once I nod for him to join me. I recognize Liam from my organic chemistry class last semester and although we never spoke, I remember that he always smiled at me with his warm eyes.

“I’m Nia,” I say finding my voice.

“I know, you were in my orgo class last semester,” he says flashing me a smile. I can’t help but blush at the fact that he remembers me. Attention has never been something that I seeked, nor was I comfortable with it, but there’s a certain warm feeling that comes with knowing that you’ve been noticed, despite how hard you try not to be.

“Are you here alone?” He asks when I remain quiet. I shake my head no, and turn around to point to Kimmy who is still going wild on the dance floor.

“Came with my roommate Kimmy,” I respond taking a long nervous sip of my drink. I don’t know if it’s the warm and inviting eyes, or the kind smile, but soon Liam has me laughing 55

as he mocks our old chemistry teacher. I feel like I’ve known him since forever and the usual timidness and awkwardness that comes with meeting new people is gone.

“I ….. always w…..” I lose my train of thought as a sudden wave of overwhelming fatigue washes over me. It’s the kind of tired feeling that makes even lifting my hand impossible. I open my mouth to speak but even that’s impossible. It feels like my whole body is gone. Like I’m not even there. Like I’m floating outside my body.

“Are you okay?” I see Liam’s mouth move but there is no sound. I shake my head but that only makes me dizzy, and the flashing lights aren’t helping.

“I …. nee…. bat... bathroommm” I groan, forcing the words out of my mouth. I struggle to get up as the whole room starts to spin and I collapse back down. I try to figure out what’s happening but my brain is all jumbled up. I’m dizzy, confused and extremely tired. Keeping my head up and my eyes open becomes a difficult task.

Liam’s mouth moves again but I still can’t hear. It feels as though my body has completely shut down and I have no control.

Liam comes around and pulls me up and throws my hand over his shoulder as I collapse onto him. I feel paralyzed as I will my legs or my arms or for anything to freaking work but it doesn’t.

He drags me through the crowd. I’m so tired. I just want to close my eyes for a quick second. I open my eyes again as we push through a door and into the back alley. The fresh air on my face is a welcomed feeling as I try again without success to stand on my own two feet. Liam doesn’t stop but instead continues down the alley. I suddenly go completely limp and without missing a beat, he throws me over his shoulder.

I bounce on his shoulder watching as the building gets blurrier and blurrier. The further we go, the tighter the knot in my stomach gets. I will my eyes to stay open but they fail me as they become too heavy to keep open. Everything goes black, and then I can see again, and then black again.

When I come to, I’m propped up on the hood of a car. My head is pounding as I look around me, unsure of where I am. The car is the only one parked in the alley way and the blue glow from the Aura sign is still visible on the next street over. Liam is standing in front of me with a crooked grin on his face, one that makes

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me uneasy. I try to push off the car but my limbs are still numb and unresponsive.

“Li…..”

“Shut up!” he snaps violently grabbing at my jaw. A feeling of dread washes over me as he drags his tongue on a trail from my jaw to my exposed collarbone. Confused and frozen with fear, I do nothing as he tugs my dress up. I’m unable to do anything.

He shoves his tongue in my mouth as he pulls down my underwear. I try to beg him to stop with my eyes as my words fail me once again, but that only seems to encourage him as he gets this dark look on his face. The light grey eyes I found warm and inviting earlier are now a dark and angry grey, like clouds when a heavy storm is brewing.

The kind smile is no longer there either. Its’ been replaced by an ugly and determined smirk. The smell of sweat and sandalwood fills my nostrils as he pushes his full weight on top of me, making an escape impossible. He spreads my legs apart with his knee and forces himself inside of me.

“St… o....op” I find the strength to cry out as tears fall down my face. He wraps his hand around my throat, as I struggle to breathe.

“Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this” he says smiling down at me as he tightens the grip on my neck. I gasp trying to catch my breath as I try to turn away. He releases my neck and goes for my jaw instead, forcing me to look at him.

“Look at me!” he shrieks using his other hand to hold onto my wrists.

“You were practically begging me to take you right there in the middle of the club” he chuckles into my ear before biting my earlobe. I feel helpless, unable to move, or speak. Feeling numb, I focus on the blue light in the distance as Liam’s grunting starts to fade, but eventually the light fades as well. All my efforts fail and I allow myself to let go.

The darkness creeps in slowly from the corners of my eyes, until it’s all I see. * I am awakened by the sound of approaching sirens.

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“Nia! Oh thank God you’re alive!” Kimmy cries as I try to lift my head and fail as I seem to not be in control of my body.

Everything is so numb that I can’t even feel Kimmy’s hands, even with them around me.

“Help ...help is on the.. Way” her voice trembles as she reaches up to caress my face and I flinch involuntarily. She looks down at me in her lap, worry written all over her tear stained face.

The sirens are closer now, as I’m suddenly aware of the crowd forming around us.

I try to ignore the whispers as I look down at my torn clothes, and bloody legs, but I can’t as a wave of shame washes over me and I begin to cry. Like everything else, I can’t control it and once the tears start, they can’t seem to start.

“Step aside! Let us work,” a deep voice comes from the crowd and as the crowd parts, a male and female paramedic rush towards me.

“What’s your name ma’am?” the female paramedic asks as she rummages through her bag. I flinch as she grabs my hand to insert an IV, looking down at me expectantly.

“Ma’am?” I can’t bring myself to look at her and although I try, I can’t find the strength to answer.

“Her name is Nia… Nia Williams,” Kimmy says as the male paramedic wraps a blanket around me. I hadn’t realized how cold I was.

“Do you know what happened to you Nia?” the female paramedic asks. I can’t bring myself to speak, let alone utter those words. They help me onto the stretch and wheel me towards the ambulance.

“I think she was raped,” a girl whispers to her friends as I’m wheeled by and the sound of that word makes me shudder.

My mind races as I try and fail to get him out of my head.

I can still feel his hands on my body, his grunts in my ears.

“Everything is going to be okay” Kimmy says reassuringly, as she climbs into the ambulance with me, grabbing my hand, although I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince me or herself. I close my eyes and will it all away, but his dark clouded eyes are etched into my brain, trapping me into my own body.

I should have stayed in my room.

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Contributors Bjorn Bartlett is a senior majoring in Criminal Justice with a double minor in Psychology and Pre-Law Studies. He enjoys trying to write stories that involve difficult or sensitive issues that are troubling the young generation of today such as drug addiction and broken families.

Katrina Dakin is a sophomore in the Criminal Justice program.

She’s been writing short story fiction and fantasy since she was in elementary school. She takes great inspiration from her environment and the nature around her, along with authors such as C. S. Lewis and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. She will most likely continue to write in her free time as a hobby.

Margaret Dickinson is from Lisbon Falls, Maine. She is a junior in the Elementary Education program at UMPI and has a concentration in Special Education. Margaret is a member of both the volleyball and track teams at UMPI and loves to read in her spare time.

Sarah Draper is a senior and is a double major in English and History. She hopes to go on to graduate school for both subject areas, with the goal of becoming a college professor. She has been writing poetry since as early as middle school, and is excited to go on to graduate school and become a better poet.

Melanie Griffin has lived in Maine her entire life and enjoys writing stories inspired by the people and culture that raised her.

Brooke Hallett is a Business Administration major, and a senior graduating in May 2020. Her artistic interest is mainly music, and she listens to a wide variety of music from classic rock, to modern pop music, to alternative rock/pop punk. The main people and bands who inspire Brooke’s artistic interest in the music world are: Elton John, Eric Clapton, Aerosmith, and the Eagles.

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Sarah Harris is a senior in the English program at UMPI. She really enjoys editing, but loves creative writing much more. She’s been writing since she could hold a pencil, and will continue to write when she leaves UMPI, whether professionally or just in her notebook.

Hailey Johnston is a Secondary Education major with a concentration in English at the University of Maine at Presque Isle, where she takes many writing courses, including a Poetry Workshop class. She is originally from East Millinocket, Maine, a small town close to Mt. Katahdin.

Pat Karpen graduated from Catholic University in Washington, D.C. with a degree in Speech and Drama. She is grateful to the University of Maine system, UMPI and her professors.

Ines Ngoga is a junior in the Biology program with a PreMed concentration. She has always enjoyed writing for as long as she can remember and used it to express herself, and her thoughts. To Ines, writing is a very powerful tool in helping you as the writer see the world through someone else’s eyes and it gives readers a quick peek into your soul. She hopes to one day publish a book of poetry.

Manish Pandey, a junior, 22, is majoring in Business Administration with a minor in English. An ardent reader, his favorite book is Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami and his favorite poem is “The Voyage” by Charles Baudelaire. The submitted poem is one of the few poems Manish has ever written.

Evan Zarkadas is a senior in the History program at UMPI. Evan likes the arts and he loves playing music, drawing, and painting in his free time.

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