FishHook 11 pt 1 by FishHook

FishHook volume

11 fall

hope burdette • emma goodrich • meredith grace • alice graves hope burdette • emma goodrich • meredith grace • alice graves • • isaac hopf • abigail joy • austin matthews • lj mayer isaac hopf • abigail joy • austin matthews • lj mayer • • miriam mcdonald • denise mckenzie • joshua meredith • brad neace miriam mcdonald • denise mckenzie • joshua meredith • brad neace • • jaydon pritchard • ivys quintana • tegan ruhl • aubrey swart jaydon pritchard • ivys quintana • tegan ruhl • aubrey swart • • katelyn vinci • noah youngson katelyn vinci • noah youngson •🦋🦋•🦋🦋 2022

fishhook fishhook volume volume1111

FishHook Volume 11 Fall 2022 Find us on social media! @FishHookUSI

FishHook – USI’s Arts and Letters Journal

@fishhookusi

Logo by Carey Blackmore Cover Art: The Thing About Nostalgia by Joshua Meredith NOTE: We want to acknowledge that while an image of minstrelsy is depicted in The Thing About Nostalgia, its discriminatory and insulting history is not meant to be glorified or praised in any way, shape or form. The contributor addresses the focus of his work in his image description: “This is a political landscape highlighting the problems of the past and how people view nostalgia. While it looks like parts of it are cheerful, each element of the piece was selected intentionally highlighting a part of the past that was, in many ways, horrible.”

a note on FishHook The student editors of FishHook believe strongly that USI’s student art and literary journal ought to be just as unique and inviting as the work it publishes. A fishhook speaks to Evansville’s sense of place, tucked as we are in a crook of the Ohio River, and serves a rich metaphor for the process of being lured, hooked and changed by the images (whether visual or verbal) of our student literary journal.

Volume 11 Fall 2022

FishHook Student Literary Journal

Proudly Presents The 2021-2022 Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief: Sarah Doan

Like a hook pulled from a river trout’s mouth before the fish is tossed back into the water, the fishhook does not pull cleanly free; the barb catches, leaves an echo of its shape in the cheek of the fish. And that, gruesome as it may sound, is how we, the editors of FishHook, feel good literature and art leave us: changed forever, with an echo of its image and voice deep in our flesh. We hope you will enjoy this eleventh issue of FishHook as much as we enjoyed compiling it. And, more than anything, we hope you will get hooked! —The Editors

CONTENTS

Poetry

Meredith Grace 10 Her Bouquet

iii

FishHook Editorial Staff: Hunter Morgan (Poetry Editor) Kyla Schlink (Fiction Editor) Violet Thomas-Cummings (Art/Photography Editor) Alexia Willard (Poetry Editor) Madeline Woolsey (Nonfiction Editor) Faculty Advisor: Mr. Anthony Rintala

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Denise McKenzie

Addict

Brad Neace

8 4

Inside of Me Your Kiss

Jaydon Pritchard

Headmaster

Tegan Ruhl

Masterpiece

Noah Youngson

7 9 13

The Girl in the Green Jacket Ode to Thought The Water’s Fine

The Past is Still Occurring

Miriam McDonald 1 The Planets

Austin Matthews

Art & Photography Hope Burdette

Fly Away

29 19 15

Homesick Patience What If

18 21 26 24

The Butcher Carnivore Classic Recipe Environmental Symbolism

Alexia Marie

Autumn Sadness

LJ Mayer

Cone’t Go Chasing Waterfalls

Joshua Meredith 2021

Emma Goodrich

70 P roduct of Their Environment:

An Examination of Gender Representation in American Children’s Literature Ivys Quintana

Luca: A Children’s Movie Like No Other

Aubrey Swart

A Woman’s Place is Not Just in the Home:

Feminist Realism in Housekeeping

Works with the hook logo contain sensitive topics and descriptions.

Art & Photography (continued)

Birds in a Snowstorm, Winter

The Thing About Nostalgia

Untitled

Miriam McDonald

2 AM

Katelyn Vinci

Perspective is Everything, 1

Perspective is Everything, 2

Perspective is Everything, 3

Sarah Doan

The One That Got Away

Alice Graves

34 Dearly Departed

Abigail Joy

Fiction

Billiards

Non-Fiction Alice Graves Arbitrary

Nietzsche: Everything is

Isaac Hopf Security

Summary of Operating System

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A Note from the Editor When considering how I could describe the essence of Volume 11, I wanted to take a step back and think about the position in which this publication sits right now. I’ve been lucky enough to be involved in its development over the past twoish years, and while this issue marks the end of my personal journey at USI, it only marks the continuation of FishHook’s journey into greatness. Through changes over the years between editors, between accepted submissions, between in-person and virtual creation of issues, this publication has continued to grow as a body that still maintains vibrancy and uniqueness. Coincidentally enough, the idea of change comes through in a lot of the works presented in this issue, whether they offer a change in action, a change in perspective, or simply a change in tone. In fact, it inspired the difference in our cover design this year. Change often happens both slowly and all at once (much like graduating!), and it’s vital to adapt to whatever that change presents. Or at least to acknowledge it for what it is: something that is normal, albeit different and even uncomfortable at times. Maybe, even in the smallest sense, something in here will present you with a change of your own. On that note, the editors and I have so many people to thank and recognize. First, thank you to our faculty advisor, Mr. Rintala, for offering such a rewarding opportunity like this to students and for supporting and trusting us in our process of putting together this new issue. I’d personally also like to thank my editorial staff—Hunter, Alexia, Madeline, Kyla, and Violet—for your hard work and careful consideration this year. I can’t wait to see what those of you who stick around come up with next year. Thank you to the USI faculty who support our mission of campus-wide creativity enough to encourage students to check us out and perhaps even submit to us. Compared to previous years, we have an exciting amount of academic diversity between our contributors, and this is possible thanks to you. Thank you to our contributors, both featured and not featured, who have chosen to bear some of the most vulnerable parts of themselves so that others could appreciate and connect with them. Your dedication to your craft does not go unnoticed. Lastly, thank you to you, our reader. Your support of our contributors’ creative and academic pursuits means the world and more to them. We hope you enjoy this year’s issue. —Sarah Doan

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POETRY

The Planets

MIRIAM MCDONALD

Tell me, Why did you turn your head? In your life, you looked ahead to the stars in wonder and amazement. Your loneliness was replaced by the companionship of the planets and stars. You memorized the moons of Jupiter, you knew the oceans of Pluto by heart. But now you turn your head away? “You don’t understand what you love so deeply,” you say to me. And I can’t help but to wonder, were you told that? You didn’t fret on that, all these years ago as you made the stars in the sky your muse. From the rings of Saturn to the fires of Venus, you loved them. What caused you to turn your head away? You looked in awe and wonder, begging and praying one day that you would be blessed enough to Touch them, the same as Endymion who loved Selene. “I cannot understand them.,” you cry to me, “I cannot love all of them, when I cannot understand them!” But little one, were you told? The very bones in your body, the same blood in your veins has the exact same phosphorus As the stars you love so. One day, when you go outside at night When the stars are bright and the planets you loved are shown May you feel the same enchantment you did all those years ago.

And how my spirits are raised when it’s filled But it’s not what you think I keep wanting and wanting But no matter how much I consume I always leave unsatisfied Because it’s not what you think I couldn’t care less of the drink It’s all an excuse to come to the bar every night Where you’re always working And greeting everyone with a smile It’s the twinkle in your eye from the dim bar light Your warm laugh that soothes all souls Your gaze which makes people feel they truly matter And a wink that hits the bullseye to my heart I’ve become a regular in a sea of faces You remember my favorite drinks Even convinced me to try new ones But I would have done anything to make you smile I keep a drink in front of me all night An excuse to stay at the bar To stay close to you An addiction I’ve yet to overcome

Addict

DENISE MCKENZIE

I’m an addict Every night at the bar Ordering one drink after another But it’s not what you think I may enjoy the amber liquid And the burn of its departure as the glass empties

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Addict

So the dutiful alcoholic I’ve become Who must keep her appearances For who am I to intrude when you’re working I know professional courtesy when I see it As soon as another walks up I am forgotten Your gaze strays Your smile wanes You’re working for all, not for one

3 When we first met I was a disaster Of running mascara and a broken heart From waiting the whole night for a date that didn’t show Instead you kept me company And yet I keep coming back For a thirst I can’t quench Because I may not be an alcoholic But I am an addict

I should be rich off nickels and dimes There’s no peace of mind When you never far behind How do I end this When I’m poisoned by your kiss?

The Past is Still Occurring

For some reason it’s too much For me to hold your hand Too intense

But as we sat there Your fingers tracing mine And the intertwining of our pinkies and ring fingers They make it feel like a flock of birds taking off in my chest

But I like the feeling And it isn’t too intense While I can’t hold your entire hand I can do this Two fingers each Intertwined with my head on your shoulder

Your Kiss

I wondered what was going through your mind and now I wish I had asked

BRAD NEACE

There’s something in your eyes Something I should despise It’s a darkness I know all too well Surrounds me trapped in my own Hell This grand disguise Behind angel eyes What am I to do With eyes so blue Do I run away Or turn to pray That crooked smile Has my mind running a mile Fangs so sharp They shred my heart As you have done so many times

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I don’t know if I can do this But I want to I don’t know if I can do this But I like the feeling I don’t know if I can do this But your fingers feel so nice wrapped around mine Intimacy has always been something I struggled with And you’re just so patient But there is a part of me That believes that the past is the present And the future has already happened Maybe I never could hold your hand Maybe I never could kiss you But if the future already happened Then the present is already through The past is still occurring

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And I’m sitting next to you Your fingers tracing mine And the intertwining of our pinkies Make it feel like a flock of birds taking off in my chest Two fingers each Intertwined with my head on your shoulder Wondering what is going through your mind

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The Girl in the Green Jacket NOAH YOUNGSON

An olive akin to the evergreen, the body that bears it tall and thin. I catch a glimpse of your presence, but not enough to see your face. Though I know yours saw mine… a passerby, trying not to impose. The jacket faces me, at full attention. Your arms bent, stuffed in its forgiving comfort zones, of which there are many. Your eyes plant a tripwire from you to me. Let’s hope your boyfriend doesn’t step back as the hotel clerk gives him the room number— a three-digit code with infinite possibilities behind it. No baggage on either of you— Could it be an extended stay? I will never see your face— a steel wool atom, an apricot blur that tugs at my mind’s eraser but the sharper end is winning the war.

7 As I leave, I am both blessed and burdened with a green jacket.

While they dance like jackals Is this my price to pay Just to lie here and waste away I failed to see The demons inside were me

Ode to Thought

NOAH YOUNGSON

The angel that takes my hand, guiding me into heaven before bed. The elusive master, the Descartes’ demon that pulls my vision like a string through my living room window. The stubborn province of my state of mind, the members of which quarrel endlessly, save the case of divine providence. The energy and frequency I emit as a biological antenna, sending and receiving waves on a level as deep as the ocean. The gondolier that propels only me through the canals of my subconscious. The magician’s hat containing an infinite number of white rabbits. The chipped chunks of lead used to create the perfect block of gold. The eternal streams that trickle, warble, and wash through their corporeal conduit.

Inside of Me

Her Bouquet

BRAD NEACE

MEREDITH GRACE

I still see the shadows above They surround me with false love Tell me they’re all I need But I lie here in shackles Never to be freed

She owns a bouquet of tainted memories; each rose holds its own horror. She sings the melody of stained silence; it won’t stop spilling.

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She keeps her memories in folders, silenced until she lets them speak. She frees a sigh of emotionless pain, the quiet destruction of her own self.

will ever see how the painting will turn out. But it will all be worth it when it is finished, and I will look at it and say, “Wow.” Until then, I will try my best to be still, and trust that the painter knows what He is doing. Because this process is only temporary. But the masterpiece He is making will last forever.

I stand outside her window. I want to tell her it wasn’t her fault.

Headmaster

JAYDON PRITCHARD

A cocoon, the rust intrudes over the wrench and its prey. The solemn tool squeezes, though no hand demands. Leftover, the wrench stays upright, right-angled, unrightly aimed at stern eternity. Clutching the bolt, grinding its cavitied teeth, the final order forever enacted. The metal is scarlet red now, yet I am accosted by my muscles,

noose-tight, stiffening like the ground at frost. The faces of man. I cannot open my jaw when they skitter with eyes like disadvantaged screwdrivers, inspecting my being for grooves. I attempt to speak, but I taste scrapyards, my bolt still there. My order still enacted.

Masterpiece

TEGAN RUHL

I am a part of a painting that is not yet finished. It is filled with color. Blue, red, purple, yellow, green, pink. But it also looks bleak. In arrays of black, gray, and white. It took a decade for part of it to be painted. It is filled with innocence and play toys. I think the next part will be filled with sadness and grief, but also, a cheetah and bright colors. I will never know when it will be finished, and I cannot change that. Sometimes, I want to jump out of the canvas and disappear from the entire painting. But then, it will never be finished, and nobody

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The Water’s Fine

NOAH YOUNGSON

The mystery remains for me, a question of careful consideration: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Fifteen years later, such a question prods and drains me; it hinders and restrains me, as if I’m chained to an anchor on the ocean floor, pleading and clawing and thrusting, the iron digging deep into my ankles. My eyes forced shut, like two rigid oysters enclosing each a pearl that I refuse to have stolen. Muffled waves of sound echo, my ears like conch shells. I can hear the ocean calling! Make it stop! I can’t drown it out! Perhaps I have no choice but to answer. My nose like the fins of the creatures that circle me, inhaling pheromones of my fear and their ferocity. Any second now they will torpedo toward their meal. Alas! I will then be forced to taste the bitter end.

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Art and Photography

Cone’t Go Chasing Waterfalls

LJ MAYER

What If

HOPE BURDETTE 15

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Perspective is Everything, 1

KATELYN VINCI The Butcher EMMA GOODRICH

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Patience

Perspective is Everything, 2

HOPE BURDETTE

KATELYN VINCI

Carnivore EMMA

GOODRICH Untitled

JOSHUA MEREDITH

Environmental Symbolism

EMMA GOODRICH

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Autumn Sadness

ALEXIA MARIE 23

Classic Recipe

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2 AM

EMMA GOODRICH 3

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MIRIAM MCDONALD

Perspective is Everything, 3

KATELYN VINCI

Birds in a Snowstorm, Winter 2021

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JOSHUA MEREDITH 27

Homesick

Fly Away

HOPE BURDETTE

HOPE BURDETTE 29

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The Thing About Nostalgia

JOSHUA MEREDITH 31

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Dearly Departed ALICE GRAVES

“A spiritualist?” Charlotte nearly choked on her tea. “Have you lost your mind, Hattie?” Her sister-in-law’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Oh, it would be absolutely splendid! Char, this is the perfect way to set your mind at ease.” Charlotte thought her mind had never felt less at ease. She began shaking her head, but Hattie leaned forward and grasped her hands firmly. “No, no, no, we must go! You’ve no idea what sort of breakthroughs have been discovered recently! Mediums are quite popular, you know. Even amongst

the aristocracy! Why, even Queen Victoria

herself has been known to attend a séance now and then!” Charlotte gently pried her hands from Hattie’s, patting her own hair down so as not to appear rude. Her sister-in-law could be quite energetic and, at times, unintentionally heavy-handed. “Isn’t it dangerous?” She hesitated. “It’s not…satanic?” “Heavens, no!” Hattie exclaimed. “Spiritualism is a science, Char! Don’t you ever read the papers?” Charlotte shook her head. “Mother always said that reading too much would fill my head with all sorts of…ideas. She often said that the dramatics of the news stories were improper for a young lady and that I should focus on more feminine pursuits. I was allowed poetry, of course.” Hattie pursed her lips, thoughtful. “That is a fine point. Do you know that there are women on the streets carrying on about voting, owning their own land and such? Why on earth any woman would want to take on all those extra responsibilities, while child-rearing, is beyond me.” Charlotte disagreed. “Oh, I don’t know that it’s such a bad thing. What are single women to do? Labor is brutal and one cannot risk her reputation by working the streets, you know. There aren’t many other options.” “They could remarry!” “It is not always possible, Hattie.” Her sister-in-law scoffed. “Well, I wouldn’t want to have to handle those duties. I like being taken care of.”

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Dearly Departed

“I know you do,” Charlotte sighed. “You’ll have to marry well, or there will be no hope for you.” “Really, Char. I am worried about you. I wish you’d reconsider. You haven’t been coping well with the loss of your mother. This might give you a sense of closure.” “You know my husband would never approve.” “Oh, whatever shall we do? Baron Willoughby de Eresby might become cross with us!” Her sister-in-law’s tone was absolutely dripping in sarcasm, and Charlotte felt herself bristle. Hattie never turned down the opportunity to call her older brother by his title rather than his name, and Charlotte had sometimes secretly wondered if she was jealous of his freedoms as a man. “Why can’t you just call him Thomas?” she asked lightly, trying to mask her annoyance. “You shouldn’t tease him.” “Because it vexes him,” Hattie said. “And I simply delight in vexing my dear brother. Anyway, we don’t need to tell him. We can arrange a visit. Tea, perhaps. You can come to my home and we can take a carriage. By the time he sends for you, we’ll have finished with our outing. He’ll be none the wiser.” Charlotte still wasn’t convinced. She was a terrible liar and didn’t want to deceive her husband. But the thought of speaking to her mother one last time made her heart swell with hope and longing. She’d been in a terrible state since finding her mother’s remains, tormenting herself with the questions she’d never asked and the things she’d never said. Now that she was gone, Charlotte wanted so badly to speak to her one last time. She bit her lip. “Do you truly think that a medium could contact her?” Hattie nodded vigorously. “Absolutely.”

And that is how Charlotte found herself seated in a carriage beside Hattie two weeks later. She had awoken that morning with a terrible migraine, and when she’d parted the bedroom curtains hoping to take in some fresh air, she had found the world outside gloomy and gray. Dark clouds gathered in the sky while heavy rain poured onto the cobbled street. She thought to herself that the weather was quite suitable for their macabre outing and considered calling the whole fiasco off entirely. However, she knew that if she did, Hattie would immediately come over to blot her throbbing head with a damp cloth, and Charlotte did not want to be doted on by the younger woman. It was better to just get on with it. She had taken a dose of laudanum before leaving home and, though rain pounded furiously upon the roof of the carriage, the sound no longer bothered her. On several occasions, she caught herself patting down her hair, wringing her hands, and smoothing her skirt nervously. Hattie had told her numerous times to stop fidgeting, but

she just couldn’t help it. After her mother passed away, Charlotte had spent weeks grieving relentlessly. There was still so much she wanted to say. Now that this opportunity had been thrust upon her, she felt unable to find the words. She was snapped out of her rumination by Hattie’s excited voice crying, “We’re here!” Stepping out of the carriage, she felt her heart sink as she realized they were on a dingy street in Soho, an area well known for crime and prostitution. She wanted to tell her sister-in-law that they should leave, but Hattie was already far ahead of her, trotting up to the house. Charlotte thought it seemed scarcely a house at all. The small structure seemed to sag in a tired, gloomy sort of way, its gable pitched forward as

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though it might one day heave a great sigh and collapse. The peeling door bore a rusty broken knocker that Hattie reached for before choosing to knock with her fist instead. Lady Dhruv (Droo-vah, Hattie had told her) was an underwhelming woman. Charlotte had expected a more exotic sort of creature to appear from behind the beaded drapery, but this woman was as white as herself. She was stout around the middle with the plainest face Charlotte had ever seen. She tried not to allow her disappointment to show as she rose to greet her host with propriety. Lady Dhruv did not return the gesture. She moved about the room in a bumbling sort of manner, no grace or dignity in her step, and then practically flopped into the chair across from them. She fixed her eyes upon the two younger women and stared blankly. Charlotte and Hattie exchanged uncomfortable glances before seating themselves once more. The silence was deafening in the small room. “Right,” Hattie said, a bit too loudly. “My friend here would like to speak with her mother. Do you think—” Her words were cut off as Lady Dhruv interrupted her curtly, speaking with a thick, strange accent that Charlotte didn’t recognize. “I know why you come. You sent a message, yes? It will cost two shillings sixpence.” She nodded her head toward a decorative silver plate in the center of the table. Hattie bit her lip and nodded. “Of course. My apologies.” She took out her coin purse, counting out the money and placing it on the plate as Lady Dhruv watched with greedy eyes. The medium then fixed her eyes on Charlotte as she lit her pipe, waving away the thick, sweet-smelling smoke. “Tell me about your mamma. If I am to contact her, I must be sure that it is truly her spirit which speaks to me. They all come clamoring when I enter a trance, you see. It could be difficult to single her out.” “Oh,” said Charlotte dumbly. “Well…” Lady Dhruv waved her on impatiently, so Charlotte took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. “Well, my mother and I were always quite close. My father died a few days before I was born, so it was always just the two of us. She had a terrible time taking care of me, you see, because I was a colicky baby. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was small, so we moved around a lot.” She could feel Lady Dhruv becoming impatient with her story and hurried on. “Well, years later, she met a wonderful man who took us into his home and treated me as though I were his own daughter. I can’t even tell you how many dolls and dresses he gifted me! Anyway, he was in a terrible accident and died within two years of our coming to stay with him. My poor mother was so aggrieved, she wouldn’t leave her room for days. I was so sorry for her, having lost two loves already. After his passing, we became closer than ever. She was just the best mother a young girl 36 could ask for. Once he was gone, we didn’t have a lot of money. But every evening, she’d brush out my hair with a silver comb. One hundred strokes exactly. She taught me everything I know: etiquette, dance, poetry—and how to perform my domestic duties of course. She always wished for me to marry well so that I would not struggle the way she did. Oh, and how she struggled! The sacrifices she made—” The words died on her lips as memories came flooding back. Men who came and went. Her mother unable to meet her eyes as the curtain of long, loose curls partially hid her face. The smudged lipstick. The shame. “I know she suffered,” she continued. “She gave so much of herself to ensure my happiness, never once thinking of herself. I asked her to

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Billiards

put a stop to my lessons so that we could save money. I told her that I don’t need to dance or play instruments or wear beautiful clothing. But she always said that I would repay her one day, after I had succeeded in securing a good future for myself. I meant to take care of her until her twilight years, but she died so suddenly!” Charlotte’s eyes shone with tears as she hastened to find her handkerchief. Hattie offered her own and patted her shoulder sympathetically. “You do not look as though you are hurting for money,” Lady Dhruv remarked. “Well,” Charlotte sniffed. “No, I suppose not. My mother found me a good husband. He’s a baron, you see. I have all that I could ever want in this world.” “How did she die?” “Suicide,” Charlotte whispered. “She hanged herself a few days after my wedding.” Lady Dhruv snuffed out her pipe and stood, moving across the room to draw the curtains. A lantern still cast a warm, golden glow over the cluttered room until she returned to the table. She lit three candles before snuffing out the lantern, plunging them into nearly complete darkness. Next, she placed her hands upon the table, palms up. “Take my hands and let us begin. Do not let go. You must not break the circle for any reason.” Lady Dhruv’s hand was damp with sweat, and Charlotte forced herself not to let go in disgust. She could feel herself shaking nervously and tried to steady her breathing. “Spirits!” The medium’s voice was loud and dramatic. Her eyes were closed. “We gather here to call upon the spirit of—” She opened an eye to glance at the women. “Ada Brown,” Charlotte said hastily. “The spirit of Ada Brown!” Lady Dhruv continued. “Ms. Brown, are you here with us? Your daughter wishes to speak with you!”

There was no response, and the medium tried once more. “I ask you, spirits, to use me as a vessel! Allow this young woman to speak with her mother now. Ada Brown, can you hear me? Let us know if you are here with us!” Once more, it was silent. “Ada Brown!” The medium shouted, and there was suddenly a loud rap from the table, as though someone had banged on it. Hattie and Charlotte shrieked in fear and started to back away, but Lady Dhruv stopped them. “Wait!” She cried out, gripping both their hands tightly. “You cannot break the circle! Sit down, now!” Both women’s eyes darted nervously about the room, but they acquiesced, settling back into their seats. The medium closed her eyes once more and continued. “Am I speaking to the spirit of Ada Brown? If so, please give me a sign. I’d like you to knock three times upon the table.” Charlotte’s stilted breath came out in an audible whoosh as a loud knocking sounded from the table. “Mother?” Her voice was very small. Lady Dhruv continued as though Charlotte hadn’t spoken. “Ms. Brown, your daughter has a message for you. Will you hear her?” The table banged loudly and jerked up a bit from the floor, startling the women once more. Charlotte looked to her sister-in-law for comfort, but Hattie’s eyes were shining in the candlelight, excited. She was staring at the medium, waiting for her next move. But Lady Dhruv was as still as a portrait.

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Abigail Joy

Charlotte looked between her companions nervously, not sure what to do. Should she speak? Why wasn’t the damned woman moving? The older woman’s eyes finally opened. Her pupils rolled wildly, and her head lolled loosely on her neck. She moaned. “Are you quite all right?” Hattie asked. When she received no response, she tried calling the woman’s name. “Lady Dhruv?” “Noooo...” The word emitted from the back of the woman’s throat, low and guttural. Charlotte sucked in a breath before asking, “Mother?” Two of the candles blew out suddenly, and the medium’s deep voice rose in pitch as she replied, “Yes, darling. It is I, your mother.” Charlotte hardly dared to believe it. Lady Dhruv’s accent had gone, and now she sounded just like a proper British lady. Was this truly her mother? She stared at the woman’s face dumbly as it flickered in the light of a single candle. Then her eyes suddenly caught movement in the background. A tall, thin figure appeared from the darkness. It was dressed in a long white gown, and its face was partially covered by a shroud of long, dark hair. At once, Lady Dhruv’s body started to shake violently, and a white substance began to emerge from her mouth. “Ectoplasm!” Hattie exclaimed, delighted. “It’s ectoplasm!” “Mother!” Charlotte cried out, finally convinced. Tears fell freely from her dark eyes as she leaped up. “Mother, I’ve missed you so!” She stepped forward so that she might approach the figure, but the medium still had an iron grip on her. “Let go!” She ordered, trying to wrench her hand away. The medium stared up at her as white liquid continued to leak from her open mouth, but she would not loosen her hold. “Wait a moment,” Hattie said flatly. Her 38 sudden change of tone caught Charlotte’s attention immediately, and she turned to look at her friend. Hattie was standing rigidly, staring at the ghostly apparition. She was trembling in rage. Charlotte began to ask what was wrong, but before she could speak Hattie pointed her finger at Lady Dhruv. “You’re a fraud! A liar and a cheat! Oh, how could you do this?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Charlotte. “That person is not your mother! Can’t you see their face? That’s a picture of Lotta Crabtree. I recognize it from the paper!” Charlotte stared at her dumbly. “Who?” “Lotta Crabtree, the actress! Oh, Char! Don’t you read the papers?” Charlotte didn’t answer. Her heart was sinking, and she feared it might break. It had been a lie, all of it. Nothing but a charade. She’d been such a fool. “Whoever that person is, they are hiding their own face behind her picture. This woman is a fraud!” She relit the lantern which had been snuffed out earlier and held it up high. Lady Dhruv stood up angrily and attempted to block the light as the apparition disappeared quickly into the next room. They heard a door slam, and Charlotte presumed that the medium’s assistant must have run outside. “How dare you!” Lady Dhruv spat. Charlotte noticed that her thick accent from before had suddenly disappeared and realized that Hattie was right. She was a charlatan. The older woman continued, “How dare you accuse me of being a fraud! I’ve only tried to help you, and even gave you a discounted price! Now you’ve frightened the spirit away. Get out! Get out now!”

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She stepped close to Hattie, who was leaning around her, trying to see where the figure had run off to. Lady Dhruv grabbed her by the shoulders and began pushing her toward the exit. This only prompted Hattie to let loose a string of slurs, which caused Charlotte’s cheeks to redden, despite her own indignation. As the two women shouted and pushed at one another, Charlotte fought back tears as she gathered Hattie’s money from the collection plate. She froze as she realized that the shouting had stopped and that the silence in the room was suddenly deafening. Something was wrong. Hairs rose on the back of her neck as she slowly turned around to look. Hattie was gaping at Lady Dhruv, eyes wide with horror. The medium was standing slack-jawed, head hanging loosely to one side. Her eyes were bone white. She slowly began to bend backward. Further, further she went, until she looked as though she may break in half. She held herself in that position for a long, breathless moment before her spine snapped with a sickening crack. Her body crumpled to the ground. Hattie let out an ear-piercing scream and collapsed into a heap on the floor, fainting from shock. Charlotte felt her own knees begin to buckle and reached out a trembling hand to steady herself. Her palm landed upon a large ornate mirror and she leaned against it, resting her forehead on the cool glass. She realized that she was beginning to hyperventilate and tried to catch her breath. Black spots danced in front of her eyes as she fought the urge to faint. “Hattie?” She managed to gasp. No response came, so she called out again. Hattie didn’t answer. As her breathing began to slow, she looked up and met the eyes of her reflection. It was grinning. Charlotte cried out and fell away, but the doppelganger stretched its arms out until they emerged from the mirror. It grabbed her wrists and pulled her close, nearly nose to nose. She shrieked as she fought to free her hands, but her body was already being pulled through the cold glass. She felt herself fall for a short distance before landing painfully on the ground. The world around her was dark, the only illumination coming from the other side of the mirror. She got up and attempted to throw herself back through the mirror, instead connecting with solid glass. In the real world, her doppelganger was watching her coldly. Charlotte beat her hands on the glass before sinking to her knees weakly. The imposter spoke. “Darling, this is not how a lady behaves. If you carry on like that, you’ll hurt yourself.” Charlotte looked up, startled. She knew the voice of her mother. “Look at you.” The doppelganger reached up and touched its own face softly. Reverently. “Such a lovely girl, full of youth and vitality. Not like me. The years were not kind to me. I suppose children really do take everything from you.” The doppelganger’s wistful tone evaporated as it noticed Charlotte’s terrified expression. “Oh, don’t look at me that way! You’ve no idea the things I’ve done for you. I sacrificed years of my life for you! Years wasted skulking in the shadows… begging for scraps…whoring. All so that you could marry well and have a beautiful life.” It turned to admire its reflection once more. “Well, it’s finally paid off.” “Mother?” She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to be wrong. Needed to be wrong.

Abigail Joy

But as her stolen face broke out into another wide grin, Charlotte realized that she had paid her mother back in full. And that the payment was nonrefundable.

“Hattie? Hattie, wake up!” Hattie gasped as she came to, eyes searching the room wildly until they landed upon the broken corpse of Lady Dhruv. She began to sob. “Char! Oh, Charlotte! Was that real?” Charlotte’s voice was soothing as she helped Hattie to her feet. “There, there. You must pull yourself together, dear.” “Why would she do such a thing to herself ?” “The woman was obviously ill.” Hattie clutched at her, still in shock. “Ill? How do you mean?” When no answer came, she looked up at her sister-in-law. “What should we do?” “First,” Charlotte said, “we shall cover her with a shroud. And then we will go to the police and tell them what has occurred here. Go and see if you can fetch some fabric from one of the other rooms. There must be a blanket or curtain somewhere.” Hattie hurried off to do what was asked of her. She was still reeling from shock and found herself relieved that Charlotte was able to keep her wits about her at such a time. She found a folded white bedsheet in a linen closet and returned quickly, handing it to Charlotte. “I’ll handle this part, love. Run along outside and tell the driver that we shall be ready to depart momentarily.” Hattie nodded, obviously glad to quit the room as soon as possible. She hurried outside. Charlotte stepped over the corpse of Lady Dhruv, unfolding the white sheet. She draped it over the mirror and grinned widely. “Your burial shroud, dear.”

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Abigail Joy

Billiards

ABIGAIL JOY

I rather enjoy lying on the pool table. I press my toes against the feltcovered rubber edges. I guess it’s good for my back. Lying flat on the stiff surface seems to ease the pressure. It is cool and open. The basement smells of Marlboros and lumber. I turn my head as I watch Jace attempt to build a bookshelf, a cigarette teetering between his teeth. “You ever think you could accidentally start a fire?” I ask. “Huh?” he says while attempting to tighten a screw and keep the board straight at the same time. I offered to help, but he refused. He wanted to do this himself for me. He probably just wanted something to keep his mind off the baby. The baby that I lost. “The cigarette… The ash keeps falling onto your shoes. What if it falls on the wood?” I say. “My shoes?” He tilts his head and sticks one foot out to try and view the damage. He drops the hand holding the shelf steady and tries to give his Nikes a spit bath. I have to laugh as he rubs his thumb against the toe of his shoe. He attempts to balance with his heel propped against the side of his knee, completely forgetting his task at hand. The shelf he’s in the process of installing is wedged between the sides of the bookcase. So, his measurements are accurate for once. As he tries to rub the cigarette ash off of the toe of his shoe, the cigarette falls out of his mouth and onto the concrete floor. “Oh, shit,” he says. Without a second thought, he stomps one foot on top of the cigarette and twists it into the floor. His elbow bumps the bookcase, jarring the shelf and resulting in it falling right onto his forehead. The wood clatters to the floor. He groans, curses, and brings a hand to his head. He kicks the plank, sending it flying across the room. “Damn, Jace!” I say and quickly lift myself from the pool table. I rush up the stairs to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom. When I come back down, Jace is sitting on the edge of the pool table. He looks at me and grins with a drop of blood running down from the top of his eyebrow. I can’t help but smile and chuckle. He’s the only person I know who would be smiling after getting whacked on the forehead by a two-by-four. That’s just him. He won’t ever show when something is bothering him. He

doesn’t want to burden anyone. It’s infuriating. I dab his forehead with a warm washcloth. He swings his legs, occasionally bumping my knee or the thick underbelly of the pool table, causing the balls inside of it to clunk against one another.

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“Your mother is going to think I beat you.” He chuckles and says, “I think she already does.” We laugh because, at this point, that is all we can do. His mother is a bitch. I know this. He knows this. But it hurts more than words can convey, so we laugh. She has been pressuring us since the day we got engaged to have children. It wasn’t much of a problem then. We knew she was rude and a meddler, but we could deal with it. However, that became more difficult when we found out I was pregnant in April, and I lost our baby in August. I have to hear his mother’s desperate, pushing desire for a grandchild tonight. It hasn’t even been a month. She knows this. She just doesn’t care, and Jace is too passive. He lowers the ice pack, and I put some Neosporin onto the small split above his eyebrow. His father and mother are on their way. They insisted on bringing dinner and allowing themselves the chance to share it with us. Jace can’t refuse. He can’t find it in him to stand up to her. I can understand it, but at the same time, I wonder when he will take me into consideration. She’s cruel in her own way, not to me, but to her son. Well, she’s a bitch to me, but only due to my relation to her son. We have concluded that her distaste for Jace comes from her lingering hatred toward her husband, Jace’s father. The Malcolm men have always been extremely charming, in a kind, dorky way. They were easy to be around, easy to love, but in her case, easy to envy. To the naked eye, you wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how she treats her son, but after four years of awkward family gatherings and surprise checks at his college dorm, you start to pick up on things. Four years and nothing has changed. Even at our wedding, she decided to share her recent promotion while giving a toast. She concluded with something along the lines of “Hopefully, she’ll be half the woman I am,” or some similar bullshit. In return, I “forgot” to mention her in my toast to my new husband and my lovely father-in-law. She complained about that all the way up to our first anniversary because Jace said nothing. Unfortunately, the gash on Jace’s forehead is not deep enough to need stitches. There is no excuse for us to cancel. Fortunately, that means we don’t have to use all our savings for an ER visit. I place a band-aid across his head and accidentally stick a chunk of the adhesive onto a portion of his eyebrow. I start to laugh. I am destroying this poor man. He looks in the mirror to see what I did and starts laughing along with me. It’s a good chance he will only have half an eyebrow after we remove it. “You know, I can always get revenge,” he says. He reaches for another band-aid in the first aid kit and lunges at me. I turn to run, but I have never been fast. I scramble my way up the creaky wooden stairs wheezing with laughter and the unfamiliar physical exertion. I reach the top of the stairs and turn to see him reaching the top as well. “No!” I shout through a burst of gurgled laughter and turn to run again, but he’s quick. He grabs me by the hips and pulls me back to him. We stumble together to the end of the hallway and into our bedroom. We wrestle on the bed, him attempting to give me a matching bald spot, me squealing and tickling under his armpits. He finally yields, pressing a kiss to my lips. Our laughs smother each other. He hovers over me, and I lift a hand and tousle his hair. Specks of sawdust sprinkle out onto my chest. He brushes it off. He places a kiss onto my forehead, then the tip of my nose, and continues all the way down, 42 kissing every bare patch of skin my shirt is not covering. He finds his way to my stomach, placing a peck where my shirt has ridden up. He leans over to one side of me and lays his head on my chest. His hand now replaces the warmth the kiss

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had left. I feel a lump form in my throat as I place a hand on top of his. They rest on my stomach, moving steadily with my breaths. “You need to talk to her tonight,” I say. “I know,” he says. His vocabulary seems to limit itself whenever the conversation is about his mother. He won’t tell her to stop, but I need her to stop. I need more time to grieve. I guess I am less of a woman than she is. We remain still, our hands folded on top of one another. He lifts his hand and presses the back of it against his cheek. I feel my eyes begin to burn with the threat of tears. I hate this. The silence that has formed around us is insufferable. It puts me on edge. “I love you,” he says. “I know,” I say. He sets his hand back down to my stomach, and I pull mine away to brush the forming tears from my eyes. Our moment of silence is interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. We roll over and lie side by side on our backs with our legs dangling off the side of our bed. Like children, we knock our ankles and toes against one another’s. I giggle slightly. Jace groans and flops a hand onto his forehead. He flinches, forgetting his split eyebrow and growing goose egg. He lifts himself off of the bed first and extends a hand out to me. I take it, and he pulls me up. He stands in front of the mirror and runs his fingers through his thin hair. I’m in no rush to answer the door either, but I straighten out my clothes and lead the way. Mel is going to be pissed that we kept her waiting. We had to take away their emergency house key because Mel would often “visit” without invitation. We slipped it off her keyring the last time she was over. She is convinced she lost it, but that resulted in her constantly nagging for us to get her a replacement. That won’t happen. Not after her last unexpected visit as Jace and I were relaxing in the tub together. She yelled at us for it. According to her, it was our fault. How dare we take a bath together in our own home with the bathroom door unlocked?

44 Behind me, Jace bends down and picks up his neglected ice pack, chucking it behind him onto our bedroom floor before trying to shield himself behind me as we approach the front door. I pause, my hand hovering over the door handle. He gives me a silent thumbs up. I open the door and the scents of lavender oil and mint tobacco waft into my face. I smile and sweep my arm, giving them an exaggerated welcome. Mel does not meet my eyes. Instead, she scans the living room, probably looking for any imperfections that she can complain about. I watch as she silently takes in our second-hand furniture and cheaply painted walls. The couch came from my parents when they passed, and the recliner came from Jace’s college apartment. Everything else came from yard sales or the local Goodwill. Our house isn’t much, but it is enough. I like it. It is something that is purely ours, and it was all Jace and I could afford at the time. “Hmm, this place is spotless. I am stunned,” she says. The furniture may be second-hand, and the paint may be chipping around the baseboards of the walls, but we do keep it clean and neat.

Abigail Joy

She grins with her cheeks pinched and eyes squinted. Then, she turns her attention back to me. She reaches a hand up to my cheek and gives it a rather tense couple of taps. “You’ve put on weight. At least he is feeding you.” I have to bite my tongue. It’s too early to get snarky. It’s the weight I had gained during the pregnancy and haven’t yet lost. We remain standing squished in front of the door while her husband stands patiently behind her, propping the outer screen door open with his arm. I wonder if he is thinking of releasing it. Just letting the glass smack into her rear, knocking her forward. I doubt I would be the only one who would find that hilariously satisfying. “Mom,” Jace finally speaks up. “For goodness sakes, let Dad in.” She turns to her husband, who is now swatting at a moth drawn to our twitching porch light by his head. “I am just freezing. Oh, your poor dad!” she says, glossing over Jace’s subtle accusation, twisting the conversation and her demeanor entirely. “You know if I still had my key, we wouldn’t be popsicles.” “It’s 60 degrees out. Dad’s in shorts,” Jace says. He’s done with this dinner already. Mel finally looks at him. Her grin falls, and her eyebrows pucker. She presses a single finger to the band-aid-covered bump on his forehead as if it were an elevator button. Jace winces and swats her hand away. She lets out a small satisfied “humph” and promptly waddles in and places her casserole dish onto the dining room table. She proceeds to rearrange the table to her liking. She can have the dining room, for now, if she wishes. That I can deal with. We will just move it all back later, and she won’t know any different. The screen door squeaks shut as my father-in-law shuffles his way over to the recliner. The Sunday night game is already on, so he’s set for the night, as long as someone alerts him when the food is finished being prepared. I sit on the couch, pretending to watch the game while I eavesdrop on the conversation in the kitchen. That’s one good thing about having a cheap house, I guess. The walls are thin. I tilt my head against the back of the couch, pressing it against the wall behind me. The kitchen shares the wall. I can feel the slight vibrations of Mel clinking dishes around. I hear her place each plate, glass, and fork onto the dinner table as she mutters about some nagging chest pain she’s been having. She blames it on anxiety and blames the anxiety on Jace. “How have you two been? How’s work?” says my father-in-law. He will, on occasion, talk to me. I take a bit of comfort in that. He is a man of few words, but I like to think he just doesn’t want to waste them. I give him my first genuine smile since their arrival. “Oh, we have been doing all right. My students have me on my toes, and Jace’s boss is still a dick,” I say. Jace works for a local construction company. They install cabinets, drywall, fences, and pretty much any other similar task people don’t want to do themselves. His boss has been less than considerate of Jace needing to take days off to put me back together. I have flexibility as a full-time English tutor to private school students. Parents will pay anything for their child to receive an A. Like anyone would notice a B in a small town like ours. People are proud of you if you make it through high school without getting anyone pregnant or becoming addicted to meth. “Oh, but Jace is building me a bookshelf…” “What did he do to his head?” he asks. “Oh, he picked a fight with the bookshelf. It won. How have you been?” I say. He gives a short laugh at this.

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Abigail Joy

He looks at me now and raises his eyebrows a bit. I wonder how long it has been since someone genuinely asked him this. God knows Mel doesn’t ask, nor does she care. He shrugs and turns back to his football. I settle back into the couch, accepting that is all the response I will get when he grabs the remote and turns the TV up a few notches. I begin to think that is his hint for me to shut up, but instead, he speaks. “Fair warning, she’s going to ask you about babies. Prepare yourself while you still can.” He turns the TV back down. Clever bastard. Jace is gonna get a kick out of this later. We sit there in our spots, occasionally watching the game while we eavesdrop on the one-sided conversation in the kitchen. Other than his occasional murmurs of hesitation or half-assed arguments, Mel is practically talking to herself. Jace doesn’t talk much anyway, but around his mother, he is damn near silent. My heart breaks at every critique and every backhanded compliment. Speak, Jace, for your sake and mine. Of course, he will never speak of it, but I know the brightness of his eyes fades with each word. “You haven’t even given me grandchildren yet,” she says. “Mom…” Jace says. “Please stop.” “Just because you had one failed attempt doesn’t mean you should stop trying,” she says. Only silence follows.

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Abigail Joy

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The tears I pushed back earlier return to wreak havoc. Jace, please. I glance over at Don, his eyes meeting mine. He looks apologetic, but he doesn’t say anything either. I choke down the lump forming in my throat. My blood boils. Jace comes in looking like he has aged ten years in 30 minutes. He lifts his hands and covers his face, rubs his eyes a few times, and moves his hands down, dragging his cheeks with them. “Dinner is ready,” he says. His father clears his throat as he lifts himself from the chair. I’m already up, walking over to Jace. He wraps his arm around me and settles his hand on my hip as we make our way to the table. He leans to kiss me on the cheek, but I lean away from it. He looks down at me. I stare back. He breaks his eye contact first, his hand falling away from my waist. I wrap my arms around myself and walk to the table. He pulls a chair out for me, then one for his dad. Mel stands impatiently, waiting to set down the casserole dish and bowl of salad mix. We all settle in, and she places the food in front of us. We eat quietly as we stare down at our plates. I pick through my casserole, my appetite gone. I look up at the sound of Mel rummaging through her purse. She pulls out a pamphlet of some kind and slides it over to me with a smile on her face. The paper reads “Fertility Clinic.” “What is this?” I say. “Well, I know since your recent failure, you have had a few concerns. This will help.” “Good grief, Mel,” Don mumbles. I feel Jace tense next to me. If he won’t speak, I will. “You’re kidding. You cannot be doing this right now. What part of your fuckedup mind thinks this is okay?” “Language, Elizabeth!” she responds. “Language. Language? That’s all you have to say? This was not some minor inconvenience. We lost our baby, Mel! I felt my body physically discarding her. We had her name picked out. It took weeks for it to end. So many weeks I spent trying to keep my shit together as our happiness was falling apart. God forbid I take time to mourn, and your opinions don’t make it any easier. Get the hell out of our house.” I am sobbing now. I don’t even know when I stood up, but I am standing now, my hands firmly on the table. I didn’t realize I was so close to her. I lean away and press my hands to my face. “Liz…” Jace says. He has tears in his eyes. He is standing with me now, trying to pull me into him. I push him back. “Jace, no. For weeks, I have asked you to talk to her, but you wouldn’t. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it while I had to listen to her every painful remark,” I say.

“I…” he says. “I’m sorry.” I have no words left in me to say. I feel his arms wrap around me, and this time I let them. For once, Mel is the one who stays silent. Don reaches a hand up to my shoulder. I finally remove my hands from my face. I look up and see Mel lying on the floor on her side. Her hand grasps at her chest as she sputters. I look back and forth at Don and Jace. We freeze in shock at her gasping body. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. There is nothing but silence.

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Abigail Joy

For the first time in weeks, there is a strange sense of peace. We are entirely still as we watch her groan, half-conscious. It is this hesitation that scares me the most. No one moves an inch for our phones. No one rushes to dial 911. No one even asks her what is wrong. Seconds feel like minutes as we wait for someone to react. Maybe we all believe she deserves it. Slowly, Jace reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his phone, and calls. His voice is hushed and empty as he describes the scene to the operators. The static mumble of the TV still rings throughout the house. I find myself reaching for Jace’s hand. I give it a squeeze; he squeezes back. Did I do this? I don’t move. For a second, I don’t want to. I finally release my hand from his and turn and walk to the basement door. If I don’t leave now, I will crumble. He called. It’s fine. I walk down the stairs with ringing in my ears. Behind me, I can hear sirens approaching. They will be here within the minute. My stomach drops. My mind is a fog. I can’t quite come to terms with what is happening. My mind runs through the moments. When did she fall? I didn’t notice. Nobody did. I should have known that Mel would not have been quiet for that long. She would have retorted. She would have risen to my level, but she didn’t. The chest pains she told Jace about. A heart attack. I tipped her over the edge. Why didn’t we react? I lay onto the pool table and listen as the front door opens and unfamiliar voices come flooding in. I imagine they are checking her vitals. Loading her into a gurney and carting her away. Dead or alive, I’m not sure. I feel the tears finally stop dripping down my face when the basement door opens. I know it’s Jace. He is a heavy walker for such a lean person, and those stairs squeak like they are being strangled. Funny, I feel like I’m the one being strangled. I don’t turn and look at him. Instead, I scoot over a bit, and he lies down next to me. I lace a few of my fingers with his, and we just lie there silently. He exhales a shuddering breath. I tilt my head now and see a tear roll down the side of his head as he stares at the ceiling. I face the ceiling again, too. “They just left. They loaded her up so fast. Pretty impressive. Dad went with her. I should have probably gone too, but...” he says. “Are you…” I begin to ask, but my words fall short. What do I even say? Are you okay? Are you going to check on her? Do you care? What do you ask someone when a family member you despise has a heart attack on your dining room floor? “Liz. I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” I say. “No. No, I should have kicked her out the second she said something. I should have said something sooner. I didn’t know how, I guess.” He falls silent. I don’t 48 reply. Instead, I keep listening to the fading of the sirens. “It was probably all that cheese in the casserole. I could feel MY blood clotting as I ate,” he says. A snort escapes me, followed by a choking noise I have never heard come from my body before. Jace begins to laugh. Inside, I know my snort is not what caused this outburst. For some reason, I start laughing too. We howl like hyenas with tears streaming down our faces, inhaling the scent of pine and ash. Our laughs mix with sobs until they melt down to exhausted hushed breaths. Jace’s phone rings, but we don’t

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move. Neither of us is willing to disrupt the comforting silence that fills the air around us.

The One That Got Away SARAH DOAN

If Minnie had ever been sure about anything in her life, it was that there was no way the Skirt Chaser would leave her waiting too long. Out on this lonely sidewalk in the cold and dark of the not-so-nice part of town? No, absolutely not. In fact, she was positive that he would be on his way to meet her already. He would have been watching the block already, waiting from some secret spot for the right time. He always did. He would have seen her pushing herself up out of the backseat of the cab she’d taken to this side of town, stepping up onto the curb, taking a generous swig from the bubblegum pink flask she had stashed in her purse, glancing around the dimly lit empty street and sidewalks as if she were searching for someone. He would have seen the look of confusion that occupied every inch of her face, the look only she knew was a farce, and he would spring into action, surely appearing with every intention to be helpful while she waited for whoever she was looking for. How gentlemanly. Even with his reputation of snatching and killing young women who had once stood in the same spot Minnie stood now, the Skirt Chaser could still be chivalrous. At least, that had been the name they’d given him on TV, “the Skirt Chaser.” For the past few months, the hosts on the local late-night news show Minnie liked to watch simply couldn’t keep the name out of their mouths. At first, it seemed to sit uncomfortably on the tips of their tongues as they absorbed the quickly accumulating facts of his crimes seconds before they reported them to their watchers. Breaking news, the Skirt Chaser has struck for a second… a third… a fourth time! They had to spit the words out like a bone that unexpectedly pricks the inside of your cheek during a bite of food. However, as time passed, the name escaped through their teeth more easily, falling into the pattern that all serial killer reporters fall into. No more surprise, just facts. Sometimes, too, the occasional hint of curiosity that could never be expanded on too much, at least not in an official context. But Minnie noticed it. Not only did she notice it, but she wholeheartedly shared the fascination. How can somebody have the capacity to do something like that? To stalk young women, always brunette, always white, always wearing a skirt, and do God-knows-what to them before taking their lives and dumping them somewhere in just their skirts? It made her stomach turn to think of his crimes and subsequent victims. After all, she was brunette.

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She was a young white woman. She liked to wear skirts. But at the same time, it was almost… exciting? Flattering, in some twisted way? It would have come out wrong somehow if she had told anyone, but to know that someone, even a serial killer, specifically searched for people like her and had a special fixation on those like her… it was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. She worked as a secretary at some stupid office just to make ends meet, and after she was done every day, she’d go home and make herself the same can of soup or the same easy pasta dishes before sitting down to watch the news. After that, she’d go to bed and wait to do it all over again the next day. This man, this Skirt Chaser, was new and interesting and seemed to leave clues about himself through the news for her to follow (but of course not, because that would be ridiculous, right?). The area he liked to prowl in one broadcast, some ultimately unreliable descriptions of his looks in another broadcast by people who claimed to have seen him. An interaction with him posed a completely changed life, be it for better or worse, and if she didn’t take a risk now, especially when she could easily meet all of his requirements, how long would it be before she had another chance to feel like something more than what she already was? So there Minnie stood on the sidewalk, lightly shivering from the nippy air of the night, watching her breath slip out of her mouth and into a smoky haze in front of her face. He had to come soon, or else she would start to feel less sure about her plan and herself. And then what? What good would all of this self-preparation (mainly downing the liquid courage she had stashed in her purse) do for her if she was just going to waver? She sucked a deep cool breath into her lungs before turning around to walk straight down the street. Darkened shops and restaurants slowly slid past her vision as she took pained high-heeled steps down the sidewalk. She had never had a chance to break in these black heeled boots she wore now that pinched her toes a little too much, and unsteadiness certainly didn’t help. Groaning quietly, she leaned up against the nearest lamppost and lifted her right foot to rub the toe. And then she saw a man leave one of the apartment buildings across the street and down a few. Her foot immediately dropped back to the ground. She almost didn’t notice him; his dark hair and black clothes made him hard to spot against the murky darkness behind him. He slowly walked down the stairs of the building and pointedly looked in her direction, eyes beady and small in the shadows surrounding his face. Could this be him? Her heart painfully leaped in her chest, and she immediately grabbed her phone out of her skirt pocket and looked down at it, turning back to the curb she just came from. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that she’d seen him. For a second she considered sprinting back to the curb and wildly flailing for a cab driver’s attention, but she couldn’t tell if the gaze she felt burning a hole in her back was real or just in her head. Also, why would she ruin this for herself now? Slowly, she looked over her shoulder back at the apartment building to see if the man still occupied the sidewalk in front of the stairs. He did not, but instead was now digging through the beige sedan parked a few cars down from his building. A quick sigh of both relief and disappointment escaped her nostrils. As much as she still wanted some kind of interaction with the Skirt Chaser, she couldn’t help but also want it to be over. Maybe, she thought to herself, it was time to just go. This anticipation was not nearly as enjoyable as she had hoped and was certainly not worth it if he wasn’t going to show, which he would have done by now, right? Her fascination with his antics was quickly lessening in importance to her as the cold weather sunk

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further into her bones. She began to take slow steps toward the curb she had been dropped off at, clicking the side of her phone to check the time. 10:21 PM. Normally, she would have been in bed by now, maybe not asleep but close to it. An involuntary shiver shot through her spine, and she sped up her pace a little toward the street. However, once she did, the sound of footsteps began to trail behind her. She stiffened and slowed down once again, still looking straight forward at the street. This was it. This had to be it. He had come. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she called to whoever walked behind her. A small hesitant crack in her voice betrayed the noticeable amount of uncertainty twisting itself in the pit of her stomach. She heard the footsteps behind her stop, followed by a jacket rustling around the person’s movements. “Excuse me?” a man’s voice asked. Minnie sighed and closed her eyes for a second, elated to be so close to knowing she did this right, to be so close to him. She opened them and turned around to face the person behind her. The man from across the street now stood six feet away, his beady eyes boring into her. He now had a backpack slung across his back, one of those huge backpacks people used for camping and vacations. And apparently, in his case, for murder. “It’s you,” she said again, letting her lips float into a dreamy smile. “I knew you’d be here. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me.” The man cocked his head a little to the side as he looked at her. “What the hell are you talking about?” the man asked as his eyebrows furrowed and a scowl began to cross his face. “I’m just trying to get to the convenience store a couple blocks over before it closes.” “No, you aren’t,” she said. “I know who you are. I know what you look for. It’s all I’ve seen on the news for months now. The brown hair, the skirt, all of it.” “Listen, lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about right now, but I gotta—” “Stop trying to deny it. I know who you are. You’re the Skirt Chaser. You’ve killed ten women who look just like me. Did you think this outfit was a coincidence?” She twirled in her spot to show herself off, a beautiful object waiting to be bought, high on the excitement of the moment. “You are just… so fascinating. I had to meet you. You almost kept me waiting too long, but here you are.” “The Skirt Chaser? I’m not the Skirt Chaser, crazy bitch. That guy is a sadist who shouldn’t be part of society. Now if you’ll back off, I have to go pick up a six-pack before my brother-in-law drives me too far up the wall.” He hurried forward, harshly bumping her shoulder as he passed her, and almost left before turning one more time to face her. “You know, you really should just go home. This area’s not safe for girls like you. Especially if you’re gonna be throwing yourself at those kinds of guys. Damn.”

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Billiards

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The One That Got Away

Sarah Doan

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A Woman’s Place is Not Just in the Home: Feminist Realism in Housekeeping Minnie leaned her head against the cool window of the cab, the bumpiness of the city street lightly making her head bounce on the glass. Exhaustion and disappointment weighed down the blood in her veins. Embarrassment, too. She definitely felt herself sobering up. She couldn’t believe how poorly that had gone, save for falling victim to a killer. She also couldn’t believe how reckless she had been. What the hell was she thinking? Setting herself up to be number eleven in his string of conquests? She shook her head against the window. She couldn’t wait to get home and forget that this had happened when the alcohol fully wore off in the morning. The cab slowed to a stop at a red light. She had been so sure. If that man really was him, why didn’t he just admit it? Why didn’t he just do what would get him attention once again? He could have easily snatched her and taken her into any nearby alley to do whatever he wanted to her. Hell, he could have taken her anywhere and she wouldn’t have been able to do much. With the alcohol and her admitted lack of muscle and strength, she would have been an easy target, dressed up exactly how he liked. She guessed that it was more likely he was just a random person who showed up at the exact right time. The newly changed green light poured through the windshield of the cab, and the car lurched forward. Minnie’s stomach softly growled. She had been saving her last can of her favorite chicken noodle soup for a really special time; she guessed this would be as good of a night as any to open it up.

“You hear the Skirt Chaser got someone else last night?” Minnie’s head shot up from the neatly organized office planner laid out in front of her to Paula, who stood behind the counter of the front desk Minnie managed. Paula from Payroll couldn’t help herself when it came to gossip and drama, even if it meant maintaining mostly one-sided conversations every day with the secretary who never cared to listen and was even pretty obvious about it. This time, though, Paula had Minnie’s full attention. “What?” He did?! “The Skirt Chaser. He nabbed someone else last night, some college kid.” What? Someone… else? Minnie took in a sharp breath and lowered her eyes back to her desk. “That’s awful,” she said, trying so hard to sound like she meant it. And maybe she did, deep down, underneath all of her miserable self-commiserating that seemed to slip and slide through her veins like the bright crimson blood that surely ended up pouring out of that poor girl and onto him. She felt her hands begin to shake. “It really is,” Paula said as she leaned her elbows on the counter. She shook her head to herself and tsked a few times, her curly blonde hair lightly hitting her face as she did. “Poor thing was burned, choked, cut to shreds… They found her in an alley downtown. I guess she lived long enough in the ambulance to give a quick description, but she was just too far gone to make it much longer.” “She gave a description?” Minnie asked.

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Aubrey Swart

“Yeah. It wasn’t much, but it helped them give the news stations something useful to broadcast. He wasn’t what I expected. He’s dark-haired, seems like he’s on the shorter side—” “Smaller eyes?” Minnie asked before she could process its departure from her mouth. Paula quietly looked at her for a second, squinting. “Yeah. How did you know?” Minnie swallowed hard, her mouth dry at the now reappearing mental image of the man she had seen last night. Holy shit. “Just a lucky guess. He sounds creepy.” Paula nodded after a second, sighing. She must not have cared enough to think too hard about Minnie’s immediate question. “You know, Minnie… make sure you take care of yourself. Men make mincemeat out of cute little things like you if you’re not careful, especially that one. Don’t let them.” With that, Paula stood up straight, brushed out the top of her skirt, and walked toward the cubicles in the middle of the room. Minnie waited until she disappeared behind one of the cold, light gray walls before ducking her head down behind the counter and laying it in her hands. It had been him. She had been so close, quite literally within arm’s reach, and yet…nothing. He still didn’t pick her. She had worn the right thing, looked the right way, even put herself out there for him, but it wasn’t still good enough. Her heart seemed to churn in her chest, first with the muted but unyielding despair of rejection but then, as she thought on her fate, with immeasurable and undisputable anger. Maybe she was lucky to not end up like that college girl, but she wasn’t really even the one who escaped, the one that got away. It was him. He escaped her. Minnie took a deep breath, letting it fill up all of the crevices in her lungs before releasing it and methodically pulling her cell phone out from her purse in the right-hand bottom drawer of the desk. He didn’t get to be the one that got away. She typed 911 into the keypad and held the phone up to her ear, the ringing feeling thunderous against her eardrums before she heard a click on the other end followed by the operator asking what her emergency was. Oh, it wouldn’t be her emergency. It would be his. “Hello?” she asked quietly. “Hi, I need to speak to a detective right away. I saw the Skirt Chaser last night.”

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