VLR Fall 2016

VIRGINIA

LITERARY

REVIEW

VLR 1979

VIRGINIA

LITERARY

REVIEW

Fall 2016 / Volume 42 / Number 1

The Virginia Literary Review www.virginialiteraryreview.tumblr.com vlreditor@gmail.com Fall 2016 Staff Editor-in-Chief Rory Finnegan Fiction Editor Natalie Wall Treasurer Adam Willis Review Staff Will Brewbaker Emily Clark Steven Kiernan Anna Karoll Jacqui Lucente Chichi Abii Katherine Smith Caitlin Flanagan Peyton Schwartz Colleen Schinderle David Willis Elliana Given

The Virginia Literary Review is a contracted independent organization run by undergraduate students at the University of Virginia. Views expressed are not necessarily those of the University. The magazine is funded by a student activity fee allocation.

VLR is published twice annually. The review staff considers literary and art submissions from individuals in the University community during the first three-quarters of each semester. Work selected during the current semester is published during the following semester. For more information about the magazine and submission guidelines, please visit our website: www.virginialiteraryreview.tumblr.com.

This issue was produced for print and online publication by the review staff using InDesign software.

Copyright 2016. No material may be recorded or quoted, other than for review purposes, without the permission of the artists, to whom all rights revert after the first serial publication.

Contents / Fall 2016 Poetry 6 / Day One of the Funeral 7 / What A Poem Cannot Do 24 / We Wait Quietly 25 / On My Final Night Home from College 26 / ‘—and then, I could not see to see—’ 27/ Lineage 29 / The Classics Cannot Console 30 / Earlier 31 / Small Deliverance 33 / Violins at the Vigil 37 / (Over) Five Acts 45 / body in the bay window

Sarah Corney Will Brewbaker Alexandria Rodgers Caroline Hockenbury Siofra Dromgoole Luke Williams Will Brewbaker Phoebe Bugay Madeline Rita Aidan Cochrane Siofra Dromgoole Caroline Hockenbury

Prose

11 / I Want The Police To Be Notifed Jack Mehr 39 / Remnants Ryan Gorman

Visual Art Cover / Headless No. 1 Sarah Alberstein 9 / Man Under Street Light Kirsten Hemrich 23 / Another Window Kirsten Hemrich 32 / Cuba 3 Sarah Harris 35 / Bedtime Stories Selby Perkins 44 / Grid Anna Morgan

Day One of the Funeral Because the absence of the house isn’t enough, the slow demolition we turned from, we turn too from the coffin, the way it slid into the earth like it belonged.

And because it rained earlier that day the dirt clumps and congeals, makes you nauseous, the rude sucking noise like two lovers learning the body’s acoustic, learning to give and take back. Embarrassed, you turn to the open highway and the priest— he whose voice strains at the cars’ honk, he who continually pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and coughs, lays his hand on the glazed oak finish and turns— Sarah Corney

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What A Poem Cannot Do Is prepare caviar for you. It cannot intercept the female sturgeon as she struggles upstream to lay her eggs. It cannot catch the silver fish that has waited over two decades to birth her young. It cannot haul her into the boat. Or slit her throat. It cannot feel the heat of her blood, or see its gleam on her gills. It cannot reach deep inside her and glean the clumped roe housed within.

It cannot tell them, Now you will never be your mother, convulsing on the wet wooden planks of the boat. A poem can’t carry the roe to market in a sack. Can’t rinse the roe in cold water. Can’t lightly salt the roe. It cannot order a large serving of the roe in a bistro. It cannot offer wine to accompany the roe. It cannot be a child, holding her nose, told to try the roe.

A poem can do none of these things.

But it can tell you that when all the rivers are bereft of sturgeon, and all fishermen left unemployed, I will wade out in the empty stream, and, kneeling, scoop handfuls of glassy black pebbles into the bowl of my stretched shirt. It can tell you how I will bring them to you. In what manner.

The soft tone of my voice. How, cradling

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your hands in mine, I’ll say, These are the roe. Throw them back into the hollow river. It can tell you that every lie is only words in the wrong order, and each of the pebbles will grow into sturgeon, if given time, if left alone.

Will Brewbaker

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I Want The Police To Be Notifed I sit in my room, alone. I don’t know whether or not you assumed I was alone, but I thought I’d clear it up immediately so that there was no confusion. I’m alone, and the only light source in the room is my iPhone because I woke up at 4 PM and there were no lights on then and it is now 7 PM and that fact hasn’t changed. I wonder if long periods of isolation in the dark make me feel mentally unstable or if being mentally unstable lets me tolerate long periods alone in the dark.

So I’m in my room, alone, with the lights off. I feel like you’re already judging me and putting me into a box I don’t want to be put into. Not that it’s wrong for you to judge me, since we judge anything and everything we come into contact with, both implicitly and explicitly, and anybody who says they don’t is a liar and anybody who claims that Jesus said it is wrong to judge other people and they follow His word may have the best intentions, but they are still a liar. The truth is, I’m here by choice.

If you thought I was an antisocial outcast, allow me to throw a monkey wrench into your preconceived notion. Not that you’d be wrong for calling me a loner, or maybe even an outcast, but I wouldn’t say you’d be right either. I’m not antisocial, and I think that maybe life would be easier if I was, but deep down I know that wouldn’t be the case. My problem is that I have trouble enjoying anything. And when I say that, I know you’re thinking “oh, he just described anhedonia which is a common symptom of depression which would explain our protagonist’s malaise,” and you’re wrong. The reason I can’t truly enjoy anything is because the grass is always greener on the other side, and I don’t even have to say how much of a cliché that is, or how much of a cliché pointing out that it’s a cliché is, but I will anyway. My point is that whenever I’m doing something, I’m focused on what I’m not doing, and this becomes a fairly tyrannical negative feedback loop. When I’m at a party, I’m thinking about how much more enjoyable it would be to be back in my room listening to music or reading Nietzsche1 , and when I speak about reading Nietzche, I mean it only as a pretentious pseudointellectual would read Nietzsche and not as Leopold or Loeb would read Nietzsche. When I’m back in my room, alone, like I am now, I am thinking about all the fun I’m missing out on and all those kids fully maximizing their college experiences while I rot in my room, both figuratively and literally, since I haven’t had anything to eat since last night 11 / VLR

and it is 7 PM now and I haven’t moved from my bed since I woke up at 4 PM. Sometimes I think it would be better if I withdrew from society completely, and turned this ghastly cycle into a dull, yet consistent, straight line, but then a girl will smile at me or somebody will laugh at something I said and I’ll remember why I bothered to get out of bed at all. You’re still putting me inside a box, one even more compact than the last time, so allow me to slip the top open and tell you that in spite of this almost pathological cycle of self-doubt, I manage to function fairly well in civilized society, and while I’d certainly be described as eccentric by most, I don’t mind the label and find it generally validating.

So why am I telling you any of this? Well, today is the day that I die. By all accounts, it is a dark cold day and – no, I’m just fucking with you. I don’t die, or at least, the chances are slim. My stomach drags me out of bed at 7 PM and I stand firmly on the ground and drag my right hand across my face while my left hand points diagonally to the ground and after my right hand is finished pulling my skin down to my jaw, exposing the bottom of my eye and clumping the skin of my cheeks together, I outstretch my right hand diagonally upward until I’m in a yoga-like pose which twists my torso until I have fully defined abdominal muscles. Tic-tac-toe. I open my bottom drawer so I can get dressed. I put athletic shorts on over my boxers. I walk out of my room over to my refrigerator where I intend to get milk to pour into a bowl of Lucky Charms, and I think about how I never actually made a conscious choice to eat Lucky Charms today; I just knew I would, and that is a pretty compelling case for why free will doesn’t exist, and even if I choose Cocoa Puffs now, I would only be doing it to spite my revelation, defeating the purpose. All this time, I’m making intermittent glances downward, flexing each time, making sure my abdomen is as defined as it was 5 seconds ago and noticing the slight vertical asymmetry present, the left side being slightly higher than the right. So now you know that I’m vain, both physically and intellectually, and that’s important. Maybe 1. I chose Nietzsche because I’m sure you’ve heard of him and know a bit about

him and you understand the picture I’m creating when I tell you that I read Nietzsche. I’ve spent a lot more time reading Cioran and Schopenhauer, but I’m assuming you haven’t heard of them(I’m probably not giving you enough credit since it isn’t like Schopenhauer is some totally obscure philosopher, but I wouldn’t presume you have the same connotations built up in your head about Schopenhauer that you do about Nietzsche, so I still think I’m correct in choosing him), and I’ll save you the trouble of Googling them by saying that they are, in short, pessimistic nihilists.

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it’s my hamartia.

As I pour milk into my cosmically predetermined Lucky Charms, I hear three consecutive knocks at the door. Fuck off, Mormons. I figure it’s probably Ben who has forgotten his keys three times in the past week and I wonder how he manages to get anything done if he can’t even remember his keys; at that point he might as well start writing it down on a piece of paper or in his phone so he doesn’t forget, and if he forgets to check the paper or his phone, then it’s time to set a really annoying alarm as a reminder, making it impossible to forget these things. I walk over to the door and prepare to make a joke about Ben forgetting his keys again and he’ll say “yeah, I’m an idiot” and we’ll laugh and that’ll be a nice little moment since it will be the first human contact I’ll have had all day. I open the door.

“Hello, is Donald here?”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. Don is fine, by the way.”

“Alright, Don. Well, I’m Officer Lopez and this is my partner, Officer Jackson. We’d like to bring you down to the station for a bit, just to talk.”

“I’m kind of busy, actually.”

“Well, we can come back, but unless it’s really important, it’s probably best you come now. And you might want to put on a shirt.”

They got me there. I’m having an internal debate over what they think is more pathetic: an inability to grow chest hair at my age or the fact that I shave mine off because I think it looks better. I come to the conclusion that it’s the latter. I’m pretty sure I know why they’re bringing me in, and it’s because – no, stories need suspense.

“Okay, one sec.”

“Take your time.”

I turn and walk back to my room, slightly self-conscious about the acne on my upper back until I realize that they couldn’t give less of a fuck.

I open my top drawer and sift through a pile of wrinkled shirts for a few seconds. I grab a light blue Polo shirt because it’s been two weeks since I’ve worn it which means it’s safe to wear again, even if I’ve never seen these guys before and I’m unlikely to see anybody who would judge me for wearing a shirt more than once over a two-week time span, but it’s about the principle of it, so I stand by my decision. Light blue is a good color because it’s decidedly non-threatening, unlike red which… you get it. Colors are symbolic; there’s no need for me to explain it. Realistically, I don’t have to worry about appearing threatening since I’m fairly small-framed and I’m 13 / VLR

only 5’7” and some change, but I can pass for 5’8” and I like to tell myself that I’m 5’8” since that seems to be the cutoff between short and almost kind of averageish. The only thing I really have to worry about is my eyes which are an icy blue/gray and have a certain deadness to them, though they make me look more cynical than psychotic if anything and a girl once told me that she knew I was going to be cynical before I ever opened my mouth because she saw it in my eyes. Am I boring you with details? Sorry. I put on the same pair of flip-flops I’ve worn for the past 5 years and can’t replace because although they’re falling apart, the next pair won’t feel the same and they’ll be uncomfortable for a couple weeks and I don’t like change.

I walk out of my room and approach the officers with a slight smile to make it seem like I’m not nervous even though I can feel my stomach churning, but I make sure not to smile too much in order to avoid looking menacing. After a few seconds, I drop the smiling altogether, but still push up my facial muscles a tiny bit in an attempt to conceal the deadness of my eyes. I notice that both of them are a good 6-8 inches taller than I am, so when I talk to them I have to tilt my head up and I feel like Travis talking to the Secret Service agent.

“I’m not under arrest or anything, right?”

“Oh no, like we said, we just want to talk.”

Lopez is the only one who’s said a word so far and I’m fairly sure that they’re trying to good cop-bad cop me and although I’m aware of it, I think it might still work because it’s that good of a tactic. We enter the elevator of my apartment where I live on the 8th floor, so it’ll be about 20 seconds until we reach the first floor, giving me enough time to turn around, kick Lopez in the knee and grab the gun out of his holster, shoot both of them so that when the elevator opens on the first floor, they spill out in a heap, and I have to step over their bodies and then run out of the building and hijack the nearest car so I can drive to Canada where I’ll live out the rest of my life in hiding.

“Come on, this guy is clearly deranged,” is what I can already hear you saying, but these types of thoughts are not actually uncommon or indicative of any underlying psychological issues2. It’s only a problem when these thoughts are no longer intruders, instead becoming houseguests that comfort you when you realize the lack of control you have over your own surroundings, making you feel momentarily powerful while you imagine the various ways you could drain a bustling coffee shop of its collective 14 / VLR

effervescence with an AR-15 or maybe a pipe bomb, inaccurately equating fear with respect, but knowing that it’s better to have one than it is to have neither. But I don’t think that way anymore.

Lopez and I walk to a black SUV hidden on the side of my apartment building, while Jackson walks the opposite direction to what I assume is a similar SUV. It’s probably just standard protocol, but I can’t help thinking that they’re trying to make all of this seem more dangerous and exhilarating than it actually it is. Then I remember that they’re university cops and this is about as exciting as their week is going to get, and I’m John Dillinger to them. On the way to the SUV, I see Ben walking from his car to our apartment, and he sees me.

“Bro, what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

This will be a good story to tell, but I know that I will have to embellish certain aspects of it and downplay others, and I’m already forming a coherent narrative in my head with punch lines in between events, like the shirtless thing. I know people will laugh at the shirtless thing. I get in the passenger’s side of the black SUV and Lopez radios dispatch and tells whoever is on the other end that they have me and are driving me to the station, and I roll my eyes.

“So Don, what were you busy with back there?”

“Oh, I was in the middle of a pretty intense workout and I was about to meditate afterwards. It’s no big deal, though.”

“Interesting. We didn’t want to interrupt anything. So what made you want to come to school here?”

“Well, I didn’t get into that many places and I liked it a lot here when I toured, so it wasn’t a very tough decision.”

“And you’ve liked it here so far?”

“Yeah, it’s been good. People are pretty cool, classes have been interesting.”

“What kind of grades do you get?”

“A’s and B’s for the most part. Little worse than high school, but I 2 wikipedia.org/wiki/Intrusive_thought#Aggressive_thoughts3

3 If you’re going to give me shit for citing Wikipedia, you should know that the articles themselves have links to many outside sources and that Wikipedia itself has been shown to be just as reliable, if not more reliable, as other printed and web-based sources4.

4 http://journals.cambridge.org/action/displayAbstract?fromPage=online&aid=8632760&fileId=S003329171100287X

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think that’s expected.”

“That’s pretty good. What’s your major?”

“I’m thinking philosophy right now.”

“Oh really, why’s that? Anyone in your family into that or is it your own thing?”

“No, I’m the only one. I just think it’s really interesting. And I hate money, obviously.”

He doesn’t laugh. The chess match has begun, but I must admit that it’s slow and I’m not a fan of the game he’s playing, but like a real chess match, things don’t get interesting until the midgame. These first few moves are necessary yet rarely lead to mistakes. The question about my grades had potential, but what did he expect me to say, that I’m failing and my life is crumbling and just lock me up already? Of course not, but I assume that like before it’s just protocol and I don’t question it more than once. The rest of the ride is silent except for some incomprehensible radio chatter, and we pull up behind the station with Jackson already waiting outside of his identical black SUV. “You can get out, now.”

I manage to open the door just before Lopez is about to open it for me after three unsuccessful pulls on the handle and two unsuccessful attempts to unlock it manually. Police SUVs must have a different locking mechanism. I see Jackson take out a keychain and unlock the back door as Lopez and I approach him.

“Come on in.”

This is the first time he has spoken and his deep, slow voice makes him sound oafish, which matches his round and droopy face with multiple layers of bags under his eyes and a mouth that just won’t close. I feel sorry for him, but remember that at this moment, he is my adversary.

“That room, first on the left.”

Jackson retakes control and directs me to a room that looks and feels like any interrogation room you’ve seen in the movies, but slightly smaller. A long table is situated against the wall closest to the entrance, leaving a small area in the corner with a chair. That’s where I sit. Lopez sits at the table, now holding a few pieces of paper he didn’t have when we came in. Jackson sits in the corner across from mine with a small notebook in hand, and I immediately notice the dynamic being reinforced between them. I entertain the possibility that if Jackson looked slightly more distinguished, he might be the one sitting at the table instead of being relegated 16 / VLR

to the duty of note taker in the corner.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“I could probably guess, but I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

“We want to talk about your story.”

“What about it?”

“We found it a bit… disturbing.”

“I think good writing should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comforted.”

“Comfort the disturbed… That’s clever. Don’t you think that’s clever, Jackson?”

“Very clever.”

“We think you might have taken it a bit too far, though.”

“That was kind of the point. It’s satire.”

“That may be the case, but when you start talking about killing students and professors, there’s a problem.”

So that’s why I’m here. And before you ask, no, there was no grand artistic vision behind anything I wrote. I started it the night before it was due and wrote it about the easiest possible thing I could think of.

What, was she going to take points off for unoriginality? My grammar was fine. There’s some black humor here and there, but the satire is lazy, if not non-existent. That’s not the story I’m telling them, of course.

“What’s the problem? Did they lock up Swift for A Modest Proposal?”

“What’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter. So I’m here because you didn’t like my story?”

“You’re here because your story made people feel unsafe. That’s why you’re here.”

I see that Jackson has already filled up half a page worth of notes. I look down and see my leg shaking and when I try to stop it, it shakes faster.

I wonder if he’s writing that down. Lopez has a smug grin on his face and I can’t understand why because I feel like I’ve had the upper hand so far, especially since he didn’t know what A Modest Proposal is, for fuck’s sake.

“I didn’t want to offend anyone.”

“You didn’t see how this might be offensive, in spite of recent events in Oregon? Santa Barbara?”

“Sure, but like, the story doesn’t really exist without those events. I was exploring the mindset of those people.”

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“Do you ever think about hurting other people, Don?” “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“It’s a straightforward question.”

“Sure, but I think if, say, someone was trying to rob me, I might think about hurting them.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you ever think about hurting innocent people?”

“No. Can’t say that I do.”

This is a lie, obviously, but I don’t think anybody in a police station has ever said “yes” to that question. I wouldn’t shoot up a school, though, since at this point it’s completely unoriginal and if you ever find yourself ready to commit morally deplorable acts of violence, it’s important not to be trite. I’ve always wondered if serial killers have the same anxiety of influence that artists have. If you dress up in a clown costume and slash the throat of a neighborhood boy, was your work inspired by Gacy or derivative of him? I’m sure there will come a time in America when you can trademark methods of mass murder. I’d have to say my personal favorite method belongs to Bundy5. Ted, not Al. At the end of the day, I don’t think there’s any use worrying about it, since it’s never a bad idea to wear your influences on your sleeve, especially if you’re just getting started.

“See, Don, I have a hard time believing that based on some of what you wrote.”

“Officer, entertaining a thought is not the same as condoning it.

Why are you trying to stifle creativity?”

“We’re not trying to get in the way of your creativity, but there’s a line to be drawn, and it’s possible to cross it. There’s some very alarming things in here. Jackson, what’s the one you liked?”

“The girl from the dream.”

“Oh yeah, I liked that one too. Just a second.”

Lopez flips through the pages in his hand. I can see that certain portions of the text have been underlined, and he even wrote notes in the margin. Can somebody get this man a professorship, already?

“Oh, here it is. Then, I saw her. The girl with amber eyes. She’d 5If you’re unaware, Ted Bundy was quite the charmer, and one of his most com-

mon methods of obtaining victims was to pretend to be disabled in some way, usually having his arm in a sling or walking around in crutches while carrying a briefcase. He’d ask a woman to help him bring the briefcase to his car and in a shocking twist, they’d end up in the trunk of his car along with it. While it’s totally depraved and fucked up, you have to respect the craft, and isn’t that what this is about, craft?

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been in my dreams for the past few weeks and I knew I had to kill her. I shot her five times, but never in the face. I didn’t want to destroy her beauty; I wanted to subsume it and make it mine. You don’t see how that might upset some people?”

The girl with amber eyes is real, but I don’t think I’ll ever lay a finger on her. She has been appearing in my dreams for a few months, sometimes on the fringe and sometimes as the centerpiece. The first time I dreamt of her felt like months. I remember the first concert we attended. I remember the first time she told me she loved me. I remember waking up, cold and alone. I remember muttering “fuck” under my breath and futilely trying to fall back to sleep so I could re-enter the dream world. I realize that this sounds pathetic, and it might be, but I think it’s a more common occurrence than most people will readily admit, at least common enough for Weezer to have written a song about it6.

“That’s not even about the violence, though.”

“Shooting a girl isn’t about violence?”

“On the surface, yeah. But it’s more about his inability to cope with unrequited love.”

Jackson’s already breezing through his second page. The smug grin hasn’t left Lopez’s face. Every time he begins to ask a question that he is sure will reveal my true psychopathy, he licks the bottom of his lips very slowly, and the corners of his mouth inch up as his eyes go into a slight squint. I can tell how much he’s enjoying this, and I’m not having a terrible time either.

“Well, maybe you can tell us what this one has to do with love.

I entered the library, the .38 tucked in my pocket, and noticed the really politically correct girl from my Russian history class at her laptop. I quietly approached her, pulled the .38 out of my pocket, and splattered her brains all over what I can only assume was some Jezebel or HuffPost article.

Triggered.”

I should probably explain that one. I have nothing against political correctness as a concept. As a society, we should strive to restrict systems of oppression imposed upon historically marginalized groups whenever possible, and there was a point in my life where I would’ve called myself liberal, maybe even a bleeding heart one. But, as a contrarian by nature, I began to reject the identity politics and social justice causes that were becoming trends among my peer group to the point where I held many 6“Only in Dreams”: www.youtube.com/watch?v=4spkVX8z-vs

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views that I would’ve previously lambasted as conservative hatemongering.

Of course, I can’t call myself a conservative because I refuse to be lumped in with that type of religious idiocy and lack of scientific literacy, so as it stands, my current political views are basically a treadmill of needing to believe I’m superior to both sides of the aisle by never actually picking a stance on any issue or believing anything earnestly for 5 minutes before I can find a way to make fun of it. So while I don’t harbor violent feelings toward the more politically sensitive, I wouldn’t mind telling most of them to shut the fuck up and stop complaining about others’ privilege while they sit at an expensive liberal arts college with more wealth and opportunity than 99% of the world’s population.

“Do you get the joke?”

“That’s supposed to be funny? Hey Jackson, what do you think?

Was that funny?”

“A real laugh riot as far as I’m concerned.”

“Looks like we have a comedian on our hands. So you think killing classmates is hilarious, do you?”

“Not by itself, no. But there is such a thing as gallows humor.

You’re telling me that I’m sitting in a police station because we have a different sense of humor?”

“Have you ever heard of Seung-Hui Cho, Don?” “I don’t know. Was he in Seven Samurai?”

“No. He killed over 30 people at Virginia Tech several years ago.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Before he killed those people, he wrote a lot of very violent things, some of them for his classes. Afterwards, some of his classmates felt like they should’ve spoken up, said something to someone. Since then, these types of writings are monitored closely. You may have thought it was a joke, but how do you know your classmates felt the same way? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

For the first time since I’ve been here, I feel like Lopez has made a legitimate point. The smug grin has left his face and he’s looking at me like I’m a human being. Unfortunately, my contempt for authority overrides any appreciation for what he’s said.

“I’m sure he drank water too. So now if I drink water, I’m a murderer. Is that what you’re saying?”

He lets out a disappointed sigh and looks over at Jackson who has assumed the role of grinner. I can see in his eyes that he is relinquishing the 20 / VLR

notion that I’m a maniacal danger to society and coming to terms with the fact that I’m probably just an asshole. I realize that Lopez and I aren’t that different. He doesn’t have his John Dillinger and I don’t have the girl with amber eyes and both of us weren’t exactly where we wanted to be in our lives. We lacked a sort of excitement in our everyday affairs that we weren’t sure was an unattainable fantasy or simply the result of our own personal failings.

“Have you ever seen a therapist, Don?” “No, not really.”

“What do you mean ‘not really’?”

“I had to go to one when my mom died, but I was 9 and I don’t even think they were a therapist. Don’t know what you’d call them, social worker, I think.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine. Why, do I have to go to one?”

“We think it’d be a good idea. You have almost two pages talking about suicide in here.”

“Yeah, I mean, the character is suicidal. It’s fiction.”

“But there’s some pretty graphic detail in here. We don’t think it’s normal to write about it in that much detail unless there’s something personal in there. That’s just our opinion.”

They’re not wrong. Maybe I’m not inventive enough, but I can’t seem to separate myself from anything that I write and I can’t seem to put down the shield of artistic license. It’s far too easy to write something reprehensible and then claim that it was all a part of whatever character I was creating. “I don’t think that way, obviously. It’s just the character.” People can see through that, though, if they’re perceptive enough, and that’s why I’m here. Someone saw that not everything I wrote could simply be chalked up to an imaginative mind. Imagination has to be rooted in reality and if that’s the case, then even if what I wrote was hyperbole, the roots at the bottom of that flower of exaggeration were grotesque enough to warrant concern.

“I can look into it. If you say I have to, then I guess I have to. How long am I going to be here?”

“Look, we’re not going to keep you here all night. We’ve said what we have to say. Just be careful with what you write. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, I’ll try. Like I said, I wasn’t looking to upset people.”

“We’re not saying you were. But from now on, we suggest toning it 21 / VLR

down a bit.”

“I’ll keep the murder to a minimum, if I can.”

“That’s all we’re asking.”

“So am I free to go, or?”

“Yes. We might keep in touch, but you’re fine for now. Jackson, I’ll drive him back. You can stay here.”

“Sure thing.”

I stand up and exit the interrogation room. I see three boxes of pizza and a couple of Krispy Kreme bags sitting on a table that I hadn’t seen when I walked in.

“You want a slice?”

The pizza is cold, but I enjoy this subtle exchange of “fuck you” and marvel at the fact that millions of years of evolution and social programming has made such a tacit gesture possible. I exit the station and make my way towards Lopez’s black SUV, making sure to wait until I hear him unlock it to mess with the handle. The ride home is silent and the radio chatter has died down considerably. This time, he parks right in front of my apartment. I see that as a sign of trust.

“Have a good night.”

“You too, Officer.”

I enter my apartment building standing a bit more upright than usual. When you leave a police station without any charges, regardless of why you were there in the first place, you always feel a slight confidence boost. I step onto the elevator, this time without any fantasies to entertain me for the 20 second ride, and get off on the 8th floor. When I walk into my apartment, I see Ben asleep on our couch. I feel that 8:30 PM is too early to be falling asleep on the couch, but I’m no better. In fact, I’m probably much worse for falling asleep at 6 AM every day.

I go into my bedroom and see a fly on my window, but I’m too lazy to swat it. I fumble around the inside of my desk until I find a small roll of duct tape. I grab the front leg of my bed and pull it forward a good 30°. I pop off the air conditioning vent at the side of my bed and a blast of cool air hits my face. I open up my top drawer and comb through my pile of wrinkled shirts until I reach the bottom. I grab my .38 caliber snubnosed revolver and tape it to the top of the air conditioning vent, in case they come looking.

Jack Mehr 22 / VLR

23 / VLR

We Wait Quietly Seraph sin gold twilight knocking at the back door * Mid-morning showers so forgetful grass marvels at new damp Like her, in the window, not-quite woman who trembles at just the edge of Alexandria Rodgers

24 / VLR

On My Final Night Home from College When I sifted through smoky jazz tones and muffled candlelight to kiss you last night, my cheek grazed a patch of your sagging skin.

So I prayed beneath my breath for more collagen, resisting this itch to pull your leathered skin taut again,

goodbye

Dad.

For now, I’ll trace my thumbs beneath the creases of your cratered eyes, and make-believe that my trembling palms could

to the days when “I’ll see you” just meant in the morning.

Caroline Hockenbury

25 / VLR

stretch us back

‘—and then I could not see to see—’ His skin was stretched tight over those last days and his pain wracked the stillness in the room.

We clung tight to his hands and sighs and charged each grunt with meaning, laughing out dried tears.

We changed the music, though he couldn’t hear: suddenly something heavy loosed, and in the stillness we would swear a weight of light passed through us, through the window, ratt’ling through ears – RUN— to fetch our mother and her mother and they ran back and three generations stood beside to cheer him out, as once he had been celebrated in. We watched life lift, and ears and eyes awake to hear our singing sobs to see and not to see.

Siofra Dromgoole

26 / VLR

Lineage “If I thought it would work, I’d say let’s start in all over again, clean slate, just as though we’d been reborn. But it wouldn’t work. You know it and I know it.” I, executioner.—Ann Petry, “The Narrows” Old creak and groan echoes the stony dark, cold boughs snapped into a permanent frown.

Putting bread on the table until it consumed him, sprinkled his broken bones into an early unmarked grave.

Same dark that carried my father home.

Her thumb split like a spring tomato, plowing a barren soil, praying for rain.

Never enough food to cook, given to her children and the Man who owned the land.

“Eat.” she says, “I’m not hungry.”

Same rain that carried my mother home.

Four girls in curls and nine in ties, the thick woolen heat suffocating the pleated soggy sky.

They block a brilliant blue horizon, “You don’t belong. You don’t belong.”

Same sky that carried my sister home.

27 / VLR

His green beret, caked with blood, came home in a small box on my eighteenth birthday.

“Incidental friendly fire,” they say.

Same day that carried my brother home.

Sticky blue mascara looks up from flat blonde hair, she caresses, pouts, kisses, begs my unforgiving eyes.

“Please, Daddy, please.”

Closed. Out of stock, I tell her, anything to make her shop someone else.

She howls, beating my chest with fists that clench invisible dollars.

I turn away and walk into the whispering dark.

Coming for to carry me home.

Luke Williams

28 / VLR

The Classics Cannot Console For David Foster Wallace At noon he had done nothing all day but read fine poetry. Poetry that felt like living, but was not. Then, after writing a thousand pages on not killing himself, the man wrote a two-page letter to his wife and organized the manuscript he knew would go unfinished. Then he took his life away from everyone else’s, separated it like the farmer who lets the milk sit for a day before skimming the cream, and, tasting the thick excess, calls inside to his wife, who stands already by the open window.

Will Brewbaker

29 / VLR

Earlier You are taking up the whole bed like milk in tea uncurls, then coils anew in sweet bursts, in tiny celebrations Your eyelashes, blackest beetle legs, like bruises are peppering my skin are scattering to the corners when night concedes to baby-blue I pretend to sleep while you pretend to wake (the only time I will ever lie to you) Phoebe Bugay

30 / VLR

Small Deliverance an open window on the bus home permits the last summer wind — its supple skin borderless twilight grey and amber, its warmth undiscerning and sudden. whatever weariness, there is no grief encircled in wind, its trailing touch as if you were its child, first and only.

Madeline Rita

31 / VLR

32 / VLR

Violins at the Vigil Young people gathered, only space left to stand With candles in their palms melting wax on their hands, Holding vestigial lights to give light to the vigil, A heavy black night peppered solely by flames.

At the center on stage four string players stood One head nodded and four bows moved.

Music euthanized silence, choked all voices, stretched Past the rows of climbing benches In the sky-ceilinged theater.

Nameless and anchored by the pressing Of their indented fingers on rusted strings, The violinists closed their eyes to the painting of lights, The field of human, waxing stars.

Yet they played not for themselves but for the mourned and the grieving, With the crowd now the candle in the palm of the quartet, A marionette to the sound, Lost too to the rasps of the strings, Mired in tears when minor chords echoed Or inflated as a body to ascend to the mourned When the violins joined in a clear consonance.

33 / VLR

When the bows left the strings after a dream-state of time The violinists shuddered, walked away shocked, and Released the crowd from the chorus of four violin hums.

Silence lingered back, trailed by a percussion of cracking Orange and brown leaves blown across the grass by a chilled wind, And a soft cymbal crash as the crowd exhaled, To learn they’d been holding their breath.

Aidan Cochrane

34 / VLR

(Over) Five Acts I so fearless first when I looked longed yearned suffered cried bleated of rapture and snarled with jealousy when words failed and syntax failed and each moment grew and swelled and gathered in the next and syntax was useless and we forced the present tense to fold inside the past and grammar was useless pronouns were lost no personal no nothing written only us only how we danced how we danced how we stamped on syntax and tense and grammar bleating of rapture to all around because we were wordless we had stole all the words so fearless first so full of wonder so full so full so full II I am made up now of ten, maybe twenty words: They are all different ways of saying your name.

III for all the hours spent in quiet observation, I could not tell you where your eyes stopped and mouth began IV I dreamt of birds last night of small wings, fluttering (I don’t want to wake up - I do - I cry) so rude how memory thins 37 / VLR

V the sun rose today it rose yesterday and the day before yesterday and the day before the day before yesterday and the day before the day before the day before yesterday and all the days that I have known before that. yet still ‘I believe the sun will rise when I wake tomorrow’ is based on the same logic that ‘I will wake up still in love with you tomorrow’.

So now, each day I wake up waiting for the sun not to rise Siofra Dromgoole

38 / VLR

Remnants Dr. Ryburn was thinking.

“It gets cold in the winter,” he said.

He stood over a cadaver, staring into its gray eyes. As the echo of his words faded into the morgue’s silent corners, he glided his hands over the surface of the body, tracing the outlines of its cold wrinkles. It was an old man.

“Yeah,” a voice replied. “No shit.”

Ryburn turned around. A young man sat on a wooden stool in the corner, his back pressed firmly into the cool, blue walls. A cigarette hung between his fingers.

“Who are you?” Ryburn asked.

“Smith,” the young man said. He raised his eyebrows and took a drag from his cigarette, holding in the smoke before slowly exhaling. “We used to know each other. You called me Smith.”

“Did we?” Ryburn squinted his eyes, trying to draw upon his memories from the past. His mind was completely blank. “I don’t think so.”

“Trust me,” said Smith, chuckling. His blue eyes flared beneath shaggy, brown hair.

“Well, then. Smith it is.”

Ryburn turned away from Smith and fixated once again on the dead body. The edges of the cadaver’s lips were curled slightly upward, locked in a perpetual smile. Ryburn wondered if the old man had died smiling. Does anyone?

“What do you make of this thing, Smith?” he asked, placing an open palm on the old man’s forehead.

“The dead guy? That’s your job.”

Ryburn opened the cadaver’s mouth and stared down its throat. Its tongue was missing.

“Natural causes.”

Smith chuckled and flicked his cigarette onto the floor.

“Let’s go.”

-The hospital was empty. Ryburn and Smith had emerged from the depths of the morgue into a well-lit corridor, lined on either side with identical-looking rooms, silence radiating outward from each doorway. Ryburn’s 39 / VLR

shoes filled the void, emitting soft scuffles every few steps.

As the two men continued to walk down the hallway, Smith pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“You want one?”

Ryburn wondered whether or not he was a smoker.

“What the hell,” he replied, smiling. He pulled one out of the pack and placed it between his lips. “Light me up, Smith.”

Smith chuckled and pulled a lighter out of his pocket. He sparked it up, waving the flame back and forth in front of Ryburn’s face before igniting the edge of the cigarette.

“You know, you’re not supposed to smoke in hospitals.”

“I know,” said Ryburn. “I’m a doctor.”

-The two men walked into a room and sat down on a bed with tight, white sheets. Ryburn leaned back on his elbows, letting the half-burnt cigarette dangle from his lips. He looked out the window and stared into the dense, blinding light, barely making out the outlines of trees in the distance.

“Can I ask you something?” Ryburn said. “’Course.” Smith mumbled, lighting a fresh cigarette.

“How did we know each other?”

Smith closed his eyes, immersed in the satisfaction of his first pull.

After a few seconds, he exhaled, allowing the rays of light to bounce off the thin stream of smoke escaping from his lips.

“We used to hang out,” he said. “When we were kids.”

Ryburn coughed, then swiftly turned his head and locked eyes with Smith.

“I’ve got thirty years on you,” he said with a nervous laugh. “You must be thinking of someone else.”

Smith put his arm around Ryburn’s shoulder. They both turned their heads and stared out the window.

“You haven’t always been this old.”

-Ryburn was lying down on the bed, staring upward at the white ceiling. Smoke leaked out of his mouth, staining the inside of his nostrils and leaking into his eyes. In the corner of the room under the window, Smith sat looking downward, with his legs outstretched and his arms crossed.

“So,” Ryburn called out, letting his words echo off the walls, “why 40 / VLR

are you here?”

Smith looked up and cleared his throat.

“Bad luck,” he said. “What about you?”

“I don’t know.”

-Smith emerged from the bathroom and stretched out his arms.

Ryburn was still lying on the bed with his eyes transfixed on the ceiling. His cigarette had burnt out, but continued to rest between his lips.

“It’s time to go,” Smith said. “And take off that lab coat. You look ridiculous.” He chuckled and walked out into the hallway.

Ryburn slowly sat up, taking one last look out the window before he hopped off the bed. It was still too bright outside; he couldn’t see anything other than the outline of the trees.

Before taking off the lab coat, Ryburn reached into its pockets, searching for anything he didn’t want to leave behind. He found a ballpoint pen in the left pocket and a small sheet of white paper in the right. “Don’t look back,” the paper read.

Ryburn placed the pen and the note in his pants pocket, then he walked out into the hallway, leaving the lab coat strewn across the bed.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Follow me,” Smith replied.

-Ryburn matched his strides with Smith as they climbed up a set of stairs. The two men, still smoking, panted softly as their legs weakened against the force of gravity.

“There’s something about you,” Ryburn said between breaths.

“Something I remember.”

Smith nodded, but he didn’t respond. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his jeans; tiny beads of sweat leaked from his temples. Ryburn ruminated in silence, trying to trace back his memories.

“We were young,” Ryburn said. “Teenagers.”

Smith took a long inhale from his cigarette and then tossed it on the ground.

“We’re here.”

The two men had reached the top of the stairwell. In front of them was a door, labeled in the center with bold, red letters: EXIT TO ROOF Ryburn looked into Smith’s eyes and felt a rush of nervousness 41 / VLR

surge through his chest. He looked down at his hands; they were shaking violently.

“Who are you?” Ryburn asked.

Smith took Ryburn’s hand and clasped it in his own.

“Close your eyes.”

-Two young men were sitting in an alleyway, chatting quietly beneath the veil of a setting afternoon sun.

“Hey Ryburn” one said, unconsciously clenching and re-clenching his left fist, tucking his shaggy brown hair behind his ears with his right. An empty syringe rested on the ground beside him.

“What?” the other replied.

“I never asked you — why do they call you Ryburn, anyway?”

“It’s my last name, stupid,” Ryburn said, clenching his own fist as he took a hit for himself. “Why do they call you Smith?”

Smith’s sharp blue eyes widened.

“The apple,” he replied, smiling. “Granny Smith. Used to be my favorite.”

Ryburn chuckled.

“You know, ‘Granny’ would be way cooler” he said. “Everyone’s name is Smith.”

“Granny,” Smith whispered, looking upward at the evening sky.

The word dissipated quietly into the air; his squinted eyes carved tiny rivers through his temples.

“You alright?” Ryburn asked. Smith was frozen in his upward gaze.

Ryburn waved his hands, trying to catch Smith’s attention.

“Smith, you alright?”

After a few seconds, Smith’s head slumped into his lap, emitting a faint, muffled noise as it fell.

“Hey, man.” No response. “Smith?”

Smith’s face remained glued to his inner thighs.

“Wake up, man. It’s getting late.”

Ryburn tried to reach out and punch Smith’s arm, but his hand only made it halfway before gravity slapped it hand down against his shin.

Fixating on the image before him, Ryburn watched the receding light sweep away the body’s features, painting Smith’s silhouette onto the canvas of rough concrete.

“Smith?”

42 / VLR

Ryburn un-glued himself from the ground, grabbing the end of a ladder above him to hoist himself up.

“I’ll be right back.”

After taking one last look at Smith’s crumpled figure, Ryburn began to walk face-first toward the street, taking slow, careful steps. Don’t look back.

Once he emerged onto the sidewalk, he took off running, pumping his legs as fast as he could.

-Smith locked his eyes with Ryburn and let go of his hand.

Ryburn stood paralyzed, lost in the fleeting scent of memory. After a few seconds, the words finally came to him.

“I need another cigarette.”

Smith smirked and pulled the pack out of his pocket.

“I’m all out.”

Ryburn sighed and sat down against the wall. He placed his hands on his head, trying to quell the pounding in his temples. Smith sat down beside him, then rested his palm on Ryburn’s shoulder.

“I can’t leave with you,” Smith said.

A burning sensation began to sweep across Ryburn’s eyes. He swallowed nervously and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I—” “It’s too late,” Smith said.

Ryburn nodded, then he stood up and walked out the door.

Ryan Gorman

43 / VLR

44 / VLR

body in the bay window my heart hangs from your hands— a lit cigarette dangling dangerously between forefinger and thumb, suspended four stories above the stained streets of madrid. you sip at thick smoke, flick the burning tip, press it lovingly to your lips. do you taste me in the tar of each inhale? listen as my pendulous lungs bump in the dry breeze. you have my soul in cinders.

Caroline Hockenbury

45 / VLR

Fall 2016 © Virginia Literary Review