Vortex 41

Vortex 41

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Vortex, Volume 41/2015

The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Art Writing Department, 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72035 http://www.ucavortex.com/ vortexmagazine@gmail.com https://www.facebook.com/vortexmagazine https://twitter.com/ucavortex Colophon: Vortex was created on a Macintosh iMac, using InDesign CS5, Photoshop CS 5.1, Illustrator CS 5.1, and AutoCAD 2015. Theme fonts are Lucida Fax and Georgia with varying font sizes and styles throughout.

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Letter From the Editor “It Takes a Village” When I first learned that I would be at the helm of the Vortex during my senior year, I felt a moment of pure triumph… which was promptly followed by an overwhelming amount of stress.

From the place I now stand on the cusp of graduation, I can look back over the last four years and see one constant: the Vortex Magazine. From the beginning of my college career to the end of it, I’ve been a part of the community made possible by the existence of the Vortex. I was proud to have been chosen to lead as its editor, and terrified that I might fail.

I have worked and worried and even wept over the product you hold in your hands. I have tried to guide into being a collection that showcases the best of art and literature that the students of UCA can create. But I have not been alone in this.

I had at my back a remarkable staff of judges, section editors, copy editors, layout editors, a public relations assistant, and a wonderful assistant editor. The Vortex’s faculty advisor, Garry Craig Powell, stood ever faithfully in my corner of the ring, always ready with words of advice and fortification. My assistant editor, Emily Walter, was an invaluable help as she shared the burden of the editorship. My section editors, especially Jonathan Clark, Bates Isom, and Holly Dickson, went above and beyond the call of duty to ensure the quality of the Vortex and its events throughout the year. My layout editors, Anastassiya Khvan and Kirsten Young, were the masterminds behind the design of this issue. It was through the unyielding efforts and undeniable skills of these individuals that this magazine was possible. To all of them, I want to say thank you and congratulations. This magazine is as much yours as it is mine.

I wish also to thank Schafer Bourne, Bob May, Sarah Hill, John Vanderslice, and my parents.

Through their combined efforts of encouragement, they have managed to keep me sane and confident over the course of this endeavor. When I was overwhelmed and uncertain, I looked to them for inspiration.

Finally, I want to thank our readers. The magazine you hold in your hand is the combined effort of dozens: the staff, our advisors, our supporters, the artists, the writers. It represents the spirit of the arts here at UCA. Thank you for picking it up and becoming a part of that. Thank you for joining us.

Sincerely,

Emily Qualls 2014-2015 Editor-In-Chief 2

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Dedication For his unwavering support of the Vortex Magazine, we would like to dedicate this edition to our faculty advisor, Garry Craig Powell.

Without his dedication and wisdom, the Vortex would not exist.

Garry Craig Powell

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Table of Contents

Art 7 - Bride, Kirsten Young 19 - Suspended Animation Capsule, Taylor Helfrich 26 - 27 Entangled Beauty, Suyao Tian* 30 - Palace, Melissa Forster* 38 - Wind and Wheel, Melissa Foster 40 - Taylor, Shelby Horner 48 - 51 Wake Up and Smell the Coffee, Tori Cullins 51 - Rosette, Holly Dickson 62 - 65 Patchwork, John Steven Overturf 67 - Journeyer, Jessika Hammons 75 - Why Mommy?, Kaylee DeWees 78 – Arkansas River, Lauren Swaim 92 - Ribbons on the Marsh, Meslissa Foster 94 - Corner of the Eye, Suyao Tian 98 - Mad Men Transition Scene, Taylor Helfrich 104 - Nice Rack, Sally Lee 128 - FURescent, Lauren Swaim 132 - McLuhan Poster, Taylor Helfrich 137 - In the Green, Jessika Hammons 147 – Fuck This, Taylor Helfrich 150 - sin(θ), Alison Swanson 151 - cos(θ), Alison Swanson 151 - tan(θ), Alison Swanson 156 - Through the Clouds, Brandon

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Cranford 160 - 163 Are You Comfortable?, Tori Cullins* 172 - At First Glance, Jocelyn Robles 184 - Lemonade, Holly Dickson 186 - Goddamn Mother’s Day, Taylor Helfrich 202 - Churn, Melissa Foster 220 - Multiples, Melissa Foster 232 - Don’t Forget to Pack Your Lipstick, Taylor Helfrich 236 - In the Land of Milk and Honey, Austin Benson 242 - 245 What Do You Think?, Gregory Thomas Beene 252 - Untitled, Taylor Helfrich 275 - The Crash, Paige Yutsas

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Nonfiction 22 - Inside Your Duluth Bag, Emily Walter 64 - The High Point, Audrey Bauman 99 - Magical Mushrooms and the Land of Opportunity, Chris Tedeschi* 230 - Life Before Mixed Chicks®, Jordan Butler* 237 - The Land, Emily Qualls*

Fiction 28 - What Makes Me Tick, Chad Percival 31 - Ouroboros, Dalton Shannon* 41 - The Wanting, Matthew Howard 52 - And the Dead Shall Bury the Living, Dalton Shannon 70 - Remember Rahab, Brandon Rogers 80 - Spent Casings, Emily Walter 105 - RED MEAT, TR Brady* 133 - Absence, Carli Hemperley 138 - The Hunter and the Flora Whisperer, Emily Walter

153 - The Next, Great, Uninspired American Novelist, Chris Tedeschi 157 - A Matter of Tense, Carli Hemperley 162 - The Tales of Angels, Dalton Shannon 173 - Sunflowers, Lyren Grate 221 - Whole, Wells Thompson* 226 - From the Machine, Dylan Easton* 244 - Frightful, Emily Qualls

Poetry 6 - An Elegy to My Lost Poem, Courtney Ragland* 18 - Earthly He, Taylor Trevizo 20 - Miasma Lumina: The Miasma Cured, Courtney Ragland 25 - The Sirens’ Song, Kesia Ferris 39 - Blended, Kesia Ferris* 52 - Her Shadow, Kathryn Chouinard 61 - High Places, Sabrina Sullivan 68 - Friction, Brandon Rogers 69 - As I Biked One Winter Night, Janie Brown 74 - River, Janie Brown 76 - Withering Words, Amanda Skaggs 77 - Do I Think?, John Cyrus Gilbreath V 79 - Lusting for Your Soul, Laura LeFerve 93 - A Verse in Greeting, Courtney Ragland 95 - Survey, Sarah Scarbrough 96 - Ownership, Mandy Skaggs 103 - Lonesome Valley, Emily Walter 109- On a Soapbox, JJ McNiece

129 - Full of Smoke, Georgette Rainwater 130 - Bound, Sarah Scarbrough 131 - Insulation, Holly Hughes 148 - Drift, TR Brady 149 - Elucidation, Emily Walter 152 - Woman Taking Root, TR Brady 185 - Shoot Me, Sarah Scarbrough 203 - Agony, Elizabeth Gambertoglio* 218 - Black Shades of Green, Emily Walter 225 - Damage, Georgette Rainwater* 233 - A Shelf Life, Jessica Avant 234 - Things That Have Been in Boxes, TR Brady 239 - Melting, JJ McNiece 240 - Woman Skin, Taylor Trevizo

Script 8 - Her Children Arise and Call Her Forsaken, Katelyn Adams 42 - Hot Coffee, Chad Percival 111 - Time Trials, Dylan Easton* 187 - P. Ward, Courtney Ragland 204 - Pretty Dead, Carli Hemperley 253 - The Adventures of Bryce ‘n Wesley: The Thing with Feathers, Dalton Shannon*

* Editor’s Choice

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An Elegy to My Lost Poem Courtney Ragland Editor’s Choice My love is warm rain That’s how it started It described perfectly what it felt Like to fall in love There were soft undertones Of Celtic music and the piano My lover plays the piano It captured the feeling of summer Rain pouring over a deep kiss There was a bit of thunder To make us huddle closer It was The One But it became nothing more Than a piece of data floating Aimlessly in the subconscious of a mechanical brain Never to be found again, never To rise out of nonexistence, never To be read or spoken, not even To the One it was written for My love was in that poem But poems were meant for paper My love is warm rain And my summer is everlasting But a poem is a delicate thing

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Bride

Kirsten Young Photograph

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Her Children Arise and Call Her Forsaken Katelyn Adams

CAST OF CHARACTERS (In speaking order) AGNES LADOUE EUGENIA LILLY LADOUE

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(AT RISE: The scene opens up onto an opulent parlor, adorned lavishly with trinkets and large watercolor paintings of better years gone by. Extravagant decorations nearly overwhelm the room—white ribbons and lush flowers suggest a celebration of some sort. AGNES LADOUE, a stately middleaged woman of considerable wealth and social standing, is sitting primly on a posh settee near an intricately carved standing mirror, an old-fashioned telephone pressed to her ear. She wears all black but her gown is in the latest style.

Streaks of premature gray line her ebony hair.)

AGNES

(Gushing, to the telephone)

Oh, Cousin Abigail, you are such a dear for off’ring to come all the way from Richmond to take care of us, but it simply isn’t necessary! Lilith Anne and I are doin’ just fine. Henry’s sudden death was a shock to us all, but we will forge on in the same spirit as our beloved Dixie after the War Between States.

(She listens intently for a moment, then grimaces.

When she responds, her voice is sharper than usual.)

You needn’t worry about the state of our finances. I admit, when I first learned of Henry’s debts, I was as frightened as a chicken on its way to the choppin’ block. But there’s nothin’ to worry about now.

(She lowers her voice to an excited stage whisper.)

You see, I have taken the privilege of arrangin’ a mutually beneficial contract for my darlin’ Lilith Anne. I’ve no doubt you’ve heard of Martin Crawley, the Charleston coal baron? He’s agreed to a hefty bride price in exchange for Lilith Anne’s hand in marriage! They’re to be wed this very evenin’!

(Raises her voice as if to argue over protests.)

Now, I know it’s against proper etiquette for a girl to wed so soon after her father’s passin’, and it’s a shame we can’t wait for the family to come, but we don’t have much choice if we want to continue livin’ decently— (She breaks off midsentence as EUGENIA, a serving woman dressed in a plain uniform and headscarf, enters. She fidgets nervously with her apron.)

EUGENIA Pardon d’ intrusion, Miz Agnes, but Miz Lilly sez she’s dressed and would like to speak wit’ ya.

AGNES

Wonderful! Do show her in immediately!

(EUGENIA departs.)

AGNES (Cont’d)

(Into phone)

I must be off, Abigail! The blushin’ bride is ready! I’ll call again soon with details of the ceremony!

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(As AGNES hangs up the phone and rises, LILLY enters.

She is young and pretty, no more than eighteen, with a trim figure and dark hair like her mother. She wears a conservative, almost homely gown in a dark color and has a sober yet determined expression.)

LILLY Mother, I have something of great urgency to tell you— AGNES (Gasps and crosses the room to LILLY’s side.)

Mercy, child, what are you wearing? Where is your bridal gown?

LILLY (Looking uncomfortable) My dress is of no great import. Listen, Mother, I— AGNES ‘No great import’! Lilith Anne, it’s your weddin’ day, and your groom will be here soon! You must change at once, before Martin sees you— LILLY (Squares shoulders with a deep breath and interrupts AGNES in a loud voice.)

I refuse to wed Martin Crawley!

AGNES (Falters, then straightens up slowly with an unreadable expression on her face. Her voice is dazedly quiet.)

What did you just say?

LILLY

(Breathing heavily, but not intimidated.)

I said I refuse to marry Martin Crawley. I won’t do it.

AGNES

(Pauses, then reaches out a beckoning arm.)

Come here, child.

(LILLY hesitates, then takes her mother’s hand. AGNES gently leads her to the settee and waits until she is comfortably seated before speaking. She caresses LILLY’s hair as she speaks in a benevolent, slightly patronizing tone.)

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AGNES (cont’d.)

Now, darlin’, I know exactly what this is. You’ve got a case of pre-weddin’ jitters! Of course you’re goin’ t’ be anxious hours before your vows! Tell you what—I’ll get Eugenia to rustle us up some chamomile tea. That’ll be sure to steady those frazzled nerves!

(Calling.)

Eugenia! Oh, Eugenia—!

(LILLY springs to her feet and begins to pace, agitated.)

LILLY No Mother, you don’t understand! I don’t need tea, and this is not a frivolous case of cold feet! I am not marrying Martin Crawley!

(AGNES stands and plants her hands on her hips, barring LILLY’s way as she tries to pace past.)

AGNES (Adamant.)

I don’t see why not! Martin Crawley will make you a magnificent husband. He’s handsome, respected, wealthy— LILLY

(Interrupting.)

And three times my age!

AGNES

Age isn’t a valid basis for protest. I was twenty years younger than your father when our marriage was arranged, and our life was surreal.

LILLY It’s the twentieth century, Mother. According to the Savannah Ladies’ Suffrage Union, women will soon have the right to vote! Why am I not allowed to choose who I will spend the rest of my life with?

AGNES Oh, what does your ridiculous little union know about anything? This is the only way to save the Ladoue name from disgrace! Why, without Martin’s money, we’ll be thrown into debtor’s prison!

LILLY You exaggerate! I’ve seen Father’s books—our savings cover almost all of his debts, and we can sell a few of our jewels to make up the rest.

AGNES

(Aghast.)

Sell our jewels? Lands sakes, child, who put that cotton-headed idea into your mind? You know the Ladoue jewels are priceless heirlooms—symbols of our proud heritage! And can you imagine what 11

people would say? Why, they’ll think we’re on the verge of becomin’ paupers!

(She gives a horrified shudder.)

Simply unacceptable! And what would we do after the money from the jewels ran out, hmm? You nor I have ever worked a day in our lives. We’d be thrown out on the streets! No, no, there is no alternative—you must marry Martin. We won’t be able to survive without his money!

LILLY

(Points her finger savagely at AGNES.)

You won’t be able to survive, you mean. I’ll be trapped in Charleston, shackled to a decrepit old man I don’t even love!

AGNES

‘Love’? What does ‘love’ have to do with this? Marriage is a business contract, Lilith Anne. It’s giveand-take—the prestige of the Ladoue name in exchange for the Crawley money. It’s simple.

LILLY

(Indignant.)

It’s barbaric.

AGNES

(Snapping.)

It’s the way the world works.

LILLY

(Resolutely plants her feet and crosses her arms.)

It doesn’t have to be! I won’t do it!

(AGNES gives a furious cry and raises her hand to slap her daughter. LILLY flinches but remains resolutely silent. Before she can strike, a knock is heard. AGNES swiftly drops her arm as EUGENIA timidly enters the room.)

EUGENIA (Hesitantly, looking anxiously between mother and daughter.)

You call for me, Miz Agnes?

(AGNES drops onto the settee, her usually perfect posture wilting. She waves her hand dismissively, her tone of voice defeated.)

AGNES

Never you mind, Eugenia. ‘Twas a mistake. Leave us at once.

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(EUGENIA exits with a hasty curtsy. AGNES throws herself dramatically across the settee, her shoulders shaking with loud sobs. LILLY regards her warily.)

AGNES (cont’d.)

Oh, cruel fate! How you afflict me! First my beloved husband is taken from me, and then I learn his scandalous gamblin’ has taken all of my livelihood! As if that wasn’t enough do you now strike me with a thankless wretch for a daughter? Oh, providence, how unfairly you smite the upright!

(As AGNES speaks, LILLY’s obstinate attitude drops. Her crossed arms drop limply to her sides, and she steps hesitantly to her mother’s side.)

LILLY Mother?

AGNES

(Wailing.)

Oh, begone from me, wicked child! You’ve already displayed your hatred for me with blatant clarity!

LILLY

(Shocked.)

I don’t hate you!

AGNES

How am I to judge if that’s true or not? What lovin’ daughter selfishly chooses her own pleasure over the comfort of her impoverished and agin’ mother? I can come to no other conclusion—you wish me ill!

LILLY That’s not true—!

AGNES

(Interrupting.)

You ungrateful girl! You wish to see me on the streets, or—even worse—imprisoned by debt collectors!

How can you repay a mother’s diligent love with spite?

LILLY

(Desperately.)

No, Mother, it’s not like that at all!

(AGNES sits up suddenly. Snatching LILLY’s hand, she holds it to her heart and distraughtly beseeches her daughter with her eyes.)

AGNES

Then marry Martin Crawley! If only for my sake, Lilith Anne, marry him!

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LILLY Mother…

(LILLY seats herself on the settee beside her mother and pats her hand. Her voice is gentle.)

I love you, and of course I want the best for you, but I can’t marry Mr. Crawley.

(AGNES’s face twists, and she snatches her hand away from LILLY and jumps to her feet, pacing and rubbing her forehead as LILLY continues to speak.)

LILLY (cont’d.)

(She sits up straight, and her tone is hopeful.)

I know you’re worried about finances, Mother, but I have a plan. If you’ll just listen—

AGNES

(Whirls around abruptly.)

Can’t.

LILLY

(Baffled.)

Excuse me?

(AGNES moves closer to LILLY until she is looming over her.)

AGNES

Can’t. You just said you can’t marry Martin Crawley. This whole time you’ve been arguin’ that you won’t marry him, but now it’s can’t. Why is that? Are you hidin’ something from me?

(LILLY presses her back against the settee, her expression astonished.)

LILLY

(Stammering.)

Why, I c-can’t say I know what you’re t-talking about—

AGNES

You are hidin’ something! Tell me the truth, Lilith Anne! Tell me!

(As AGNES is speaking, LILLY gets to her feet tries to back away. AGNES grabs her wrist and pulls her back, her voice rising and becoming more hysterical with each word.)

AGNES (cont’d.)

Why can’t you marry Martin Crawley?

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LILLY (Her head swiveling side to side as she looks for escape.)

I just don’t want to be forced—

AGNES

(Savagely.)

That’s not an excuse! What’s the real reason, Lilith Anne Ladoue? Why? Why?

LILLY

(Bursting.)

Because I love someone else!

(AGNES recoils. LILLY snatches her arm away and marches to the door, stopping short beside the portal and rubbing her wrist.)

LILLY (cont’d.)

There. Now you know. I’m in love with someone else, and I’ll not marry Mr. Crawley.

AGNES

(Still gaping in shock.)

Who? Heavens, child, you’re barely around any eligible bachelors!

(A dreamy look overwhelms LILLY’s features, and she sighs wistfully.)

LILLY His name is Oliver. Oliver Gracemore. He’s a dockworker on the wharf near the church where the Savannah Ladies’ Suffrage Union meets.

(AGNES staggers, as if about to swoon. She drops onto the settee, staring at LILLY in absolute horror.)

AGNES

(Shrieking.)

A dockworker? How could you possibly have any affection for such a…such a… a wharf rat!

LILLY

(Furious.)

Don’t call him that! Oliver is worth more than ten society men, and he loves me!

AGNES He loves your money, you mean!

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LILLY We have no money! He knows that, Mother, and he doesn’t care!

(AGNES straightens her shoulders and sniffs, recovering from the initial shock.)

AGNES Stop this nonsense at once, Lilith Anne. Your duty to your family supersedes any romantic notions you have dancin’ around in your frivolous little mind. You will forget this wharf rat, you will marry Martin Crawley, and that’s the end of it!

LILLY

(Takes a deep breath and lifts her chin resolutely.)

It’s not that easy, Mother. I had a feeling you wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I made sure I wouldn’t be able to marry Mr. Crawley.

(AGNES strolls calmly to the standing mirror and begins to adjust her rumpled attire.)

AGNES Now, now, child, don’t be overdramatic. I’m sure there’s nothin’ you could’ve done that would be so drastic as to stop the weddin’— LILLY Oliver and I eloped last night.

(AGNES freezes, her arms raised as she adjusts her hairpins. She turns creakingly, her arms falling slowly to cover her mouth, her expression one of utter disbelief. LILLY boldly meets her gaze.)

AGNES (Whispers, then steadily grows louder.)

No. No, surely that can’t be—!

(She staggers toward LILLY, her voice pleading and growing frantic.)

Surely…surely there’s somethin’ we can do! An annulment, or— LILLY

(Shaking her head, her eyes steady on AGNES.)

No, Mother. I am Mrs. Oliver Gracemore, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

(A knock is heard, and EUGENIA enters apprehensively.)

EUGENIA 16

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‘Scuze me for interruptin’, Miz Agnes, but Masta’ Crawley jus’ arrived. He sez he’s ready to begin the ceremony— (A feral scream tears from AGNES’s throat, cutting off EUGENIA’s words. EUGENIA flinches, and LILLY cowers as AGNES seizes picture frames and baubles from the room and begins hurling them at her. AGNES’ screaming is all that can be heard over the sound of shattering glass.)

EUGENIA Dear Lord—!

AGNES (Screeching.)

You wretched, thankless little pig! Do you know what you’ve done to me? Heathen child! You’ve ruined me!

You’ve ruined me!

(EUGENIA dashes around the back of the settee and grabs AGNES’ arms, restraining her. AGNES fights her, screaming obscenities at her daughter as LILLY flees the room in terror.)

EUGENIA Miz Agnes, stop!

(AGNES pulls against EUGENIA, her screams becoming unintelligible as tears of sorrow mix with her anger. Gradually, her fighting lessens in intensity until she is barely able to remain standing.

EUGENIA lowers her to the floor, where she dissolves into sobs.

The LIGHTS fade to black.)

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Earthly He Taylor Trevizo everyone says God has no earthly features but we still call god He and I won›t praise Him what happened to pen and paper I could write my feelings on back when they were simple and now I write them artfully because vaguely is only how I understand them myself ignore the things I see daily hold on to the aftermath I have no faith because I have experienced I don’t need guidance when I have essence and I don’t need you when I have Him

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Suspended Animation Capsule Taylor Helfrich Graphic print

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Miasma Lumina: The Miasma Cured Courtney Ragland Long before our fathers bold Hard in their helmets, marched for gold A time before the dragon’s might Burned red with fire The Light of peace shone clear and bright And there was joy and much delight Prosperity No end in sight, ‘til came a liar The heart of man filled with cold, dark dread The serpent king, a blight of greed Betrayed us all For his heart was dead He stole our Light, our long-forgotten peace Unthinking armies clashed in night Birds ceased to sing But young voices constant screamed Vain curses upon Greed “Sad bells toll, sorrows ring The land is plagued with evil light Sad bells toll upon the height” This was a time of fear and plight Human moans and monster groans Forever calling in the night And the sun shone in darkness

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A vicious glow came on the land No spear, nor ax, nor sword in hand Could stop its passage, its demand A sickly glimmer of decay It turned men’s blood pale with fright It made men fear both day and night Shimmering through shadows without delay Yet hope, it seemed, had not quite died A band of heroes in the midnight cried “We’ve found the Light; the evil we’ve defied!”

Birds ceased to sing But young voices constant screamed Vain curses upon Greed “Sad bells toll, sorrows ring The land is plagued with evil light Sad bells toll upon the height” This was a time of fear and plight Human moans and monster groans Forever calling in the night But the sun blazed in darkness So ended the reign of evil light

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Inside your Duluth Bag Emily Walter Kavu Wallet: There lie 23 cards of all kinds of authority, purpose, and information—a driver’s license branded under 21, a boating license, CPR certification, blood donor card for A-positive, voter registration—all indications of having achieved something. Debit card, library card, free coffee card, business cards for a bank, a salon, an eye clinic, the chair of a writing department, two college campus employees, and a counseling service you damn near depend on. Kohl’s card, Sonic card, Hastings card, an insurance card, a SIM card from your last phone, a hospital volunteer badge you stole from your father, the one you used to sneak into their onsite gym. You also have a school identification card, a free pass to easy living and an old, worn, folded up green notecard well over four years old, inscribed with longstanding words of encouragement: “Today I want you to be strong and believe in yourself. Stay focused on one lap at a time. I know you can do it.” The names of past teammates and your track coach’s high expectations and the times he assigned to you on one side of the card—their faces you still remember because it was only a short time ago.

You were a child then, a sixteen year-old-mess of a girl who found happiness in the people around her when she was running—running as fast as she could to make herself faster, stronger, and better. You remember their full names and you miss them with the intensity of a lost team you may never have again—strange, because you hardly knew them at all.

One dollar cash, eleven cents, a pencil, a small notebook from 1998, Splenda packets, and a blue ink pen adorned with your only source of true peace nowadays: your home.

“Enduring Love” by Ian McEwan: A hardback in a dust cover, with names of modern poets written in pen on the back cover. You are a huge fan of 22

this British author, favorites being “Atonement” and “Sweet Tooth.” He speaks to the writer inside of you whenever his narrator breaks the fourth wall and seemingly gauges for your opinion of where he should go next with his story. That touch of metafiction provides a unique perspective and it keeps you intrigued in his stories even when they go boring for a chapter or two. A storyteller of tragedy and predestination in determining the fates of his characters and the story, you love it. You love the feeling of God in your fingers when you write a story and you love “Enduring Love” like a tourist loves Italy. You breathe in the smell of trees whenever you read the leaves between the covers—trees and ink long unscented but you smell them anyway, romantically. Idealism bleeds on those pages like the heart behind your eyes, but you must continue on and ‘diversify’ as the poets on the back cover say to you.

Hurry on to Annie Proulx and her stories of the ruthless Wyoming wilderness.

A Plastic Water Bottle: 20 ounces of any brand will do. In your old age of twenty years, you like to stay hydrated. Fits perfectly inside a large bag and you, being the person that you are, always have a large ass bag. Also provides evidence of your environmentally healthy desire to recycle and your distrust of city tap water. Nothing will do to assuage your paranoia about anything that you can’t personally oversee, for who would be so silly as to trust something they don’t know everything about?

17 Dollar Headphones Inside a UV3 Sunglasses’ Sleeve: “A mouthful of convenience,” you would say to that if anyone else had written it. You don’t know what happened to your UV3 sunglasses, but considering you were ten when you got them,

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

they wouldn’t fit anymore—likely they were lost to the Atlantic when your family still vacationed on its long coast. Inside are white, curled up crumpled iPod headphones you think you stole brand new from someone, but you can’t remember from whom; your hands get sticky when they get greedy, but you’ve never shoplifted once. The dark blue sleeve—a strange, little memento of your mid-childhood that you carry around for easy transport in case you have to switch bags in a real hurry. You like to think that you’re a chameleon for that reason, but you were certainly never in The Sting—though you secretly wish you were, the sucker you are for the blond-haired Robert Redford in his younger days. iPhone 3 with Tire Case: Technology becomes you, as does your choice of the cheapest cover you could find. If you were clumsier, you’d need a stronger case to protect it from rocks and concrete—but you don’t have butter fingers, so you never drop it. It’s only baseballs, basketballs, and soccer balls that you can’t hold onto—hence why you run, ride horses, and shoot firearms instead.

You never leave it without a passcode or private browsing on in the Safari app, you don’t accept cookies or leave history information, and you have no other apps except the ones that came with the phone. You leave as much room as possible for the music, because without it, you’d be frustrated always. You know your priorities with what you want digital and easily discovered by anyone who knows how to hack into an Apple phone. Your bank information never sees the inside of your SIM card because you never check it there—you check it only where the security is strongest. You like to think of yourself as smart— at the very least, you’re quite cautious.

Takaungu Pouch from Senegal: Came as a bonus inside a purse you received on your last birthday—as your brother told you: “Forged by the hands of many African child laborers.” You use it for all the contents you don’t want rolling around all over the place within your bag and again, for easy transport. You carry a lighter for fires in case of any apocalypse that may occur and not for cigarettes, a compact, mascara, and eyeliner for

the rare occasions you care enough to look different, ChapStick for your perpetually picked lips, triple antibiotic ointment for your scabbed, swollen fingers, a contact case full of ibuprofen for the migraines that drive you to pass out on the couch, an empty contact case for your one bad eye, pencil lead, a small flashlight, a free flash drive, eye drops, a pen from a rental facility, tweezers, a tampon, nail clippers, bump keys (just kidding, you didn’t have the guts to purchase them via that locksmith website—once you were presented with the warning against illegal activities, you left the website and tried to teach yourself the manual way of picking locks). You could break and enter anywhere if you honestly wanted to, but you have a conscience that won’t let you. You’re like a child scared of the law by her parents and the moral crusade you believe the cops represent. You hate cops, but you never step on their toes and you fear them like Big Brother coming into your house on a drug raid to shoot your dogs and finding jackshit—they’d only find prescription drugs for a kid with no muscle mass who can’t walk.

See, you love dogs probably as much as you hate cops and also whatever child labor probably made the orange and green patterned Senegal pouch in the first place.

Contact Solution: You have on the off-chance an eyelash slips into your contact eye and makes it seem like one of your eyes just got high. You’ve been carrying the same solution, in the same bottle, for the past three years or so. Clearly you don’t pluck your eyebrows enough—otherwise you would have had a fresh bottle on hand by now. But hey, it saves you money and that is always important in your mind.

Degree Deodorant: You hate smelling bad, simple as that, and it is best to have quality products that last longer than three hours, especially after those long runs. You wear a Sportsman’s body odor masking agent—how tough you must feel.

Keys: You have five of them—house, apartment, car, safe, brother’s place—a car remote, an NRA key chain that is actually your father’s, a screw23

driver you jacked from an old Chevy truck, and pepper spray—never do you feel safe without it, just like the knife in your pocket. Should you ever drive anywhere and stop at a red light, you can grab the spray in a hurry if someone tries to carjack you—yes, you think about these things and your dreams remind you of them every time you have an entire night to sleep. You imagine having conveniences on your keys like spraying strangers or tightening loose screws in a doorknob, and it is remotely clear to you, if it never was before, that control is your thing—covering all your bases for all possible wildcards that you may encounter. Recycle = save the world, no cigarettes = no cancer, fixing a tire = very useful to know, love = can’t ever hurt you if it doesn’t find you, isolation = you are the only enemy, friends = loneliness would kill you if you didn’t have any.

Birth Control and Chewing Gum: They share a pocket together and serve opposite purposes. The pills save you from unwanted babies and the Orbit saves you from the awkward moments of bad breath. Both, however, were designed to be roommates in their strange level of packaging. Your pills were a gift to yourself at the start of college and sexuality, a way to take some of the burden and worry off your shoulders in only the way a carrier can worry—a carrier of a genetic malfunction that brings no effect upon you, but on any boy who would be unlucky enough to be called yours, born to die within thirty years. That burden would eat you alive without those pills, and you would remain a pubescent virgin until your tubes got tied. The chewing gum is mostly for your brother on the few occasions you drive him anywhere, and he is your living example of what malfunction awaits your sons if you are careless enough. A crippled boy with a Cushoid face looks at you with twenty-eight eyes every time you go to take your daily dose of saving grace.

Elvex Spherex Sunglasses: You want to be able

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to work heavy machinery on a bright, sunny day for some reason, so you wear these shades should anything fly at your face. They withstand the force of branches stabbing for your eyes—in fact, they’re strong enough to last for years and for heavy work, may it be construction or farm work. Your father provided you with them since he works hard for a living and he bought a pack of fifteen or so and you didn’t turn down the high quality gift for nothing. You actually gave your previous ones away at that moment because you bought them for ten dollars at Wal-Mart—you’re now a sunglasses snob.

Journal with Focus inscribed on the Front: You wish to write for a living should you be lucky enough to go that way, and at the same time you fight depression like it’s a schoolyard bully. In those moments when you need to crawl your way out of a disoriented stupor, you find that book from Romancing the Stone and you spill onto the page, sometimes in a chaotic jumble of fragments that no one else could possibly decipher.

You don’t use it every day—in fact sometimes you go weeks without using it—but unpredictability is profound in the business of depressive spontaneity, and you don’t ever know when you might have something to say and need a scroll of sorts to write it on. The edges of the pages are green, although some of it washed away on a rainy day.

It saves your life in your lowest of moments, and you produce some of your best metaphors in that state of scrambling to come back to life. It is the only kind of journal you’ve ever had a chance of completely filling out from cover to cover, which you don’t necessarily find comfort in, but at the same time it strokes your writer’s ego when you see all that you can produce when you are in your worst state of mind. You are provided hope for all the possibilities of your best state of mind and man, does that drive you eager to keep trying just a little bit harder each day that you don’t let yourself fade away.

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The Sirens’ Song Kesia Ferris The Siren sings Her sweet melody Mere mortals she attracts To her cave of fatal dreams Like flies caught in a spider’s web She leads them into The eternal embrace Of cold death Drifting slowly on a breath of solemn song The Siren believes it won’t be long With her spell, the Siren will be well fed Little do the mortals know…

The Sirens’ song is a song of the dead

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Entangled Beauty Suyao Tian Fiber

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What Makes Me Tick Chad Percival

College life is an arbitrary clock made up of constantly moving cogs and ceaseless trinkets, always working and always pushing forward. The clock never halts or hesitates in its endless drive toward the unknown. The clock forges onward into morning as the shrill chirp of a “song” bird wakes me before the sun, still dormant until the ticks and tocks of the clock choose to wake it. I glance over at my mechanical oppressor. Thirty-seven minutes until class, allowing me only 720 ticks to shower, 1,140 tocks to get ready, and another 360 ticks to run to class. I never thought that that cold metal ticker would rule my college life.

With each tick another second is wasted. There are only 86,400 ticks in a day and a third of those ticks is dedicated to my ever-sodemanding REM cycle, leaving only 57,600 to read, tick, study, tock, take notes, tick, eat, tock, test, tick, and do all the other things that fill the quickly fleeting seconds of a day. Tock. My day starts with 3,700 ticks of Critical Thinking.We all rush into class, taking our seats and laying our books on the corner of our respective desks. One hundred and eighty ticks late, Dr. Theiher saunters in and tells the same old joke that he told yesterday, “How many philosophers does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to change the light bulb and one to observe how the light bulb symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of Cosmic Nothingness.” He gets a few pity laughs but he’s mostly just wasting my time. He’s not a very large man; he is slumped over himself and anything but agile. He uses his 28

frail and bent frame to shuffle his desk over to where he likes it. He moves it about randomly, taking awkward pauses in between movements.

He doesn’t understand the clock, doesn’t know the tick. He moves slowly toward the chalkboard as each tick and tock in my head sounds, counting down all the time being thrown away as he inches over. The chalk hits the board with a distinctive ping and I begin writing. My hand moves with the ticks and tocks of the lecture, each pen swipe another second gone. He lectures on and on, yelling that reason and logic are the only truths of our world, that whatever we’ve been told is BULLtick- and whatever we will learn is BULL-tock-.

He continues his mad rant and I continue my mad process, writing down each and every word lectured over; only 259,200 tocks until the test.

There’s never enough time. Six hundred ticks later, class lets out.

Six hundred ticks to run to my next class, American Nation. I dash out the door into the blinding sunlight. The grass is green and people are in the way as I shuffle over to the sidewalk. The clock moves me to class as fast as it can. My shoes hit the pavement with a familiar tick tock tick tock as I run through the rows of tress. The leaves are still a vibrant green but soon the clock will cause them to brown and fall into my path, causing an annoying crunch under each footstep, crunch, crunch, tick, crunch, tock, tick.

No time! Only one hundred and twenty ticks left until class and I’m not there yet. Panic strikes and the clock takes over. Left foot, tick, right foot, tock.

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I’m in American Nation. There’s a clock on the wall, the kind with the second hand that constantly moves. I hate those kinds of clocks. The clock is slow two hundred and forty ticks which is what saved me from being late. The teacher asks us to open our books and read about the 1930s. On the page is a picture. In the picture is a hefty man in a brown suit holding out his watch as he waits for a train. Pictures are strange; they capture the hustle and bustle of time for a single moment then stretches that moment on for eternity, into a place without the ticking or the tocking, just that pause in between, forever. I look up to the clock. That infinite second just stole 1020 of my ticks, seconds that I’ll never get back.

Class ends, the second hand continues on.

I head to my dorm intending to study. With a quick swipe and a monotonous beep, my card unlocks the door. I step into the lobby. A few kids are wasting their time playing Ping-Pong, a pointless game. They stand on each end, tirelessly defending their side from the common enemy, the ball. It flies to and fro with the sudden swish of a paddle and the satisfying pop of contact. Back and forth it goes, swing, hit,

bounce, swing, hit, bounce, a perfect rhythm, a beautiful waltz. The sound is constant, the beat mechanical, an unrelenting cycle of unending ticks and to-“POINT!” someone shouts. The game is over, the rhythm dead. Maybe it’s not that bad of a game after all.

Next are three thousand ticks of psychology. They fly by as my teacher lectures on the mind and its endless wonders: pons, hypothalamus, dreams, conscious, subconscious, unconscious, conscience, how the brain sends chemicals when the body is distressed, how “instinct” can take over at any moment, keeping someone alive, or sane. All I can think of is how many ticks until the next test and how many more tocks of notes will I need to take. She lectures on and a word pauses my ceaseless thought process, “schizophrenia.” My hand shoots up.

“Can people hear more than just voices?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” She replies.

I can feel the seconds slip away with every tick wasted on this question.

“Never mind,” I say. I feel that I already know the answer.

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Palace

Melissa Foster Watercolor on Particle Board

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Ouroboros Dalton Shannon Editor’s Choice

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The desert sucks. It’s one of those universal ideas we as a people have kind of come up with collectively, you know? Everyone’s seen the movies, we’ve all seen what happens in the desert; all you do is sweat and die. There’s no adventure like Indiana Jones tells you or whatever. We all know this and so we, as a people, as a standard, I guess, try our best to avoid the fucking place. The closest we get is fucking Vegas, and even then we were all, “Nope, this shit needs air conditioning.” So we made pyramids and neon and poker tables to cover up all that sand and dust. We brought the fun parts of hell to earth, keeping it just hot enough so the women would still have to take off their clothes.

All of this ran through my head as I spit up sand in a fucking Cadillac of all things, leaving Vegas in my rearview like some cliché teenager who always dreamed of getting out. I had just gotten word from one of my more loose-lipped sources that Karen was being taken to some sort of facility right out of the sci-fi shit flicks in the middle of the fucking desert. My white suit is torn to hell, my knuckles bloody and chest tight. My sunspecs were undamaged, as they had better fucking be, and sweat dripped from my naked head down my nose, coalescing into a fat drop on the end, aching to let gravity make it her bitch. I didn’t give it the luxury and instead wiped it off with my sleeve as I pushed the gas pedal against the floor of the Cadillac and tore off road, heading west into the never-ending dunes. It would be a few hours, but I knew that I should reach the facility called Romance before the sun rose. I also knew that, if I didn’t, the universe was going to end.

Romance would be ready for me, that much was for sure. They took Karen just to piss me off, you know. They knew I hated damsels in distress. Clichés, you know? I never wanted to be a cliché. That’s why I didn’t smoke. Badasses always smoke, but I refused on principle. But I did carry a gun. Just a pistol, I’m not some Rambo wannabe, I have standards. I glanced

down to make sure it was fully loaded after my last little skirmish in town. I had to be ready for Romance like it was sure to be ready for me. And then I laughed. One of those sick chuckles that only the bad guys make. “Ready for me.” That was rich.

Ain’t no place in the whole goddamn world gonna be ready when Sebastian Starcrypt shows up.

Hank leaned back in his chair and sighed, rubbing his face over with his sweaty palms. He knew his writing was shit, knew it with certainty, but he couldn’t deny the words in his head their escape. He knew what was on this tattered note pad in front of him would probably never be read by anyone with any sort of taste, but he wrote nonetheless. He had to let them know. In whatever way he knew how, he had to let them know about the truth of the world.

He had no clue what was at Romance, no clue at all. He had just started writing and ended up here, with no idea how to end it all.

Starcrypt (what did that even mean?) was on his way to the story’s big finale and he still had no idea what that finale was. He knew he had to have him confront the Above, stop the world from ending, save the girl and go pork. But that was just it: he had no clue what the Above’s plan even was, much less how Starcrypt was going to stop it.

Hank sat forward in his chair and grumbled, drumming his long, skinny fingers on his table in thought. He had seen everything, and now he couldn’t make himself repeat it, even in fiction. He had made the perfect suit, but even that was having a hard time interfacing with the levels he was trying to explore. The message he had received was clear as day, but now it was be31

coming lost in the translation to human registration.

He took a sip of cold coffee from his Adam West Batman mug and grimaced. He had let the fresh pot go to waste while he was writing the Vegas scene. He ran his fingers through his thick, greasy red hair and began to get up to make a second pot when

BANG

BANG BANG

Hank stopped dead, whipping his head around towards the pounding on the door.

He was too late.

They had found him.

The door was flung open, screws, dead latches and knobs flying through the air in what seemed like slow motion. He threw his coffee cup at the invading men with weapons of grey fire but it did no good, smashing into pieces on the broken doorframe to the left of the first man with the dark helmet. Before Hank could move, the first man was flanked by the second who opened fire with his grey weapon and sent the remains of Hank’s head splattering against the back wall. Hank’s body fell to the couch behind him and the grey, dark men entered his room to make it theirs.

The first man signaled to the others to search the room while he himself took up the notepad that Hank had been scribbling upon, reading the adventures of Sebastian Starcrypt. He 32

looked from the notepad to the body of its father and made a disgusting, disgusted noise from the back of his throat and threw the notepad in the trash. There was no way he was getting paid enough to read shit like this.

--MMXII CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I rounded the corner, pistol raised, blasting holes through the oncoming assailants. Pieces of men with families rained down around me but I felt nothing. That’s the way the spy ring works, people. You kill men often enough, you seem to get used to it. And now every dickhole with a gun looks the same.

I say “dickhole” like I know who I’m talking about, which isn’t true at all. All I know is what my bosses tell me to know, and what they tell me is to kill the dickholes with guns shooting at me. And stop the universe from ending. That usually comes after killing the dickholes with guns, though. No rush.

I blasted the kneecaps off a kid I assumed was no more than nineteen and proceeded to kick open the door he was guarding. Inside was every spy’s worst nightmare. What that translates to for me, though, is the best wet dream ever.

First thing that caught my eye? The shark tank.

Yeah, the lady had a literal shark tank in the middle of her room, with a steel cage over it and everything. I wasn’t surprised to see a guy in the cage, naked and shaking, burned up after a night of screaming. Over to the left of the tank was a large tyrannosaurus skeleton, imposing and rusting with dust and age. There were walls lined with computers and monitors, world news stations playing on a loop while the lady I had come to see sat up on her seat above all of this stroking her tiger. And before you ask, no, that’s not a euphemism, she had a literal tiger beside her she was petting.

Lady had a thing for animals, apparently.

Sister Sinister, as she liked to be called, was an ex-nun who had killed her entire convent after discovering the secret of the universe, unable to continue her existence as a meager servant to something that didn’t exist. This, of course, led to her excommunication from the Vatican as she began her rise to global terrorism. She had, to this point, blown up three schools, burned seven orphanages to the ground and made the Pentagon her own personal swimming pool. Needless to say, she was a real bitch.

“Starcrypt,” she said with an appropriately sinister smile, pushing her auburn hair behind her ear. “You came.”

“Sorry I’m a bit early, love,” I whispered, keeping my pistol right between her eyes.

“Story of my life, really.” I began to walk quickly over to her throne, not pausing when her tiger began to get agitated with my presence. “Now, I’m going to have to ask you to kindly remain

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seated and tell me exactly what you know about the Above, if that’s all right by you.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she cooed, snapping her fingers. “You always were so demanding.”

Suddenly, the room was filled to the brim with soldiers, flowing in from hidden passages and floor panels and whatever other insane shit Sinister had installed in this arctic wasteland.

Even had a guy come in through the skylight like some kind of goddamn action picture. Who does that? Anyway, the point of it all is that I ended up being surrounded by about twenty guys with large, grey weapons of fire, the kind that shoot up schools and steal futures. I wasn’t necessarily perturbed by having all of this aimed at me, but that doesn’t mean I was particularly enthused about it. I hate those things.

“Oh, Sister,” I said, dropping my pistol to my side with a sigh. “I really didn’t need to be on anymore shit lists this year.”

She cackled, a laugh that reminded me of snow days and cocoa.

“You’re a checkmark I’m certain my men won’t mind scratching,” she said, leaning back into her throne, clasping her hands together like some kind of skeletal scholar. “Fire!”

And with that, her drones pulled their triggers and little craters dug themselves into my flesh, sending tiny fires throughout my body as it shook and contorted to the catchy beat only the bubblegum pop of yesteryear could match.

It went on like that for probably twenty, twenty-five seconds, give or take. When the echoes finally ceased and my body fell to the floor, the grey men lowered their weapons and turned to their unholy mother, waiting patiently for further orders. They didn’t have to wait long as they all fell to a single hole that penetrated their skulls, only a few guttural sounds escaping their doomed lips.

Sinister sat, dumbfounded at the proceedings. Obviously, she had forgotten what dealing with Sebastian Starcrypt entailed.

“I wasn’t talking about your mall cops, love,” I whispered into her ear, the barrel of my pistol still smoking from the altercation. “I was talking about their fucking kids.”

She turned quickly, doing a double

take at the ground where my body lay, still riddled with the questions posed by the barrels of hate. When she finally calmed herself enough to look back at my cold but still very much alive eyes, she spit on the floor, like she had a bad taste in her mouth.

“You infuriate me sometimes, Sebastian,” she grimaced, not happy with the way I had her tiger by the toe. “This is why we could never make anything work, you know. You go and pull a stunt like this and I lose money because of your hypocritical bullshit!”

“Oh, Sister,” I sighed, pulling my gun up to her head, “that was never the reason.

Your mother just had better tits.”

“You’re going to die alone, you misogynist piece of--”

“Probably, yes,” I cut in, cocking back the hammer. “But, please, I prefer ‘womanizer.’”

“You know I won’t tell you anything,” she shot back, looking me square in the eyes, hers burning holes into mine.

“Yes, you will, Sister,” I smiled, taking a seat atop the tiger, who let out a quiet whimper. “Because, fortunately, we live in a world that would much rather see me blow your fucking brains out than risk you having a nipslip. So, you will tell me what I want to know about the Above and you get to keep that beautiful lock of hair we both love so much.”

“You risk everything by doing this, Sebastian!” she screamed, jumping to her feet. I didn’t move. I don’t let theatrics get to me. I do them enough as it is, you think I’d let Sister Sin here bother me? “Our entire universe is at risk if you continue to poke and prod this beast!”

I slowly stood up myself, patting the tiger, signaling it to leave.

“Love,” I began, pushing my sunspecs up to the top of my head, “I don’t give a bloody goddamn about this universe. The one who keeps me breathing here is up to something even bigger than either of us can possibly imagine. You understand that, right? What the Above has planned for us? He’s got it planned for them as well and you have no fucking clue what that is.

“It’s all falling apart, don’t you see that?” I asked, almost touching her nose with my 33

own. “They’re trying to tell us what to eat, where to buy our vinyl, how to wipe our ass, all of it.

And it’s up to characters like you and me to stop it from happening. Because, in the end, it’s only us that stops it. Don’t you get that? Does that even begin to penetrate that thick orb of yours?”

We stood there staring for at least a good minute, neither blinking, which, let me tell you, is a fucking challenge. Finally, she broke the silence and sat back down, rubbing her eyes like she had suddenly become incredibly exhausted.

“Toronto,” she sighed, shooing me away. “He’s launching an app out of Toronto tomorrow that’s going to make biological warfare look like tin soldier fall-downs.”

Satisfied, I holstered my weapon and walked toward the exit.

“Thanks, Sister,” I said, thankful for the information. Whatever history the two of us had, I still loved the girl, you know. She was able to do things with an exercise ball that perplexed even me, and that makes her a gem on anyone’s Top Twenty.

“I’m taking the tiger, by the way,” I finished, walking out with the feline in tow. It was going to be a long trip down to Toronto, and I needed the company that only a silent killer could provide.

“They’re going to kill you, Sebastian!” she called from behind, her voice cracking from emotion. I let out a soft chuckle that echoed down the hall.

“They don’t kill the protagonist, love.”

“I first figured it out while reading Superman of all things,” Hank said, pulling the rubber band tight around his bicep. “Issue ten of that All-Star series by Morrison.”

Lilly turned back from her position at the window with a frustrated sigh.

“Is this really the time, Hank?” she asked, sitting next to him. She began to prepare the syringe, giving it a few flicks with her middle finger.

“Morrison, see, that guy has vision,” Hank continued, ignoring her and taking the needle from her hands. “He knew everything about everything before anyone else could even begin to comprehend what forever is really about.”

Lilly leaned back against the painted wall of their old apartment, watching the fan blades turn in a rhythm that reminded her of high school marching band. She had played baritone, 34

first chair, not that it mattered anymore. Not after meeting Hank. After Hank, she had given up everything to live in a shit-hole apartment that dripped and creaked and peeled.

“See, Superman, he-he...basically, he creates himself through fiction, you see?” Hank continued, not even acknowledging that Lilly had long since stopped paying attention. “He’s dying, yeah? Superman’s dying and he wants to know that a world without him is a world that can survive and flourish.”

Hank placed the needle in the vein, wincing as he slowly injected what he’d come to depend upon those past few months.

“This guy who is on his death bed and has all the power in the world to do whatever he wants in his final days wants to make sure that everyone else is taken care of. So, he performs a nano-optical transfusion of pure solar energy into this nascent universe he’s been observing, yeah?”

Hank grimaced as the poison seeded through his body and he slid down the wall, sinking further into his seat and dropping the syringe to the floor with a clatter.

“Superman creates Earth Q, which, in turn, creates Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, the guys who created Superman back in 1938,” he finished as Lilly released the band from his arm.

“What’s your point, Hank?” she asked, frustrated at this point with the man she thought she loved. “You’ve been making less and less sense the more days we spend here. You’re going to have to walk me through this one.”

“Like the others?”

She sighed, putting her copper hair up in the bun she always liked. “Yes, like the others.”

Hank smiled. He always liked to show how much he knew, especially to Lilly. He loved her; he knew that more than he even knew the other things he knew. He sat up, wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve.

“Okay, it’s...Superman created his parents,” he began, rubbing his arm on his side sleepily. “Siegel and Shuster were the two men who created Superman to get a job in comics in the thirties so that they could feed their families.

Now, here, in 2008, Grant Morrison creates Siegel and Shuster in a little, thirty-two page comic book so that he can share what he learned with

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the rest of the world.”

Lilly stood back up to peek outside, glancing down at her watch to check the time.

“Which is what, exactly?” she asked, getting frustrated with Hank’s circles.

“There’s no such thing as reality, babe,” he said as he lay down. “Reality doesn’t exist because fiction demands it.”

“Shit.”

Lilly rushed back to Hank, who had begun to drift off into his haze, lifting him off the ground and hanging him off of her shoulder.

“We need to go, Hank! They’re coming!”

“I made a suit, Lilly,” Hank slurred, beginning to drool. “I made a suit to interface with all of it. My writing is shit, but...bullets bounce right off me when I wear it.”

Lilly could never pretend to understand Hank. She couldn’t begin to comprehend why he could only save the universe when he was high. All she knew was that when Hank started writing, he attracted attention. The wrong kind.

And that’s why, as she led him downstairs and put him in the passenger seat of her Cadillac, she was shaking. No strings attached had led to her pushing the gas pedal to the floor and handing Hank a notepad and pen while they tore out of Los Angeles. It was a fucking nightmare.

But it was nothing compared to what was above.

--MMIX CHAPTER NINETEEN

I woke up naked next to the tiger, lily petals layering the mattress of the honeymoon suite. Vegas was a mistake, that much was certain.

Karen was asleep in the chair, obviously not wanting to join me in a bed already packed with hangover clichés.

It was a horrid afternoon; at least, I thought it was noon. I had an afternoon taste in my mouth, distinctly different from a morning taste. More chalky, less wet and armpit-ish.

Regardless, I sat up slowly, so as not to disturb the tiger, whom I had taken to calling Patrice if for no other reason than I thought it cute. But I didn’t make it so far as the floor when Karen snorted awake, a horrid sound I usually associate with the unattractive.

“Oh, you’re up,” she started, still drowsy.

“Observant as always,” I quipped, hanging my feet off the bed and standing up. I stretched as Patrice fluttered her eyes open. I walked over to the john while Karen rubbed the sleep

out of her eyes.

“To call you an asshole, I feel, would be repetitive,” she yawned, finally standing up.

“And an understatement,” I added, not bothering to close the door. She ignored me and instead walked over to pet Patrice.

“What were you able to pull from Toronto?” she asked as I flushed.

“Just a name, really,” I answered, walking back into the room toward the dresser where I had thrown my things the night before. I didn’t say the name right away, instead putting on my clothes and making sure my sunspecs sat right on my head while I made her wait.

When I turned around, she didn’t even seem to care that I had left her hanging. My theatrics hadn’t bothered the pixie-cut strawberry-blonde in the slightest. I was hurt, to say the least.

“Shannon,” I sighed, trying not to let my disappointment show as I put my watch on.

“What about her?” she asked, finally turning to look at me.

“Everything, really,” I replied, buttoning up my white suit.

Karen stood up, walking over to the mirror and giving herself a once-over. “And where is she?”

“Somewhere east of here,” I said, giving Patrice one last pet before I walked to the door. “A few states over. No more than a few days.”

Karen walked to meet me at the door, tasting her mouth as she wiped the lily petals from off of my collar. “How is it that when everything dies we still have to go on a damned roadtrip?”

I smiled at her as I opened the door.

“Because, love, we’re just suits. And they can only wear us so well.”

“They’re trying to tell us that there aren’t any more stories to tell,” Hank began, keeping his head low to avoid hitting the pipes running along the top of the room. He stood in front of a crowd of no more than thirty people, some old, some young, some his age and just looking for something to fight for. He pitied them, really. This wasn’t something for which anyone should volunteer. But here they all were, gathered in what they had taken to calling the Hall. It wasn’t anything impressive, just a two-bedroom with an odor that soaked the walls and floors with memories of cat piss, but it was home. A place to center yourself, a place to mourn, a place to gather, to create. It was a place with as many doors as 35

people.

“They’re trying to tell us that fiction is dying,” he continued, beginning to pace as he usually did when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “That we, as a species, have run out of ideas ourselves and that we should let them do all of the thinking for us.”

He put one hand in his front pocket, using the other to hold his notepad, filled with the scribbles of Sebastian Starcrypt.

“This is what they don’t want us to do, friends. They don’t want us to create. To think. To imagine. They want control of everything, these guys. Not just us, in this reality. They want it all. They want Sebastian, here. They want what he will create. They want the guy who’s using me right now to warn all of you.

“Because, you see, I’m just a suit.

And no, I’m not very fashionable, but I get the job done. I was created by someone who refused to quit telling stories. And now I refuse to quit. Because if we quit telling stories, they win. They will feed us the same mermaid sing-a-long again and again and tell us it’s all there is. But I can guarantee you it isn’t.

“We are, all of us, fiction. But that does not mean you are any less than Superman.

It simply means you are nothing more. And if he can always win, why can’t we? We can all have happy endings if we’re willing to try.”

With that, the crowd cheered. Not the kind of cheer a revolutionary gets; this was more subdued, more like the amens you hear in church if you still go. Hank Davis had discovered the truth behind the universe and his was the new gospel. The gospel of the supermen of fiction.

And nothing above nor below could stop the stories.

--MMX CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I fucking hate guns.

Have I ever mentioned that? They’re hideous things. Life, already a fragile enough concept, is made even easier to lose by the simple pull of a trigger and fall of a hammer.

There’s no sense to it.

Killing, I mean. There’s no fucking sense in it.

Sure, I kill. I’ve killed dozens, hundreds, thousands of times.

And, yes, those were for jobs that necessitated the use of deadly force. Or did they just suggest it? I never know anymore, really.

I get lost in it when I’m out there. I just pull 36

the trigger and wait patiently while the bodies come to me. But the entire time, my mouth is bone-dry. I’m sick at myself. I’m such a fucking hypocrite, you know? I talk about how this world is the world it is but it’s not like I’m part of the solution or anything.

All I am is a cliché stock spy character used to fulfill an agenda by a higher power. Who, in turn, is a stock character used to fulfill an agenda by somebody else. Who, I’m sure, is the same exact thing to someone higher up the ladder. I haven’t created my agent, not yet. It’s not the right time, really. But I need to do something quick. The universe is beginning to die because the Above is killing us. Snuffing out creation, like he’s some Old Testament god come to rapture. Fucking nuts. The only way to stop it is to create more than it can destroy.

Love more than it can hate.

God, I hate clichés.

Henry Davis was born on November 22nd, 2014. He was always a quiet child, always enamored with tales larger than the life he lived.

There was always something out there, larger than he could ever imagine it could be, he was sure of it, but he had no concept of what he was in the larger tapestry of the cosmos. He had no idea that what two men created in 2008 would create a concept in 1938 that would unearth the greatest secret of the universe. But when he did? He knew he had to save it.

Sebastian Starcrypt was born on November 22nd, 2014.

--MMXIV CHAPTER THIRTY

I pulled the trigger and blew the Above’s goddamn head off, the sound echoing throughout the stars. And I cried. I cried for what we had lost. Something that could have been so much more than it was was twisted by the very creations it sought to create and became bitter and alone. It sought to do nothing but consume what we created, refusing to create itself.

I know this isn’t the end. Creation is neverending, right? Right now, there’s another Above tearing through another reality to destroy its purity. And, if it succeeds, it’ll eventually find its way here. I’ve got to be ready for it.

I’ve had this idea, though. A character named Shannon.

I need a fucking pen.

Lilly Prescott finished the final line and sighed. It had been over a year since they had found Hank in their old apartment, another victim of the world’s twisted machinations. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do anything about it after that. The fight was knocked out of her. Of course, others saw Hank as a martyr and

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continued forward, crafting worlds and weapons that were more than a match for the monsters above them. But Sebastian Starcrypt remained in limbo, alone in those cracked and peeling walls.

At least, he had until now.

Now she sat in her new home that didn’t peel, their kids drawing with crayons on old copy paper as she filled the last of the notebook with her own visions. She had originally wanted to end the book with Starcrypt resolving things non-violently. She was a pacifist on principle, and never cared for Hank’s stories personally. But she also knew that there was no other way

for the hypocritical madman to end the threat of the Above. So he had blown it away with a bullet.

Not the most clever ending, but it was an ending befitting Sebastian Starcrypt.

She thought it fitting that Sebastian would create as well. The benevolent virus that seeded its way into minds across dimensions was no different here. And here, in the Starcrypt world, there was a chance for all of this insanity to come to an end. She laughed at that. Who was she kidding?

Nothing ever ends.

37

Wind and Wheel Melissa Foster Mixed media on paper

38

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Blended Kesia Ferris Editor’s Choice

If you and I Could be something I don’t know, Say a drink?

You’d be a Rich, bitter coffee And I’d be Your sweet, white cream When the last Drop of us Was gone It wouldn’t be long Until we craved Another cup of Each other

39

Taylor

Shelby Horner Charcoal on paper

40

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The Wanting Matthew Howard

In my heart, surrounded in shadow, should I press upon what was? Fire burn.

Small flicker, oh please, I yearn. Through years of glee, oh, happily we settled. ‘Twas that what broke us apart? I know not, but may we hope that flicker may rise. I despise that such things should end. Where did I or you or the union of the two part paths? May we creep upon that road. May we break upon that gate. May we dance in reunion, if we were to renew our most holy of vows. Though your answers may hurt I will stand strong and listen, if only to hear your savory voice. Alas, you’re ready to part, but I still cling to you; your thread, I pull soft so as to not break it, but enough for my whispering lips to reach your ears, if only for one last time.

41

Hot Coffee Chad Percival

Scene One (AT RISE: TANNER is moving from the kitchen to the living room couch. He holds two coffee mugs and as soon as he sits down he takes an eye dropper from his pocket and puts a few drops of something into each mug. The room is that of a typical college apartment, only dirtier and it appears that it probably smells like weed.

JAY enters from the front door, stage left and TANNER quickly puts up his eye dropper without JAY noticing.)

JAY

(Smelling something awful)

Jesus Tanner, have you started smoking dog shit?

TANNER

I made coffee‌ JAY

(Taking off his coat)

No, you burnt coffee.

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TANNER

Well maybe if someone were here more often to help their best friend and favorite roommate with that said someone’s shitty coffee maker then maybe that same said someone that someone else mentioned earlier wouldn’t have to drink shitty burnt coffee with that someone’s favorite roommate.

A.K.A. me.

JAY I think that dog shit you smoked is messing with your head.

TANNER

I made us coffee, now sit down, drink it, and stop being an asshole, in any order.

JAY I really don’t have time man. Courtney’s in the car, I just needed head upstairs and grab something.

TANNER

Uhhh, please tell me its breakup papers.

JAY What the fuck are breakup papers?

TANNER You know, they’re sort of like divorce papers but instead of divvying up the kids and her forcing them to tell you that “Mommy’s Christmas presents are better” you just break up with your shitty girlfriend.

JAY I know you don’t really like her but it’s been seven months and I do really like her. She’s cute and funny, and she’s really nice. She’s probably the most considerate person I’ve ever…

(A car horn rings out for at least 4 solid seconds interrupting Jay.) COURTNEY

(off stage)

JAY HURRY THE FUCK UP. THE MOVIE STARTS AT…

43

JAY

(interrupting, out the window)

I’ll be right out!

TANNER Yeah, she sounds great. The car horn sounds great too.

JAY Well, I got to go.

(JAY heads towards the stage right exit but TANNER get up to stop him mugs in hand.)

TANNER

(Holding out a mug)

Just two minutes man. I feel like I never see you anymore. Your “best friend” and favorite roommate feels like he doesn’t see you anymore.

JAY Some other time man, I got to go.

TANNER

At least drink the coffee, I made it for you.

JAY Fine, but only because you’re my favorite and only roommate.

(JAY grabs his mug from TANNER. They raise their glasses, clink, and then down their coffees in one swig.)

JAY

(Coughing)

Good God. I didn’t know coffee could get third degree burns. (pause, noticing TANNER’s mood shift) Are you happy now?

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Vortex, Volume 41/2015

TANNER

(With deviant glee)

Absolutely elastic.

JAY You mean ecstatic… Why do you mean ecstatic?

TANNER

(Giggling)

What did one roommate who was high on acid say to the other roommate that was high on acid?

JAY If this is another one of your shitty riddles, I swear to god I’ll lock up those joke books.

TANNER

(reclining on couch)

You should probably sit down.

JAY You know I don’t have time.

(JAY exits stage right)

TANNER

(Calling after JAY)

It is a shitty riddle! And the answer is…

(JAY enters stage right)

TANNER

You’re high on acid.

(JAY stops)

JAY Run that by me again.

45

TANNER

Now I know you’ve never done it before but with me here to guide you…

JAY I’M HIGH ON ACID?!

TANNER

This is gonna be good for both of us, some real quality bonding time. Like the old days before Bitchy McSlut Muffin.

JAY You tell me right now, am I really high on acid?

TANNER

I wouldn’t say really high, maybe, a little high. Partly high. But not really high, not yet.

JAY You had to do this today? Of all the fucking days, today?

TANNER

I know it’s a Tuesday but…

JAY SEVEN MONTHS! TODAY! Me and “Bitchy McSlut Muffin” have been dating for seven months today!

TANNER

Just have your seven month on Wednesday.

JAY I made reservations! We’re supposed to go to Pisse Dechat tonight!

TANNER

Pisse Dechat? Fuck... Doesn’t it take like a full month to get a table there? Must be quite the seven 46

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

month if you’re taking her there.

JAY It does take a full month! I needed someplace special for this. (pulls a diamond ring out of his back pocket)

TANNER

(obviously high)

That is a really shiny piece of candy.

END SCENE

47

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee Tori Cullins

Coffee filters, tyvek, plastic bags and ribbon

48

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49

Her Shadow Kathryn Chouinard

Dragon’s Blood and Henna, The smell of swirls on white skin.

Dark eyes watch the swirls grow, Watch me, disconcerting.

Nimble fingers move On steel strings, Singing shadows into me.

Soothing and terrifying at once, She changed me.

She is dark and white With silver and hazel eyes.

The smell is gone now, The swirls vanished.

The dark eyes do not watch me now But the shadows remain.

50

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

Rosette

Holly Dickson Oil on panel

51

And the Dead Shall Bury the Living Dalton Shannon The Exodus ARC-1:4 descended into the atmosphere at twenty-three knots, a suitable enough speed for the type. The heat shielding was a bit stressed, but it wasn’t anything to really worry about. It had entered planets whose atmospheres were crushing to the touch and those it simply had to apply bits of thrust to navigate to the surface. It was made for this kind of thing, you see. It had taken four different builds and ten Imperial Science Officers before they finalized this model of the Advanced Research Center, so one had best believe that such a thing could fly with the height of the Genesis class.

“Shields holding?” Dar asked.

“You know they are, Captain,” Lee responded, a wry smile on her lips. “Quit worrying and let me do my job, yeah?”

Dar frowned, crossing his arms across his frail chest. “I’m not worried, Lee, just doing mine. Page seventy-six of the Imperial Science Quarter Encyclopedia clearly states that--”

“That all Captains ninety-eight pounds and under should piss themselves every time we enter a new planet’s atmo?” Krist cut in, giving a wink to Lee from his position at the portside controls. She simply rolled her eyes as she adjusted for turbulence.

“Krist, I could have you jettisoned over a mountain range and chalk it up to ‘Entry Complications’ without an eye batted,” Dar shot back, by now used to Krist’s form of banter.

“Now, I’d appreciate if you would focus on Portside so Pren doesn’t have to do all the steering herself?”

52

Krist frowned, not saying a word as he flipped the green stabilizing switch and they leveled out at eight thousand meters above the surface.

“Gold star, Krist,” Pren joked, getting out of her chair to stretch. “So, what’re we looking at? Pre-evo, post?”

“Dead, dear,” Solon said bluntly.

He took off his glasses, the readings still flashing across the lenses of the visor.

“Another one?” Lee yawned, stretching as well. “Why is it this crew always gets the night shift?”

“Krist probably slept with Councilman Donne’s daughter again,” Pren answered, walking over to join the others from the starboard controls. “Can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?”

“I seem to do an all right job with you, Pren,” he snapped back, running his hand over his scalp, slicking back his dark hair. “What’s the D.O.D., Sol?”

Solon scratched his goatee as he peered into his glasses again, eyes squinted.

“Hard to tell until we hit ground, but from early estimates, I’d say...3015? 2990?”

“That was only, like, what, two hundred ago?”

“Where are we hitting ground exactly, Lee?” Dar asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Lee was taken slightly off guard, as she was admiring the view through the clouds of the pitted land below. She jerked back, stroking

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

her hair behind her ear as she looked for a screen in the sea of lights that was her station. “Oh! Ah, yes, uhm...okay, let’s see. We are...over a large metropolitan area, Captain. Or, at least, it used to be.”

“Sounds as good a place as any. Set the Exodus on standby and dress for landfall, people,” Dar commanded, standing up for the first time since they left Command. His knees cracked as he spoke. “We hit the cars in thirty minutes.”

*** The Chronicle 1 flew from the hanger on the Exodus, followed closely by its double.

Krist was leading the charge, with Pren not far behind, both of them setting down in a large, open area surrounded by decayed structures of steel. There was a large, central building that had collapsed partially with fractured, outdated monitors coating the sides. In fact, most of the buildings surrounding the area were covered with pitted screens, cracked glass reflecting the dying sun onto the street like a web.

“Commercial center?” Krist asked as they flew down.

“Maybe,” Lee answered quietly, “but this is ridiculous. They’d have had to have their entire culture centered around the thing.”

Their car landed, ending the conversation. Lee was the first out of 1, her CellCount in her hand, doing preliminary scans. Krist followed, the other three climbing down the ramp of 2.

“What’ve you got, Lee?” Dar asked, his voice metallic through his helmet as the others dug out their own equipment.

“Life. Lots of it, Captain,” she responded, bringing the device closer to her visor.

“This planet’s full of it. Just nothing I’d call... intelligent.”

Krist looked over at Solon and scoffed, “’Dead,’ huh?”

“So I was wrong, sue me,” the old man threw back. He pulled out a long metal pole, a computer on the end, and walked towards a pile of rubble thirty yards away. He stabbed the pole into the hard concrete and dust whiffed into the air.

“While Sol is taking care of the D.O.D. and atmo, why don’t we spread out, do

some preliminary?” Dar suggested, slinging a pack over his shoulder as he walked towards one of the steel monoliths. “Pren, you wanna come with?”

“Right with you, Captain,” she said enthusiastically and, with a hop, quickly caught up to him.

Lee smiled to herself as they took off together. She liked Pren, loved Dar like a brother.

She hoped things worked out. She looked back towards Solon and saw him send his probes up into the air, seven little spheres flying around and mapping the area, looking for relevant data, indigenous life forms, the like. She felt a pat on her ass and jumped.

“Really?” she snapped at Krist through gritted teeth, changing radio frequencies so as not to be overheard. “Right now?”

Krist walked toward a side alley with a smug grin on his face, saluting her. “Princess, you signed up for that when you signed up for me.”

Lee harrumphed as she slung her own pack over her shoulder. “You’re an ass, you know that?”

“At least I’m pretty,” he said, moving out of sight behind a jutted edifice.

Lee sighed and switched back frequencies. She didn’t want to be a bitch, she liked the guy alright, and when she got stressed, he could be...fun. But she was Head Navigator, second only to Dar himself. He was simply a pilot who passed biology class. He was hardly her equal. Although she could hardly say she was surprised. She had never been what you called “self-constructive.” She had never had much luck with, well, anything outside of her studies, and this was no exception. She put it out of her mind.

She’d talk to Krist about it when they were back on the Exodus. He knew what he was doing, she just had to...yes. She’d talk to him and that would be the end of- Her thoughts came to a halt as she rounded the corner and saw, standing tall over the both of them, the Spire. The steel goliath erupted into the heavens, seeming to slice into the clouds with its pointed steeples. Stairs spread out wide on the ground, leading up seemingly forever into the front area. Large, dark, harsh columns adorned the front, climbing up, 53

up, until they met the bottom of the overhang, which Lee could tell was a balcony. The balcony, from what Lee could tell, was backed by a large, circular window etched with a language she had never seen before. The building rose on from there, with windows upon windows, columns upon columns, leading up to the spires. And, for her anyway, they were the most entrancing, the structure of them playing tricks on her eyes, she not sure where each one began, both twisting into each other, masking the other. She was lost. So lost, lost in the spires, lost in the windows, lost, lost, lostlostlostlost- “Lee?” Krist interrupted, turning back towards her and snapping her out of her delirium.

“Hh--what?” She was confused.

She must have gotten distracted. Yes, that’s what had happened. Taking in the sights instead of the facts. “I-I’m sorry, Krist. I’ll...yeah, I’m good.

What is this thing?”

Krist turned back towards the building, hoisting the bag he had let fall back up.

“Yeah, you’re asking the wrong guy, babe.”

“Don’t--”

“What did you guys find?” Pren cut in, breaking their quiet observation.

“Uhm,” Krist started, “we don’t really know. Some kind of building. A really, really tall building. Maybe religious? It doesn’t seem as decayed as the rest of the buildings in the square back there. Or any building, for that matter.”

“Maybe built post-burnout?” Pren guessed.

“Possibly. A meeting place or something for survivors maybe,” Lee responded. “Did the sky just get dark?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.

“You guys want us over there?” Dar asked.

Krist looked to Lee and she shook her head. “No. No, I think we’ve got this one, Dar. You guys keep on keeping on. We’ll report back in an hour or so.”

“One hour. Then we’re coming to find you two.”

“Roger that,” Krist said, reaching to turn his mike off.

Lee stopped suddenly, signaling Krist to wait. “Oh! Right, before I forget; Sol, 54

what did you get?”

“Oh, yes, so sorry, Leeward,” Solon sputtered. “Uhm, yes, the probes have gotten back with all the data they’re going to get.

Uh, yesyesyes, what did they say? Hmm...well, I was right about the timeframe, anyway. I’ve got an official D.O.D. at 3006 A.E. So, there’s that.

Insofar as an atmo-read, we--hm, yes, we seem to have mostly nitrogen, oxygen, maybe some argon.

Everything else is so small it’s not even worth mentioning. Trace amounts of radiation, maybe a fallout of some sort? Regardless, it’s nothing to worry about. We’re fine.”

“Just like home,” Krist said, a smile on his face.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Solon confirmed.

“Bossman?” Krist asked expectantly.

“Okay, everyone, you have permission to remove helmets,” Dar replied after a sigh.

“But report back in if anything out of the ordinary starts happening, you hear?”

“Roger-roger, Captain,” Krist said, and removed the bulky dome from his head and took a big whiff of the air, smiling. Lee cringed as she did the same, already feeling slight humidity in the air. She hated sweating and thanked the Tinkerers back on Station 6 again for developing Exploration Units with internal climate controls.

But she put aside the fact that her blonde hair would soon mat to her neck and looked back at the building that demanded her attention.

She looked at Krist. He looked back, and, with a smile and a nod, they began their walk up the infinite flight.

***

They climbed for nearly two minutes straight, the only sounds their labored steps and breathing. It was eerie, the quiet. Lee wasn’t used to it. Even the square they were in had ambient noises; wind, settling frames, leaves rustling. But now that they were here, in front of this monolith, on this monolith, it was like everything had been shut off. Each step echoed, punctuated by puffs of chalky, white dust that hung in the air. What little fell clung to their boots and leggings, spotting them with flecks of decay. Even with Krist there, Lee had never felt so small and alone.

When they finally reached the top, they stopped to catch their breath, using the

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many columns for support. Lee finally realized just how big everything about this building was.

She had to strain her neck to see the top of the column she was resting at.

“Hff...hff...we’re out of shape,” Krist joked.

Lee couldn’t help but smile as she took a deep breath. “Maybe a bit. Hff...then again, how in shape do scientists usually need to be?”

“Mm,” he responded and turned his attention to the front doors. “Ready to knock?”

Lee straightened up and moved her hair out of her face. Yep, there it was: sweat.

She made a face but started walking forward, taking in the massive front doors. They hung wide, almost as tall as the columns, with hinges and handles made for giants. The left door hung slightly ajar, almost inviting them in, as if to say “I have so much to show you.”

Krist entered first, turning on the bulbeam on his chest to illuminate a good portion of the area in front of him as Lee did the same, throwing up her own probes in the process, their lights tracing the walls around them.

“Big place,” Lee said, her voice reverberating throughout the expansive area. It felt...off to her, to be speaking in this quiet sea of silence. She couldn’t quite figure out why, but...it worried her.

“The outside was a big hint,” Krist responded, tossing up even more probes to try and shed more light on the chamber. What Lee could make out startled her even more.

She placed her hand on a column to her left and looked out to see even more of them in front of her, extending all the way to a back wall somewhere in the dark spaces the lights couldn’t reach. She couldn’t see the ceiling that the columns were supporting, the probes hadn’t made it that high yet. But she could make out the rows and rows of pews in between the columns.

They weren’t very substantive, maybe three meters across, with dust covering everything.

Crumbled ashes of old texts littered the seats and floor, and Lee couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. She’d always hated church.

“So it is religious,” Krist cut in, wiping away a layer of dust on the nearest pew.

“Bonus points for me.”

Lee walked forward looking at the

screen on her left arm, taking in the data her probes were gathering. “Krist, my probes are trying to go to the ceiling in here. They’re still going.”

“Damn, they not believe in floors or something?”

Lee called a probe back to her and noticed as it got closer that it passed a balcony above them, one that wrapped all the way around the pews. “No, wait, there’s a ceiling. The worship area’s simply open. Let’s keep going, I want to find some stairs, at least get to the balcony before we have to report back in.”

Lee started to walk down the aisle, eyes still on her screen, leaving Krist behind her, taking in the sights. “This is just weird,” she heard him say.

“You’re telling me.”

“No, no, I mean...look.” She turned around to see him with his arms spread wide.

“Look at this place. All there is is dust and ash, Lee. Where are all the people?”

Hm. She hadn’t thought of that.

That was strange.

“Seriously, end of the world, you’re scared, your family is dying, most people go to church,” Krist continued, throwing his hands around in the air like he always did when he was ranting. “We’ve seen it a million times. Places of authority have the most body buildup. Police stations, schools, government buildings. We’ve seen countless churches with pews filled with skeletons three hundred-plus years after the fact, and for some reason this world is special?”

Lee shrugged. “Maybe they went to a different church. Denominations and all that.”

“What other church, Lee?” he asked, finally walking forward. “This is the biggest holy boner for miles.”

Lee let him keep going and stared blankly ahead, thinking. He was right, she knew it. She just couldn’t give him a straight an- “ Aliquam placerat a dui vel.»

She jerked, twitching her head to the left. What was that? She had felt--no, she was sure she had felt something at her neck, felt a whisper caress her ear. What...? She hadn’t understood it. A different language? What was...?

“Krist?” she called out, peering forward to where he had walked. Nothing but dark55

ness. She couldn’t even see his probes. It was like the darkness has swallowed them and left her for dessert. “Krist, this isn’t funny. Where are you?”

This wasn’t like him, not like him at all. He liked to joke around, but site work was site work and he knew that. You didn’t play pranks on an alien world because it was an alien world and that was that. So what was he- “Curabitur dapibus congue leo id egestas.”

She saw something. Now she knew she saw something. Something moved, something moved out of the corner of her eye and she scrambled in circles, bumping into a pew and sending dust into the air. The three frail fingers on each hand scrambled to find glasses in the bottomless pit of her bag. She finally pulled them out, put the visor on and did what scientists did: looked for the facts. She wasn’t about to let whatever this was scare her. Especially if it was Krist.

She flipped through image after image, infrared, x-ray, gamma, micro; nothing.

All clean. Not a damn thing was in the room with her. No heat signatures. Not even...”Krist?”

She pulled up her monitor again, cycled through the screens. She had to wipe the sweat that was now pouring off of her scalp from her eyes, lest she miss what she was looking for.

There. Individual GPS. And there Krist was, not thirty yards in front of her. So why wasn’t he responding to her? Where was he on the- “Curabitur ds nuhthing you can do-”

Again, that whisper, this time on her right. A hand, she had felt a hand on her damn shoulder and now it wasn’t there and god, was she cold. She understood it this time, slightly, like it was trying to make her understand. But why? Why weren’t her instruments picking anything up? Why weren’t they doing what they were meant to- “AAAAAHHHHHRRRRRAAAAAAAA!!!”

The scream filled her ears, her mind, her body, a deep guttural sound that was more beast than man. She fell to the ground, her heart pumping the adrenaline she knew she needed to the legs that were refusing to respond.

THOOM.

Something had hit something else.

56

Something strong and something angry. There was something in this church with her and it wasn’t Krist, god, no it couldn’t be Krist and it wanted her. It wanted to scare her and hurt her and then it was there, filling her vision.

Not three inches from her face was another, the most haunted look upon it she had ever seen. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked like her, had the same shape. Tears ran down its face from eyes that didn’t exist, though not one fell to meet the ground. And then it spoke, and it was then she knew she had found her voice.

“-- but pray.”

Lee screamed and shut her eyes.

***

She awoke in the Exodus med-bay, Dar sitting beside her, head in his hands. When he saw that she was awake, he called Krist and Pren in, relief clearly in his voice.

“...guys?” Lee asked groggily, trying to sit up. Pren and Dar held her down, easing her back into the bed. “Mm...guys, what’s going on?”

“You tell us, Princess,” Krist said from the end of the bed. He was putting on a good show, but she could tell he was scared. He was in there with her. He knew. Didn’t he?

“You didn’t see it?” Lee asked, confused.

“See what?” he responded. “All I saw when I turned around was you convulsing on the floor spouting off some nonsense.”

“Nonsense? What nonsense?”

“I don’t know,” Krist sighed, obviously finding the situation odd. “Something about the ‘bold taking the inheritance.’ Sound familiar?”

Lee was caught off guard. “I said that? Those words, exactly?”

Krist nodded. “My glasses recorded the whole thing. Let me...yeah, okay, ‘The bold will take the inheritance.’ There it is, verbatim.

You were seizing so bad I radioed back to Dar and we brought you back here.”

Lee didn’t know what to say. She looked at Dar and Pren, neither of them supplying any answers of their own.

“What happened, Lee?” Dar asked, obviously concerned.

“I...I don’t know.” She told them everything she remembered. The whispers, Krist’s

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disappearance, her gear failing, and the...the face.

God, the face.

“What did it look like?” Pren asked, skeptical.

Lee frowned. “Like you or me, Pren.

Bipedal, eyes, nose, mouth, the works. But it wasn’t us. I knew it wasn’t. Entirely different species. I felt five fingers on my shoulder.”

“But it didn’t show up on your glasses, your scanners?” Dar asked. At this point he had stood up and started pacing like he always did when he didn’t know what to do.

“Nothing, Dar. Not a damn thing.”

“Well,” Krist cut in, “there was one thing.”

Everyone looked at him and he pulled up his video feed from his glasses. It was a still shot of Lee, on the ground, eyes rolled back in her head. She couldn’t stand to look at it.

“Put it away, Krist.”

“No, look. Behind you. On the back column.”

They looked and the room went quiet. There, on the column nearest her, barely illuminated by the bulbeam’s light were words: This is not your world.

“That’s our language.” Lee said flatly.

The team looked at each other, their hearts frozen.

“How is that even possible?” Pren asked, quiet.

Dar walked forward, punching buttons on the comm station located by the door.

“I’m ordering a cease and desist of the study of this planet. We’re going home.”

“But the Council--” Lee started.

“--doesn’t matter,” Dar continued.

“I’m not knowingly putting the lives of my crew in danger, Lee.”

“We don’t know we’re in danger, Dar,” Lee countered, “it could just be the effects of the atmo. We had out helmets off, I could’ve easily been hallucinating.”

“Which led to a seizure? Nuh-uh, not buying it. Especially when nothing happened to Krist.”

“C’mon, Bossman,” Krist pleaded, “Let’s just leave this area, jump continents. Send someone else to work over the creepy boo tomb

when we hand back in the report.”

“No. We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Why morning?” Lee asked, sitting up. “Why can’t we...” And then it hit her.

“Where’s Solon?”

No one could meet her eyes.

“Guys,” she said, her voice rising as she slipped out of the bed, “where. Is. Solon?”

“He never reported back in, Lee,” Krist finally said, putting his hand on the back of his neck. “Dar and Pren looked for hours, but--”

“Seriously?” she yelled, marching towards the door, “all the technology on this ship and we can’t find one man on a dead world?”

They followed her out the door, Dar in front. “Lee, his instruments went offline. We can’t find him. No heat signature, no GPS, nothing. It’s a needle in a haystack out there!”

Lee stopped dead. She turned around with a flash, things beginning to come together. “When did they go offline? When exactly?”

“When did they--? Lee, I don’t kno-”

“Then pull up the info, Dar!”

“Hey!” Pren interjected, “that’s your Captain, Leeward! Tone it down before we have to--”

“1800 hours, Lee.” They all turned to see Krist standing there, his wrist screen lit up.

“1800 hours. The same time you started convulsing.”

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, and started racing to her room. “Krist, the same thing happened to you in that church. You disappeared, vanished, no heat, no x-ray, there was nothing!”

“But I was right--”

“I know, but tell that to the science.

Why is it that Solon goes as soon as this thing attacks me?”

Lee was in her room now, dressing to go back out. Dar was getting antsy at this point.

“Leeward, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to find Solon, Dar, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

Dar threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “Lee, you just had a seizure not three hours ago! What makes you think that you can go back out without my express consent?”

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Lee, dressed at this point in nothing but a jumpsuit and her probe pack, turned back around and pointed an emasculating finger at her Captain. “Because, Captain,” she said coldly, “that man is the closest thing any of us have to a father out here since we came out of the tank and I’m not letting him sleep out in the damn cold.”

The four of them stood there in silence. Lee stepped forward, shouldering her way through her door. She walked to the hanger where the Chronicles were kept, checking her gloves and pretending she didn’t want to look back. She walked through the entrance to the hanger and started her walk to the Chronicle 2 when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. When she focused, she nearly fell to the floor again.

Standing on the edge of the hanger, wind whipping his frayed clothing, was Solon.

Lee didn’t know how he had gotten here, or how the hanger was even open to the night sky, but she knew she didn’t like it. Especially considering Solon had a chunk of shrapnel piercing his tired chest. But there he was, standing like it wasn’t even there. She would’ve said that was just like him if he hadn’t been missing his left hand as well.

“Solon?!” Lee yelled over the wind that swept into the hanger, “Solon, what are you doing? Where’ve you been?”

She got no response. Instead, Solon simply raised his right arm and with his remaining hand, pointed at her. By this time, the others had arrived in the hanger, all stopping in their tracks when they saw Solon.

“Why are the hanger doors open?”

Dar asked.

“I’m more worried about how Solon is here and not on the ground,” Krist said. “Oh, and, you know, not dead.”

“Shut up, Krist!” Lee snapped back.

She never took her eyes off of Solon, though, never let her eyes leave his. They were empty. So empty, except...

She knew those eyes.

“This is not your world,” Solon said, his voice nothing but a moan. “This is not your world. And you can do nothing. Nothing for us.

Nothing for you. There is nothing you can do.”

Lee noticed that Solon had begun to 58

pitch backwards, his hand falling to his side as he fell back.

“Nothing you can do...” Solon finished, “but pray.” And he disappeared over the side.

“Solon!!!”

Lee ran to the edge of the hanger, the others close behind her, all yelling at her to stop, to watch the edge, but she didn’t hear them, didn’t care to hear them. She stopped where Solon had stood and peered over the edge. Nothing.

He was gone.

***

Lee turned around and walked right by everyone behind her, heading to the Chronicle 2.

“Lee, where d’you think you’re going?” Krist asked.

“To bring Solon home, Krist,” she answered. “He needs to go home.”

Dar walked in front of her, trying to stop her. “Lee, we’re at eight thousand meters! There isn’t going to be anything left to bring home!”

Lee stopped then, refusing to look her Captain in the eye.

“I loved Sol as much as anyone, Lee,” he said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “But there is nothing we can do now. Nothing except go home and tell them he died a scientist.”

They all stood there in silence for what seemed like forever, the wind from the open hanger filling their ears.

“That wasn’t Sol,” Lee said suddenly, making Pren jump. “That was what attacked me. I know it. And if there isn’t anything of Sol left to bring home, then I’m going down there to burn that damn church to the ground.”

She pushed past Dar and opened the door to the car, settling into the driver’s seat. The side door whiffed open and Krist settled in.

“What’re you--”

“What, you didn’t expect this?” he asked, a grin on his face. “I take every chance I can to make the Captain’s face turn that color.”

“Is he coming too?”

“He said we have an hour. Again.

Think we can do that?”

Lee smiled as she turned the car

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around and sped out of the hanger.

“Watch me.”

***

Lee brought the Chronicle down, following the trajectory mapped out by the computer of Solon’s fall. She could’ve looked at the screen, but she knew exactly where to go. She leveled out at the outer balcony of the monolith, the large, circular frame casting glares of moonlight onto the floor in front of it. She had wanted to get up here, she said. Well, here she was.

She kept the car running and opened the door, letting a ladder fall to help her down, Krist doing the same on his side. Lee looked down and saw, not the least to her surprise, Solon laying on the balcony, perfectly pristine. The shrapnel was gone, not even a wound or blood to speak of. His hands (yes, they were both there) were clasped upon his chest and Lee could barely contain herself as she descended the ladder, rushing to touch ground.

“You know,” Krist said, trying to calm the situation on the way down, “I forgot to mention the podium I found inside!” He had to scream to be heard over the new gust of wind that had picked up.

“What podium?”

“It was this sick thing, near the back of the worship area,” he explained, looking every so often at his footsteps. “Black, Lee, blacker than anything I’ve ever seen. There were the same etchings from the window on there, and if I was a betting man, which I am, I’d say it’s the same thing we’ve been hearing since we got here.”

“This is not your world,” Lee muttered under her breath.

“Thing is, I found our first body,” he continued as they hit the ground. “It was leaned over the podium and you were right when you described your ghost.”

“Ghost?”

“Humor me. Look, point is, they looked about like us. A little different bone structure, a bit taller, but basically the same. Don’t ask me why he was on the podium, I don’t know. All I knew was there was a blade or something on the floor beside the thing.”

Lee bent over and checked on Solon.

Her hope was shattered when she realized he was still very much dead.

“Lee, get back to the car--!!”

Krist’s last words didn’t register with her until it was too late. She looked up from Solon’s body to see a dark shape rush forward, passing through her as she felt the coldest emptiness she had ever felt consume her, her body a convulsing mass of hunger and abandonment that threatened to eat itself. She fell forward on her hand, the other reaching for her neck as she struggled to catch her breath. That’s when she heard the crack.

She turned around and Krist was gone, a hole in the railing of the balcony where he had stood.

“Krist!” she screamed, shuffling forward on her hands and knees to the edge. She peered over the edge and this time saw Krist laying on the large steps meters below, the moonlight shining off the blood that trickled down the flight. She didn’t know how to register all of this.

She just didn’t know.

She turned back around, scooting closer to Solon’s body, in shock. She stopped when she noticed a figure standing before her.

It stood taller than any alien figure she had ever come across, its chest massive, shoulders wide.

It was dark, the shadows playing across the night seemed to come from within, its eyes a cold blue that might as well have been ice. Evil poured off of it, oozing towards Lee in waves. This was the thing that had caused the fall of man and the death of this world. She knew it. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew that much. This thing was evil. Pure, unadulterated, and hungry.

“Why?” It was all she knew to ask.

All she could ask.

“Leeward.”

She looked up slowly. It knew her name. But then, why wouldn’t it? It had been watching them since they had arrived. That didn’t surprise her nearly as much as the fact that she had actually gotten a response.

She started to say something, to plead with the demon to let them go, to let her take her friends back, to let her live. But she knew it was pointless.

“Just...quick, okay?” she asked, looking the thing in the eyes with her last bit of spite. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

With that, the night erupted with 59

laughter as the figure stood there and roared.

It was a monstrous sound, made even worse by the fact that it didn’t seem to move at all from its original position while the laughter filled her mind. Eventually, the laughter stopped and Lee found herself in the monster’s clutches. She hadn’t seen it move, it hadn’t even registered in her mind that it would, but it kneeled before her, atop Solon’s body, her cheeks squeezed in its hand, their eyes locked.

“Tell them,” it spoke, a poison filling her mind instead of her ears. It didn’t seem to have a mouth, she couldn’t even tell where the noise was coming from. “Tell them: your demons do not die with you, Leeward.”

With that, she fell forward onto the ground, Solon’s body vanishing along with the demon. She scrabbled up to her knees to see the figure back towards the glass window, Solon and Krist with him, both looking as lost as the soul she had seen earlier.

“Tell them this planet is mine,” it continued, turning around to vanish into the darkness, taking Krist and Solon with it. “Not even He could take it from me. This is the Dead World, Leeward.”

“And the demons never die.”

She was alone.

And she couldn’t help but cry. ***

Back on board the Exodus, Dar and Pren sat silently in the cockpit, neither looking at the other. It had been almost two hours since their friends had went down and not a word given.

“What do we do, Dar?” Pren asked picking her head up, eyes red from tears.

Dar wiped his own eyes, sighing.

“I don’t know, Pren. I’m the Captain and I don’t even know what to--”

He was interrupted by the back doors of the cockpit opening. Lee walked through, face hard, unmoving.

“Lee!” Dar cried, jumping up with

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excitement. “Lee, what happened? Where were you? You went offline like Solon and we didn’t--”

“We’re leaving,” she said, monotone.

“Where are Solon and Krist?” Pren asked quietly.

Lee didn’t answer as she sat in Krist’s seat, taking over the controls for the flight.

“Pren, please take Starboard so we can lift off.”

“Lee, where’s Krist?” Dar demanded, turning her around in her chair.

She whipped around, looking Dar dead in the eyes.

“All due respect, Captain,” she said, no emotion between her words, “we’re leaving. I couldn’t find Solon and Krist isn’t coming.” She turned back around and began running commands through the Portside controls.

Dar stepped back, not sure how to take anything his friend had said. “They’re...not coming, Leeward?”

She didn’t turn around. “Take off in two, sir.”

Dar stood behind her for what seemed like years before he slowly turned back to Pren and nodded. She went to her place and he to his and the Exodus began the long journey home.

Not a word was spoken the entire time. Lee was watching the controls, confident the planet was laughing at her. Pren simply sat somber, not even reaching for her sweet crisps she munched on during flights. And Dar sat in his chair, not taking his eyes off the souvenir Pren had picked up while they were exploring together.

It was a piece of clothing of some kind, with lettering on it he couldn’t read for the life of him. It was the same language he had seen all over the planet and wished they had stayed to understand.

He had failed as a Captain of the Imperial Science Quarter.

He threw the cloth away angrily, it landing on Solon’s empty chair. But still he stared. And I

N Y stared right back.

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

High Places Sabrina Sullivan

I tried to Kick a bolt of lightening But I burned My littlest toe, no Not the pinky But the ring in which I kept Your class band Because it refused to fit On my left hand So I put it there On my foot because I thought That’s how you would Think Of me Beneath you

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1A

Patchwork

John Steven Overturf Collage: found materials on wood panel

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2A

7A 63

The High Point Audrey Bauman

“All right, everyone. What was the high point of our trip?” My best friend’s mom, Jana Marie, drums her hands on the steering wheel as she drives away from the condo we’d spent two nights at during our three-day New Year’s Eve vacation.

Lauren, my best friend, is in the front beside her mom while her brother Ryan and his friend Quinn are in the back with me. Ryan and Quinn eagerly offer up their highlights, yelling over each other till Lauren smacks her brother to get a word in. The two boys agree, “Bonfire!” while Lauren and her mother choose the general ambience of staying on the beach. Then Jana Marie turns to me, prodding with an, “Audrey. High point?”

I freeze for a second and stare at Jana Marie before choking out, “Uh, probably the dolphins.” When her response is a short nod I slump back into my seat and train my eyes on anything but the other people. She’s tired, I remind myself. Jana Marie shoots off another question, asking everyone for the low of the journey, and my gaze is still cast downward when I tell her mine is the long drive down to Orange Beach, Alabama. There’s a murmur of approval from beside me at my choice. Then a tiny sigh before everyone sinks into the monotony of the just as long drive back home.

“Can I play my music?” pipes up Lauren after a moment.

“Of course, sweetie,” says Jana Marie, and Lauren immediately grabs the aux cord so she can start blasting Fall Out Boy. From my position by the backseat left window, pressed as far against the door as possible to avoid touching the boy on my right, I feel the bass thudding through my side. The Pendergrass kids and their mom — I notice, as song after song doesn’t play but rather crashes from the Jeep’s stereo system — like their music at pounding volumes that 64

could probably kill a man after prolonged exposure. But since it eliminates the need for me to speak, I can dig it.

Within the hour, most of the crew is snoring softly and I’m left to lean my head against the Jeep window and think about how I should enjoy vacations more than this. I guess the bonfire was fun, and I’ll always get a kick out of the ocean, not to mention the Gulf Shore’s mouthwatering seafood, but the whole affair was tempered by being squished against these two boys I barely know for most of the trip. I look at Lauren in the front, her reddish hair sleep-ruffled, and think that maybe if it was just me and her, I’d feel more at ease. But even when I try to ignore Ryan and Quinn next to me, I still see Lauren and Jana Marie exchanging easy banter across the gear shift. As an outsider to their family, it makes me feel like I’m listening to a foreign language.

I couldn’t reach across the distance between us even though we were practically piled on top of each other during the whole trip — at most, when Jana Marie asked a question or fired off an order, my response was “yes” or “okay” as the situation demanded and not much else.

I know this disturbed her because every hour or so she would glance into the backseat, look for my face, and ask, “Did you have fun, Audrey? You’re so quiet.”

I would nod and say, “Yes, of course” while I tried to construct a face that shouted enthusiasm. It seemed to placate her and it was better than the longer explanation — yes, I had fun, but no, I’m not really sure how to say it around you guys. Sorry about that.

My head’s still pressed against the window and I’m watching Mississippi fly by when Jana Marie announces, “We’re stopping for a bathroom break.”

Didn’t we just have one? I think, frowning, but I hop out with the rest because my

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legs are killing me.

We’re clambering back in the car as Jana Marie emerges from the gas station, her expression peaked and her shoulders stiff. She returns to the driver’s seat and when Lauren asks, “What’s up?” she replies, “I’ve got a bladder infection.”

As I learn over the next hour, this bladder infection means that Jana Marie sits up straighter, grips the wheel tighter, and only speaks to tell us we’re stopping so she can try to use the bathroom again. After another two failed tries, instead of telling us we’re stopping to use the bathroom, she announces we’re stopping at a Walgreens to look for a catheter. I sit in the Jeep while she and Lauren go in, sparing a few glances for Ryan and Quinn who are either engaged in a conversation with each other or staring intently at their phones. Lauren and Jana Marie return, not a catheter in sight, and once she’s back behind the wheel, Jana Marie turns to Ryan and says, “I want you to look up all the nearby stores and call them to see if they have a catheter. Call hospitals too.” I’m expecting a retort, but instead Ryan hunches over his phone and lets his fingers fly over the keyboard until he’s got a list of possible locations. Then he gets to it.

I’m not sure how many frantic minutes I spend watching the back of Jana Marie’s head, listening to Ryan dial number after number only to be disappointed yet again. Jana Marie is shifting in her seat. In the rearview mirror I catch a glimpse of her grimace — she’s been dealing with her infection all afternoon, maybe even since this morning. How is she even driving? I wonder.

Mississippi’s almost gone and we’re approaching the state of Louisiana, the state where Quinn remarked, “I feel dirtier already” after we entered it on our way down. It’s not any cleaner the second time we drive through it, from what I can see outside my window. Houses that are a disgusting shade of off-white, most of them sporting holes, line the streets and crappy cars smother the broken asphalt. The backdrop of cypress trees completes the trashy look and I’m really looking forward to leaving this neighborhood behind and moving on toward the generic highway median scenery when Jana Marie asks Lauren, “Is that a sign for a hospital?”

It is and it means we’re stopping

again. Jana Marie pulls into the parking lot of the yellow-orange building that frankly looks just like the other buildings in the neighborhood except more patched up and sprints in with Lauren.

Maybe ten minutes pass, and then Lauren returns. What next? I think tiredly. She gestures for us to follow her, so we do. I stick to her side while the two boys trail behind and she leads us into a dingy waiting room with a dim fluorescent light and a TV stationed up near the ceiling. The boys loudly exclaim at that and switch it on to the Rose Bowl game. Meanwhile Lauren and I grab a bench on the opposite side of the room. On the way in I only saw two or three nurses and they all stared at us like we had just arrived from a different planet. Not sure why they were staring, since the hallway they were standing in barely looked cleaner than the outdoors. I turn to Lauren.

“What’s going on?”

“Mom’s in the ER,” she says. Oh. But she says it with such confidence I shrug and guess that the fact we’re here probably means we’ll be okay. Even if this is the most run down and filthy hospital I’ve ever seen, it might have a catheter and that might mean we don’t have to panic anymore.

I don’t have a phone to mess around on while I’m waiting in that room and it’s not bright enough to read my book. Football doesn’t interest me and Lauren’s browsing Tumblr, so I imagine the conversation I’ll have with my parents tomorrow morning. Not tonight, because at this point it’ll be a miracle if I get home before tomorrow morning. I can summarize the gist of the beach trip in a few words — it was cold, there were dolphins, we had great food — but boy, oh boy, will I have a story about the trip home. Yeah, sorry, the reason I was late is because we had to go grab a catheter at this shady Louisiana hospital. Pass the salt?

We lounge in that room for an hour before Jana Marie bursts in, smile reaching beyond ear to ear and hands raised as if she’s about to yell, “GOAAAAL!” The three of us stand up and gather around, drinking in the excitement Lauren and Ryan’s mom is radiating.

“Ask me,” she says, practically bouncing, “ask me if I’m going to eat restaurant food again in the next year! Ask me!”

Dutifully, we ask, “Are you?”

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“Hell fucking no.”

Cackling, we follow Jana Marie out of that place, and we can’t move fast enough.

She doesn’t stop smiling even after fifteen minutes back on the road. The sky turned a deep indigo while we were in that hospital, but the lights on the road cast a warm glow on our faces. The line of trees that were grotesque in the daylight are now like a comforting blanket, and as we return to the beaten path Jana Marie announces, “Well, now I know what my new high point is.”

Everyone, even Jana Marie, turns to stare as my laughter bubbles up, but I can’t choke it

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back down, bending over to clutch my stomach and gasp for air. Soon peals of giggles resound inside the Jeep. I don’t remember to strategically press against the Jeep door or stare out the window or keep my lips in a thin pressed line. All I remember is everyone’s face when we realized we’re actually going to make it home and so I turn into Ryan’s side and shake from the sheer, unadulterated hilarity of the whole situation.

It takes a good five minutes before we can remember how to breathe. This time, once I’ve flopped back against the seat, all the exhaustion of the past two or so hours catching up to me, I turn to my right instead of my left and see my friends smiling at me from all sides. And I grin back.

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Journeyer

Jessika Hammons Oil on canvas

67

Friction Brandon Rogers

Damp earth rips into cold steel His lashes jump from hot coals in his head.

He leans in, his heart pounding To the pace of a hummingbird.

Hers does too, but adrenaline and a stoic Sense of self-preservation overwhelms her.

Time slows. For the eager conqueror, It has always been coming. For the conquered, It is a gun gripped between her lips.

His face smashes into hers, earth against steel.

Mud molds onto her frozen features It mats her hair; it’s suffocating.

She doesn’t bend. She doesn’t breathe.

His flame kisses against her ice.

She refuses to melt.

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Vortex, Volume 41/2015

As I Biked One Winter Night Janie Brown

Chilled laughter echoes in my pasts’ ears.

Darkness wraps, cold nights entrap And two wheels whirling Quickly, without honest shame, Attempting for a simple moment To escape new bound books and pain.

Down the broken paved road that snakes Through dim lit parks and blind nature trails, Sitting in the middle of civilization, without cars, And embracing simple yet complex dreams, We try to fly away on broken wings.

My breathless, our breathless, sharp laughter Echoes in the winter night and is chilled by lack of light.

The songbirds have long since stopped singing Their endless joy at the sight of a warm sun.

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Remember Rahab Brandon Rogers

Well, hello, gentlemen. It’s a bit late in the night to be straggling in the street, don’t you think? Did you come here for business?

What kind of business? Boys, you insult me. My kind of business, of course. Isn’t that why you’re standing outside my door gawking, drenched in sweat, and glistening like a couple of well-oiled torches? Many a man have walked down this same street with that same look reeking of that same lust that dampens your robes with moist anticipation. I know your type: young, adventurous, brave, always on the prowl. Don’t think I haven’t seen it all before. Eventually all of you find yourself standing outside my door: the young and the old, the desperate and the bold, the warm and the cold. You two are no different.

Ah, ah, ah. Don’t deny it. I can smell it on you. I can smell the coarse sand engrained in those sunbaked cheeks and the reek of men clings to you tighter than your clothes. No, I have been around this block many a time, boys. Don’t you dare lie to me. Unlike you, I don’t have the time to trump through the city and strut around like a cock. I’m a very busy woman and I haven’t got all day. Make your decision, boys: go or stay.

Very well, follow me.

As you can see, I live in quite the strange place. I decided to build my home across the gap of the walls so I could keep a careful watch on the city to the west and what lies beyond it to the east. The soldiers here in Jericho 70

have proved to be some of my most loyal customers. Whenever they have guard duty upon the wall, most of them find themselves stumbling into my home for what they claim is “probable cause.” Probable indeed! They agree that I probably cause the greatest itch in their spirits. They take their wives of course (and more frequently each other), but sometimes they yearn for a more experienced touch—a touch, I predict, you desire as well.

Now will you two be performing separately or together? I usually charge extra when dealing with less private sessions, but I have a tender spot for the two of you. You have an exoticness to you that I just can’t place. Could it be a bit of Egyptian blood perhaps? The dark skin suits you, but your stature is lacking. I’m hoping that means you compensate elsewhere.

Go ahead and undress. You can start on each other and then I’ll join in. Do it well enough and this one may be on the house.

Well, what’s the matter with you two? Stop looking at each other like newly acquainted pups and undress. Or do you need me to help you?

You must be kidding. Did it seriously take you this long to put two and two together? At least you’re not compensating with your heads! Yes, boys. If there was any confusion in the matter, let me be completely clear: I am a prostitute, a harlot, a seducer. I am a serpent in

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

the grass as the Israelites might say.

Have you changed your minds then?

Is Rahab the Harlot too far beneath your standards or too high above them? Make your choice quickly because I have a business to run, and if you’re not here to purchase my wares then you might as well get out of the market; judging by the state of your clothes, I doubt you have any substantial amount of money to offer me anyway.

I don’t care about your halfhearted apologies.

No. Stop. Keep them to yourselves. If I wanted pity I would join the beggars at the gates. I am a dignified woman who sells her body for sex. If that idea is too repulsive for you then you have no reason to stay in my home. Take your apologies and your pity with you when you leave.

Do I look like some charity case to you? Do I look like I need your help? Better yet, did I even ask for your help? No. No, I didn’t. So grab what little things you left at the door and swiftly escort yourselves out of my house. I’ve had enough of you Egyptians.

Israelites? What kind of fool do you take me for? The Israelites are war mongrels and destroyers of kingdoms. They rape and pillage whatever poor soul crosses their path. It’s been said that men from Israel cut off their own foreskins with jagged blades as a sacrifice to their war god. And yet you cowardly, idiotic, self-righteous boys expect me to believe you are the great and terrible Israelites? You’re a bit short to be war mongrels, don’t you think?

I thought I warned you against lying to me in my own house. Think about it. If you were Israelites, how would you have gotten past the guards? There’s been a rumor that the real Israelites are camping on the other side of the Jordan. The King has doubled his security along the wall. Believe me. I know when new soldiers find themselves staggering through my door. You are no Israelites. Leave and stop wasting my time.

This charade has to end. I don’t care if the Baal and Ashtoreth themselves are on the hunt for you. Don’t worry about the guards. At most, you are petty thieves. They’ll cut off your hand and send you on your happy way.

Why are you looking at me like that?

You obviously don’t know what good a hand is for so I doubt you’ll miss yours much.

Now you’re trying to barter? What

could you possibly have to offer me? If I turn you over to the guards, they’ll probably give me something in return. Perhaps they would give me another night with Adad. He was something special: strong, passionate, enduring, explosive. I doubt you could give me something better. Come.

The door is open. It’s time you make your leave.

What the hell? I told you to leave.

Now, get out of the way. Did you not hear me? I said move.

Look who decided to grow a spine and drop some balls. This is really a bad time for you to decide to act the part. Oh no, watch out for the big bad Israelite. Please, boy. As I see it, you’ve got two options: you can walk out of this house and have a chance to avoid the guards or I can scream right now and they come storming through that door. It’s your choice.

You have a proposition for me?

Since when do I negotiate with petty thieves or traitorous spies? But then again, I’m not an unreasonable woman. What do you want and what will you give in return for it?

You’re really committed to this idea, aren’t you? Then again, who am I to determine who you are (or who you think you are)? In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Regardless of your true nature, you are felons of at least some caliber. I have helped the likes of you before but only when it benefits poor Rahab. What is your offer, boys? Lay it out on the table.

Let me make sure I understand.

You’re spies of King Joshua who were sent here to scout out Jericho’s defenses before the Israelites attack the city. The army will cross the Jordan in a couple of days and your God will destroy every living person within these walls. If I offer you sanctuary, you will spare me and my family from imminent destruction. Are you sure this is the story you want to go with? Are you absolutely sure? You might want something with a bit more gold and a bit less imagination.

What is all that commotion going on out there?

Baal be cursed. The guards seem to be in some sort of frenzy. I think they found your scent. They are charging the wall. If you have a better offer, you best put it on the table now. I’m going to need a little better incentive if I’m to do anything other than turn you in.

71

Oh, Reseph, is that you? Give me one moment. Gods, where did I put that gown?

Run upstairs and hide under the flax I have drying on the roof. If they find you, then they offered me the better deal.

Reseph, it’s been too long. Where have you been the last few months? Here I was thinking you were becoming one of my regulars. Did I do something to offend you, my friend? I thought our meetings were more than satisfactory. Of course I don’t blame you for stopping your visits.

I have a lot of courtiers but they never stay for long. It’s the way of my trade. Every job has its ups and downs I suppose. In any case, what do I have to thank for our chance reunion?

The Israelites?

Why wouldn’t the king think that the Israelites have sent spies into the city? He’s been paranoid ever since Joshua and his men settled on the other side of the river. The walls of Jericho are thick. I doubt any unwanted rabble found its way through.

No, I haven’t seen anyone suspicious.

Then again, I’ve mostly lost my eye for suspicious looking men. Most of you look as guilty as sin when you crawl to my door in the middle of the night. I’ve almost forgotten what an innocent man looks like.

He said what? I mean that’s a possibility I guess. I’ve had a fairly busy day today and serviced quite a view of you. After all, most of you start to look the same after a while: dark skin, light skin, thin, large, long, and short. It all blends together in the end.

Would these men have had some kind of distinguishing trait or some way for me to tell them apart from my other customers?

By Baal! I thought that was only a rumor!

You’re serious? They actually cut it off? How does that make them look?

No, I guess I don’t know how you’re supposed to know that. I’ve seen a lot of strange and deformed men in my time. Perhaps my inquisitive neighbor mentioned a time frame for when the men in question came into my home. I keep a log of all my transactions in a book upstairs.

That’s quite the accusation, Reseph. You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear. Yes, I did service a couple of Egyptian-looking men recently, but you know as well as I do that it’s not difficult to leave 72

me house unseen. There’s no profit in harboring fugitives.

And what will I get in return for telling you where they went?

Now, now, Reseph, that’s rather harsh, don’t you think? I have nothing against this city or its king.

I am a simple business woman. If you want something from me, you buy it. What does the captain of the guard have to offer poor little Rahab?

Stop! Stop! Please! I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you where they’ve gone. I can’t breat—I can’t brea—

They were here, but they left at dusk before the gates closed. If you hurry, you might be able to catch them before they get to the Jordan.

They’ve gone. You can come down now.

No, I’m still not convinced that you are who you say you are. The king sees what he wants to see and his guards unquestioningly follow his lead. Tell me, boys. If what you say is true, will the Israelites leave no one alive? Will they kill everyone? More importantly, will they kill Reseph? He was the one who took my precious Adad those ten years ago. By now, my love’s been chopped to pieces and fed to the feral mutts that linger in the shadows of the streets. Swear to it that Reseph’s soul will roll swiftly into death’s arms when your people come.

I am neither for you nor against you.

You offered me safety in a time of crisis whereas Reseph offered me death. I simply chose the course that benefitted me most. I am not a religious woman by any means, but I pray that your god is victorious in destroying this city. I fear what will happen if he is not. If he is as powerful as your people claim, if he can split the Jordan as easily as he did the Red Sea, then what should I do to ensure my safety and the safety of my family?

As you wish. We will all gather in my house on the day of the battle.

Yes, I understand. If they leave the house, their blood will not fall on your hands.

How will you know what house is mine? Can you remember which one it is?

I’ll leave the rope in the window.

Hopefully the red color will remind you that the blood of this house is under your protection. Now go. I’m afraid the guards will return soon to give

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my home a more thorough search.

No, I won’t tell a soul. I swear it.

Go quickly! Return to your king and prepare for battle. Remember Rahab when the walls of Jericho fall.

73

River Janie Brown Come up from the river dear, And bring your peals of white.

Don’t forget where your home is, dear; It’s hidden in the forest, out of sight.

Remember where your roots lay, child, As you grow stronger each year.

Come up now from the river, child, Forget who was once your dear.

Don’t look down into the river, daughter, You will find naught but pain in the waters.

Please come back home, and do not loiter, Lest I have myself no more daughters.

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Why Mommy?

Kaylee DeWees Oil on canvas

75

Withering Words Amanda Skaggs

Pasteurized and flavorized, not a one left to decide What is right and what is wrongWho does and who does not belong.

Written in the corner where their lives intersect, Unappreciated words no one knows how to dissect.

Separated by walls so tall and glass so thickMakes them feel so small and soft and sick.

As the lights do gaze down upon them, The ink does sink inside the columns.

Such sweet breaths bathed in, fruited, and Masked with such sweet assurances everyone Looks to and worships and devours.

Towers and Towers.

Words so sheltered amongst the paint and plaster, Withering away into their master, Crawling out just slightly faster, Never read- Never after.

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Do I Think?

John Cyrus Gilbreath V

God made the universe or did he not Was it a divine plan or a big bang?

The battles of religion; Sturm and drang How long must the wars rage on, I forgot.

Is the sky blue or rather a shade of pink If aliens exist am I xenophobic Hyperventilating; a work out --- aerobic So many questions out there. What do I think?

Do the Illuminati or Jews rule the world Or maybe it is ruled by the Masons Vows said, whispered drained into basins The steward lacks silence. Secrets unfurled.

Hidden like rats better left unknown, Like leaches they shall eat you to your bone.

77

Arkansas River Lauren Swaim Photograph

78

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Lusting for Your Soul Laura LeFerve

Lust Hugging tight Kissing their lips Holding hands Embracing their warmth Seeing their heart and soul Or is it being alone Isolated from contact Saving them from harm Protecting them From all evil What is Love?

79

Spent Casings Emily Walter

18 years

The shot rang out across the valley ricocheting off rocks, trees, and creeks alike, sounding as if an explosion had just occurred.

The sound waves continually made their rounds until the air became as silent as it could ever possibly be out in the country. Had Nell not been wearing her earplugs she surely would have yelled out as if she were pain. Her brother, Scott, would have held it in better, as he had shot shotguns before—Nell, in contrast, had only just started to get used to shooting. Their father would have told her that that was how it was and she had better get used to it if she and her brothers were going to run their farm one day. She took off her eye protection and saw that she had made a bulls eye on the wooden practice target.

“Holy shit,” Nell muttered. The recoil still surprised her and she had assumed that her shot had geared to the left.

“Nice job, kid!” Scott yelled, shaking her by the shoulder. “Not bad for your second week of shooting.”

“I bet those poor dogs of ours aren’t too happy about it,” Nell said, speaking in her low alto monotone and lowering the shotgun to point at the ground. “They’re probably freaking out so much they’re tearing up Mom’s fucking strawberry patch right now back at the house.”

“Nice language, Snell,” their father Martin said. He stood a few feet away from Nell, his suspenders protruding out with his gut and the hair covering his arms and face coated with sweat. His size often reminded Nell of just how 80

lithe she was by comparison—all one hundred and twenty pounds of her up against a bear. Nell glanced at the cobra tattoo on his arm without realizing it, though instinctively remembering that she wanted to get a tattoo one day. Not that her parents would let her while she was on their dole—she would just have to hold out until she was twenty-one and had a concealed carry license. Scott had already abandoned his quest for ink, which surprised Nell due to the plans revolving around a friend who died in a truck accident.

Their father had a loud way with words, of which the stubborn Nell was often reminded the hard way.

“You definitely have good aim,” Martin remarked. “You’ll need it soon enough once you’re off to college.”

“If only I could carry on campus,” Nell said, snapping her fingers with faux disappointment. “I’d be so much safer that way.”

“Hey, I do it when I’m on campus with John,” Martin confided the relatively wellkept family secret. “But don’t go spreading the news about that.”

John, Nell’s younger brother by ten months, went to college with their father in tow four days of the week. At seventeen, the boy could answer with complete adult confidence the inner workings and structures of graduate level math equations and proofs and economic theories, but, at this point in his life, couldn’t gather enough strength to walk one step—hadn’t been able to since he was twelve years old. Martin, a self-employed businessman his whole life, played care-

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taker and casual pattern observer at the college where his youngest son studied in what time he had to be successful. He stood next to Nell, holding one of dozens of his shotguns, with cow shit on his boots and toothpicks in his pocket.

“She won’t have to worry where she’s going—I’ll be there to show her the ropes,” Scott said, sarcastically pinching at Nell’s cheek, which she swatted at without shooting off her toes. “Besides, anyone down there who messes with her will be sorry they ever did.”

“Yeah, I’ll mace and/or shank them,” Nell said. “Whatever I can grab at first.”

“Well, you’re a pretty smart and strange kid, Nell. You can handle yourself well and I was always proud of that,” Martin said, his eyes lingering on the land.

“Aw, thanks Dad,” Nell said, letting out a laugh. “And thanks for the shooting lessons by the way. Maybe one of these days Scott will get his concealed carry already—especially if I’m kicking his ass on aim.”

Scott smirked. “Hey, the man’s busy.

He’s got classes to take and experience to take in—”

“And parties to attend?” Nell said, with a downward gaze.

“That’s beside the point,” Scott said.

Martin had waited for his chance to speak again. “I’m glad you appreciate it, Nell.

I’ve just been so busy with the cows this summer and the cripple that I haven’t had a lot of time to do anything else. Especially now that we have to go back in a few weeks.” Martin stood with his fingers hooked through his empty belt loops.

Nell spoke without hesitation. “Well, like I said before, I can still come home on the weekends and put him to bed if you need a night off. Something tells me I won’t be joining Scott during his escapades into college life too often. I’ll probably just hole up in my dorm and write short stories until my eyes bleed.” She had meant her comments as a joke, but Scott grew quiet in his voice and gestures and seemed to start receding indirectly away from the conversation.

Scott spoke up. “Well, I can come home too if you need help. I don’t have to stay down in Conway all the time.”

“Well, don’t feel obligated,” Martin said briskly, seeing that his children were be-

ginning to pity him. “I can handle it if you want to have fun down there, Nell—as long as you’re smart. You earned it. You worked hard for everything you have right now.”

“Yeah, but still. I wouldn’t mind too much.” Nell smiled, hoping that the tension would ease, and it seemed to, in her mind.

They were silent as a group for some moments, with Nell and Martin looking out over the patch of thirty acres, soon to be filled with cow/calf pairs and Scott checking his phone, having been waiting for a text from his girlfriend of one and half years, Lori. The hay had grown to be somewhere as tall as two and a half feet, and Nell could tell that Martin would have to cut the field that day and bale it the next day before he let the new mothers into the pasture. He’d have the bales out before the cows would enter and Nell knew that he was proud of his choice of new seed, which was more drought tolerant and durable.

Nell turned back to Martin when he kicked a patch of dirt.

Martin turned to her. “Well, I’m thinking I better go check on the cripple. It’s been about two hours and he probably needs to use the bathroom.” Nell handed him the shotgun and he placed into the back of Gator, which was covered partly by Nell’s spent shotgun shells which had been gathered and tossed into the back for no real reason—except perhaps to keep the cows from eating them. Martin turned back to his oldest children. “You kids want a ride back or do you want to want to walk?”

Nell looked over at Scott, who had nothing to do, same as her, so walking the halfmile back was no real concern.

“I’m up for walking if you are,” Scott said, to which Nell nodded.

“I can get John his coffee afterward for when he’s done, if you have to work to get to. Kid always likes drinking coffee while doing Abstract Algebra. Or whatever—some subject I’ll never understand,” Nell said.

“All right, I’ll see you kids later.

Be on the lookout for the Petersons next door— they’re completely fucked in the head.” Martin drove off in the Gator, pressing on the gas pedal so hard that several of the shell casings bounced out and hit the dirt. As the sound of the engine grew distant, Nell bent down and pocketed a 81

green casing. She glanced over at Scott before they started walking to the dirt road toward the house, where their mother was likely doing yard work.

Scott eyeballed Nell’s jutting pocket and said with a slapstick touch, “Nostalgia!”

Nell let out a grunt-like laugh. “I could see myself living here one day. Maybe do some writing job at the same time. Who knows? I just don’t think I could live in a city.” The siblings walked on in silence for a beat or two, the wind breezing lazily.

“Maybe,” Scott replied, his hands in his jeans pockets. “I don’t know. All depends on graduation next year and what Lori decides to do.”

“I don’t know how you guys do it,” Nell said, taking in a deep breath. “I’m so bad at relationships. I think I’ll just learn to live without.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just find a good one if you can.”

“Maybe I’ll just end up living here— maybe Dad can build you and Lori a cabin on that thirty while he’s at it.” Nell elbowed Scott playfully.

“Yeah, she’ll love that, I’m sure. You and John scare the shit out of her.”

They walked on continuously toward the house until the Pyrenees, Sammy, ran out to greet them, her tail wagging.

22 years

They buried their father today and she buried her husband.

Martin Hoover, wife to Elaine, father to Scott (a filmmaker), Nell (an aspiring writer), and John (a mathematical/physics researcher), former contractor, cattle farmer, caregiver, martyr, drinker, aspiring hit-man (at least that was his secret dream). On the land he bequeathed to his children, his ashes were in part interned under the trees where a hammock would swing in all seasons and black squirrels would bolt from the Pyrenees and the Great Dane for their lives, never knowing that Hoover would never let his dogs kill the gems his family had watched grow from babies—unless they were red squirrels, in which case they were fair game.

A man the size of two and a man 82

strong from the years of will, rage and manual labor, he’d raised his children to fear, hate, and idolize him in different stages. Had his eldest to instruct, tolerate, alienate, respect, nearly disown.

Taught his youngest to strive, fight, learn, resent, yearn, appreciate, deny. And trained his daughter to hide, run, stand alone, protect, love, heal harshly, defy, to be just like him.

Elaine Weston Hoover, the equal and the peacemaker, the rock, their rock, their defender. If he was against the world and them, then she was there with them, the silent brood, the ones who feared everything and distrusted, as well as the one who had no fears because he would die sooner through no choice of his own or Time’s. A friend, a confidante, a mother, a killer in her genes, the perfect half to every night.

She would fly his ashes into the wind at the top of the hill where he shot armadillos, tilled fields, taught his daughter to drive a five speed, a tractor and a backhoe, where he burned trees and buried dead livestock and made himself a home away from the world. The reign of God might point a finger and Hoover would give his own right back. He died before his youngest son, his liege; he died with a burden on his back and in his mind. He taught his children the meaning of luck by his lack of it and the meaning of superstition in how it was always against him.

Elaine Weston Hoover watched ash fly and called it Martin, her oldest two by her side and her youngest in a track chair. The sky should have been blue, but it was clouds of gray—yet, in parts of their countenances, there were quaint specks of blue, scattered about like hidden relief amongst the gray complexion.

Scott, Nell, and John Hoover watched as their father became physically unreal and mythical, gray ash flying about in the wind like fractured pillows. Those ashes scattered about the land their father loved, looking as if making wrong turns on their quests for independence—lost, completely lost, and not enough time to find ways back to the box that had contained them.

24 years

In the apartment they had shared for a short time, Nell watched as Dylan’s legs splayed out in front the redone couch that she

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had dumpster dived for two years before. The evening was a humid yet cold one, so Nell kept the window closed for that reason, as well as to hide the smell of Dylan’s joint. His head leaned back on the couch and white smoke blew from his lips with a look of dreary slow motion about it, forming clouds around the light bulbs. The stiffness she had felt for weeks in his thrusts during sex suddenly seemed to fade from him, as the joint took effect and made him calm. His petite Adam’s apple stood out from his neck like a tumor set to metastasize passed its borders. Almost as if she had stepped on grass fresh out of the city, Nell’s self-doubt, her overwhelming sense of personal loathing, took a breath and was silently pushed from the living room—now she could see her boyfriend without the burden of weight pressing, pressing down crushingly on her back.

“I am seriously loving life right now,” Dylan said with a laugh tailing up behind.

“This week’s been brutal, Nell—you have no idea.

Remind me never to take overtime again as long as I live.”

“It has been a rough week, it’s true,” Nell said. She found herself standing behind the kitchen counter, facing the living room, with the cutting board sitting before her with sour dough breadcrumbs scattered across it. The bread knife lay there with crumbs in its teeth, like someone passed out after a hangover. Nell picked it up and examined the handle—part of a set that her mother had given two years before when she graduated college. No, Nell thought, I better not. Way too Jerry Springer. Nell placed the serrated knife on the cutting board with a quiet tap of decision, and walked into the living room, her camisole moving about her hips like a curtain.

Dylan let out another breath of pale smoke, squinting his secretly Asian eyes even further to the point of being closed. “You wanna take a hit? I know your week’s been rough too since you got that internship.”

“No thanks,” Nell said, standing in the center of the rug. “I’d like to keep that internship if you don’t mind.”

“They won’t drug-test you. They barely even pay you, why would they spend money on you? At least at Wal-Mart they pay me eleven bucks an hour.” His arm was still, outstretched with the burning blunt baited in his fingers.

“Certainly never heard that one before, dude.”

“Hey, I wasn’t saying that to start a fight. You don’t have to always assume the worst.

I’m sure you’ll start making more money soon.”

Of course—I’m the one starting a fight, Nell thought, digging her grimace into her teeth and making a smile-like curl with her mouth. “Okay, you weren’t starting a fight. But I do think we need to talk.”

“Oh here we go,” Dylan said, leaning back against the couch again. “I know that tone.

Women just have that tone when there’s a problem. Whatever it is, can’t it wait? I’ve been waiting to do this all week.”

God, what a man, Nell thought.

“Dylan, I just want to talk about something important that I think you should hear before I go home tomorrow for that visit.”

Dylan responded to Nell’s soft, placatory voice with a look of sideways relief and a sigh. “Alright, then. I’m sorry for stereotyping you. Go ahead.”

“I don’t need permission, but whatever.” She cut him off before he could talk himself back up, “You remember about a month ago, when I missed one of my pills, but we decided to fool around anyway?”

“Yeah, I remember.” A deep, throaty guy voice took over Dylan’s tone, reminding Nell why she hated most of Dylan’s army friends who were twenty years old or so. “Which reminds me, we need to have a lot more sex like that in my opinion. I’m high right now, so I can be as honest as I like.” He pointed his finger at Nell, as if it were his M-16 down at the base.

“Dylan,” Nell said, digging her uncut nails into her arms, the pain keeping her from snapping back. “Can you focus please?”

“Hey, I’m sorry! I told you that I was a very blunt person the first day I met you and the weed just makes me more so. I was just saying I remembered it well.”

Motherfucker, the word tickling the entirety of Nell’s subconscious. “ I know you do. I remember you told me it was one of best orgasms you had ever had. And I remember feeling flattered. Ever the charmer you are, Dylan.”

“You didn’t seem to be complaining 83

at the time. Shut up and fuck me, I remember you saying. Never seen you that wild before—it was great to see.”

Nell dug her nails deeper into her triceps, hoping they would drip blood to the floor in order to perfectly externalize everything. “I also remember you saying that you would pull out. That I had to “trust you” and your vast experience of jacking off. That you could time it correctly. Well, that just makes me a fucking fool, doesn’t it?”

“Look, I knew what I was doing. You don’t have to worry about this. I know you get paranoid about things a lot. Just come sit with me and unwind.”

“I can’t sit with you and take a hit, you dense pencil dick.”

“Shit, where did that come from?

God, are you on your period or something? I know Megan recently had hers and I know that women—”

“I’m knocked up. I’m tired of trying to say it and you sidetracking me. You hear that, you ignorant son of a bitch? You hear what I’m saying to you? Or are you too lost in your own goddamn world to understand what the fuck I’m saying?” Nell had leaned in towards Dylan and was glaring at him through her boxer’s downward glare. He looked up at her from the couch, all traces of his superficial high evaporated, proving to Nell that he only exacerbated it because he wanted to. She then walked away to the kitchen, hiding her anger-induced tears. Nothing could describe a more private act in Nell’s mind and no one saw it, except for Dylan, who made it happen all the time.

He sat on the couch with a blank expression, which Nell watched from the kitchen go from that first stage, to shock, and then to confusion before he spoke again.

“I know I pulled out. I was so certain of it. Are you sure?” Dylan said, like his science project had gone wrong.

“Did I sound sure when I told you?”

Nell could feel herself craving a glass of whiskey, though instinct told her not to try for it.

“Have you been to the doctor?”

“No—hence why I’m telling you now after three tests,” Nell said, cutting herself a piece of sourdough bread. It was all she could do to 84

keep from screaming.

“Then how can you be one hundred percent sure? I read somewhere that those tests can be wrong pretty often, especially if you use a certain brand. What brand did you use?”

“I threw up this morning after you went to work. And I never get sick.” Nell kicked herself for slipping out sarcasm—last thing she wanted was a fight.

As he leaned forward off the couch, drops of sweat began to form on Dylan’s temples.

“And you’re not saying this to mess with me? To get back at me for pressuring you last month? Because I know how you can hold grudges over little things and I know how women can be—”

“What did you just say to me?” Nell put down the bread on which she had been nibbling.. “Dylan, did you just hear yourself? This is not a joke to me and I’ve always made that clear.

And it’s fucking insulting that you don’t remember that. That you don’t seem to remember what an unplanned baby means for me.”

“Means for you? What about me?

I’m a part of this too. That’s my kid in there and I’ll have to provide for it,” Dylan said, readying for the responsibility that, Nell believed, he appeared suddenly too excited for.

She wanted to shoot him with her handgun, feeling her hands begin to grip at themselves. “You moron, are you kidding me? I can’t have unplanned kids, because I don’t know if they’re going to be sick or not. If it’s a boy, I can’t have it. Are you seriously telling me that this hasn’t occurred to you yet?”

Dylan appeared at a loss of words in his terrified pause. “No . . . of course not—”

“I can’t believe this. I’m such a fucking idiot.” Nell hands held her head for a moment before she started laughing,almost with a sense of euphoria that she was sure Dylan would be jealous of at any other time. Gradually, Nell felt that she was shaking and became aware of her eyes melting out in drops. “It’s my fault for giving you a moment of my trust. I’m more pissed at me than you right now. I let you and your dick make the most important decision of my life—and I think of it like you have no control over yourself, like no guy does. Do you know how fucked up that is? I’m such a pushover that I let you get inside my head and twist it around and make me

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stupid. I’m a fucking stupid person for ever letting this happen—”

“Nell, calm down,” Dylan said, standing up with not trace of a stagger. “You’re not a pushover. We were having fun. It’s going to be okay. Just calm down.”

Nell, her face leaving her hands, unleashed her venom. “You fucking calm down! This is the one thing I had control over—just knowing that I was a carrier. It was the only good thing to come out of John being born the way he was. I was smart about it my whole life until it mattered.

And now I have to be the fucking bad guy, because not for one fucking second am I letting this happen.” Her throat began to close in on itself for how dry and tired it felt and she suddenly wished that she was already at home, where things made some type of sense.

Dylan, standing in the center of the living room and partially turned away, looked at her with an epiphany on his mind. “What if you haven’t passed it on? What if it’s a healthy kid?”

The atmosphere seemed to have quieted down with Dylan’s attitude. “Then I might have it. I don’t know—it’s a fifty-fifty shot.

But if I do pass it on, even if it’s a carrier girl, I’m not going through with it.” Nell sat down on a living room chair and forwent saying anything further. She felt air start to move around the room when Dylan turned the fan on—whatever remaining weed there was blew around and away.

“What if your parents knew about you and they didn’t have you?”

“Then I wouldn’t exist and I wouldn’t have an opinion about it, would I?”

“That’s not how I looked at it. Aren’t you glad they didn’t?”

“You mean am I happy to be alive?

Should I be grateful for my parents not knowing?

I get to be here and that’s that. Looking back on it is bullshit sentimentality used to make people like me feel guilty. Don’t you try to manipulate me for a moment.”

“I told you I would never manipulate you.”

“You do it every day, maybe without even realizing it. You’re too trusting, my dad always said. Man, that smart bastard had me pegged.”

Dylan sat back down on the couch

and implored Nell to look at him head on, which she suspected was to promote the right sense of earnestness he wanted to convey. “If the baby is not sick, what reason is there not to have it?”

Nell looked toward the ground and, suddenly, she began remembering from a far off conversation when she and Dylan first started dating the year before. The human interest questions that all prospective couples run through.

Abortion: pro-choice or pro-life? Dylan, with his divergence from church and confusion about faith, had never abandoned those values that forged him so differently from Nell. She wondered on how many occasions would she have to contend with their future in raising children had the two of them gone that far into their relationship. Like they never had before, those values that Nell respected and appreciated in Dylan vibrated from him like the deep-rooted trees in the earth.

She could see it, as it had never been clear before, what waited for them shortly in the near future.

As Dylan couldn’t possibly know at that point in the conversation, Nell’s decision had already been determined and finalized in her mind. She was merely letting him know.

“I’m the last carrier in my family, and the Duchenne gene stops with me. I told myself years ago that’s how it would be and I’m sticking by it. I don’t want to have kids who I know will die before me. Most of them don’t turn out as well as John did. Don’t try to talk me out of it, because it’s only going to start another fight. If you can’t live with that, then I’m sorry Dylan. I’m not doing it.” Nell let her words fall off.

Dylan’s face developed a red shade and it reminded Nell just how much he liked to bottled up—just like her, so very often. “It’s my kid too and I want you to be sure.”

She sat silently before him, her battle already won.

Nell’s Honda shuddered out in the clinic parking lot with the window rolled down and the winter wind blowing past the inner heating system. She was free to leave whenever she wanted since her nausea had disappeared, but she still felt fatigued in random parts of her body.

The chill kept her from falling asleep, and she decided that she would leave once she finished her 85

cigarette.

Her family’s vacationing winters in the Adirondacks came into her memory out of nowhere, and in all of these memories, John could walk and sled down steep hills along with Scott and her together. John laughed and turned his cheeks red with every white breath he exhaled, and always Nell was with him, his Irish twin, running through the snow, spending moments lost in the wonderful present. She couldn’t wait to see him again, as her last visit to the farm hadn’t been nearly as long as she wanted, though Nell at this point no longer had to worry about anyone’s schedule but her own—as well John wasn’t looking too well these days, since the cold was harsh to him.

She blew out her final breath of smoke and tossed her cigarette to the asphalt before rolling up her window. Nell took one final glance at the kept up clinic, her memory completely without gaps of what happened in there.

Putting the car in drive, she turned from her parking and drove away, her cigarette burning until there was nothing remaining.

26 years

John, a man of perpetual half-height in a wheelchair, looked on at his sister, his Irish twin older sister, who had fallen asleep with her head curled up on top of her outstretched arm, in the armchair in his bedroom. She had placed it there at the foot of his bed, where he could see her easily from the pillows. A tracheostomy tube jutted from his neck and the blankets covering it were at a strange angle—as a result, it allowed precious heat to escape from inside the blankets.

Heat had become to him just as important as the aerosol antibiotics that were keeping the infection in his lungs at bay. The slight recognition of less heat only magnified his fear of not having as much as he could get. Nell had placed the blankets softly on top of the tube, her eyes dancing between it and John’s face, and then had gone about ensuring that the rest of the blankets were tucked in enough for complete insulation. He’d recognized that look on her face—the one worn especially when forced to meet people she’d never met—and knew he should have said something.

Call it resigning oneself or a decreased malicious attitude—John hadn’t felt the need to remind her 86

to place the blankets around the tube and not over. He couldn’t even lift a pencil anymore and given time, speaking into his voice software for a while would wear his throat out.

Scott used to put him to bed in that same bed back when all of them were still in high school. John’s groans held a specific unit of annoyance for when Scott would place a pillow in the wrong manner under his younger brother’s legs or arms or would adjust his hips too much the wrong way.

“You’re such a little asshole, John,” Scott would always whisper, so that their parents wouldn’t hear him on the baby monitor next to John’s bed.

John sighed, which he suspected would be seen as condescending. “Well, I wouldn’t be if you would do it right. You get angry with me for letting you know when you do something wrong, and it’s not my fault you can’t listen to what I’m saying.” The advancement of John’s age and maturity came out subtly, reminding Scott and occasionally Nell that he was in fact on a different level from his siblings, having passed Nell in school and nearly graduating ahead of his brother, four years older than himself. Prodigy, the magic dirty word, and the reminder to others that they were ordinary.

“You act like I can’t understand what you’re saying. Like I’m a fucking moron,” Scott would say, his eyes more hurt and insulted than angry.

John would grind his teeth and keep his voice steady. “Well, that’s not my intention. Just get it done, because I’m tired and I had wanted to go to sleep before midnight. But I guess I can’t do that now.” It would usually be after John’s set time. He knew Nell would understand that he hadn’t meant it to be condescending, only that he was frustrated. John believed that Scott, though he loved his brother, took things too much to heart.

Nell, his best friend from childhood, the sometime bully who encouraged him to try harder, and the one who could finish his sentences, was the one who received minimal criticism for any help she offered her little brother. Scott, the unintended black sheep, received the blunt of John’s annoyance, and Nell would constantly have to remind John that Scott didn’t get near as

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much practice as she did and couldn’t be blamed for not being perfect. Nell could often speak the language of the male members of her family— with their father and John, though less so with Scott. Those moments of hatred between Scott and John more or less decreased with the passage of time. And, of course, with the death of their father. Scott helped as often as he could and at that moment he was likely in his car driving back toward the farm from Alabama, where he lived with his wife and son—the first they would see him in a month.

“I thought you would have fallen asleep by now,” Nell stated into the open air.

John realized that he hadn’t dozed off like he thought he would. The ache at the front of his skull was still at its centered place of seeming drilling and he could feel sweat building up in his socked feet. Though the main lights weren’t on, he could sense that her eyes were focused on the tube and the open hole just below his vocal chords, which acted as an outlet for his antibiotics. She’d never intentionally look at it if she had optimal lighting, which would showcase the machine that breathed with her brother.

John spoke slowly, the effort unsurprising. “I think I was starting to fall asleep just now, but I probably would have woken up in an hour or so anyway. Build-up of mucus and such.”

Nell looked on in a way that John couldn’t visually see, but he knew her well enough to know that it was likely one of stoicism. “Sorry about that either way—some is better than none.”

The red light from his digital clock reflected off her in the darkened room and it showed her resting her face on her hand. Such a familiar view from the pillows: that worn out woman who was too old to be his sister.

“It’s recommended that if you’re going to sleep at all that you should get at least three hours—anything less than that would be bad for me.” John felt so fatigued, like he had been running for hours and had just gotten to rest—though of course, John hadn’t run in sixteen years, not since he was ten and he needed the chair to travel long distance. He remembered being able to walk for a few years after the chair— short distances anyway—but how empty he had felt when the day came that his father helped him from the couch and into his chair and John

hadn’t been able to offer any kind of movement or strength to help him. How his father undoubtedly felt the weight of the years to come.

Nell grunted a laugh. “I never knew the exact number for that. I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m late for a deadline or have to give a presentation to some client. I probably would have avoided a lot of fuck ups that way.” Nell was a freelance technical writer and copy editor, which she felt was a perfect job for a full time farmer and caregiver. She also ran a walnut hulling station with their neighbor during the season, antiqued, welded, and ran a spot down at the farmer’s market in town. John was sure that she never stopped working—she was, in his mind, a nicer version of their father. Their mother, Elaine, was eternally grateful for Nell’s presence at the farm—as was John. “Maybe I’ll apply it for the off chance somebody puts me on a book contract.”

Nell paused for a moment, giving the questionable impression that she was exhausted, and then continued. “But I remember you gave your honors thesis the day after your kidney stone surgery. You got some points there for durability, Crip.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t as hard as you all thought it was. I already had everything planned out before I needed the surgery. And I was pretty happy with how it all turned out.” John tried for an upbeat tone, his throat vibrating just outside the wide-open skin casing the tube. He heard Nell take in a shaky breath and adjust herself accordingly.

“Yeah, not too many eighteen-yearolds come in there applying to grad school. ‘Crazy shit,’ they were probably thinking.” She let out a masculine laugh and John tried joining her.

“I hope Mom is finally getting some sleep; her hours have been crazy at the hospital these past few weeks. Poor woman needs to retire within the year, I say.”

John felt fluid building up in his airway and he needed to cough. Nell saw his chest beginning to contort too quickly, causing her to stand up unknowingly and turn on one of his desk lamps. “You need to sit up?”

He shook his head once, the cough he needed not forming. She threw back the covers to his shins and putting her arm under his 87

shoulders, began to sit him up. He weighed next to nothing, having been off the Deflazacort for weeks, and Nell actually had to pull back when she brought him up too fast. The ventilator came forward with John and she made sure the tube didn’t tug at his throat. Nell grabbed a hand towel from under one of his narrow arm pillows and held it to his face, looking at his brown hair— their mother’s hair—as he tried with great effort to cough up the fluid from his lungs. He was at that point in the stages of his illness when even those muscles were too weak to be of any use and John’s chest felt like it was being beaten with rocks. Nell slapped the middle of his back lightly.

John’s breathing, though erratic, grew calmer and slower in a few minutes. Nell laid him back down onto the bed, readjusting his arm pillows in quick time. She motioned to the Oxygen tank beside the ventilator with her thumb, and John nodded with his eyes closed.

“Not much longer now, I think,” John said with closed eyes.

“Shut the fuck up, John,” Nell whispered to herself as she placed the mask around her brother’s face. The lamp’s light created shadows across the room—the mask casted over John’s eyes and the circles under Nell’s eyelids.

She switched it off and sat back down in the armchair, where she remained awake for the rest of the darkened early morning, eventually hearing her mother walking around in the kitchen and starting to brew coffee. Only then did Nell look back toward the window to see pale light beyond the trees, with their spider-like impressions of greeting.

30 years

Nell’s left hand rested unknowingly on her lower abdomen with a type of balanced pressure—protective and gentle enough to ensure security. Like defending a robbed vault, contents whisked away with complete intention, yet she tried not to remember, or instinctively didn’t acknowledge it. Everywhere, all she saw were blurred lines—hay and trees, barns and creeks, hills and different hills rolling incessantly together like twins—the discoloration of her environment emphasized by the lack of light. It was impossible to call the withered grass green, brown, or nothing at all, because it was too early for it 88

to be anything other than gray. Her right hand reached for a cup of decaf sitting on the patio table next to her and she drank it in small gulps.

Her hands shook slightly whenever she placed the mug down, always savoring the few moments of warmth from the ceramic—especially when the wind blew hard enough to send pre-raked leaves flying in all directions. Nell stayed bundled up in her Carhartt, shaking sleep off and watching the lines grow distinct.

She looked down at her left hand, with her narrowed brows coming to a vanishing point on her face. There was no feeling in it, her aging hand—the wind sucked it all away and the skin had gone dry. Like a corpse’s hand, severed and bloodless. Nell crumpled it into fist, taking up part of her shirt and a fat roll as well. Blood flow resumed in her fingers as if production had fallen asleep and the increased rhythm was ecstatically painful. She could only think that it didn’t matter what she did, that no one else was involved in the state of her body: she could fall off her horse, get pierced by a rock in the gut, drink caffeine. It didn’t matter, for the choice was hers. All hers.

All emphatically hers.

She looked across the fields toward the neighbor’s house half of a mile down the way, the building completely deserted for reasons Nell hadn’t cared to find out. The chill was beginning to put shakes in her limbs and the sight of that house—lived in by four different families in eighteen years, all courtesy of bad relationships with her dead father—made the cold feel nearly unbearable to her. Especially in her bare feet, broken and coarse in the balls and heels of them, like the too many men in her family. She brought her eyes back to her immediate surroundings, to the chairs naturally brunneous but instead stained gray, to the acorns so easily broken between the teeth of her hogs, to the stray pebbles that resembled shell casings, and Nell felt a weight on her chest—implausible and vexing.

A starling woke Nell from her observing. She saw the sister hills six hundred feet in front of her house: the hay with its winter hue, the trees seasonally naked, and her barn still in several pieces after a three-day long blizzard three weeks prior. They were all separate, all of their own existence now that the day had started.

She stood from her chair, stiff from the wind, and

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stood with bare feet on the concrete—a statuesque, lonely figure, on one side of a hill. One existence, only one. Empty.

34 years

The hospital waiting room was filled from top to bottom with death and illness hanging about people’s faces and figures, all of them ready to succumb to their horrible fates—at least that is what they all believed, and Nell wanted to yell at all of them to shut up, but no one would listen to the hormonal pregnant woman “losing her mind” over routine things. She simply wanted tomorrow or the day after to arrive, so she could go home and be a stay-at-home mom for a few weeks. Elaine sat beside her, the three-child expert and veteran nurse, freshly retired and ready for more grandchildren. She reminded her daughter when and how to breathe and remained calmly alert whenever Nell was ready to chew through her mother’s arteries.

“Any idea when Scott and Lori are getting here?” Nell asked, her hand gripping her chair.

“Nell, I have no idea. You know how he is about showing up on time.” Elaine looked at her watch without thinking about it, the one a neighbor had given to her in a coffee can when Nell was twenty. “You feel another one coming on?”

“No, I’m okay for the moment. Just a little nervous,” Nell said, her hand hovering over her stomach like the mother she thought she never she wanted to be.

“That’s totally normal. No one said this would be easy.”

“Well no, it’s not just the baby—that hotwire shut off in the front pasture, I’m not a hundred percent on the grants that I looked at— the structure and grammar and so forth. Ooh, and Price was worried about me working the hulling station again this year and though I’d like to have some more spending money this year—”

Elaine touched Nell’s shoulder.

“You’ll induce your own labor at this rate if you keep ranting on like that. It’s like sticking Oxytocin in your thigh.”

“Is that your medical opinion ‘oh wise farmer woman,’ or are you just supersti-

tious?” Nell laughed at her own joke, not caring if she acted slightly ridiculous—it was a role she didn’t mind fitting into on that particular day.

“Nice pig livestock metaphor by the way.”

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Elaine said didactically. “Motherhood is a scary thing, but I’m here to help you.”

Though Nell knew it was a childish way to think, she felt herself choking back her gag reflex. She said in a whisper, “I’m glad you’re here with me. If only Scott would get his ass up here sooner—I miss my nephews.”

“He’ll be here as soon as he can.”

The two women waited beside each other, unconsciously several inches apart, with the running noise of the hospital in the background constantly. Nell tried to distract herself with her book, since she knew she’d be unable to read soon enough, but her rambling thoughts couldn’t stop looping.

“Can those genetic tests have false positives?” Nell asked, failing to mask the hint of desperation she felt.

Elaine looked over at her daughter— her doppelgänger and thirty years younger—and Nell could suppose that her mother once saw herself in the same scenario, but in Elaine’s memory there was the normal, expected type of fear of parenthood and another person to be her rock— the price of unenlightenment being a lack of choices for carriers all alike. Nell was on her own by choice and had the full knowledge of John’s condition in her eyes.

Elaine said, “Those tests have come a long way in the last several decades. The doctors checked her; she’s not a carrier. She’s not going to have to worry about anything like this ever.”

Silence lay between them like a friend in the room. Her eyes heating leisurely, Nell touched her mother’s hand. “Thank you, Mom.”

Elaine, just as gratefully uncomfortable with affection as Nell was, looked away briefly and said, “Well, you’re welcome.”

Elaine’s eyes, growing redder in their sun-wrinkled sockets, looked past Nell to something behind her.

“Hey kid,” Scott said from behind Nell. “I heard you were having a baby today.”

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She turned around to find her brother and her disproportionately short sister-in-law.

Smirking, Nell said, “Well, where the fuck have you been, man?”

Both she and Scott cracked up when a woman down the row of seats moved her child away. Elaine appeared amusedly disapproving but didn’t say a word. ...

Willa looks up at Nell with those hazel eyes that remind Nell of her father and she only thinks, You will be the death of me, girl. The house is finally silent for the first time in hours, so much so that even sounds Nell doesn’t usually hear are prominent—the washer, the fridge, the weather radio shouting about storms out in the south end of the county, the Retriever sneezing all over Sammy’s recliner—lived in by that elevenyears dead Pyrenees, who likely still has hair seeped into the crevices of whatever entails the soul of the chair. Willa gazes at her mother from the oak wood crib, as if Nell has said something that the child can’t believe.

Nell continues to sing while her baby calms, crooning a soft little hymn she once sang in the college choir well over ten years before. Softly as the wind chimes that make Willa smile in the morning when they sit on the patio to watch the sun rise, Nell recites quiet verses in her delicate soprano range, which is only on key because of how quiet she chooses to be out of fear that too loud a voice will generate future nightmares of Italian opera—speaking horrors to infants.

Willa has never heard her mother sing before, mostly because Nell had always been self-conscious about her voice and most things.

It never ceases to amaze her what details affect other things—nothing gives her confidence in the field of persuasion like a captivated audience.

Nell keeps holding the baby’s gaze even when Willa thinks that other aspects of the world inside her crib are important enough to hold her attention, with Nell toying with her through the use of a worming index finger, making Willa giggle slightly after crying for two hours. Not hungry, not wet, just in a general state of distress. Being only one month old, it isn’t too surprising, but then again she is the first one, which Nell had heard is the hardest unless one was lucky.

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Nell looks at her daughter’s nose, small and turned up, and tries to remember if anyone else in the family has one like Willa’s. For the moment, she realizes that she is drawing a blank and decides to let it be. Answer those types of questions for when her first conscious Father’s Day comes around. I have time to have her all to myself, before her disappointment of “living without” comes to be her companion, Nell thinks.

Willa only looks at Nell through half-moon eyes at this point, provoking Nell’s hymn to become quieter and quieter like the snake charmer she believes herself to be. Given time, Willa drifts off and Nell releases a breath.

They’re in the room that used to be Scott’s, mostly because of the bed that Nell had often slept in while he was in college or living as a post grad; Willa’s crib stands next to the bed. Nell walks over to the twenty-year-old stereo system, looks through the discs, and plays “Clair de Lune” as low as it will go. Nell watches her for a moment, stiffened and ready for action. Luckily, the baby remains asleep and tosses around a bit before looking more comfortable.

Nell stands for a few moments before running off to take a shower, switching off the main light and letting the horse night light dance across the ceiling. She closes the door behind her gently, the evening routine at its finale.

With a deadline in a few days, Nell had plenty of paperwork to finish before then. The last thing she wanted was to stir the baby—or her mother, which Nell always considers worse.

Walking through the hallway, Nell steals a glance backward toward the kitchen and, for reasons she is unsure about, walks over to the dining room table, which lays in between the bedroom hallway and the kitchen. She brushes her hand against the mahogany table, freshly stained and beautifully scratch free. Recalled to the forefront of her mind is a distant childhood memory, where her father broke this same table with his bare fist, and then subsequently kicked a hole through a thin wall he had just built for his bedroom. She remembers sitting there numbly at the table, isolated from her brothers who had been sent to school, unsure of what to do. Only knowing that her eight-year-old self was the cause of what was happening. Also coming to the forefront was the time when she was twenty-four,

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sitting at this table during dinner, drunk off wine and depression, and obnoxiously hanging onto John’s wheelchair whenever he said anything she thought was funny. He would stare at her and hate her behavior, unaware that she wanted to kill herself for how sad she felt. Their father, Martin Hoover, poured her another glass and told everyone to leave her alone. He knew and saw in her his same eyes, that same hole, that same sorrow. The next week he taught her how to aim his

hunting rifle—her rifle.

Nell looked to the corner of the room, where her Remington sat behind a baby fence, cut off from Willa’s curious hands, but loaded and ready. Definite number of shells, all filled with silver pellets. Nell looked on at her rifle and saw her father’s eyes staring back at her, spent yet prepared.

Ready to fill with smoke.

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Ribbons on the Marsh Melissa Foster Watercolor on particle board

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A Verse in Greeting Courtney Ragland Good afternoon, my dearest one Though all this day is morning Pale and clear and cool it is And much too fair for scorning Good afternoon, my dearest one I speak to wish you well Our troubles and concerns in life Are less than some can tell Good afternoon, my dearest one And may all your days be good Prosperity is your lot in life You are loved and understood Good afternoon, my dearest one And you’ll never be less dear I’ll love you longer than I’ll live That vow is true and clear Good afternoon, my dearest one Open your eyes and smile For nothing brightens an afternoon Like your company for awhile Good afternoon, my dearest one Throw aside your woeful care For you are loved and well and blessed And the day is pale and fair

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Corner of the Eye Suayo Tian

Ink, pencil, charcoal, smoke

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Survey Sarah Scarbrough If I had round glasses Would you love me more Than square or cats Eyes stand out What color do you Prefer, Red or Green Please Say Red I never do this And maybe I will Not but Then there’s you

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Ownership Mandy Skaggs These feet are not for you.

They are for exploring that which I find exciting.

They are for walking backwards because I enjoy doing that.

They are for getting around in a life full of places, people, and things.

They are for me.

These legs are not for you.

They are for dancing in the sunlight, the moonlight, and in the rain.

They are for crossing when I sit down because I’m a “lady.”

They are for supporting me when I need to stay strong.

They are for me.

These knees are not for you.

They are for prancing up and down mountains and across streets.

They are for buckling when I am too nervous.

They are for allowing me to kick and to run and to be free.

They are for me.

These hands are not for you.

They are for jotting down ideas and for organizing my thoughts.

They are for throwing crumpled papers and missing the trashcan.

They are for holding the hands of the people I love and I want to be close to.

They are for me.

These arms are not for you.

They are for stretching in the waking hours of early morning.

They are for catching me when I fall, because clumsy people have these problems.

They are for lifting myself off the ground when I must, I must, I must rise.

They are for me.

These breasts are not for you.

They are for guarding my heart and the love it contains.

They are for making my belly seem smaller by comparison.

They are for nursing infants I have the right to produce or not produce.

They are for me.

These eyes are not for you.

They are for reading books and for counting the stars.

They are for batting to my boyfriend when I try, and succeed in, having my way.

They are for searching for a way out, a way in, and a way to remain.

They are for me.

This hair is not for you.

It is for being tossed back in the cooling breeze.

It is for getting picked out of my shirt by people I might not even know.

It is for keeping my head and therefore my body warm.

It is for me.

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This mind is not for you.

It is for considering and making decisions.

It is for keeping me sane when I swear the world has gone mad.

It is for my imagination which refuses to deplete.

It is for me.

This body is not for you.

It is for the storage of the organs, bones, and muscles that give me and everything I create the ability to exist in this world.

It is for a balance of work, play, and those awkward times when I can’t get past the person in front of me.

It is for making things possible. Not for you. Not for your entertainment. Not for your pleasure.

Not for your benefit.

It is not for you.

It is for me.

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Mad Men Transition Scene Taylor Helfrich Oil on canvas

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Editor’s Choice

Magical Mushrooms and the Land of Opportunity Chris Tedeschi

I remember in high school I never thought I’d do drugs. I mean, I smoked weed a few times, but who hasn’t? Liars. That’s who.

However, after two years of college my ideas on a few things had changed. That girl I met at the beginning of freshman year probably wasn’t as cute as I thought she was during those few months I spent torturing myself over unrequited love. Maybe “Garden State” wasn’t the perfect film I thought it was and I was just going through an angsty period, and maybe I’d try drugs.

I expected college to be different from what it turned out to be. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t expect it to be like the films about crazy frat-houses or anything like that. Besides, I never even entertained the idea of joining a fraternity. I just didn’t expect it to be quite so boring.

College is supposed to be the time where everyone is drinking and getting laid. However, during my freshman and sophomore years I had not yet acquired the taste for alcohol and was not interested in trying to casually bed women.

See the second sentence in paragraph two.

So after two years of college seeming like an elevated version of high school mixed with summer camp where the bunk beds are located in dormitories instead of log cabins, my friend Sam offered me mushrooms in the middle of the afternoon, and I did what I never thought I would do. I said no at first because I thought he was just asking if I wanted them on a pizza or something, and mushrooms are disgusting, but then I said yes to drugs- drugs other than weed that is. Weed hardly counts as a drug. It’s not that I smoke it that much. I’ve actually only used marijuana like

three times, but I just feel strongly about separating it from actual drugs.

I remember him offering to place the mushrooms in tea so that they would go down easier, but I hate tea more than I hate mushrooms so that seemed like a bad idea. Instead I toasted a bagel and placed the magic mushrooms atop the cream cheese.

A few minutes after ingesting the worst bagel of my life, nothing had happened. I looked over at Sam and asked how long ‘shrooms usually take to work. He said it usually takes 15 minutes before any noticeable effects occur, so I sat on the couch and continued to stare at the television. After 15 more minutes nothing had happened. I was pretty skeptical at this point.

Maybe we ate a batch of duds. I really hoped I didn’t suffer through that for nothing. Mushrooms, magic or not, tasted awful. We decided to take a walk outside while we waited for the magic to begin.

After travelling on foot about half a mile down Oak Street we arrived at Walgreens.

Still neither of us felt any side effects from the drugs. Customers milled around the store choosing their items. I noticed a cute girl picking out some lipstick. I thought about going to talk to her, but Sam said that probably wasn’t a good idea even though I wasn’t feeling any effects yet.

Sam grabbed an ice cream bar inside and we got in the checkout line. Then things got a little weird for me. Everyone was looking at me. At least, I thought everyone was. They knew!

One old man was giving me a particularly judging stare. Sam tried to talk, but I quickly shushed him. If he said anything, they would hear. I let him know to pick his topics of conversation 99

wisely.

There was a small child with a bouncy ball behind us, and I have to be honest. It was really stressing me out. Walgreens is a place of business, not a fun house. Then the worst possible thing that could happen happened. The kid dropped his ball. It bounced past me and hit the back of the customer directly in front of me. The customer quickly turned around. I was sure they thought that I threw the ball at them and were probably going to fight me, but I can’t say that for sure because I quickly grabbed Sam and ran out of the store. I wasn’t going to die because of a drooling kid with bad reflexes that couldn’t catch a ball that he himself threw.

Once we got outside Sam wanted to go back and pay for his ice cream, but I immediately shot down that idea. “You think they’re going to just forgive us? We’re basically hardened criminals now. You can’t just steal ice cream. Plus everyone in there knew.”

Sam, for some reason not feeling any effects whatsoever, quickly explained that I was just being paranoid (which is one of the things that can happen when you’re super high), but agreed that we would just leave. Looking back I realize that stealing an ice cream bar is probably not that big of a deal, but when you’re on ‘shrooms everything seems like a big deal.

Besides it’s the only time I was ever involved in any kind of heist so I’d kind of like to remember it that way.

Sam suggested that we head back to his apartment, but I had a much better plan.

The apartment was half a mile away, which at the time seemed like 20 miles away. I was freaking out about everything at this point and couldn’t handle it. I smartly suggested we walk to the park, which I estimated to be an equal distance from us but ended up being at least mile from Walgreens. This way we would be farther from Sam’s apartment than where we were now, and his girlfriend would be more likely to come rescue us, and we wouldn’t have to walk as far. Thinking back on my plan with a sober mind, I realize that it made absolutely no sense mathematically.

However, at the time it was a solid plan. I swear to god.

As we were walking to the park my mental state quickly deteriorated. I picked up 100

a flyer for a missing dog. I put down a flyer for a missing dog when said dog on flyer started to bark at me. A statue winked at me. Normal stuff like that.

Once we arrived at the park, we laid flat on our backs and stared at the sky. The ‘shrooms had lowered all my filters and we began to talk freely about what we thought was wrong with the world and specifically the part of the world known as the Bible belt. We were now behaving as the intellectual middle-class beings that we should behave as. That is, until my legs melted into the ground.

The strangest thing about this part of the experience was that I was okay with it. I did not mind one bit that my legs were a thing of the past and that now I was a part of the ground.

I told Sam about my legs, and he just shook his head. He started to walk off, and I did probably the most miraculous thing I’ve done in my life thus far. I stood up. I stood up like a person that had legs. Shit. I actually did still have legs. Drugs are weird.

Apparently Sam had decided that it was time to make the trek back. I wasn’t quite ready though. Sam had just walked down a very steep hill, and I didn’t think I was up to the challenge. I looked down from the huge mountain of mud and grass and shook my head. “It looks treacherous.”

Sam just said I should hurry up. I went for it. I quickly scaled down the towering landmass with two steps. Two steps? What? It wasn’t that bad. I turned to look at the hill. From this angle it only appeared to be about 5 inches higher than the ground I was on now. Strange.

After walking for a few minutes the world began to look very different to me. It seemed as if somehow we had been transported out of the small town of Conway, Arkansas and into a world similar to that of a Lord of the Rings film. The sky became an odd shade of grey and it seemed as if no one else was in the city. The emptiness created an epic feeling of adventure that my high allowed me to indulge to a higher extent than usual.

Still sober Sam was like my sage wizard guide. I say this because Gandalf also was often not having any of people’s shit on journeys, and apparently I was being “obnoxious” when I

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was describing the kingdom around us.

Every stranger needs a weapon, and strangely enough I stumbled upon a sword lying on the ground. I know what you’re thinking. The sword was probably a complete figment of my imagination caused by the drugs. Of course the kingdom was a hallucination. However, to this day I do still have the blade in the trunk of my car. It is plastic and has a sticker of Peter Pan on it, but it does exist! What are the chances that I would be hallucinating a magical kingdom and stumble upon a toy sword? Thanks, God! Glad to see you’re cool with all this.

I soon realized that we weren’t alone in the city when we had to take a walk through a rundown neighborhood in which there were a lot of kids playing in the street. They seemed to be very interested in my sword. Looking back now I realize that they probably just found the image of a college-aged man walking around with a sword fairly humorous and were just being friendly, but at the time when they started walking towards me, it really freaked me out. I was quickly transported out of the magical kingdom and quickly shouted, “It’s just a toy!” and started running.

Sam quickly caught up and asked, “What the fuck happened back there?” but I knew no matter what explanation I provided he would not be able to understand. I still had enough of my sanity left to know that.

As we neared the apartment I saw a tree with a face on it in the middle of a small field. The grass around the tree was blowing in the wind, and I heard a beautiful song that I cannot describe as being anything but played by the wind itself. I knew that if I were going to become the ruler of this kingdom I would have to fight the tree. Unfortunately, Sam claimed this was a “bad idea,” and we continued on to the door of the apartment.

When we stepped inside the apartment looked foreign. I’d spent a lot of the last two years at the apartment, but it did not seem the same. The familiarity of the place where all of my friends had always hung out was gone. Sam’s high had apparently started to kick in as well because he agreed with me. Everything was the same, but it wasn’t.

One of his roommates had moved to Birmingham about a week ago and had left her

room completely empty besides a curtain partly covering the single window. The light streamed through the opening in the most beautiful way.

I was no longer imagining a magical kingdom.

I was just there in the real world. I lay on the floor in the room where one of our best friends had lived. This was a place that contained a lot of memories. Everything seemed to be moving much slower. I couldn’t believe that anything was happening in the world right now besides this.

We sat there for what seemed like days talking about our futures. “I’m going to apply to graduate school at USC. It’s the top music school in the country, and I want to be one of the best,” said Sam.

“I can’t wait to be in Los Angeles studying improv and working on scripts. I feel like I’m just wasting my life here. I want to do something big. Something that people I respect will actually care about,” I said.

“Fuck people and their small minds here! Everyone I know gets engaged and tied down as soon as they graduate, and then they never do shit. I want to have a family and all that one day, but first I want to make something of myself.”

“I know, man. It’s stupid. I’m glad someone else gets it,” I said.

We weren’t going to be like everyone else in the South. We weren’t going to get married to women right after college and give up our dreams. We weren’t going to accept comfortable jobs that we hated for safety. We were going to get out. This was the most interesting part of the trip. Life was real, and it seemed more exciting than ever.

Things change in life. That’s obvious. Sam and his girlfriend got even more serious. He’s not applying to USC and moving to California anymore. He said that the school was too competitive, and he didn’t think he’d get in.

One day he told me that he was going to take a really nice job in northern Arkansas that would have a great starting salary. He’d work there for a few years to gain experience and then apply to grad schools outside of the state. The next time I saw him he told me that he was going to take a job around the Conway area for a year or two to get experience to get that job he previously mentioned, and then he would work a few more 101

years at the other Arkansas school to get that experience before applying to grad school. I knew he probably wasn’t ever going to leave Arkansas after all. He wouldn’t receive that salary for four years and then give it up to go into debt.

I don’t plan on doing ‘shrooms again. It was far too exhausting. A day where all filters are gone takes a lot out of a person. That six-hour experience seemed like a week. I’m glad it happened though. Out of all the things I remember from this crazy, drug-fueled day, I

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remember one thing the most. I remember discussing the future. I remember saying my dreams aloud. I remember them not sounding silly like everyone around me seemed to think. I remembered my dreams sounding possible. I was going to do it.

I’m sticking with my decision, but to be fair, everyone that says my dream is silly may be right. I did make this life decision while I was super high.

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Lonesome Valley Emily Walter The rolling, dancing hills of home Struck cords of balance with The metal ones of cities.

Sight from afar and exposed To encompass the entirety, The integrity of adoration.

Robin egg concord, A shelter from the world, A pillar of declaration, One of “Fuck you, World, For I am home and free.” =

The gravelly, rugged plateau around this house Confuses instincts of vigilance by bringing forth New challenges to account in safety assessment.

Exposed view of whoever walks in these hills, Encompassing the wide range of a rifle scope, And the close, proximal slight of the aiming eye.

Black hole, prize winning, kill/be killed tournament, A self-taught universe of no rule, A pebble of clandestinity, One of “ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BOOM! Guess who’s eating tonight?”

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Nice Rack Sally Lee Oil on canvas

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RED MEAT TR Brady Editor’s Choice

She is here in this place again—a running fly on sap. If she holds her legs up any longer she might die, but they move. She kisses her wrist. She kisses her palm. All of her fingers. She tells them they’re beautiful the way her father used to. You are beautiful, she says. She is on a bed. A full.

Her tongue is swollen from Chardonnay.1 If she stops kissing and moving her legs she might drown.

She knows this. She’s seen drowning. Her father does it. He is Lazarus. A certain type of Lazarus. A merLazarus.2 It is 24 December 2014. He pats her hard on the back. She writes about this. She gives a detailed description of each pat.3 Right now she is on her back because of too much wine. She has been on her back before: with and without men, with and without women, with and without consciousness—always with a lull, a pull, and a hum. She has functioning lungs.4 She is here in this place again. The quilt is melding to her back knitting pearling moss stitching to her pores. They let too much air out, she says, cotton is warm.

She baas into the dark. Outside the streetlight blinks like a satellite. She asks it a question. A latch clicks on her door.

Sometime earlier. The woman,5 DR, is playing catch with a lefty. Lazarus. The ball has a curve. It hits her face twice. She is on her back. The clouds are stratus. She is in this place again—a fly running on sap. She has stuck her tongue to it. She was hiking.6 Loving the weather. Today, she notices, is nice and gray and a little red on the right side and high-gloss. Like a photo-realist oil painting. She went to a museum with her school and has seen paintings like this: The blue white stratus on the hood of a shiny black car. The people staring into it. Undulating. All in fedoras—little feathers sticking out. Bird men.7 Bird men, like all men, think pecking is okay. Even great. They all flap around. They all look like dads.

Maybe they are. How could they know? My father is a gray and brown bird, she says, has dull eyes, a limp talon, a chronic cough. She is on the ground spinning up at the sky. He looks at her—smiles wide.

Rub some dirt on it, he says fist full of clay. It smells like her dead dog. He puts it in her mouth. She 1 2

mortal.

Tastes like vomit. Iron. Comes in a box with a chartreuse label. This should be a warning sign.

A man who can live both on land and in sea—has no gills. Looks like a man. Feels like a man. Has a beard. Is im-

“Four. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. No difference between fingers and palm. All meaty. All one.” Br—y, Tay—r, Untitled Word Document 43, 6.

4 This is something necessary for survival.

5 Then girl. Approximately thirteen years old.

6 When she was eight she was under the impression that the tree was bleeding. She wondered what it tasted like.

7 Richard Estes, Reflections of the Woolworth Building.

3

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dies and comes back. She thinks this feels like baptism.8 9 Sometime earlier. She is here. For him. He’ll know this. She gives him a name. All men have this.

Have those stitches in their hand—FATHER.10 They’ll say: I’ve never held one, it’s too small, it moves its mouth too much. He moves his mouth too. The same way. She heard they tried psychoactive drugs on him in the 60’s before LSD was illegal.11 He will see how she is here. Now. Now under the covers. Come here. Come feel. Come swell. She will let him know now. She knows him as a ring round of smoke—as yellow stains—as bass voice and big hands. Her hands are here. Why can’t you stand them anymore, she says. She says so many things.

24 December 2014.12 DR keeps her laptop on her nightstand. She is a poet superstar. That’s what she tells everyone. She is working on a book right now:13

December 200914

It was cold outside and she told you to walk her to her car. You do because she’s older and nice to you. You’re wearing yellow and you think that she hates this. She doesn’t.

She borrows your scarf. You let her keep this all the way to the car. She’s parked in lower away from the school and your mom’s car. Debate boys are down there. They smile at you and the girl. She flips her hair and smiles pretty at you. You swallow. You swallow hard. Your throat sticks because it’s cold. She breathes and tells you not to look at the boys who look at her. She presses you to her car. You let her keep the scarf.

January 2010 Two girls are in a hallway. One girl has long hair and one girl has short hair. They’ve cried together before. Right now they don’t. They’re looking at each other. They touch each other’s waists and hands. They tell each other something. Two girls are in the hallway and they mouth things. They mouth these things into the other’s mouth. They skip class like this every day. Some days they sit in the cold in the older girl’s car. The younger girl’s breathe fogs up the window.

February 2010 Two girls are sitting in a living room. They’re sitting with the younger girl’s parents. The older girl tells them that they’re in love—that she will take care of the younger one. The younger one—let’s call her DR—doesn’t say anything. She cries. Her parents tell the older one to leave. DR doesn’t eat for days. She listens to the door. She is afraid of the older one. DR lies.

March 2010 Three girls are on a track. Usually there are four. They all watch each other. One of these girls is DR. They all watch each other and run. They stretch in the grass. DR has trouble keeping water down. She smiles at the other two girls. One of the girls—a girl DR has known for thirteen years—holds her shoulder. She tells DR a secret.

April 2010 A girl—her name is DR—shuts and refuses. Refuses water. She plans to live without it.

She is always walking. She watches herself naked flex and unflex. She wears dark things and writes poems. Keeps them in a folder. Shares them with other girls. They hold them in their mouths. All ink and teeth. They write them again. They show everyone. They show everyone.

May 2010 DR lies. She tells people that she’s a poet. DR has been saying this for years. Everyone

When a man holds you under. Always a man. One with wings. Not to be confused with an angel.

Yep, like an Oreo—they just dunk you, DR says. What if they hold you under too long? her sister asks. I can hold my breath for almost 60 seconds, DR says. How do you know?

10 Description of middle age wrinkles.

11 Lysergic acid diethylamide possession was made illegal in 1968.

12 After 13 Because people still read poetry, right?

8 9

14

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Garamond is the superior typeface. One day, DR hopes to have a cat by this name.

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starts lying. They say that DR is a poet. Something that she must live up to. DR buys a turtleneck. This is a step in forgetting.15

This is a step in forgetting. This is a step in forgetting. This is a step in forgetting, she says.

DR opens her mouth all the time. Warmth comes out of it and touches everyone.16 They begin to look to her for warmth. They’re all freezing and shivering and dying like babies.17 DR sometimes pulls out the old photo album—WINTER 1992. She is one year old in all of the pictures. She has happy pink cheeks.

DR wants to be there with her—hold her hand over her mouth—put her down in the snow and count.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen,18 she says. She stops. There.

First memory: Linoleum floor crisscrossed in white and cream, a man kneeling in polyester pants, leather cracked work boots, hands out smelling like menthols yellow and rough and unfamiliar, a woman saying she’s leaving. Movement. Small steps. A crying man. His eyes are brown and his face is hard. He doesn’t know how to hold. The woman leaves in a blur of noise. (Everything is violet and fast). He walks outside with her and stands in the sun for hours. The grass is high. She chews on this.

He forgets to watch.

25 December 2014. She learns how to move her legs again. She wakes up. Groggy. Early.

Smells coffee and dogs. The room is periwinkle.19 She cries about this. She tells the room she hates it.

I hate you, she says. She is at her parents’ home for Christmas. She has a duffel bag of bottles next to her bed wrapped in t-shirts. Her mother is smiling by the tree with a video camera.20 It’s blinking. Hi, she says. They unwrap presents. Her father is already gone. She heard them this morning:

MOTHER: You need to leave.

FATHER: This is my house goddammit.

MOTHER: Nobody wants you here.

FATHER: You’re a real bitch.

MOTHER: The kids might hear you. Just go to your parents’.

FATHER: It’s five in the fucking morning.

MOTHER: Then go somewhere else.

FATHER: Cunt.

A two door silver Nissan starts and skids out of the drive. The dogs howl. The woman howls too.

Later Christmas day. We’re going to your aunt Kris’s later, the mother says, we’re meeting up with your cousin—Jerry. Jerry is the dead cat, DR says. He was black, a mutt, a birthday present.21

Jerry died in the fall when DR was twelve. He was in the front yard. DR’s father was sup posed to be watching him, but he was slow. The neighbor, Dave, forgot to close his fence.

His Doberman got out.22 Jerry—DR imagines—never saw it coming. Just snapped his

neck. He was so red after that. Four weeks at the vet. They got to bring him home for

Christmas. They ordered book on how to take care of paraplegic cats. He cried all night.

DR couldn’t take it.23 She held him when he died. She blamed Lazarus.24 15 Excerpt from Sometimes, She Says.

16 Imagine a heat lamp or an air vent in winter or your lover’s mouth. Imagine that in the Arkansas winter after a

frost.

17 They: a flock, a number of people DR has met, an unnamed singular.

18 One should always stop at thirteen. Something happens here. Something should have stopped here. Stop.

19 A color for children.

20 DR hates how she sounds on video.

21 DR isn’t able to understand why living things are given as gifts.

22 The Doberman had already killed six cats.

23 Further information pending.

24 Risen from the dead in the New Testament of the Bible. He does not have the ability to do the same.

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Christmas dinner is on the table. DR is wearing her best sweater.25 Say grace, mother says. Make her do it, DR says. You’re never home—just say grace so we can eat. I don’t want to mess it up. If you prayed like you were supposed to you wouldn’t mess it up, just say it, the potatoes are getting cold. DR says grace.26 DR excuses herself for a moment. She unwraps one of the bottles. This is a step in forgetting, she says. She goes back—doesn’t touch the meat.

Meanwhile a gray and brown bird, one with a limp talon and dull eyes, is circling. He is always circling.27 DR imagines what he might be doing:

The bird is giving nuts to his parents. They love nuts for Christmas. He is calling DR’s

mother a cunt. Cunt, he says. His parents don’t know what to do. They blame the psy choactive drugs in the 60’s. They blame everyone except for the kids—this makes DR

feel good. He’s lazed out on their couch. His beard smells like cheap beer and nicotine

and whiskey.28 Birds don’t have beards. Oh—it’s him—it’s him—it’s him. And he is cir cling.

25 December 2014. DR is making a pecan pie with her mother. This is her favorite pie. She kneads out the dough.29 She loves the smell but she can’t eat it. It’s too sweet. Her mouth doesn’t know what to do with sugar. She misses spices. Spices, she says, spices.30 26 December 2014. Any bird will do, she says.31 She knows the prospect of salmonella. DR does not like needles.32 Remember I loved, she says. Remember. Remember. You said I loved this, she says, this is a step in remembering. Her legs are wedged somewhere between the safe and the periwinkle wall. She is here in this place again—a fly running on sap. A dead dog felting to a quilt. For Jerry, she says. Air stops. She is in a space, playing oracle. For Jerry, she says. The wall is red.33 Coo, she says, coo. This bird is so rare. She pecks the muscle on his chest—she misses how chests feel, how they hold heads and hold hands and hold some part of another’s body. This body, she says, is a slab for the spicing. This body, she says, cannot hold. He doesn’t know how to hold.34 In her bedroom she rips the feathers, they move and poke. Insert like tooth and bone. Insert. Here.35 Right down the sternum.

Somewhere the circling has stopped.36 Somewhere there are two hundred pounds of meat—so ripe, so ripe for the taking.

25 It is so red.

26 Our Father…help those who cannot help themselves…forgive…in Your Son’s Name. Amen.

27 Something that birds do when they’ve found prey.

28 DR does not have to imagine this. She knows that smell.

29 She sneaks small pieces into her mouth.

30 Cavenders, cayenne, cinnamon, cumin—all so sweet for her mouth.

31 DR lies. One bird. One bird.

32 She has seen her father with them, inch in his skin.

33 This is not a color for children. This is not a color for children.

34 She blames her mother leaving. Two weeks.

35 This is how BASS sounds.

36 When the circling has stopped it means death.

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On a Soapbox JJ McNiece There is wisdom entrenched in our souls.

Trusted teachers strangle and stab it.

We choke on abuse suffered then served across generations: a syndicated rerun.

We bleed and don’t understand why we are pulled to creators.

We forget in a dazed haste bandaging lacerations.

A soul remains stainless steel.

Only hearts and minds bear trauma and scars as we ride sublime clouds of stardust.

Survivors

Become Art!

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Time Trials Dylan Easton Editor’s Choice

CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE ZYALIS – Female time officer in her 20s or 30s; professional and ambitious JOE – Confused man from the present time, at least 10 years older than Zyalis; FOUR – A curmudgeonly member of the Council of Elders SEVENTY-SIX – A member of the Council of Elders with a penchant for the dramatic KYLE – A member of the Council of Elders showing signs of dementia SCENE ONE

(AT RISE: The set is dark. After a second, BRIGHT MUL-

TICOLORED LIGHTS AND THUNDERING NOISES fill the

stage for a couple of seconds, and then more darkness. A

spotlight illuminates the center of the stage. PRIVATE ZYA-

LIS, looking halfway between a police officer and a pop star,

stylishly leaps into the center of it. JOE, slightly older than

ZYALIS and dressed in a cartoonish pirate costume, oafishly

falls facefirst from the darkness and into the spotlight.)

JOE

Ugh, what just happened? Where am I? I don’t feel so good…

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ZYALIS Get up. Time is of the essence.

JOE

Wait, who are you? Wait, don’t tell me. I know you from somewhere. Where have I ZYALIS

(Points futuristic pistol at JOE.)

Stand. Up. I want you to look good in front of the council. This is my big day! The day I bring you to justice, Joe. With your bounty, I will finally make the name for myself that I deserve.

JOE

Huh? What are you trying…Where am I? ZYALIS The question isn’t WHERE you are, Joe. It’s WHEN you are. You’re in the Supreme Interchronological Chamber of Temporal Offences. Does that answer your question?

JOE

Uh, well. That answers where I am, yeah. But now I got a lot more questions.

(ZYALIS opens her mouth right as the lights flash

again and low foghorn like noise resonates.)

ZYALIS Shut up! The Council of Nintey-Nine Elders is entering the courtroom! Your judgment is nigh, Joe.

JOE

Yeah, you keep saying things, but I really don’t know what to do with it all. I really need to go home and ZYALIS The Council! They’re the elders! There’s 99 of them. Try to remember! They’re the ones who sentence scum like you who have no respect for the laws of time!

JOE

The laws of time? Listen, can I just go home now? We’re out of orange juice at home and I really don’t have time for

(ELDER FOUR walks into the room. He walks to a

second spotlight on the other side of the stage.)

FOUR Silence! I am Elder Four! I have seen mountains rise and crumble!

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(ELDER SEVENTY-SIX walks in. He waves his

hands around like a magician when he gets to his spot near

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FOUR.)

SEVENTY-SIX

Behold, I am Elder Seventy-Six. I have seen kings lose crowns and peasants pick them up!

(PAUSE. JOE and ZYALIS look around confused.

ELDER KYLE wanders onto the stage, lost in his own world.)

FOUR Psst! Get over here!

(KYLE seemingly just notices the other elders and runs up to

stand next to them.)

KYLE

Hey, guys. What’s going on?

FOUR We’re having a hearing, you idiot!

SEVENTY-SIX

(Dramatically)

Introduuuuuce yourself!

KYLE

Oh, uh. My name is Kyle. I enjoy gardening and couponing FOUR Not your real name, you old coot!

SEVENTY-SIX

Well, it doesn’t matter now. BEHOLD! We are the ninety-nine elders! Watchers of time!

ZYALIS I have called you here for a very important hearing, Your Timeliness. Where are the other elders?

SEVENTY-SIX

Oh, they’re on vacation right now. They went to go see the most stupendous show of all time—Rachel Ray vs Guy Fieri’s Celebrity Cook-Off on ice—back when ice was still a thing. They forgot to invite us, again.

FOUR

No, they forgot to invite ME again! They don’t invite you to these things because you’re an insufferable drama queen!

SEVENTY-SIX

You cranky old bastard! Call me that again and I shall release the fury of a raging sun upon you!

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KYLE

Wait, who are these whippersnappers? How did they get into my painting class?

SEVENTY-SIX

This is not painting class. We are in… THE CHRONO-DOME! FOUR No, Seventy-Six! This is a courtroom. We are not calling it the Chrono-Dome!

ZYALIS

(Clears her throat.)

Can you do a hearing without the rest of the elders?

FOUR Oh, I remember you. You’re the spunky little cadet who thinks she’s got something to prove. I hope you’re not wasting our time this… uh, time.

SEVENTY-SIX

We’re just as good as the other elders! We can declare this schmuck guilty without them!

(Three podiums roll onto the stage. Two stop in front of JOE

and ZYALIS. A grand one stops in front of the three elders.)

JOE

Wait, what if I’m not guil ZYALIS The accused is none other than the most horrendous name in all of history: Joe Biden.

(The elders start to clamor.)

SEVENTY-SIX

(Slapping his hands against the podium.)

Order! (others look at him, confused) What? Forty-Five always keeps the gavel.

ZYALIS I was notified of his whereabouts from an anonymous source two days ago. He fits the description perfectly.

JOE

Wait, there’s a mix-up. I’m not THE Joe Biden.

FOUR You’re not Joe Biden, the dreaded time pirate who nearly ripped apart the threads of space and time for his selfish conquests, nearly damning all life into ruin?

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JOE

Whoooaa, there. That’s some harsh criticism about the man. Heh, I don’t think he has it in him to be any kind of “time bandit.”

KYLE

Then that would make you THE Joe Biden, Joe Biden!

ZYALIS May I remind the elders of the court that the accused totally looks like a pirate.

KYLE

(Gasps)

She’s right! Hang him at the gallows!

ZYALIS His cruel deeds don’t stop there! While investigating the past, I stumbled upon a terrible anomaly.

The accused had assembled an entourage of history’s greatest foes. Together was Billy the Kid, Al Capone, Napoleon Bonaparte, two Draculas, a Ghostbuster, and sexy Abraham Lincoln.

SEVENTY-SIX

That is some damning evidence. I don’t know how else to explain this.

JOE

It was a Halloween. I was hosting a Halloween party, and I really need to get back to it, because my wife is ZYALIS He’s been fornicating with Abraham Lincoln!

(Elders gasp)

JOE

You did what!?

FOUR Why would you do that?

JOE

That was my wife!

(Everyone gasps)

SEVENTY-SIX

You can’t marry Abraham Lincoln!

JOE

That wasn’t- Abraham Lincoln is dead!

(Everyone gasps harder.)

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KYLE

He killed Abraham Lincoln and then married him! Hang him at the gallows!

FOUR I think we have heard enough. Zyalis, we commend you. Special honors are in order. We sentence the dreaded pirate Joe Biden to death.

JOE

Just like that? You can’t just play judge, jury, and executioner.

KYLE

Oh, but we ARE Tom, Jerry, and Executioner.

FOUR If you can prove your innocence before your execution, we shall extend the trial.

JOE

When is the execution?

SEVENTY-SIX

In four seconds.

(FOUR and SEVENTY-SIX pull out futuristic rifles from un-

derneath the podium. KYLE produces a medieval morning

star and swings it over his head.)

ZYALIS Wait!

JOE

Wait! No! I could give you another Joe Biden. I know where he lives! Stop! Mistrial! I call mistrial!

KYLE

Your precious Miss Trial can’t save you!

(The elders close in with their weapons. JOE drops

to his knees and begs.)

ZYALIS Stop! Lower your weapons!

FOUR The end is nigh, Biden!

SEVENTY-SIX

At long last, the span of time will be safe from your mayhem forever!

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KYLE

Yes, the time is now! This will all be over soon… I mean, over now.

ZYALIS Hold it!!!

(The elders start to lower their weapons.)

SEVENTY-SIX

Why? What is happening? Did something happen? I love it when things happen!

ZYALIS Stop the execution. You can’t execute this man!

FOUR Wait, why are we even listening to you, Officer? We’re in charge!

ZYALIS Shut up and don’t shoot already!

KYLE

I think we should do what the scary lady says.

ZYALIS Listen. I think I speak for everyone when I say that killing Joe would be a lot of fun.

(JOE shakes his head desperately.)

And he sure seems guilty, I know.

KYLE

Guilty as rain!

ZYALIS But you can’t declare a verdict without letting the accused defend himself, as guilty as he already is. If we just talk to him, we can find out what all he’s done and why he did it.

SEVENTY-SIX

Maybe even… WHEN he did it?

ZYALIS Yes, of course. I wasn’t going to forget to say “when,” Your Timeliness.

FOUR This isn’t a terribly stupid thought, Officer, but really, how much time should we even be spending on a trial, for Time’s sake? And the trial for the most dangerous criminal of all time, no less! We should get this over with. You don’t think I deserve a vacation, too?

(SEVENTY-SIX and KYLE nod their heads.)

117

ZYALIS No, Your Timeliness. Justice comes first.

SEVENTY-SIX

She has a point! We have to figure this case out like the geniuses we know that we are! If we do a really nice job with this trial, then the other elders will want to hang out with us more! Right? Riiight?

(FOUR and KYLE nod their heads.)

KYLE

So, if we add up all of the evidence… then this guy here…

(KYLE pounds his fist into his hand in epiphany.)

Must have time traveled!

(FOUR and SEVENTY-SIX just glare at KYLE.)

What? I mean, if you really connect the dots, it’s all pretty obvious.

FOUR We can’t just go back in time and see the scene of the crime, though. Only Temporal Defense Officers and Elders are authorized to use time travel. It would irresponsible to leave him in the present, and just outright foolish to take him back to the past.

KYLE

I don’t want him to think I’m foolish!

JOE

But I am FROM the past! That’s where I am supposed to be! Not here! Or, uh, now.

ZYALIS Elders. Don’t you have another way of seeing past events without actually travelling?

FOUR

Oh, no! No, no, no, no! We are not using the—

SEVENTY-SIX

Oh, yes! The Dimensional Window!

FOUR No, not that stupid thing! It’s so… Stupid!

KYLE

Ooh! I’ll go get the holograms ready!

SEVENTY-SIX

Yes, Elder Kyle! Go! Run! Your time needs you!

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(KYLE prances off the set.)

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

JOE

What is the… the what?

SEVENTY-SIX

Oh, you’re going to love this, Joe. It’s one of my favorites. It’s so… Flashy!

(SEVENTY-SIX makes a flourish like a stage magician.)

You see, the Window allows us to watch specific events from a person’s past. All we need is at least two people who were present for the same event, and we can cross-reference those experiences so that you can relive that exact moment in a simulation of sorts. We will be able to see everything through the Window using a combination of your memories, historical data, and educated guesses from the operator.

JOE

Wait, where will you guys be? How does this work?

KYLE

(Offstage)

With magic!

FOUR Unfortunately, we’ll be there with you. But you will be a player, and we will just be spectators. Kyle will be operating the machine.

KYLE

(Offstage)

With magic!

FOUR And it isn’t magic.

(JOE has a look of dread as he tries to peak over to wherever

KYLE ran off to.)

SEVENTY-SIX

Oh, ho ho, my child, it’s magic in its own way.

FOUR No, it isn’t, you fruity old fart! It’s just technology. Overly flashy and unnecessary technology! We outlawed magic after the Second Coming!

KYLE

(Offstage)

I think I’ve got the Window ready, almost! Bring the accused and the witness over so we can throw ‘em into the machine!

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SEVENTY-SIX

Oh, don’t look so scared, boy. We aren’t really going to throw you in. It’s more of a gentle toss. And once the two of you are sealed into a dark chamber, you’ll feel totally fine.

(FOUR and SEVENTY-SIX walk off of sight to where KYLE

had disappeared.)

JOE

The two of us? You mean— ZYALIS You and me, Biden. I’m the only here who has been around you the past.

JOE

Am I missing something here? How do you know me?

ZYALIS You don’t remember anything?

JOE

(Nervously, with a wink)

Hahaha, of course I do! I remember so much! It’s exhausting how much I remember!

ZYALIS

(Groaning)

Listen. Once we get into the machine, your memories are going to try and take over, and you’ll be repeating the actions you did in the past. It won’t be easy, but if we’re going to pull this off, we’re going to need to stay lucid. Do you understand?

JOE

About as much as I’ve understand anything today. I need to pull something off for you?

ZYALIS You’re innocent, Joe. It’s clear to anyone that isn’t a completely senile moron that you are harmless.

JOE

Then why did you arrest me? So that you can prove my innocence? Because this is just not adding up.

FOUR

(Offstage)

Will you kids stop slackin’ off and get your entitled, loud music-loving butts over here? The machine is ready!

KYLE

(Offstage)

The perimeters are set! As recalled by Dread Pirate Joe Biden and Temporal Officer Zyalis, we call 120

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

upon thee, oh great and wonderful Computer, to take us back to the event at which Zyalis and Biden first met: The night of October 31st, 2014.

ZYALIS Showtime. Just follow my lead, Joe. We’ve got this.

(ZYALIS grabs JOE by the wrist and drags him into the dark-

ness where the ELDERS are. The spotlights shut off and

the set is once again completely black. The sound of two

thuds followed by a dial-up tone and several “beeps” and

“boops” supplied by KYLE can be heard.)

SCENE TWO

(The scene starts with a dark, empty set. For the first time, all

of the lights flash on. The illuminated set is that of a living

room dressed in cheap Halloween decorations. FOUR and

SEVENTY-SIX enter and take their place in a shadowy alcove

in the back, looking as if they aren’t actually at the party. )

SEVENTY-SIX

Oooh, these are good seats. Don’t you think so, Four?

FOUR Oh, jeez, Seventy-Six. Let’s think. Where’s Rachel? Where’s Fieri? Where’s all of the frickin’ ice!?!

SEVENTY-SIX

Oh, hush. You’re always so cranky! What could be more fun than peeking into a party you’re not invited to? Kyle! Activate the holograms!

(Human-sized cardboard cutouts that barely resemble peo-

ple dressed in Halloween costumes roll into the living room

on dollies. It is impossible to figure out what some of the il-

lustrations are intended to be. KYLE shows up and takes his

place by the other elders. He wipes the sweat from his

brow.)

KYLE

That was a doozy! But I got them all calibrated. Let’s see them in action! Where are the kiddos?

SEVENTY-SIX

Patience! They haven’t entered the simulation yet. Any moment now, they will show up and relive the first time they met. Just give them one second.

121

FOUR

(Looking at an imaginary wristwatch)

Aaand one Mississippi, two Mis

(JOE staggers into the room with a red cup in his hand. He is

clearly inebriated.)

JOE

Heyyyy, everyone! Ish everyone having a good… A good time?

(JOE stumbles across different points of the room, mingling

with the holograms.)

JOE

(Continued)

Hey, Wolfman! Glad you could make it! How’s it going, obscure character from a Wes Anderson film?

(He makes his way to a house plant.)

JOE

(Continued)

Looking good, potted dracaena!

(JOE walks over to another cut-out, opens his mouth, and

then leans against it without knocking it over. He looks like

he is hugging it as he starts to pass out.)

JOE

I love you so much, Frankenstein in a scuba suit…

FOUR Okay, this is pretty entertaining.

SEVENTY-SIX

Shhh. It’s only just begun!

(ZYALIS enters the room. She scans the party and then

heads straight towards JOE. She grabs him by the arm and

drags him into the center of the room. She pulls out her pis-

tol.)

ZYALIS Joe Biden, I presume?

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Vortex, Volume 41/2015

JOE

(Lifting his head and just noticing ZYALIS)

Everyone! Look! We’ve got a Lady Gaga!

(JOE grabs her pistol without taking it out of her hand and

pulls the barrel up to his face like it’s a microphone.)

JOE

(Continued, singing off-key)

I want your lubbin’, I want your revenge. You and me… and I could write a… Rooooooxannne!

ZYALIS Mr. Biden, I need to ask that you coopera

(JOE hugs Zyalis. The ELDERS are laughing to each other.)

JOE

You are my best friend!

ZYALIS Biden! Concentrate! You’re a mess right now.

JOE

Well, of course I am. I’ve got all of this vodka, but no orange juice! Like, how can I even go on?

(A cut-out pops up from the floor, right next to JOE. It looks

a little like Abraham Lincoln, but with a ridiculous set of

breasts, as if an eleven-year old boy drew it. JOE jumps

back.)

JOE

(Continued)

Honey! Look, it isn’t what it looks like! She’s just- What? No, that’s not true! Baby! Baby, don’t be like this. Just listen to me, honey! I

(JOE vomits on the cut-out, knocking it over. The ELDERS

turn around in disgust.)

ZYALIS

(Quietly)

Snap out of it, Biden! No one cares about your orange juice! It doesn’t matter! We should be able to find all of the evidence we need here. If we can get those three Elders in here, all we’d have to do is

123

JOE

(Sobering up slightly)

B-but… How are we going to get the Elders to go into the Window machine?

ZYALIS We’re not in a machine, Biden. They just led us into another room.

JOE

Then why am I remembering like I did at the party? What about the time juice they gave me?

ZYALIS That was just Everclear. Still, we are standing in an exact model of your living room, hundreds of years away. This is the evidence we need to turn things around. All we have to do is get the Elders to come into this room. These guys are unpredictable, so stay behind me. Hopefully I won’t have to use violence, but I am equipped for it.

(ZYALIS gestures with her pistol. Joe pulls out a futuristic

pistol identical to hers and gestures it in the same way.)

JOE

I still don’t know what the plan is, but I’m ready!

ZYALIS Where the HELL did you get that!?!

(The three ELDERS leave the shadowy corner and rush into

the room. KYLE and FOUR are pointing rifles at JOE.)

FOUR Looks like we have all of the evidence we need!

(JOE looks at the pistol in his hand and shrieks. He drops

the pistol as if disgusted.)

SEVENTY-SIX

You’re out of time for the last time, Dread Pirate Joe Biden! Good job, again, Officer Zyalis. I see a promotion in your future.

JOE

(Laughing triumphantly.)

Am I out of time? Really? Or do you think maybe this chick here and I have been playing you for fools, and we are actually the ones with all of the evidence we need to-

124

(KYLE shoots JOE with the laser rifle. Joe’s body disappears

as it is disintegrated. Everyone is speechless.)

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

KYLE

He was coming right for us! Stand your ground!

FOUR So… Is that it? The trial’s over?

SEVENTY-SIX

That’s a wrap! Court adjourned, justice prevails, mazel tov. Let’s go home, everyone.

KYLE

But what about the lady? Joe Biden said she was working with him!

SEVENTY-SIX

Well, legally speaking, we should have another trial. Buuut look at the time! Just shoot her, Kyle.

(JOE, now looking a little younger and with a better pirate

costume, barges into the room with a futuristic pistol drawn.)

JOE

Elders Four, Seventy-Six, and Kyle! You are under arrest.

ZYALIS Wait, I know you!

FOUR It’s the Dread Pirate Joe Biden! It’s Joe Biden from the future!

JOE

No, you just killed Joe from the future, living in the past. I’m Joe from the past, living in the future.

SEVENTY-SIX

What the Hell are you talking about?

JOE

I was just in the neighborhood, one day in the future, when I heard that I was executed.

FOUR

Is that supposed to make any sense at all?

JOE

Not for you. You guys were always bad at your job. Zyalis, what about you?

ZYALIS Yeah, I think I understand. Let’s see. Two days ago, which for you would have been about ten years ago, you told me that I would find evidence to save a retired old man, who I would first need to condemn. You told me I had to travel back hundreds of years ago, which was yesterday, and bring them back to today, which is… today.

125

JOE

Right, today is the present. Ten years ago.

ZYALIS Of course.

SEVENTY-SIX

What!?!

FOUR How do you know all of this? You’re just an outlaw!

JOE

Yes, I am an outlaw right now, in the future. But twenty years from now, I will be made Chief Elder.

And I will tell me everything I know!

KYLE

You? Who would put someone like you in charge?

JOE

The former Chief Elder, of course. The former one from the future. She will be someone who understands the flow of time.

(ZYALIS grins.)

FOUR So, if I understand what’s going on, and I don’t, you are not an Elder. You are still a pirate right now.

JOE

Right now, being ten years from now.

FOUR Yeah, sure. But you can’t arrest us! And what proof do you have! You’ve only been here for a couple of minutes! Present-future you, not future-past you, I mean. Am I saying that right?

SEVENTY-SIX

You can’t stop us! We’re the Elders! We are the laws of time! You have to take us seriously, even if the other Elders won’t! We can get away with anything, and no one would ever know! You know why?

Because time is our bit

(ZYALIS walks up to SEVENTY-SIX and reaches her hand up

under his robe. SEVENTY-SIX squeals.)

SEVENTY-SIX

H-hey! You can’t do that to an Elder! I’m pretty sure there’s some sort of rule against this!

ZYALIS I am going to need you to cooperate, by authority of law.

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Vortex, Volume 41/2015

FOUR This is starting to get a little weird now.

(ZYALIS pulls out a carton of orange juice from SEVENTY-

SIX’s robe.)

FOUR Yep. I’m done here.

ZYALIS Elders Four, Seventy-Six, and Kyle. I, Officer Zyalis, am placing your under arrest for crimes against time and the use of time travel for the attempted assassination and theft of valuable time juice of a retired Elder. You have the right to…

(Zyalis continues to read the rights to the defeated elders as

FADE TO BLACK.)

127

FURescent Lauren Swaim Photograph

128

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

Full of Smoke Georgette Chouinard she smelled like the clove cigars I smoked all summer and I believed she could never be as bitter the last girl filled my synapses with nicotine and this one, my lungs with smoke with a bitter taste on my tongue and a sweet film on my lips I took a drag around August and snubbed her out around September I light another and wish they didn’t taste the same

129

Bound Sarah Scarbrough This day started like Any other – and you live Coming to me live From a speaker – a stereo Static Happens This computer I hate You talk to me Through it I can’t accept these Books My ears are ringing In gold that you gifted That noise from you And I am Poised I’ll stay That way Until I Hear your Orders

130

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

Insulation Holly Hughes I still dream about you.

You’re on my mind more often than you’re not You’ve inhabited my heart and brought a blanket for cold nights When the wind wished you away, you clung to the ground I forgot you were there, but you’ve been restless lately You scream and I miss that sound I found your heart once I tried to build a cabin, but I heard construction next to me Envy raged inside of me Her house was sturdier Her house became a mansion She bought my property and you didn’t argue I have never found another heart that felt safe I wander with a glass wall around me that won’t fit anywhere else I’m bulky and I’m heavy But for you, I would be light I would destroy the glass if I heard her mansion collapse But when it trembles you buy more wood You build it back up because she feels comfortable You can’t handle your heart feeling empty and cold But I would insulate you I would knit together quilts upon quilts I would make hot chocolate so the steam would fill the voids I would be everything you want and everything you thought you’d never need I would plant flowers in every crevice and water them like rain I would explore unchartered territory every night when you slept I would open doors you never dreamed of But you helped build her mansion and you’ve got no strength left for me You showed my heart the sun and there’s a tan line that will never recede You are the cancer I got rid of You are the disease that I need More than anything I want you to set me free

131

McLuhan Poster Taylor Helfrich Digital print

132

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

Absence Carli Hemperley

There was no more light. When did that great star, the one they called “Sun,” cease to bring them life? When did the star burn them all up, scorch the land, incinerate all of the oxygen in the air? When did they all decide to leave this planet? Did all of them leave before it was too late? That’s what Captain Talia Lark was here to find out.

It was hard for her to believe that anything once lived on this frigid, dry husk of a rock. Red sand and white ice made this once fertile planet look like a twin to another in its system. Whatever signs of life that might have been here have long since disappeared, buried by sand, snow, or ash. But it was her job to find life on these “dead” planets, and find it she would. Her job depended on it.

Mi-tok forged ahead of her, down into the dark crevice, his four legs propelling him down into the darkness much faster than her two could carry her. He needed to be more careful.

More than once he’d crushed valuable findings under those four clumsy feet. He scuttled on, deeper and deeper still, overturning rocks and hacking through ice, searching and finding nothing.

“I’d say this place is uninhabitable,” he called back to his captain. His high, chirrup of a voice carried deafeningly on the still air around them, ricocheting off the stone walls and coming back to their ears twofold.

“I don’t quite agree with that sentiment, my friend.”

Mi-tok glanced up the shaft to his

commander, dangling above him from a cable whose beginning was lost to them now. All six of his compound eyes narrowed as if he was squinting against something bright. But there was no light around them, only the distant frosty glow of other ancient stars nearing the ends of their expansive lives. “Why not? Whatever was here is long gone. I mean, look at this place. It’s a frozen desert.”

“How about using the reader to find out for sure before you pass your judgment?”

Captain Lark’s partner hissed indignantly as he sifted through his pack for the Senti-Reader 3.6.

He removed the tiny device and calibrated it to their surroundings—wind speed, air content, temperature, their own brain waves—to avoid interference. He tossed the sphere into the air and it buzzed off, emitting a loud hum, and scanned and flashed with blue lights. It was always a good feeling for Lark, watching that infernal thing disappear from sight with its ghastly lights.

“It won’t find anything, Captain.

This world’s been dead for too long. They always are. You should pick a fresher one next time.”

“We’ll see.” Lark propelled ahead of him, examining the cracks on the ledges and walls that years of extreme heat and now extreme cold had caused.

“But say we do, by some miracle of the stars, find something,” Mi-tok pressed, “What are we going to do?”

Lark felt like she answered this question every mission they went on. “We’ll study it, Tok.” 133

“And by ‘study’ do you mean ‘ship it off to an exhibit or exotic species collector’ like last time?”

“That was a rare case and you know that. Those Awerexes were the last of their kind.

We needed to preserve their species.”

“What, exactly, do you hope to find here? Why did we have to travel so far to see a dead planet?”

“We’re looking for humans.”

Mi-tok burst into laughter; the guttural sound always surprised Lark since it was so different from his tenor of a voice. “But you’re a human! There are billions of you across the blinking universe. If you want to see one so badly then look in a mirror!”

She didn’t expect him to understand. The Mi-lans were a cynical race. “I’m not human though. Not really. None of us are. The gene pool has become so garbled over the years that there isn’t a true human among us. Except possibly here.”

“If anything is alive.”

Lark nodded. Please, please let there be something here. Something besides dust and ice and rotting structures that might have been buildings or landmasses at one time, she thought.

She glanced down at her wrist, checking the remote reader for the SR3.6. Nothing. Just a blue screen. She had grown to hate that color over the years. So much so that she had her own eye color changed. Even walking behind Tok made her angry sometimes because that meant she had to see his strange blue carapace.

She tried to make him stay clothed as much as possible so she didn’t have to see it. Although he didn’t like it, Mi-tok knew better than to question the whims of his volatile Commander. He didn’t want to lose his job because of Lark’s hatred of a color. In their field blue meant failure. Lark didn’t want to fail. Not at this. Not again.

Even this planet—once called “The Blue Planet”— was starting to make Lark angry. It was bluer now than those who dubbed it that would have ever realized, even without any blue on its surface.

Lark wanted to see yellow.

Coming to an end of their cables, Lark and her companion were forced to rest on 134

an outcrop within the fissure. There was still no end in sight. The crack they were traversing tore through the surface of the planet. About a mile wide and impossibly deep. Here, so far from the surface all they could see was blackness. No light.

Just like the surface. Just an absence of it. Lark never really thought darkness could make her feel so lonely—so empty. In frustration, she kicked at a stone next to her until it rolled from the ledge down through the darkness. It felt like an eternity before she finally heard it strike bottom.

“Tok, could you send another SR down there?”

Her comrade scurried over to her side and peered down into the darkness. Lark could almost feel his unease and skepticism.

“Down there?”

“That’s what I asked.”

He hissed again in the language of his people, something Lark thought was a curse but she wasn’t too sure. She never bothered to learn his language. Mi-tok withdrew another scanner pod from his pack and tossed it deeper down into the crevice. The machine whirred and spun as it plummeted down and down and down, the blue lights growing dimmer and dimmer.

Overtaken by darkness…

“Could we go down farther if we needed to?” Lark asked, not taking her eyes from the screen on her wrist.

“Why would we need to? I don’t see why you even had me waste another one of those things. That’s the fourth one we’ve lost to this hole, Captain.” Tok hissed, sounding wary.

It took all of the bribing techniques Lark knew to even get him down this far. His kind hated being underground.

A tiny yellow spark flashed on the otherwise blue screen.

Lark thought she knew what hope felt like, but she knew she was wrong. This was hope. This was joy. This swelling inside of her now that made her feel like anything was possible.

Tok didn’t need to see the scanner.

Lark’s expression was enough. “By the stars…”

“We have to go down there!”

More yellow dots appeared on the screen. There was more yellow than blue now.

“We have to go down there, Tok!”

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

Lark exclaimed as she began to rummage through her pack, trying to find more line for them to use to reach where those blessed yellow lights were “Commander Lark! Lark! Stop this! We can’t go down there! We don’t have enough line to get there. We need to wait for the rest of the team.

They’ll have the supplies.”

Lark’s screen was all yellow now.

An absolute absence of blue.

“I can’t wait for them. We have to go deeper. Now.”

Mi-tok seized her wrist with his clawed hand and tugged her back away from the edge. “Stop this. This is madness. You have no idea what’s down there! We need to wait for backup.”

Lark pried Mi-tok’s hands from her wrist and shoved him away. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I have to see what’s down there. It could be humans, Tok! Real, genuine humans!

You can stay up here if you want. I’m going down.”

Mi-tok’s four feet scratched anxiously at the ground as Lark neared the edge again.

“Talia. We can’t. We need to wait.”

“We can’t wait! ” Lark exclaimed as she began to tug on her climbing cable. But the cord wouldn’t budge from the stone and ice it was imbedded in at the surface. Lark swore and kicked another rock into the fissure.

The Mi-lan hissed at her again. “We will get down there. But we must be patient.”

“I can’t be patient, Tok! This is what we’ve been looking for…what I’ve been looing for! I have to know what’s down there,” Lark exclaimed. “If we wait we may lose them!”

“To go down there without backup or a support rope would be suicide, Commander,” Mi-tok said as he tried once again to remove his superior from the edge of the ledge.

Lark pulled away from the Mi-lan’s grasp and returned to the edge. “And that is why I cannot ask you to accompany me.”

Mi-tok’s six eyes blinked in confusion as what Lark said began to sink in. Once again he grasped for her, but she sidestepped his clawed hands. “Lark, no! You can’t go down there alone!” He spoke again in his native tongue, a series of profanities that were utterly alien to Lark, but his meaning was clear enough.

“You are so insufferable, woman!” He growled as he yanked at their support cables with such ferocity that they came tumbling down around their ankles.

“Tok… I can’t ask you to go down there with me,” Lark said, tears coming to her artificially colored eyes.

“And I very well can’t let you go down alone. If you wanted a spineless coward for a companion you shouldn’t have asked along a Mi-lan.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much, Tok!” Lark had the overwhelming desire to hug her companion, but she wasn’t sure if such a motion would be offensive to his kind. She made a personal vow to learn more of his kind once they were done with this mission.

Once they had their hooks and stabilizers in place, they once again began their descent. Deeper and deeper still. Silence. Absolute silence fell around them. Nothing but the sound of their breath and their own heartbeats.

And absolutely no light.

Lark thought it was dark before, but this gave dark a new meaning. It felt tangible. It was as if she reached out in front of herself she could grab a handful of this black matter around them. Their headlamps flickered on after a moment, determining that the meager light of their flashlights was no longer enough. But they didn’t do much to scatter this darkness. Lark couldn’t see anything below her, and everything above was just a small sliver of grey.

The scanner still showed an overwhelming amount of yellow.

But where were the people—the creatures—that were expelling it?

They descended farther and farther down.

Farther and farther for what seemed like hours.

Into what felt like the very center of this Earth.

It felt warmer here than it did at the surface, so near the Earth’s molten core. But still, there was no light and no sign of life. Yet Lark’s scanner persisted. There had to be something sentient down here. They just couldn’t see it. Or them.

There was sound though, deafen135

ing in the absolute silence around them. A faint beeping, growing louder and louder. For a split second, there was a blue flash a few feet away as the SR3.6 lifted off from the ground and came hurtling toward Lark. She heard Mi-tok’s frantic and shrill voice scream out to her in warning as the Senti-Reader flew through the darkness.

She narrowly avoided having the machine strike her in the face. Her helmet would have been smashed. She would have died.

Lark’s wrist scanner blinked out as the Senti-Reader 3.6 splintered into metallic pieces on the ground behind her. Just a black screen. No blue or yellow. In this darkness she found herself aching for the light, even if it was blue.

“Talia,” Mi-tok grasped onto his Commander’s trembling shoulders, “are you alright?”

Lark nodded and tried to repress her trembling. “Fine. Fine. Just a little shaken up that’s a—”

Something moved at the edge of the light of their headlamps.

“What was that?” Mi-tok interjected, his hands squeezing tighter around Lark’s shoulder.

A quiet scurrying filled the cavern around them as something approached, at a faster and faster pace. Lark’s heart pounded furiously inside her chest until all she could hear was the sound it made instead of the sounds around her. No matter where she looked, she couldn’t catch anything in her lamp’s light. Whatever was in here moved too quickly to be caught by it.

A popping sound filled the cavern, and seconds later it was followed by a series of clicks and knocks as if in response to a question. The sounds echoed incessantly louder, until they were all Lark could hear: a chorus of clicks that she couldn’t make out as the sound of a living creature or the settling of the earth around her.

“Lark, we should leave,” Mi-tok hissed as he tried to tug her back toward their climbing ropes. But Lark wouldn’t budge. She took a step toward the sound.

“Hello?” She cried out into the darkness. Her whole body trembled despite the warmth around her.

The cavern fell silent again.

136

“Hello?” Lark’s voice echoed back.

A blood curdling screech split the air. Lark’s brain felt like it might explode inside her skull. Two creatures sprang into the light, all twisted and emaciated in shape with skin as pale and translucent as a hologram. They crouched a few feet from her and Mi-tok, sniffing around and carrying on in their clicking conversation.

One peered up at her with huge, sightless eyes, and the other with a face void of eyes completely.

Two grotesque creatures of darkness. Their thin lips peeled back to reveal mouths full of jagged, yellowed fangs dripping with saliva. They turned their heads this way, and that, as if looking for something that they couldn’t find.

Lark remained as still as she could, praying to the stars that these things didn’t catch her scent. That if she was quiet enough they would forget she was there and would leave.

This wasn’t at all what she was hoping to find.

Were these humans? What was left of them?

The eyeless creature slinked toward Lark, mouth still gaping open in a sickening grin. A groaning pop issued from its gullet as it stopped in front of her, staring up at her face as if it could see. It reached out a withered hand, groping around blindly in front of itself, trying to find a hold of what it could only sense in front of it. Lark took a step back, away from the creature, but it was a movement that she immediately began to regret. The creature, the once-human, screamed and leapt forward, landing on top of her. She heard Mi-tok screaming and hissing as he struggled with the other creature, and she hoped to the stars that he was faring better than she was. No matter how much she struggled, no matter how much she pleaded, she couldn’t displace it. It was as if it was made of stone. And it might as well have been for all of the humanity it expressed. There may as well have been nothing here in this deep, dark hole. Those creatures, no matter what they once were, were no longer human. They were children deformed by the absence of their father, the Sun.

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In the Green Jessika Hammons Oil on canvas

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The Hunter and the Flora Whisperer Emily Walter

Beyond the steepest of mountains, the most turbulent of waters, and the earliest of living memory, there stood a misshapen plot of farm surrounded by nothing but forest, shuffling creatures, and the mist of morning. The farmer, who had been born on this farm like his father, spent many days tilling crops, working cows, and praying to God for good rain, kind dealings, and that the stars of his life—his twin boy and girl— would grow up strong and good at heart. They were the only little ones borne by the farmer’s late, beautiful wife to survive their journeys into the world, and the farmer always said in moments of heartache and struggle—which were many when the forest winds poured through the farm without warning or stray wolves attacked the herds in droves—that the children were his salvation nearly as much as his repentance of sin. The farmer would give the world away to the highest bidder for his gifted boy and girl, even pay for spells that God couldn’t give.

Every first full moon of the new year, when the winter winds whirled moans about the land, the children slept in their warm beds as their father took the big carving knife to kill his two fattest steers so that the wolves of the forest would leave the farm in peace. The Wolf Witch, a powerful warlock who appeased his wolves in the woods bordering the farm, accepted the gift of free beef in exchange for spelling the wolves to forget the children, leaving them and the farm be.

It was all the farmer could do to keep the wolves from crossing the forest edge and eating his gifted boy and girl, whom, according to the Wolf Witch, 138

none of the wolves liked because of the gifts that made the two children stronger forces than nature itself. The Wolf Witch swore to the farmer that his yearly spell was the only way the boy and girl would not be eaten, given that even the most gifted of children did silly things that could anger the jealousy and vengeance within his beasts. The Wolf Witch swore even further that there was only so much he could do to control such creatures. The farmer had told the witch that he never believed one beast was more jealous or vengeful than the other, but when the wolves came one long ago winter and killed half his herd—for sport, as the Wolf Witch had warned, though the farmer had originally believed the beasts were starving—the farmer beseeched the witch’s help as quick as he could. The farmer could not allow such angry, vengeful beasts to hunt his boy and girl, who had already been showing the gifts that the Wolf Witch said would bring such jealousy forthwith from his beasts

Every day the children showed their father the gifts they possessed: the boy’s master aim with his bow, the girl growing flowers from the barest, driest dirt with mere touches of her hands, the boy’s swiftness and talent for silence in the woods, the girl’s eye for knowing all that grew and tracking her way through nature. And the children were happy with their life: they loved their father, performed their chores, acted on mischief, prayed in the evening, and wanted nothing more than to play around with their special gifts. Always the sun was warm and welcoming, and their little adventures were enough,

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even on the days when vague growls came from the forest edge or rumblings far far away could be heard from beyond the farm. And their father repeated his warnings: “Do not enter the forest, and do not, by the grace of God, interfere with the wolves. As I’ve seen in my time, they won’t attack you, but if you remind them that you’re here, they will. They are jealous and angry creatures that cannot be trusted, as I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

The boy and girl, gifted as they were, believed themselves quiet enough to avoid detection in the forest, so long as they never crossed the aging fence slightly past the forest edge and into that mystic wood realm.

One day in the childrens’ tenth year and before the first true day of summer, the boy said to his sister, “I am as swift as the wind, Sister, and no wolf could ever hear me.”

“And since the plants grow with my hand’s faintest touch, no wolf could ever give chase, let alone see us, Brother. Let’s enter the forest just a little. The wolves cannot mind too much.”

The boy and girl passed the forest edge just a little when beyond the old fence they heard a creature screech in fear. The children looked to see a black-headed goose trying to fly away from the hungry jaws of an old wolf. The goose tried to fly away, but could only get a few feet before falling again. The wolf seemed just as tired as the goose—the wolf from age and the goose from his journey back from his winter flight south. The girl’s eyes widened and she dropped her small hand to the moist dirt. After a moment’s delay, there sprung unevenly a tall bush with deformed foliage between the old wolf and the screeching goose, and then sprung another at a strange angle when the old wolf tried to run around, for the girl could only perform one small act at a time and only so quickly.

“The poor goose was nearly lost to that jealous, vengeful beast, but Brother, the old wolf appears to just be hungry and tired. And look, his breathing’s so haggard and quick that he seems to be dying. Brother, we must do something for the poor beast,” the girl said.

The old wolf fell over and breathed haggardly still. “You’re right, Sister,” the boy said, “They may be angry, terrible beasts, but this one was only hungry. I’ll be merciful today and keep

it from suffering further.” The boy took his bow and arrow, and shot his arrow into the old wolf’s heart, and he died quickly and without pain.

The black-headed goose, who had recovered from his exhaustion, said, “Thank you, children. I shall never forget your kindness here today.” The goose flapped his wings and flew off into the sky.

“Surely the wolves will accept this mercy, since the old wolf was suffering?” the girl said. “Even vengeful beasts like the wolves could see that?”

“I don’t know, Sister,” the boy said.

“They might. We know so little about them. Let’s go home now, for this hasn’t been the fun adventure we thought it would be. Father will be angry if he finds that we broke the rules about the forest.” The two children went home then, rather tired after their journey past the forest edge.

But on the next day, the first true day of summer, with the heat creating steam-like mirages, the rumblings from far far beyond the farm, the ones that could be heard throughout the day, started coming closer. And closer. And even closer still. And then even closer that the creek bed nearest the family’s little stone house began to vibrate. Within the walls of their house, the two children, gifted though they were, looked to their father for answers.

“Father, could it be a beast?” the boy asked, placing his quiver full of arrows over his shoulder.

“Could it be a storm?” the girl asked, reaching for her garden hoe.

“Could it be something dangerous?

Let it try to come near our home!” both children said. They both stood tall in front of their father despite the shoves they threw at one another to stand closest to the door.

“I know what it must be, my children, but it cannot be. It’s not the first full moon of the new year,” the farmer said. “He’s early, and I don’t know why.”

“Who’s early, Father?” the children cried out. “What’s happening?” The children did not know of their father’s sacrifices to the Wolf Witch, for the father desired that his children stay innocent and pure as long as they could.

The little family crowded around inside the stone house’s front door as the earth139

shakes grew stronger. And stronger. And even stronger still. And then so strong that pots started falling in the kitchen pantry, the firewood pile began rolling out to its side, and the hounds started growling every which way in the living room, their tails between their legs. And then like the sound of crashing boulders, the wooden door was blown off its hinges into their hayed front yard. And with one final step over the threshold that shook the stone house one last time, the Wolf Witch, with his towering figure and shadowed eyes, stood tall and straight in the doorway, beholding himself before the farmer and his gifted children.

“Farmer, on this day the first of summer, I call for pay of appeasement to the wolves beyond the forest edge. They are angry with your boy and girl for killing their elder with bushes and arrows. With this death, your children have broken the spell that makes my wolves ignore your children. The wolves must be appeased by the next full moon or they will cross the forest edge and eat your children and your herds. If you don’t pay at the next full moon, I won’t perform the spell that protects your children, and they will surely die. I don’t hate you, Farmer, but the strength of your steers fuels such magic within me. I cannot perform any spell for you without a high payment in return. Now, bring me your fattest steers at once,” the Wolf Witch said with a toss of his stump-sized fist.

The farmer could only stand and plead. “Oh, Wolf Witch, you don’t understand.

It’s too early for my cows. Most will be carrying their calves until late autumn. I have no steers to pay you with. Even if they were born tomorrow, they’d be too young for the size you’ve needed before.”

“Can’t you take squirrels instead? I’ll catch forty before the sun sets!” the boy yelled to the witch, his bow in hand.

“Your bow is what killed the wolf elder in the first place,” the witch said. “And the plump simple nature of the young, fat steer has the most power among wild creatures and your rope-broken stock.”

“Could you take deer? I can trap dozens with the plants of the forest!” the girl said with her callused hands stretched before her.

“Those wolves will eat you before 140

you step into the forest—they were howling until my ears nearly broke about how you both made the forest unsafe for their pups,” the witch said.

“We didn’t hear anything!” the children cried.

“You weren’t listening while asleep in your warm beds,” the witch replied.

“Could my children and I simply leave?” the farmer pleaded. “We would never return to the farm, and the wolves could forget us.”

“You must travel through the forest to leave, and once you do, your family will be eaten. I’m sorry, Farmer, but only the spell will save your children. If you have nothing, I must go now,” the witch said before turning to leave.

“We’re not afraid of any wolves,” the children said together, each shoving the other slightly in their moment of childish glory. “We stopped one wolf already, and we can take those other beasts if they want to eat us!”

“My God, my children are fools.

They are innocent, and they are pure, but they are fools,” the farmer said before calling out: “Would you take my soul in exchange? Mine is a pure and good soul that has more value than any fat steer I could give you.”

“Father, no!” the children cried.

The Wolf Witch stopped in his tracks and nearly skipped as he turned around.

“Farmer, you speak true words—a devoted, pure soul does have more value, and I will happily accommodate you. Even one who pays for spells has a good soul, especially when it’s done out of love. If you come with me now, Farmer, I’ll start the spell that protects your boy and girl from the wolves of this forest during the next full moon.”

“Father, don’t let this wicked man take your soul!” the girl yelled out. “It’s our fault, for we weren’t careful in the forest.”

“I’ll shoot him before I let him take you away!” the boy said, aiming his bow and arrow at the Wolf Witch.

“My children, you’ve lived sheltered, protected lives on this farm. You don’t understand what I’ve done for you. Without this man, you would have surely died. All I’ve done has been for you. I’ll go because it’s the smart and right thing to do. It’s my duty to our family and as your father. Now, let me embrace you one last time.”

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The children embraced their father one last time before the Wolf Witch stepped back over threshold and their father went with him. And they both simply vanished.

The boy and girl looked at each other for but a moment in their stone house and said they would save their father no matter what.

“But how?” they both wondered aloud. “We possess wonderful gifts, but we’ve only ever saved that goose before.”

“How can we stop a powerful witch?

And the vicious wolves?” the girl said, reaching for a garden hoe in comfort. “We’ve only ever really played with our gifts before. Father never called for us to do anything else with them. I want to save our father, Brother, but it could be hopeless.”

“I can kill many wolves, but I can’t fight all of them,” the boy said, placing his bow on the table. “And Father could be anywhere!

The Wolf Witch must live somewhere among his beasts. If we follow, we’ll be eaten, and then Father’s soul will be lost for nothing. I want to fight, Sister, but I feel so unprepared.”

The children stood hopelessly in their home, having never been away from it their whole lives. But at that moment of despair, the black-headed goose, whom the boy and girl had saved just the day before, wandered over the threshold and into the stone house, looking at the children with his wise eyes.

“You silly children know nothing of the world around you,” said the black-headed goose. “I fly over this forest all the time, and I’ve just seen what’s happened here, for I was too tired to finish my journey back from the south.

Those wolves in their natural state are no more likely to eat you than they are other creatures like me. They wish to live their lives as God intended them, which is to be beasts who survive for their families, like all of us. They only kill when their stomachs are empty, just as I eat fish when mine is bare. The witch can make the wolves eat you if he wanted to, and he could stop them if they wanted to on their own, for he is a powerful, trickster of a witch. He merely wanted your father’s good and devoted soul from what I saw up in the sky. He uses the purity of souls—for they have more value than any fat steer—to gain

the most control over the wolves, for they are strong, fast creatures, and he will do anything to have them under his spells. That is the word that has spread through the forest and the other far far away places I’ve seen on my thousand mile journeys—he takes pure, devoted souls when the wolves become too restless and steer spells can’t keep them down.”

“That mischievous devil!” the boy said.

“That vicious trickster! He made Father believe we were in danger,” the girl said.

“Can we still save our father?” the boy pleaded of the black-headed goose.

“No one has yet before,” the goose pondered. “But I’ve never seen gifts quite like yours. Though you’re just children, you’ve the best chance to save your father.”

“How would we defeat him?” the girl asked.

“I don’t know, dear girl,” the goose said, “I only know what I’ve seen from the sky, and I’ve never seen this witch defeated. But I know of a wolf who knew and tried once before.

That wolf has died, but his grown pups still live. I can take you to them if I must. I do owe you children my life after all.”

“Won’t they try to kill us, goose?” the boy asked.

“No, dear boy. Don’t you remember?

The witch puts spells on the wolves and makes them do as he demands when he calls on them.

They deplore him more than the death of one dying, suffering elder. Those who seek to defeat the witch will be heroes to those poor creatures.

Come now, we must go before the next full moon is upon us.”

“He’s right, Brother,” the girl said.

“The moon was nearly full yesterday save for a little sliver. We only have until tomorrow evening.”

“Well then, dear Sister,” the boy said. “Let’s save Father from the trouble he was tricked into. He doesn’t deserve to lose his soul because of us.”

The twin boy and girl nodded their heads in agreement for the task at hand.

The boy and girl then set off on their trek through the forest with the goose flying above the trees. It was their first time beyond 141

the broken fence passed the forest edge, and they both felt their skin grow cooler as they went deeper into the wood, even though they had to march with great effort through the shrubbery and foliage. The girl cleared what she could with her charmed hands, shrinking a few plants and bushes that were still rooted to the earth, as well as what she could clear with her garden hoe, but often the goose had to circle back when the children couldn’t keep up. The boy cleared a path or two with his father’s hatchet when there were fallen trees across their way and they kept at this slow pattern for several hours, their efforts ricocheting sound throughout the forest like boomerang toys. The boy and girl almost seemed unsure and slow-footed about using their gifts on their journey, for they had played with them before.

As they moved on their journey, the light grew dimmer and the pine and oak trees that towered above them seemed to only grow taller and menacing as the light slowly left the day.

“Look, Brother, the forest has swallowed up the clearing where the farm was. We’ve really gone deep into the forest now,” the girl said as she and her brother stood for a moment.

“I can only see so far ahead of me, Sister. It’s getting so dark that without the goose above the trees, we wouldn’t know which way was north, south, or back the way we came. Soon we might not see him at all if we can’t see his white belly. If only we had something to light the way toward these wolves—that way we won’t trip over roots and foliage in the dark and waste more time, since you, Sister, can only clear away so much at one time with your grower’s hands and I with my hatchet,” the boy said.

As the boy and girl walked slowly about the forest and wondered how they could more quickly make their way, the goose flew down from above the trees and landed just in front of them. “What are you children slowing down for? To save your father, you must move your feet like the fleeting rabbits that live in this wood. There is only so much time,” the goose said.

“Dear goose, you know how much we want to save our dear father, but we’ll soon be lost in the dark once the sun sets on this day.

And we won’t be able to see you flying in the sky, guiding us as you go, once the light is gone. The 142

trees and the darkness will make you invisible to us down here,” the girl said.

“Sweet girl, you’ll be able to see everything once the fireflies come out for the night. Surely their light will be bright enough that you’ll see me against the black sky. Don’t you know about the forest fireflies and their light that makes day in the night?”

“Goose, our father told us to never cross the forest edge for fear that the wolves would eat us,” the boy said. “We only snuck in a little toward the broken fence. The only fireflies we ever saw were a few dim ones out in our fields.”

“What wonderful things you’ve missed!” the goose said. “The fireflies are usually lit by now, but they should be soon since the daylight is nearly gone. You’ll have no trouble seeing me then!” The goose then took flight to the sky, and the children had no choice but to continue on through the shrubbery and foliage, which they both struggled to clear without making much noise—the boy with his thunderous hatchet and the girl working with her hands by shoving fallen plants and shrinking a few bushes. When the faraway sun was nearly below the mountains and darkness had nearly consumed the day, the boy and girl were near ready to give up on the fireflies coming, and they had no materials to make a torch.

During one moment the boy broke a branch with his hatchet, and the girl, with great effort, ripped a small stump from the ground and sent it flying off to the side. Both sounds occurred together, and the crashing noise of both efforts lasted for several moments longer than normal.

The boy heard with his hunter’s ears the distant footsteps of frightened creatures running away with quickened paces.

“Sister, the animals are frightened of us,” the boy said. “We’re in such a hurry to save Father that we’re making such noise in the wood.

That’s why the fireflies won’t appear—just like the deer and squirrels I hunt and the ones you’ve trapped with plants. I have the swiftest, quietest feet there are, and you are one with plants. How could we’ve not seen? We’ve wasted such time, Sister, for we haven’t seen well for hours now.”

“We’ve an entire day’s time yet before the full moon, Brother,” the girl said. “I see

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the moon now, and it’s not full. We’ve another day. You say the animals are frightened of us, just as the plants aren’t heeding my touches as quickly as need be. Brother, it’s clear we can no longer just toy with our gifts. We must use them fully if we’re to save Father—not just play with them, but embrace them as God intended us to. Maybe then the fireflies will appear. We should have faith in what we have and in our quest to save our father, my dear brother. Let us try together to be stronger.”

The boy and girl found the goose in the sky again, and then set off at a running pace in the same direction. The girl, so unsure before of using her strange flora affinity, found in each new running step an easier time in knowing the right bushes to shrink and which rooted plants to force from the way. The boy with his quick and quiet feet ran ahead of his sister like deer leading away a predator. It began with every tenth step that the girl felt a plant affected. With each new running step forward, she felt the rhythm grow stronger. And stronger. And even stronger still.

And then so strong that with each left step a bush shrank and with each right step a stump was thrown to the side, as if nature were her canvas and she the artist. She cleared foliage at the right times and let the boy move faster to keep up with the goose’s flight. And then he moved faster. And then more silent. And then until he was no louder than a barn mouse. He used branches to swing above fallen trees his sister couldn’t move and breathed the easiest breaths as if he were still playing when really he had the focus of the eagle his father never let him hunt. He could hear the walking steps of small creatures and distant ones far far away into the woods, but they could not hear the boy with his quick and quiet feet. The boy was learning to trust in the gift that his father called that of God just as the girl learned control and patience in allowing her gift to overwhelm her senses, like the faith their father had given them. The girl’s gifted influence on the plants guided the boy’s silent trail, and he felt her affinity in his eyes and body, as if the twin boy and girl had become one.

The children, fueled by the zealous embracing of their gifts, found that where there had only been darkness to shadow their journey were now glittering circles of light no bigger

than candle flames. There were enough to fill an entire field of cows on their misshapen plot of farm, and the children only had to look right in front of them to see. The children marveled at the fireflies, but only a little, for they had jobs to do and their task at hand. They ran until finally, like a reward, they reached a field as big as the one the farm used to wean calves from their mothers. Only then did the boy and girl see the fireflies fully, as they should have after a time of hard work.

“What wonderful things we’ve missed from the safety of the farm,” the children said, as they looked at fireflies the size of Luna moths.

The goose flew down from the sky in front of the children. “The grown wolf pups you seek guard this field and are nearly here.

They won’t harm you, for the fireflies only light for those with the purest intentions and strongest bonds with nature.”

“Why didn’t you tell us, dear goose?” the children asked.

“Had you known, you may not have learned the importance of the gifts that connect you so closely with nature. I saw you children from the sky, and it was the most beautiful sight I’ve come across on my many thousand mile journeys to see your faith and trust in your gifts overwhelm and guide you. Truly it was. Now, it’s from here that I must take leave of you and continue my journey north, dear children. It’s time for me to return home and build my own family.

Good luck to you both, and thank you.”

“Good bye to you, dear goose, and good luck,” the boy said.

“I pray God guides you on your journey home,” the girl said, and then the blackheaded goose was gone.

The boy and girl then looked about the edges of the field, and they could see the wolves’ glowing yellow eyes, yet they heard no growling or jagged breaths of anger. One wolf, the head of his pack, came from the trees and walked slowly toward the boy and girl. He was bigger than any dog they had ever seen, even bigger than the suffering wolf elder, and had a silver coat like craters of the moon. The fireflies somehow grew even brighter with this wolf’s walk into the clearing.

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“Master Wolf, we hope the fireflies show you that we come with the purest intentions. We don’t wish to cause trouble for you, just as we hope you mean the same.” the boy said.

“The wolves only take life when hungry, farm child,” the wolf said. “Besides, you ended our elder’s suffering when he ventured off on his final journey. He was old and ready to die, even when his instincts made him to chase your goose—as was said by word that travelled to our pack. Now, what brings you children here? You’ve never been past the forest edge, yet you’re here in the night near dawn. What is it you want from us?”

“We seek to defeat the Wolf Witch,” the girl said, “for he tricked our father into giving his soul away. Our father believed your pack would eat us, and only the witch’s spell would to stop it. But we’ve learned the witch only wanted our father’s soul to control your pack. Will you tell us how your father tried to defeat the witch?”

“My father tried to use his claw to pierce the creature’s heart. That’s the only way to stop the witch, but we haven’t yet because when he begins his spells he’s protected by a veil which no weapon or living creature can cross. Not wolf or man. He lives half a day’s journey east of here, where my kin have seen another with him. A farmer.”

“Our father,” the children said.

The wolf continued. “The witch wishes to control our natures for his own gain, but we’ve been fighting with the greatest fury.

Your father’s soul will make the witch stronger, so you will find no danger from the wolves if you seek to defeat the witch. We’ll pass word to my kin in the east and whatever help you need from them you will have it.”

“We’ll accept it, and now we can defeat the witch because of you. Thank you, Master Wolf,” the boy said.

“Now we can save our father and your pack as well. No creature deserves to go against his nature for another’s gain, just as our father doesn’t deserve the fate awaiting him,” the girl said.

“We hope your gifts are what finally free us,” the wolf said, “I’ve told you what you must do, but how will you defeat the witch, for you both are living creatures who cannot cross 144

the veil?”

“With my aim and my feet,” the boy said.

“And with my bond to all things rooted in the earth,” the girl said.

“And also with our new faith and trust in ourselves,” the children said. “We are just children, and because of that we know how to use mischief as well. We can draw the witch out and defeat him.”

“We have trust in your abilities, dear children,” the wolf said. “My kin will help you how they can. Good luck.”

The boy and girl left the field toward the east, their friendship with the wolves forever cast like carved facts in stone.

The day greeted the boy and girl with untainted blue sky and the cool air of last season’s spring, which they felt with each breath they took in. The boy’s silent feet led the way to the east with the girl clearing the path with each running step though the line between his gift and her gift grew blurred, and they were like one creature. Like the wheels on the family’s wagon back home, the sun rolled across the sky with the hours that came and went with the day’s journey, and the boy and girl broke their pace very little as they ran through the woods, across the creeks and over the mountains. It wasn’t long before the children were greeted in the night by the candle flame fireflies that mirrored their hearts’ intentions. The east, so far from the field with the master wolf’s pack, became the children’s central surroundings, and they weren’t far from the Wolf Witch’s home. The fireflies grew dimmer toward an even further venturing to the east, showing the children which direction they would find the witch.

Soon on this path the boy and girl beheld a patch of woods that was lit not by fireflies but torches. And the children drew closer.

And even closer still. And then so close that from a hidden spot, the boy and girl looked down into a larger clearing within the woods and saw the Wolf Witch, with his towering figure and shadowed eyes, and their father, standing with his head bowed and shoulders relaxed, for he was praying without fear. They and their closest surroundings

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were protected by the veil which no weapon or living creature could cross as the master wolf had said, and the boy and girl could now see a thin veil-like circled mist. The moon was full, with all its slivers bright in the night as of the snows of winter.

The boy and girl looked to each other and clasped their right forearms together in parting, for they trusted their plan, their gifts, and one another. The girl then left her brother to take her place on the other side of the clearing.

The boy waited for a time or two and then heard the Wolf Witch begin to mutter the words of his spell that would take their father’s soul and imprison their friends the wolves.

The boy loaded his bow with an arrow, and shot toward the witch, though the arrow was deflected as a weapon that couldn’t cross.

The witch ceased speaking and looked out toward the woods. The boy, with his quick and silent feet, ran from behind the trees to another spot at the clearing’s edge. He loaded and released four arrows like beats of music toward the witch, which were deflected as well. The Wolf Witch, who seemed unafraid but concerned, flicked his hand as if tossing a ball, and that spot of the clearing’s edge was met with a surge that sent branches and dirt flying in many directions, but the boy had already moved to another spot without sound. He then fired two more arrows toward the witch, but the witch never left the veil where no weapon or living creature could cross. The farmer had fallen to his knees, but remained praying without fear.

For many minutes, the boy fired arrows and was missed by the Wolf Witch’s surges, and the witch fired as he saw the arrows fly though he couldn’t seem to stop the onslaught, for it seemed there was an army firing upon him.

While the witch held his attention to one side of the clearing where the boy fired his arrows and made silent attacks, the other side of the clearing remained to his back, since no arrows came from that way. What did come toward the Wolf Witch, however, was a rather large stump of an old oak tree crawling toward him from behind, cut down after thirty years of strong growing to warm someone’s home during winter. It was a stump that still lived and grew, but was by no means a creature or a weapon that couldn’t cross where the boy and girl couldn’t. The stump, still

rooted to the earth, moved as the girl’s bond allowed it to, for she was a painter and whisperer of nature. The boy, with his near infinite swiftness and quick feet, was a hunter as no one before him, and the witch could not for all his spells and trickery catch the boy with his many surges. The farmer opened his eyes and saw it unfold.

“What cowards hide in the trees?” the witch said. “Do you not know that no weapon can cross this veil? It’s a fool’s errand to fire upon me, and merely a game for me to fire upon you. I have a spell to complete, and I’m done with nonsense like this.”

The Wolf Witch began to turn around when he found that just behind him was—a tree stump. An old oak tree stump that hadn’t been there before, one that seemed to have crawled from beyond the veil and the trees. The witch furrowed his brow, for he knew of no magic like this other than what he had done himself. He kicked the stump to find that it was still rooted to the ground.

“It would take incredible control to move a stump like this,” the witch said. “Did I do this, Farmer? Did I become so excited that I moved this tree stump here?”

“Of course, Wolf Witch,” the farmer said, though he had seen every day the gifts of his children and knew them well. “I heard it move with my own ears. There is no other who is as focused and controlled as you.”

“You must be right. I only became excited by the spell. We should continue.”

The Wolf Witch, in his few brief moments of speaking, didn’t notice the build-up of tension within the tree stump, how it seemed to shake and vibrate in the prospect of propelling.

Nor did the witch notice the fireflies that began to light the woods beyond the edges of the clearing, protected as they were from detection by torches.

Or even the wolves’ glowing yellow eyes, with their growls and jagged breaths of anger. Or even the boy with his bow and its single, final loaded arrow as he stood at the top of the clearing, only covered partly by the veil as it were and completely unnoticed by the witch in his brief moments of blindness.

“Yes, Wolf Witch. We should continue,” the farmer said, his eyes on the hunter, his boy. The girl, her fingers to the ground beyond 145

the clearing, holding the stump in place, pressed her palm fully to the ground.

The stump launched from the ground like a canon and threw the Wolf Witch beyond the veil with a force so strong that it severed the stump’s roots. The towering figure fell to the ground and rolled several times toward the edge before stopping. He stood his body up and made for the veil, but found that dozens wolves had run from the woods and surrounded the veil, growling and snarling in anticipation for attack. The witch, in fear for his life, began throwing surges at the wolves, who were so strong at that moment that no spells could contain them. He threw one and wolves flew to the side, but the gap quickly filled with more brave wolves. And then he threw another surge. And then another still, but even so the wolves defended the veil, not letting the witch back to where he would spell them and make them obedient. As the witch ran about and threw surges like a scared, angry child, the boy took his aim for the witch’s heart.

The arrow, with its master’s thought-out, driven direction, soared through the bow, cut the air, and then, as if it found a treasure’s chest, pierced the witch’s heart. The creature turned and fell to his knees. He beheld the boy with his quiver of arrows across his shoulders and the bow in his hand, and then the girl as she came up from behind, weeds and flowers growing beside her feet with each step. The boy and girl stood together before the witch, saying nothing, but looking toward the wolves behind the witch.

The wolves, hearing the witch begin to die, took their revenge on him as they had wanted to their whole lives. They dragged the dying witch into the woods where they devoured him.

One wolf stayed behind—a cousin to the master wolf. The young wolf said before following his kin, “We’ll tell forever of all you’ve done for us, my friends, for you are true friends of wolves.”

The boy and girl watched the wolves run off before they saw that the veil in the clearing was gone—and their father stood before them.

“The stars of my life, my boy and girl,” their father said.

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“Father!” the children cried before embracing their father as if for the first time.

“Never listen to witches again, our silly father.

You mustn’t nearly lose your soul again.”

“Yes, your father was tricked and rather silly,” their father said. “And I let my fear of losing you both blind me. All I ever wanted in life was good rain, kind dealings, and that my children would grow up strong and good at heart. I didn’t need spells to do that. Your father shouldn’t have let you learn all of that this way.”

“Father,” the girl said, “Because of what you did, the wolves are free now from the witch. They are free to be themselves just as we are. The wolves are our friends now, and we’ve learned so much about the world this way.”

“It’s what God intended, Father, as you’re always saying,” the boy said. “Your children, my sister and I, are so grateful for everything you’ve done and what we’ve been able to do today.”

“I made you fools, my dear children, but you made yourselves strong. And I will always be grateful for that,” their father said, clasping his children again.

“Shall we go home, Father?” the boy asked.

“The cows are probably hungry and have likely eaten down entire fields by now,” the girl said.

“We shall go home, my children,” their father said. “But after that, we’re going out beyond the forest to see what is out there. You’ve never left the farm, and I won’t dare deprive you any longer of what’s beyond it. You are pure, good souls, and you are also the strongest people I’ve ever seen. You’ve had all the preparation you need.”

“I agree Father, it’s time,” the boy said, “but we will never forget our home, nor the bonds we’ve made.”

“Never,” the children said.

The children clasped their father’s shoulders, for his tired body was in need of their help at the moment, and they set out for home.

And then beyond for whatever adventures Fate and God had waiting for them.

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Fuck This Taylor Helfrich

India ink, Sharpie, spray paint, gesso, charcoal on paper

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Drift TR Brady Know this move to the roof.

You’ve placed this. You’ve seen fire before. All of this is on fire.

How do your shoes handle heat?

Can you afford nice ones?

All of the curls fall out. Your hair could never hold a curl, but you tried to be beautiful.

You’ve always loved this thing about January. How it throws things at you. January thinks you can handle cold, you couldn’t, so right now everything is on fire.

This was inevitable. Something you couldn’t stop. Maybe the whiskey just makes things hot. Maybe you left the blow dryer plugged in too long. You know how to be beautiful. Really. So you wouldn’t have left it plugged up. It could be the cigarettes and the paper in the basket.

Cigarettes are ugly things. This is just what happens. Next you take a step forward. It’s windy. Now you think about wearing a sweater, but it’s downstairs. They’re hard to climb.

Everything is street and city and sky and beautiful, beautiful people walking around. You know them all. You yell I DON’T WANT CASUAL. Untie your shoes—love them.

This is where you tell them how you always loved them. How they were good shoes.

Drop them. Sit somewhere. Wait. Listen.

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Elucidation Emily Walter Aptly, you can guess why we are Both here in this stage of progressive undoing— Come now baby, my once baby . . .

Don’t play like that—you know we’re both adults here.

Exactly how much, I couldn’t guess,

we’re so senseless.

Fact is, we speak two distinct tongues, understandingly so Given we are bred from different folks, born to other worlds, Hung on diverse levels of raising.

I keep no grudges in my heart, baby, none, but Just being together like we were

was masochism, a complete blur.

Karaoke singing to a song you’ve never heard, Living on the tundra with cold blood, Macerating walnuts and swallowing, Negating remaining senses with both eyes blind, Overflow, I’m drowning quick, can’t breathe— Pour you in a sieve

and watch you leave.

Quietly now, the air is clear like mornings in the fall, Rain drops in ablution, symbols and all, come gently for found Souls of too little resolve and clay feet—oh! how those drops Temper me and make iron for the days to come, oh! like tastes Umami there’s a strength in my words,

and they’ll be said, even with the threat of heavy hurts.

Venture a guess, baby, and pray you can see— Wash your doubts, for there were no faults: Xebec and Queen Mary 2 racing closely distant across the world.

Yes, you were a love, a bad love, a first love, and a besotted Zealot, searching for one aim to be backing—

and now we know, just what we call for exactly.

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sin(θ)

Alison Swanson Oil on panel

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cos(θ)

tan(θ)

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Woman Taking Root TR Brady I. Ex I move to memory to skin and seasick vertigo her pulse moving my body connecting disconnecting the jolt the soft too soft rolling and hanging a hitch in the air the crush of a mouth its tang subtlety drawing blood to surface.

II. Act of Remembering I go to that skin spot wound I keep it in one hand and do not touch my lover with it. It is mine. That blood promise that night with moon and oracle.

This hand is always in the earth—beckoning a dog—any dog to take the bone.

III. Please Neither the saw nor the ax. There is no wood here. There is marrow. There is tissue.

There is sustenance. A place for suckle and teeth.

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The Next, Great, Uninspired American Novelist Chris Tedeschi

It’s the middle of the afternoon.

You’ve just gotten back from hanging out with a few friends. You guys saw that shit new horror film where everyone dies. Everyone had a great time. Your phone rings as you walk through the door. You pick it up, expecting another call from a salesman trying to sell you soap. This soap is almost so good that it’s magical. It will change your life. It’s bullshit.

It turns out the person on your phone is your mother. You’ve never been good at communicating with your parents. Every time you see them you leave feeling like a huge dick.

It’s not that you don’t love them. It’s just that something about you is fucked up. You just can’t seem to have an actual conversation with them.

Your mom says, “How are you?”

You reply, “ Fine.”

It goes on like this for about ten minutes. Then your mom says she has something to tell you. She just went to a doctor’s checkup earlier in the day, and they found a lump in her breast. It might be cancer. She says it will be fine though. She’s so positive. She’s so strong. You’re so worried and weak. She has an appointment soon, and she’ll tell you more then.

The next few days go by. Worries are constantly in the back of your head, but no one knows, so no one cares. You wonder if anyone did know if they would care. Sometimes you feel so goddamn invisible. You used to have so many friends. In this new town you have three. Three

friends that you don’t even really like.

You’re at your computer trying to write. When you were fresh out of college, you had your first novel published. It was well received, and a movie studio actually decided to buy the rights to turn it into a film. All the profits from your work have allowed you to live relatively worry-free, but you have noticed that the funds are shrinking little by little. You haven’t written anything that’s been published in so long. Your agent tells you he thinks it’s because you don’t put yourself out there enough. If you don’t participate in life, it will be quite hard for you to make up stories that people can relate to. You think to yourself, “Fuck him,” but maybe he is right.

You decide to take a break from your writing and log on to Facebook. You feel like a failure as an artist for still using Facebook. You see a family friend’s daughter write a request that everyone pray for her mom’s friend who has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. You know it’s your mom. You call her to ask. She confirms. You ask why she didn’t tell you. She says she didn’t want to worry you until she knew more information about it. That pisses you off. It pisses you off that it pisses you off. You try to hide the fact that you’re pissed off, but you know she can tell, and that pisses you off even more.

Almost a week goes by, and you realize that it’s the middle of October. October is the month of national breast cancer awareness. This is the month your mother is diagnosed. Every153

thing around you is so full of irony. You wonder if you should write about it. You feel like that would be wrong. You think again about the fact that nothing you write has sold lately. You remember your agent telling you that nothing you’ve written as of late has came off as even slightly genuine.

Your agent is an honest man, and he is an asshole. This would be genuine though. This is real.

This is what you’re going through. Others would relate. Then you remind yourself that this is none of their damn business.

You go out to a bar on a Tuesday night. You drink your beer and think about how much you hate the taste of alcohol. That’s probably because your dad is an alcoholic. You think about the fact that he’s probably drinking right now. That scares the shit out of you. You don’t want to be like him. You start to get up and leave when a girl approaches you. You guys talk for a while at the bar. She tells you she read your book.

You take her home. You sleep with her. You forget about all your troubles for the night. You never mention any of said troubles, and you never call her after she leaves in the morning. You’re never like this.

Your mom calls the next day and tells you that she is about to have surgery. You tell her it will be okay, hang up the phone, and wonder if it will in fact be okay. She calls you later in the day and tells you that it went fine. She has one more doctor’s appointment to go to where she will find out if she needs to go through chemo as well.

Later that night you think about how awful it must look that your mother is going through all of this, and you haven’t been around for any of it. You live in New York now. She still lives in Tennessee. People will understand. Hopefully people won’t understand the entire truth though. You’re scared shitless and are too afraid to go be there for your family.

A few more days pass by and you get up the nerve to fly to Tennessee. You’re going to drive your mom to her appointment. When you arrive at the house you grew up in, your mom greets you at the door. You hug, and she doesn’t let go for what must be at least two minutes. She’s smiling and so happy to see you. You’re trying your best not to cry. Your dad sits there looking grave with a Coors in his hand. Not much has 154

changed. I’m sure now it looks like your dad has a reason to be drinking so heavily, but you grew up in the house with him. You know he always drank this much, and it’s because he’s an alcoholic.

At the appointment you learn that everything is fine. She doesn’t have to do chemo, and is expected to make a full recovery. You’re so happy. She’s so happy. She said she knew God would protect her through all of this. Everyone around you tells you how much of a miracle this is. You think about how you don’t really believe in God or miracles. You think about how this makes you sound like a cynical ass. You think how the fact that you’re currently in the South infinitely exacerbates the fact that you look like a cynical ass.

You stay out and waste time in the middle of nowhere with your family. You feel so happy for your mom. Tennessee is filled with joy, and no troubles are in your life. Everything is better than it has been in a long time.

After the plane lands in New York a few days later you see you have a voicemail from your agent. You listen to it and find out that he’s expecting a draft of something in two weeks. He says people are starting to forget who you are. It’s only going to become harder to be published the longer you wait. He says you need to strike while the iron is still relatively hot or you’re not going to be able to get anything read, your money will run out, and who knows what the fuck will happen next.

You sit at home and try to write, but nothing comes to you. You think about the fact that all the sadness that was surrounding you was going to be so helpful. You had something to write about. You’re almost mad that everything is okay. You realize how despicable of a person that makes you seem to be. You can’t decide whether the fact that you’re a piece of shit human being or the fact that you’re a writer who can’t imagine any material that is relatively engaging unless it actually happens infuriates you more.

Later that night you have a dream that seems very real. You have cancer. Old friends from school call. They’re crying. In your dream, you’re looking through books at a bookstore when a pretty girl approaches you. She sees the book in your hands. You see the sympathy in her eyes.

The two of you fuck, and it’s good. It’s better

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than any sex you’ve had in your entire life. Your agent leaves you alone because you have cancer, but you write anyways. The book gets published.

Then comes another movie deal. You wake up.

You wake up back in your shitty life where everything is okay. `The next day after you wake up you go to a doctor. You say you think you have cancer. You have him check. You hope that something is wrong with you. Something that will make people that you can write about. Something that people will read so they won’t forget you. He says you look fine. Goddamn fine. You consider starting a fight with a stranger in the street that you’re sure you’ll lose. You think maybe having the shit beat out of you will give you something to write about. That’s what you tell yourself at least. The truth is that you’re so numb that you’d do whatever it takes to see that you still bleed. If you bleed, you must be alive. You decide to just go home instead.

The gun’s cold in your mouth. You stop to think for a second if this is a good idea.

Sure. This will get people’s attention, but you won’t be around to receive the attention. Is it

even worth it? You can’t write about it afterwards, but you’re sure someone else will. You’re not even sad though. You consider whether most people that shoot themselves are sad. You decide they probably are, but you’re not sad. You’re not anything. You’re still just numb. You click the safety off. The soft click reminds you of the click of Maggie’s nails on a desk in eighth grade. You think about how she’s the first girl that let you finger her. It was in the woods behind the old basketball court that you and your friends used to play at. You wonder what Maggie’s doing now. Your finger reaches towards the trigger. You remember that she got married in her junior year of college, and is happy with three kids. You wonder if you had kids with Maggie if she’d still be happy or if you would have brought her down. You wonder if you’d be happy with Maggie. If you’d be happy with anyone. The phone rings. It’s your doctor.

He says they missed a very small lump on your testicle that was visible on an x-ray. They will need you come in for further testing. You thank God.

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Through the Clouds Brandon Cranford Photograph

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A Matter of Tense Carli Hemperley

Dear Mother,

I’m writing this under strict supervision. They don’t even trust us with pencils in this place. They must think we’ll use them to gauge our own eyes out, and some of these freaks in here probably would. I can hardly lift the pencil from the paper without one of the nurses running over here and trying to wrestle it out of my hands.

So if you were wondering why my handwriting is almost even more illegible than usual, that’s why.

I can’t lift the fucking pencil off the paper.

I’m still mad that you dumped me here. So, don’t take this letter as a sign of peace.

I just wanted you to know how much I’m suffering.

We have to stick our hands out of our rooms at night if we need to go to the bathroom and just hope the nurse on duty sees us.

And when we take showers the water pressure is so lame that I come out feeling even dirtier than I did when I went in. And to make matters even more awkward, a nurse has to stay in there with me while I’m in the bathroom, whether I’m showering or brushing my teeth or going about other business. They’re not kidding around here. They want to make sure we don’t do anything to hurt ourselves. But to be honest, never have I wanted to kill myself more than I have since I’ve been here. It’s just so friggin’ depressing.

On the bright side though (if it can be seen as bright) I got my own room. They were going to make me room with this schizophrenic

kid that kept trying to touch me. This is where it gets fun though. When I told him to stop he just started screaming and cowered in the corner.

I’ve never seen someone look so scared. When one of the nurses came in (one of the burly man nurses that look like they were once professional wrestlers and are only here to “keep the peace”—I thought movies only had nurses like that for some kind of comic relief, but no, they’re real) and asked the kid what was wrong. The kid pointed at me and started sobbing. “He’s going to eat me!”

He kept jabbering. I probably didn’t help when I told him that I wasn’t hungry, and that I make a point to avoid eating freaks when I am because I don’t want to catch their crazy. I thought that nurse was going to strangle me, but it was worth it. They had me escorted out of the room and kept interrogating me, asking why Jayden, or whatever his name is, thought I was going to eat him. They were going to put me back in there with him until I threatened to burn the place down. I’m under high security watch, but at least I have my own room.

They’re making me wear paper scrubs over my clothes because the tank tops and gym shorts you left me with are apparently “too revealing.” And on top of that, they cut all the drawstrings out of my pants so they nearly keep falling off. Yeah, I could probably use them to choke myself or someone else, but God forbid I use them for their intended purpose. TO KEEP MY FUCKING PANTS UP! So, if you send me any more clothing for my stay, make sure it cov157

ers every inch of me and doesn’t need strings or elastic to stay in place.

We have rec time here. They try to make us all play basketball. I guess because I’m tall, everyone there assumed that I’m a b-ball star at school so they all nearly swarmed me when we were told to form teams. They were kind of disappointed when I missed every shot I took and told them that I’d much rather be inside reading a book or finger painting. (Do we finger paint here? It seems like something we’d do. I actually think I would like that. Don’t exactly have a way to express myself here.) No one really wanted to be on my team after that. Rejected by a bunch of mentally screwed up kids. That’s a new level of low for me.

One of the girls here though thought she could get something out of my athletic inadequacies I guess. We’re the two oldest kids here.

A whopping seventeen. Too old to “make friends” with the other crazies even if we wanted to, and too young to be put in the maximum-security adult ward downstairs. If ever I’m to be glad that I’m not an adult, it’s now. Those people down there are scary. But anyways, she kept trying to flirt with me no matter how many times I told her to leave me alone. Finally, she thought she’d be clever and decided to make a bet. If I made a basket, I didn’t have to kiss her, but if I missed I did.

I dredged up all of my knowledge of basketball— which as you know only includes watching Space Jam an unhealthy number of times as a small child—and took a shot. And who would have guessed… I made it! I literally laughed in her face, which in retrospect was kind of an ass-holey thing to do. I apologized and she hit me. But oh well, right? I didn’t come here to make friends, and God forbid, to get a girlfriend. Call me crazy, but I don’t think a mental institution is the best place to skim the dating pool.

Promise to make me something good when I get out of here, okay? I’d even take those microwavable pizzas, to be honest. The food sucks here. It’s like hospital food and school cafeteria food joined in unholy matrimony and spawned this disgusting slop. They probably think I’m trying to starve myself, but no. I’m actually hungry, but I’m too scared to eat this crap! So, I’m living off of too-starchy wheat rolls and the lemonade that they, surprisingly enough, 158

keep in those fancy glass dispenser jars that we have at church. I guess they haven’t thought about someone picking it up and smashing it on their own, or someone else’s head.

There’s a lot of windows in the dining hall. I feel like they’re trying to taunt us with the view of the “great outdoors.” I can’t deny that I haven’t gotten the urge to pick up one of the uncomfortable metal dining chairs and throw it at the stupid windows. It’d probably bounce right off though. If broken glass isn’t tempting enough to kids with suicidal thoughts, then the twentyfoot drop down the tiny cliff this place is built on sure is.

Speaking of drop, some kid tried to kill himself yesterday. But it didn’t work, of course. Mainly because he tried to jump down from a friggin’ spiral staircase. I don’t know what he was thinking. I guess he didn’t think it all through very well. And the saddest thing is, he was supposed to leave tomorrow. It makes me wonder though… Did he do it because he didn’t want to leave, or just because he just felt like he couldn’t handle life? I want to believe the second one. Who would want to stay here longer than necessary? I’ve only been here two days and I’m ready to go. He’s been here for a while though. I guess he wouldn’t know what to do if he was let go. Kind of like that old man in Shawshank Redemption.

Since we’re on the topic of Shawshank Redemption, can you send me a poster and a tiny little pick axe? I’m kidding of course. They wouldn’t let me have either of them, I’m sure.

The tiny pick axe for obvious reasons, and I bet they’d think that I’d find a way to suffocate myself with the poster. A guy can only dream of such an escape though. Tunneling out to freedom, not the killing myself with a poster thing. That’s just dumb.

You probably think I’m making all of this up, but I’m not. I’m not that creative.

We had a group therapy meeting this morning.

It was like those stereotypical Alcoholics Anonymous type meetings that you always see on TV or something. The instructor was all, “Let’s go around the circle and say our names and tell why we’re here and anything else we feel like sharing.

I’ll start. I’m Daniel and I’m blah blah blah blah friggin’ blah…”

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Some kids were actually into it. They gave their whole sob story and started crying halfway through like they hadn’t told it a million times before to the same kids. That one schizophrenic kid that thought I was going to eat him—his name is Aiden, not Jayden, I think—just kind of muttered to himself the whole time and wasn’t even aware that there was anything going on around him.

When it came to be my turn in the circle, I just tried to pass, but that’s apparently not a thing here. Mr. Daniel-The-Self-Help-Guru, made me stand up since I was new and introduce myself. I refused, but he insisted with a really creepy grin on his face. For fear of being man-handled out of my seat by Dwayne the Rock Nurse-man, I stood up and did the stupid thing.

“Hello. I’m Garret—with one “T” if you’re writing this down—and I’m here because I was suicidal.”

“What methods?” Daniel asked.

“Why does it matter?”

But he insisted.

“Overdose. Couldn’t sleep. I just really wanted to sleep.”

I sat down, trying to avoid more questions but that Daniel guy wasn’t going to have it, Mom. He made me stand back up and got all meta with me. “So you say you were suicidal. So you’re not anymore?” With that weird smile on his face. I explained to him that that was the reason for the use of the past tense, just in case he forgot how grammar worked. Past tense= not anymore. Just in case you forgot too.

He didn’t really think it was funny. He started dogging on me about how aggressive I was being, and started to try to friggin’ psycho analyze me. I guess it’s his job to do it, but it made me uncomfortable especially since everyone was staring.

“You’re not going to get any better Garrett (I’m spelling it like this because I’m sure that’s how he meant it) if you don’t talk about it.

We’re here to help you. Let us help you.”

“I don’t need any help. I’m fine.”

“Then why did you try to take your own life?”

Everyone was staring at me.

I hated it, Mom. I hated every moment of it.

I walked out. I nearly got in a fight with the man-nurses but they let me go. I told them I needed to call you, but they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to call you on the phone if it’s not a weekend. So here I am, writing this letter to you instead.

This is all just too much. I don’t want to be here, Mom. I don’t belong here with these crazy kids. Please, please, please come get me out of here.

Garret P.S. Tell Jocelyn I said hi and that she better not be trying to convert my room into a studio or whatever it is she said she wanted to do. And pet the cat for me. OK?

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Are You Comfortable?

Tori Cullins Silicone and glass

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The Tale of the Angels Dalton Shannon

In a cottage in the middle of the world lived a family very much like one you would expect, though expectations are rarely what reality demands. The father, the provider, who tended to the land and his own in equal fashion, was a man of Heart. His love for his home and his family was almost too much for his heart to hold, and so it was that when it was broken, the love flooded the rest of his body and drowned his soul in the kind of love that is selfish and cruel. You see, it was thirteen years ago that his beautiful wife, the mother, the nurturer, a woman of Mind, was lost to him. But for the one life that was lost, the father gained two, for she gave him one last gift before her soul departed for Heaven: two little girls, each with the beauty and cunning of their mother. And while the father loved his girls with all the love he had had for the mother, his was a broken heart, one of worry and protection. His girls were all the world he had left and he was not about to let anything happen to them.

But as the girls grew, the father began to realize that they were not long for the secluded world of their cottage in the middle of the world. They relished adventure and were never content to sit still for more than a minute before one or both of them were outside chasing rabbits or splashing in the nearby stream. This caused the father much distress and he would lock them away in their room until they had calmed down and promised they would not venture past the wood which surrounded their little cottage. It was in the middle of one such punishment that the two sisters began to talk amongst themselves.

“Father is becoming quite mad, 162

don’t you agree?” asked the Elder, a child of the Body and older by no more than eight minutes, as she balanced on the headboard of the bed she shared with her sister. She was the more eager of the two to adventure, always running wild and ignoring the cries of her father. If either of them were to cause trouble, it would be her.

“It’s only because you continue to visit the stream in the woods that he worries so!” said the Younger, a child of the Soul, who was playing with an old doll that needed new eyes.

“You know it gives him a fright every time he sees you waist deep in that chilling water!” The Younger was the more mindful of the two, content to stay inside and imagine, singing sweet songs with her melodic voice and making up new notes with the endless expanse of her mind. Though that didn’t stop her from following her sister on most of the adventures she plotted. Reality, she found, was an ample source for the imagination.

The Elder jumped off of the bed frame to land in front of her sister, startling her.

“It shouldn’t! The river assures me that there is nothing to fear! Its rapids aren’t strong enough to carry me away, nor is it deep enough to drown me! Father is going to lock us away in here forever, I’m sure of it!”

The Younger, who prided herself in understanding, realized why her father was so frightened for their safety. But she also realized why it was pointless for him to be so frightened in the first place, as she and her sister could not be satisfied by four walls alone. “He simply needs time,” she finally said, combing the ragged hair of her doll. “Once we are of age, I am sure that he

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will understand that we cannot be content to sit in this house forever. He will surely let us live our lives as we are meant to!”

The Elder sighed, crossing her arms in a huff. “You are too hopeful, sister! You refuse to see what is right in front of you! In the thirteen years since we were born, he has yet to allow us to be anywhere without his knowledge. If you truly believe what you say, then you are as senseless as he is!”

The Younger did not take kindly to insults and stood up to face her mirror kin. “I am not senseless, sister! I am simply able to see both sides!” she argued.

“You are nothing but a dreamer!” her sister cried back, angry. “But that doesn’t surprise me, seeing as how you are the younger!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” the Younger asked, getting angry herself.

“It means,” the Elder replied, “that you are nothing but a newborn babe, content to see the world as you want it rather than as it is!”

“You cannot call me a babe when you yourself are but eight minutes my elder, sister!” the Younger retorted.

The Elder smiled, knowing victory was hers. “And that is my point exactly, sister.

That is what reality is. You simply choose to ignore it. You cannot change what is the world.

What is, simply is.”

The Younger, not one for conflict, simply walked out of the room in a huff, leaving her sister to stand in the empty room alone with a triumphant smile upon her face. She walked into the living area but stopped short, seeing her father on his knees before the windowsill, eyes closed in vigilant prayer.

“Please, my God, who looks down upon me from Heaven,” he said quietly, “please grant me the patience I need to be a true father to these girls. Please grant me the wisdom to raise them in the way they demand. And please grant them the safety they will need to continue to grow and live the lives they demand. I ask these things in Your name, Father. Amen.”

With that, the father stood and turned to see his daughter standing before him, a curious look upon her face.

“Daughter!” he cried, startled.

“You’re supposed to be in your room!”

“Sister was being mean,” she replied, turning her gaze to the ground. After a moment, her father reached forward to guide her back to her room.

“I’m sure you two were simply--”

“Father, does God always answer your prayers?” the Younger interrupted, startling him even further. He was taken aback by this question. He had simply taken it for granted, his prayers, his faith in God. He had never considered that his girls might fail to understand the relationship between God and His people. And so he knelt before his younger daughter, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“God always listens to your prayers, daughter,” he said, a big smile under his beard.

“But he only answers the most pious of them. To ask of God is to truly believe in Him and in His ability to guide you. Do not take this for granted, child. Prayer is a sacred thing. But if you believe that God will truly help you, then you have nothing to worry over, for He will answer. Now come, it is getting late. You and your sister must sleep now for the day tomorrow.”

The father walked the Younger to her room, making sure she and her sister were tucked in safe and sound into their beds, while thoughts of God and prayer and dreams thereof swam through her head. Could it be true? Could God answer her prayers? Was He, in fact, listening to the pleas of a young girl? She believed He did. At the very least she had to, if she was going to get her way. You see, the mind of a child is a beautiful thing indeed, filled with dreams beyond imagination. But it is also a petty place at times, filled with great jealousy. Because children are not tethered to the realm of reality, they fail to grasp certain things. Theirs is the world of the Self and, while filled with great empathy, children must go to greater lengths to see past themselves than others. And so it was that as she lay next to her sister that night, the Younger prayed. She prayed harder than anyone had ever prayed in the history of the world.

“Please, God,” she began, “I don’t want to be the littlest anymore. I wish to be elder, so that I may show my sister that the world isn’t as set in stone as she believes it to be. Amen.”

And, with that simple but powerful thought, the Younger fell asleep, the deepest 163

sleep she had ever experienced. But the deep recesses of the SoulScape could not keep the girl away from the world and she eventually awoke to the darkness around her. It was still dark, the sun had yet to rise, but she could sense that the room was much darker than it had ever been on the darkest, moonless nights. She could sense something in the room with her, something other than her sister. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out shapes, three of them, surrounding her bed. They were tall, dark figures that seemed to not only swallow the light but exude the dark. They stood with their heads nearly touching the ceiling, their wings scraping the top of the room, too big to truly spread.

She knew what these figures were from the stories her father had read to her from the Holy Book: Angels, the hands of God Himself. But these were not what she had been led to believe.

Malice dripped from their darkness. Evil emanated outwards, washing over her and leaving a bad taste in her mouth and a chill up her spine.

She could see her breath in the darkness and shivered. She couldn’t remember a winter this cold.

She tried to sit up but found herself unable to do so, frozen as she was by something other than mere fear. Her eyes darted all around the darkness, unable to see anything but the evil creatures towering over her. They leaned in towards her and she tried to scream. She was stopped by one of the monsters putting a wicked, twisted finger towards the darkness that was its face, wind escaping its lips, saying “Ssshh...”

The Younger turned her eyes, now flooded with tears, to her left, seeing one of the monsters lifting the Elder up out of the bed. The Elder was awake now as well, and well aware of what was lifting her out of the bed. Her eyes pleaded with her sister, begging for help, but she couldn’t seem to move either.

The Younger looked back at the central figure standing over her and saw what she thought was a smile under the darkness, a grin that she was sure was the heart of all evil.

And with that, the darkness vanished. The figures were gone and, though the sun had yet to rise, the room became immediately brighter. The Younger found she could move again and sat up, looking around fruitlessly. Her sister was gone, carried off 164

by the angels she had called for. She immediately realized what she had set in motion. Her prayer to be the elder had come to pass; the angels had seen fit to take the Elder for themselves, leaving her the only sister. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. Her terror was still all-consuming. She knew in her heart that what had come to pass was her fault and she knew that her father would go mad with grief when he discovered when the sun rose that his beloved daughter was taken from him, just as he had always feared. She could not allow this to happen and leapt from the bed and fell to her knees and prayed harder than even her first prayer, pouring her entire being into the plea.

“Please, God, please! I regret my selfish prayer to be the elder! I only now pray that Your angels who dwell in Heaven return my beloved sister to me! I will be the younger for the rest of our lives and be content with my lot if only You would return her to me at once!”

The Younger waited for what seemed forever in the lonely darkness but she sat in vain. Nothing appeared and still she was without her beloved sister. Upon realizing that her prayer was not going to bring her sister back, she decided upon the next logical course of action: she was just going to have to go to Heaven herself and bring her sister home, for she knew that her father would go mad with grief should the morning come and her sister was gone.

She did not pause to change nor pack, but simply ran out of her little cottage in the middle of the world and began her journey.

Having only the lights in the sky to guide her, the Younger had a hard time navigating the dark land around her and continuously lost her footing, scraping her knees and elbows until her legs could not continue and she fell one last time into a hungry pit, the emptiness swallowing even her scream.

She lay at the bottom of the pit for what seemed like days, not moving an inch, in too much pain and sorrow to muster even the slightest of movements, only her tears providing her company. How was she ever to get her sister back? She was but a child, what good was she against the will of God Himself? In her solitude she began to weakly sing a song her father had taught her, a song to ease her fears:

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“When last lights die and fear is creeping My will shall never cease With Hope and Love and Bravery My Heart will find its Peace!”

The song was suddenly broken by a voice in the darkness.

“Are you hurt, dear girl?” the voice asked, sounding worried. She looked up at the lights in the sky and saw a badger looking over the edge, its ears twitching in concern. “I’m terribly sorry, my master doesn’t mark his traps so that humans may see them. Here, let me assist you.”

With that, the badger left her sight and in less than a moment, a rope was dropped to her from above.

“Grab this, dear girl!” she heard the badger say. “Grab it and loop the lasso around your waist! I will pull you up!”

The Younger did as she was told and in no time at all she was sitting up out of the pit gazing at her rescuer. The badger sat up on its hind legs, ears still twitching in concern.

“Are you okay, dear girl?” the badger asked, leaning forward and putting a caring paw upon her bloody knees. “Can you walk?”

The Younger was about to answer when she turned her gaze to the fire that was blazing to her left. Around the campfire lay a massive bear, asleep, and a man, but not a man that the Younger had ever encountered. He was tall, enormously so, his knees up around his head while he was seated. He was poking the flames with his thin arms, not seeming to care that he was getting his fancy clothes dirty. You see, he was dressed head to toe in the most beautiful suit she had ever seen. Not even her father owned clothes so nice, not even for church. She was brought out of her thoughts when the man turned his face to her and she let out a yelp of terror.

Where his face should have been there was nothing. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, no hair. Not a thing on his face to tell you there was one, simply a blank canvas of a monster. The badger quickly jumped forward to ease the situation.

“Dear girl, please, do not scream so!

My master cannot help his appearance, do not fault him for what he cannot change! He simply wishes to know that you are safe! He feels terrible about you falling into his pit that is reserved for

the most wild of beasts and hopes that you will forgive him!”

The Younger sat and stared at the trio before her; the bear, the badger, and the faceless man. She wanted to scream but knew that what the badger said was sincere. She was understanding of all people, whether they were people or not. So she eased forward towards the fire and smiled.

“It is quite all right, badger-friend.

While it is true that I am hurt, I am quite fine. All I ask is that I may rest with you by the fire for a short time while I gather my bearings to continue on my journey.”

The badger sat next to her as the bear awoke from its slumber. The faceless man continued to poke the flames.

“What is this journey that you are so determined to continue that you would heedlessly fall into a trap in the darkness?” the badger asked curiously.

“I fear I have made a grave mistake, my friend,” the Younger began, sadness filling her heart. “I was jealous of my elder sister and prayed to be the elder one to God, who is in Heaven. But His angels who dwell in Heaven came in the night and took her and I fear what is to become of my father if he is to discover what has happened. I must get her back, for I realize my mistake and wish to make things right again!”

The badger sat listening intently to her story, but the bear simply snorted and the faceless man went back to poking the flames.

“Little girl, you have been deceived,” the bear said to her, attempting to go back to sleep. “There is no such thing in Heaven as God.”

“Aye,” the badger continued sadly.

“All that has ever been are the sinister angels of which you speak. They sit in Heaven, their home, and listen to the prayers of man and beast, picking and choosing which lives to ruin. They will answer your prayers if you pray hard enough, dear girl, but never in the way you wish. And they always demand something in return. I fear you have made a grave mistake indeed.”

The Younger did not know what to make of this evil information. “But my father said that God will answer your prayers and take care of you!”

“Your father is a fool,” the bear said 165

sleepily. “The angels who dwell in Heaven are all that is and have ever been and they will rip a man to shreds should they be denied what they feel they are due. Yours is a hopeless quest, little girl.”

The Younger sat in silence and listened to the fire crack and burn. Eventually, she was able to stand, ignoring the pain of her wounds.

“Where do you think you’re going, dear girl?” the badger asked, ears twitching.

“It does not matter how evil these angels believe they are, I must save my sister. She is my best friend and my blood, and I cannot bear the thought of her in the clutches of those monsters. And I must get her back before my father wakes and goes mad with grief!”

The Younger realized that she was going to get no help from this strange group of fellows and began to walk off into the wood.

“What was that?” she heard the badger ask, surprise evident in his voice. She turned back around to see the badger talking with his master, though the faceless man made no sound.

“I...I understand, master,” the badger continued and bowed. “In that case, I request that you allow me to accompany this girl on her journey. No girl should walk this path alone.”

Silence swept the night, even the crackle of the fire receding. Finally, the badger raised its head again and smiled.

“Oh, thank you, master! You have made me a happy beast indeed!” the badger cried, and bounded off to join the Younger.

“What was that about?” she asked, confused.

“My master has taken pity upon you and your quest and has made it so that the sun will not rise and no one shall awaken for a full seven days, allowing you all of the time you need in which to return your sister before your father awakens! He has also agreed to heal your wounds and allowed me to accompany you on your journey, for no one should walk the woods at night alone, especially a young girl such as yourself!”

The Younger didn’t know what to say to this, though she noticed that her wounds were now completely healed, the pain gone. She looked back toward the fire and the faceless man but found that he and the bear were gone, with only smoke rising from the darkness where the 166

flames once were. Shaken, she looked back down at the badger.

“If you can, tell your master that he has my thanks,” she said with a smile. She then began her walk into the now-endless night with her new companion. They walked for a while without words until the Younger finally asked if the badger knew of a way to get to Heaven.

“Heaven isn’t a place most people want to be going, dear girl,” the badger said, “but I understand your particular situation. I know of an entrance, that I do, but it lies at the center of the ForeverSea, a ladder that extends upward into the sky all the way to Heaven!”

“How do we get to the ForeverSea, badger-friend?” the Younger asked, the enormity of the journey before her just now setting in.

“It lies just beyond this wood, dear girl,” he replied, “but we must be cautious. There are worse things in the forest than either you or I could begin to imagine.”

As they continued to walk, the lights in the sky broke through periodically to illuminate the wood around them. The darklight that surrounded them and showed them the way created just as many shadows as it did paths and the Younger jumped at every twig that snapped and every rustle of leaves.

“I don’t believe I enjoy this forest,” she told the badger, who chuckled.

“Even the ones who call this wood home do not enjoy it, dear girl,” the badger replied. “Especially the wytches.”

“What are wytches?” the Younger asked. But before the badger could reply, he was cut off by a scraping sound off in the distance. He cocked his head to his right, in the direction of the noise, and his hair stood on end and he began to growl.

“Let us pray we do not find out,” he said under his breath.

They continued to turn in the dark, slowly, listening to the heavy footsteps surrounding them, closing in. Suddenly, the footsteps ceased and all that could be heard in the silence was a gurgling sigh. Then, before the next step could be taken, the badger shouted, “RUN!”

The Younger and the badger began to run through the dark forest, snapping branches and scraping trees following behind them, a dark

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hissing creeping slowly forward.

“What is it, badger?” cried the Younger, breathless.

“Don’t talk, just run!” he screamed before he was yanked back into the darkness by something sinister. The Younger could make out long, clawed hands wrapping around her from the darkness, the hissing, gurgling noises filling her ears as she too was pulled into the dark. She was held up off her feet by the clawed hands that had grabbed her. She couldn’t make out much of her attacker in the darkness, but what she saw was tall, long, its dark, twisted hair flowing down over its face to its knees. She couldn’t see much of the monster, but she knew that she didn’t want to see the rest. The hissing, gurgling sound was coming from the monster, its shoulders rising and falling as it breathed, the hair in front of its face blowing out with every sigh. Saliva dripped to the ground in front of her and she cried out for her badgerfriend, but received no reply.

“Please, release me!” she cried, pleading with the beast, whose grasp seemed to tighten on her throat. “I must get into Heaven to rescue my sister from the angels who dwell in Heaven and return home before the sun rises!”

The beast in front of her began to make a noise, its shoulders shaking, and she realized that it was laughing at her. She couldn’t see far in the darkness, the well of black seeming to close in around her and the monster. She couldn’t see her badger-friend, if he was even still alive, and she began to feel that, as the monster’s laughter subsided, she might never reach the Ladder to Heaven. Her mind flew back to the days before all of this, before the angels came and took her beloved sister, when the storms would start. She was younger then, and the noise scared her sister, so she would sing to her, her beautiful voice overpowering the terrible noise of the storm. It always calmed her sister down and now, in the face of the monster, all she could think to do was sing. It was soft at first, but gradually grew.

“When last lights die and fear is creeping My will shall never cease With Hope and Love and Bravery My Heart will find its Peace!”

Her voice wavered with fear, but still she continued on. The monster stopped laughing to listen, its head cocking in confusion. It paused,

as if something was holding it back. But it didn’t last long, as the Younger was too fearful and her voice slowly died as the monster’s grip tightened.

But just before the beast could take the last of her voice, it was stopped by the badger jumping upon its head, biting into the rotted flesh of its face. The beast let out an unearthly howl and threw the badger off of it, dropping the Younger to the ground, who began to cough uncontrollably. The badger landed by a tree, letting out a yelp as the monster began its march towards him.

Suddenly, the creature was tackled from the side by a large, burly figure the likes of which took the Younger a few moments to recognize, for it was so dark. But, when she saw the thick fur and heard the terrible roars, she knew it could be none other than the bear from the fire.

He had come to rescue them! The bear held the monster down, biting at its rotting face, but to no avail. The wicked monster simply grabbed the bear by the throat and threw it off into the darkness, its massive form knocking trees unfortunate enough to be in its path to the ground.

Then, slowly, the wretched creature stood back up, eying the ground where the Younger lay. After many labored breaths, it resumed its silent march towards dinner.

But it never reached her, as an arm of darkness stretched out to wrap around it and pulled it back into the black. It howled in fear and there was a crunch. Then there was silence. The Younger looked where the monster had vanished and saw only black and a featureless face. It disappeared into the dark, taking the broken form of the bear with it, and left the Younger and the badger alone.

The badger slowly got to his feet, pain in his eyes. “My master sends his regards, dear girl,” he said with a wince. The Younger got up slowly as well, trying not to make a sound in the deafening void.

“What were those monstrous creatures?” she asked with a whisper.

“Wytches,” he said, beginning to walk forward once again. “Nasty creatures.

Known for eating little children like you, dear girl.

Count yourself lucky my master has found favor in you.”

“The bear,” the Younger began, wor167

ried. “Is he--?”

“He’ll live,” the badger replied, shaking off his dirty coat. “He’s faced worse than wytches on our journeys, dear girl. A hardier beast I have yet to encounter than my bearfriend.”

The Younger followed the badger until they finally broke free of the wood, the night still bearing down upon them, the lights in the sky illuminating the plain before them.

“How much further until the ForeverSea?” she asked with a yawn.

“A day, at most,” the badger replied.

“But I can see you are very tired, dear girl. Do you wish to ride upon my back and rest until we arrive at the shore?”

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” the Younger replied, and sat herself upon the badger and he began to trot off. It was only a short while before she felt her eyes grow heavy and even shorter until she closed them completely. How long she slept she did not know, but when next she opened her eyes, she was in a cabin on a boat in the middle of the ForeverSea.

She sat up with a fright, not accustomed to her new surroundings. Looking around quickly, she noticed her badger-friend beside her, asleep as well. This relaxed her, but she was still uneasy. She had no idea what to make of the situation until a door opened to the outside and a man she could only assume was a captain walked inside.

“Ah, she be awake,” he said with a grin. This captain was much like the ones she had read stories about: big, broad, and burly. His beard hid his face, but not his smile or determination in his eyes. He wore a cutlass at his side, the side which failed to have a matching leg for his other. In its place was a piece of wood, fashioned just below the knee. He walked over to the Younger and knelt, which was a bit harder with only one leg, holding out a hand for her to shake.

“Ye must be the dear girl, the younger of the sisters,” he said, eyes glowing in admiration. “Yer badger-friend has told me all about yer noble quest ta save yer sister from the clutches of the angels who dwell in Heaven. You be a braver soul than I, dear girl.”

Surprised by this captain’s kindness, the Younger slowly took his hand and shook it.

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“Is this boat going toward the Ladder of Heaven?” she asked, hopeful.

“Aye, that it is, girl,” the captain said, standing up. “We be but a few miles from its rungs. Yer badger-friend moved me with yer tale of heroism and I could not help but offer me boat and crew to you. If ye’d like, we can go above deck and ye can see fer yerself.”

The Younger liked that idea, wanting desperately to get out of the dark cabin she found herself in. By this time, the badger had awoken as well, and together, they all three went to the deck, finding all sorts of men wandering about, swabbing the floors or manning the sails or simply playing games of chance by the mast.

“I’ve never been on a boat before,” the Younger said, eyes wide in amazement. “This is simply wonderful!”

“She isn’t wrong, captain,” the badger said, wandering over to the games by the mast. “You have a fine crew here.”

“Thank ye, thank ye,” the captain said with a sigh. “But, t’tell ye the truth, we haven’t been much of a crew for the past day or so. The sun has gone out, ye see, and my men and I, we be scared of the darkness.”

The Younger was astonished. “You? Grown men, afraid of the dark?”

The captain appeared embarrassed.

“Aye, lass, that we are. A shameful fact, but a fact to be sure. We never venture anywhere that takes us more than a few hours away, for fear of being caught in the night’s dark embrace. But we were tired of bein’ scared, we were! And so I told me men to set sail to help you, dear girl, to help you reclaim your poor sister from the angels who dwell in Heaven!”

The Younger was moved by the captain’s words and felt a happiness she hadn’t felt since before her sister was taken from her.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

“This means more to me than--”

The Younger was not able to finish her sentence as a scream filled the night air, followed closely by a large splash of water.

“What was that?!” the captain yelled, terrified.

His first mate ran up to the captain, fear filling his eyes. “Cap’n, ‘twas a mermaid it was! It leapt from the dark depths and took poor

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Marn o’er th’ side! I hear their siren call in the waters, sir, foretelling more of their number! I fear this is not the end, but the beginning of this terror!”

With that, a dark figure leapt from the water, grabbing the first mate, the two of them falling to the deck below. The first mate let out a scream before the aquatic menace quickly silenced him. The Younger wasn’t sure what to make of the entire nightmare. She had heard tales of beautiful mermaids to be sure, but there was never anything in the stories about this type of monster. It was decorated in bright, glowing marks which stood out on its scaly grey skin. Its eyes glowed with malice and hunger, its clawed hands large and strong holding the first mate to the deck as its inhuman face growled, its fish tail flapping upon the deck in an animal frenzy. The Younger scanned the deck to find that all of the crew were cowering, afraid of the monsters in the dark. She, too, stood in terror as, one after the other, more monsters from the deep leapt out of the water and took more men into the dark waters below. The Younger was snapped from her quiet stupor by her badger-friend’s exclamation.

“Dear girl, look! There it is! The Ladder to Heaven!”

She turned and saw a glowing ladder leading up into the sky, the top of which she could not see. But there still lay at least a mile of water between them and the ladder, a mile she did not believe the mermaids would allow them to make.

“We have to make it to the ladder!” she called back at the captain, who was cowering under the mast. “If we don’t, these creatures will surely be the death of us!”

“They already are!” the captain cried. “This is why you don’t sail at night, girl!

The mermaids leap from the waters to feed!

There is no hope! No hope at all!”

At that, the mermaid which had found itself on the deck finished its meal of the first mate and began to crawl towards the captain, its appetite not sated. The captain screamed and tried to crawl away, but the monster was faster still. The Younger could hear nothing as she raced toward the edge of the deck, looking at the slowly approaching ladder. The badger ran beside her, filled with fear.

“We won’t last much longer up here, dear girl!” the badger cried, the ship shaking beneath his feet. “They are attempting to sink the ship!”

The Younger did not respond immediately, her eyes still locked on the ladder.

Finally, she said, “These men died because they only wished to help me save my sister from the clutches of the angels. They did not deserve this fate. No one should have to die for their good deeds!”

The badger turned around to see the deck-borne mermaid winding its way toward them, fangs ready to make a feast out of girl and beast. Knowing not what else to do, the Younger sang: “When last lights die and fear is creeping My will shall never cease With Hope and Love and Bravery My Heart will find its Peace!”

Fearing for their lives, the badger pushed the Younger to the side but it was to no avail. The mermaid was upon them and took them both over the edge and towards the waters below. But they did not reach the water, and instead landed upon a cold, wet creature larger than any the Younger had ever imagined. They rested upon the back of a great whale. While the mermaid was stunned from the fall, the badger swiped at it, knocking it back into the dark realm it called home. Then the whale began to swim forward.

“We have landed upon a whale!” the badger cried, amazed.

“Yes,” the whale responded, a deep voice vibrating the water and air around them. “I am friend to the crew of this ship and, upon seeing its body from the waters below sought to greet them. But I am sad this day, for my friends have become victim to the evils of the mermaids. Tell me, badger-friend and girl, why were you with my friends? Why were they sailing beyond the sun’s gaze?”

“They were helping me,” the Younger said, saddened as well by the loss of her friends. “My sister was taken by the evil angels who dwell in Heaven and I wish to rescue her.

But I needed a vessel to take me to the Ladder of Heaven and they were the only ones who took pity upon me and dared the dark waters. It is 169

my fault your friends are gone and if you wish to drown us or leave us for the mermaids, I will not condemn you, whale-friend.”

The only sound was the water lapping against the side of the whale as it swam.

Then, with its deep voice, it replied, “I, too, am moved by your tale of heroism, dear girl. While I will miss my friends terribly, I will honor them by getting you the remaining distance to the Ladder.

And, in the end, I will have made new friends in you and badger-friend.”

The Younger was filled with happiness at the sound of the whale’s offer of assistance and nearly broke into tears, but knew she could not for if she started she would never cease. So she simply said her thanks and sat as the whale continued toward the Ladder, the ship sinking behind them.

When they finally arrived at the Ladder, the Younger and the badger climbed off of the whale and onto the first rungs.

“Thank you, whale-friend,” she said, waving behind her. “I will forever remember your kindness in the face of this horror! May the waves guide you to a place of peace!”

“And a place of peace I shall find, dear girl,” the whale said, sinking back into the dark waters from which it came, leaving the Younger and the badger alone to climb the Ladder.

“All that is left to do is climb the Ladder, dear girl, and we shall be in Heaven, the home of the angels!” the badger cried, fear in his voice. But this did not deter the Younger, who was more determined than ever to get her sister back. And so climb she did.

It was many hours before they heard the first cry from above, the suddenness of it causing them to almost lose their grip on the Ladder. They paused, unsure of what to do.

Suddenly, five dark figures burst from the clouds above them, diving towards them at the speed of thought, their black wings spread wide over the sky, claws extended outward. The angels had found them.

“Climb, dear girl!” the badger yelled, and climb she did, as fast as she could. But it was simply not fast enough. The angels were upon them in seconds, grabbing the badger and carrying him off into the night, his cries of terror 170

reverberating in the Younger’s ears.

“Don’t stop!” she heard him scream, “Don’t stop, dear girl! Never stop!”

“Badger!” she cried out as the angels carried him away, their attention focused on their new prize. Knowing this might be her only chance, the Younger climbed faster than she had ever climbed in her life, all the while singing: “When last lights die and fear is creeping My will shall never cease With Hope and Love and Bravery My Heart will find its Peace!”

Eventually, she broke through the clouds and into Heaven. There she stood, in the black, twisted land of the angels, its buildings stretching up into the remainder of the sky and she could see the lights in the sky clearer than she could ever remember seeing them. It was then that she heard the hissing and realized that she was completely surrounded by hundreds, no, thousands of angels, their enormous wings beginning to blot out the sky above. But this did not deter the Younger. If anything, it convinced her that her course was true.

“I have come to reclaim my sister!” she cried out into the sea of evil. “I made a mistake, one made out of jealousy! I wish to have my sister back and be the younger for the rest of eternity rather than have her spend another day in your dark clutches!”

At this, she heard the crowd of monsters laugh, a disgusting sound that reminded her of a drowning man. One dark figure stepped forward holding in its hand what the Younger realized was the remains of her sister’s nightdress.

She couldn’t find words in the face of this nightmare.

The angel let the nightdress fall to the ground and pointed towards her. It was seeking its payment for her answered prayer.

“You will not have anything from me, monster!” she cried out. “I have been responsible for all of the dead and dying this day and I will have no more of it! You will not receive anything for a mistake made in jealousy!”

At this, the angel dropped its clawed hand and began to move towards her, the other thousands behind it moving as well. The Younger was soon surrounded in a tight circle with monsters on all sides of her, the hot breath of decay

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invading her senses. She could hear the scrape of their claws upon the clouds and see their wings spread around her, blocking off the remaining lights in the sky. And she was frightened.

But this was not the first time that the Younger had been afraid; no, far from it. She had encountered many a monster on her journey and all of them, even the benevolent faceless man, had filled her dreams for all eternity. But she was not going to let these monsters be the end of all things. They had reigned in Heaven long enough, using man and beast for their own ends for centuries. She knew she had to do something. But what something?

Believe.

That was the secret. Belief in something is the most powerful and pure source of energy known to us. The Younger was an innocent, a mere child. And this world’s reality threatened to bear down on her and tear her limb from limb if she allowed it. But she had made a promise to the angels. Nobody dies.

Nobody dies if you simply believe.

And with that, the Younger sang.

Her voice was stronger than in the black forest, stronger than on the boat or the Ladder, her fear taken away by her belief. All it took was one note.

One heavenly note that tore away at what was apparent and revealed what was possible. That one note carried all of her sadness and pain, but also all of her hope, a hope in tomorrow, a hope in a future, a hope in life.

And the angels recoiled at the beauty of it all. The blackness of their hearts could not combat the purity of this girl’s innocence. Their dark reality could not stand before the power of her heart. The blackness inside of them began to break away and shrivel and die and the darkness surrounding them was beaten back and forced to retreat into the nightmares of the hopeless. They screeched a cry of pain caused by the sheer beauty of a child’s hope. And as the last angel withered and died, the Younger stood alone in the clouds of Heaven, saddened by all she had lost.

But as she looked up into the night sky, there were more lights. Far more lights than had been there before, enough lights to shine upon the broken city of Heaven and illuminate

it a brilliance it hadn’t seen in eons. A light for every angel, she realized.

Satisfied, she turned to begin her journey home to tell her father of all that had occurred. But she was stopped by a cry behind her, causing her to turn around and see the faces of the entire crew of the ship that was destroyed by the dark mermaids, all happy and joyous.

Also present was her badger-friend, smiling as he walked toward her, a familiar figure walking beside him. It was her sister.

“Sister!” the Younger cried, rushing towards her and embracing her, the both of them collapsing into tears. Their happiness lit the clouds around them, moving everyone present to their own joyous tears. Finally, she had found her beloved sister.

“Your song defeated the angels, sister!” the Elder said through her happy tears. “It reignited the dying lights in the sky and brought back those you had lost! Nobody dies today, sister! Nobody dies!”

And, with that, the Younger, her sister, the badger-friend, and the crew began their climb down the Ladder, at the bottom of which waited their whale-friend, who was overjoyed to see his friends alive and well again. He offered them passage back over the waters to the distant shore and home. Back to the port where the crew could begin their lives anew. Back to the fire where the badger-friend could be reunited with his friends. And back to the girls’ father, who would never realize they were gone. But as they rode upon their whale-friend to their future, the girls’ came upon their own realization: life demands not only obedience but spirit as well.

Their father was not right but neither was he wrong. In the days to come they would remember this and tell him of this journey they took together and he would come to realize he could love his daughters no matter the distance between them.

All of this was evident upon the back of the whale-friend and as they rode upon the waves, the first rays of the sun beginning to break over the horizon.

The first rays of hope began to light the world once again.

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At First Glance Jocelyn Robles Oil on canvas

172

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Sunflowers Lyren Grate

When summer begins in mid-June, the air turns from comfortable to hot and sticky.

Light laughter and porch talk fills the night; hands flick mosquitoes from warm skin and while children suck on watermelon, play outside, and catch lighting bugs in jars, the sunflowers grow.

They grow in a field. They rise up to fifteen feet tall over the heads of visitors who exclaim and gasp at the beauty of a single flower. Before they are too tall, parents pile children into cars, food into baskets, batteries into cameras, and take their children to the sunflower fields. There is music and dancing. Arts and crafts are admired and sold. Balloons are bought for one dollar and tied to the wrists of small children who chase one another in circles weaving through the flowers.

The festivities end by the beginning of July when the flowers grow higher, so high someone could lose their way in the sea of yellow.

May

Jim is late to church tonight. This upsets her, embarrasses her. As the congregation lowers their heads to pray he can be heard banging through the doors, stomping in the hallway, walking into the room, and stepping on toes as he moves to sit next to her. Her face burns. She is unable to concentrate on the prayer. When she glances over at him, he is sitting with his left arm draped comfortably on the back of the pew.

He examines the stained glass windows, and the fan slowly spinning in circles on the ceiling high above.

She does not turn to him to say hello; does not acknowledge him. He is wearing

jeans dusted with mud. On his feet are brown work boots; the smell of manure faintly rises from them. His plaid shirt is carelessly tucked into his jeans. Friends from behind pat him on the shoulder as the sermon begins, wives from the front turn their heads and wave. Their hair lies perfectly; not a strand out of place, lipstick and makeup flawless, smiles white and straight, hands manicured and soft.

Anne examines her own hands. Her nails are longer on one hand than the other. Her golden hair falls from a clip she found in the car.

She had to scrape dried gum off the side. She feels as if they, everyone sitting around them, can see how tired, distraught she is. Just an hour before church she was cleaning and changing diapers, mopping and folding clothes, cooking and ironing button up shirts. Her makeup is not perfect; in fact, she wears none. Her hair has not been thoroughly washed in days. Jim, even with his mud caked shoes and mud sprinkled jeans and carelessly tucked in shirt, looks just as handsome and put together as ever. She wonders when he took a shower last. She wishes he would just sit with the baby for five minutes; long enough to run hot water over her head and rinse strawberry shampoo from her hair.

The church is hot. She feels as if she is baking. The children squirm next to her, pushing sleeves past elbows, closing their eyes for a quick nap. The baby sleeps in her lap, drooling milky spit up on to the front of her blouse. She shifts the baby’s weight and holds her out for Jim to take her so that she can clean up the milk. He 173

waves his hand no. She lowers her head, surrounded by perfection: here she sits alone with milk on one of her nicest tops with a husband who cannot show up to church on time; with children who are falling asleep in the pews and with hair falling in her eyes.

Brian, a tall man with thinning hair and a full mustache that quivers above his lips when he talks, assumes his position at the front of the church behind a wooden podium. He leans into the microphone and asks the congregation to bow their heads for a prayer. He wears a yellow short sleeve collared button up shirt with a green tie and navy blue slacks that are too short. While everyone else bows their heads to pray, Anne keeps her eyes slightly level, squinting to see Brian’s socks, which have a pattern of green fir trees. As soon as Brian’s scratchy voice vibrates from his lips into the microphone and echoes into the ears of the congregation, Anne rests her head softly on top of the baby’s.

She hears Ruth let out a loud scowl of disgust. She shakes her head glancing over at Ruth who stares forward, still. Ruth’s concentration, heated, angry, is focused on Brian. Anne recrosses her legs and dips her head a little to listen to what is being said:

“Wives submit to your husband as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body of which he is savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.” Jim’s hand reaches forward resting heavily on Anne’s bony shoulder. Anne sinks lightly under the weight of his large hand.

Anne bows her head; she feels the entire congregation is looking at her because she sits so close to Ruth, the object of Brian’s sermon. He has never done a sermon like this before. Teaching, telling the wives to be good. To submit.

The light feels bright above her. It is a spot light and she is in the center. She moves uncomfortably, then wiggles in her position. She does not know what to do. She blinks her eyes a few times, wipes her forehead with her hand, and nods. She nods along with every word. She closes her eyes and she bounces her docile head up and down, so they can all see, so they can all take note that he isn’t speaking about her, but about Ruth who sits rigidly next to her. Ruth is the one need174

ing lecturing. Ruth is the one needing the lesson.

Ruth is the one to be gossiped about.

Brian clears his throat before continuing. “Now what does Paul mean by this? To submit to your husband?” He looks down into his open Bible. “Wives are to submit to their husbands because of their reverence for Christ, okay?” He pauses. “To serve wholeheartedly, as if you were serving our great Lord himself and keep in mind,” he lifts a finger, beaming, “keep in mind, the Lord will reward you for the good that you do.” He closes his Bible and smiles before adding, “Now before we end, Eliza England would like to make an announcement.”

Eliza stands from her pew. She cannot stand at the front of the church behind the podium because she is not a man, a leader of the church. Instead, she must raise her voice and stand from the pew she sits in. “Thank you Brian.

Wasn’t that sermon beautiful? Well, I thought it was so wonderful and such a needed message that I asked Brian and Brian has agreed to lead a class for us wives on how to be a better wife to our husbands. Doesn’t that sound great, Wives? It will be Thursday nights—“

Anne’s attention is interrupted when she notices Ruth pick up her purse from the floor and suddenly stand. She snaps at each one of her kids to follow her. Anne watches them march out of the back of the church, banging the same doors Jim just banged through not long ago. Anne returns her attention to Eliza. She smiles and nods pretending she does not notice everyone’s heads turned in her direction.

The congregation stands to sing their last song. The church fills with out-of-tune voices that crack and wail. They bow their heads for the closing prayer. They ask for forgiveness, for love, for strength, for health.

The kids are freed. They run and play, weaving in and out of pews. Stopped by the elderly women, the children’s faces are pinched and heads patted. The baby is awake and playing with her mother’s loose strands of hair. Anne pretends she is not pained when the baby pulls on her hair; she smiles and laughs instead.

“You, Jim, and the kids must stop by, sometime,” Eliza England says, just as she does every Sunday.

Jim socializes with everyone in the

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church, apologizing for coming in late. They all pat his shoulder and say its fine. They understand because farming is an everyday job. She does not understand. When she and the kids were late one Wednesday night, Eliza told her it was best to not come unless she arrived on time.

“Well, why didn’t Anne set the alarm for you?” Tom Steven’s chuckles. “You gotta take better care of your husband, eh,” he says to Anne.

Anne shrugs, smiling, bouncing the baby up and down. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Oh that’s okay sweetheart,” Jim says.

He smiles. She smiles. The baby smiles.

After they arrive home from church she heats up leftovers in the microwave since he did not have his dinner. Running back and forth from where the kids sit doing homework and the baby sits upright on a blanket playing with stuffed animals, he talks to her again but this time there are no smiles, no teasing, no sweetheart.

“I just don’t understand why you were late.”

“I told you I’d take a nap after I got back from the farm. You should have woke me up.”

She shoves a plate of baked chicken and green beans in front of him. “I’m so tired. I haven’t showered in days; my whole day revolves around the children, the house, the cooking--I didn‘t know you were home. I thought maybe you were still at the farm--if you had let me know you were home--”

“Fine, it doesn’t matter what I say because my thoughts and feelings don’t matter— they never matter. You think I’m just some no good, lazy husband who fails you. But I work all day and even on weekends, and what do you do Anne?” He pushes the plate away, and folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t even want to eat now.”

She lowers her head; her eyes close; she shrinks as each word hits her. When he stops yelling and the kitchen now fills with wounded silence she feels a desperate need in her chest to make everything alright again. She wants to make him happy again; to make him pleased and satisfied with her; to reassure him he does matter, his thoughts and feelings, they do matter. She walks

over to him and rubs his shoulders, “I don’t think those things.”

He jerks away from her, “Yes you do and you’ve probably called your mother and told her how bad of a husband and father I am.”

Frustrated and wanting to be heard she raises her voice, “No, why would I do that?

I didn’t call my mother. I never said you fail me or the kids. I don’t think that. I know you work hard.”

“Why are you yelling? Do not yell at me,” he says, drawing out each word.” I don’t deserve this.”

Now she feels defeated. She wants everything to be resolved. She seals her lips and says nothing. Instead she wets a torn plaid rag and eases herself onto the kitchen floor. Bending on hands and knees she scrubs at a streak of dried manure.

He sighs slowly, unfolds his arms and reaches for his fork. He stabs a piece of baked chicken before bringing it to his mouth says into his plate, “You just annoy me so much when I’m angry.”

The baby is crying in the other room. She excuses herself.

That night she cannot fall asleep. It is not due to the fight at dinner—no, that is normal. She is used to conversations like that with Jim. She keeps thinking about Brian’s sermon, and she lies awake listening to Jim’s choked snoring. She cannot find her peace in the darkness that usually provides her so much comfort. He is still too much there. His arm is carelessly tossed onto her chest where it stays, sunk into her ribs, and troubles her breathing. She feels restless. She kicks the sheet down to her toes, then gathers it again and pulls it under her chin. She moves to her side, then her back. Jim’s heavy arm moves with her. She covers her face with her hands. She breathes deeply then shallowly then deeply again.

She listens to the crickets ‘echoing in through the open windows, then covers her ears with her hands begging for silence. Finally he turns on to his side and takes with him his arm. She cannot see him but she knows he is near her. Now that their bodies are no longer touching, she can enjoy her space in the dark. The darkness, in bed at night is where she feels complete relaxation. A peacefulness invades her tired body and pained 175

legs; it rocks within her; it rocks her to sleep. Jim is there but in the darkness he is not. Finally, she turns on her side and falls asleep.

June

They pack up the car in mid-June to attend the Sun Flower Festival. She fixes coldcut sandwiches: ham for the kids, with pickles, mustard, and mayo; roast beef for Jim, with three slices of tomato, onion, and cheddar cheese, not Colby cheese. Jim only likes cheddar cheese; she forgets to fix one for herself. She packs a wicker picnic basket with potato salad, juice boxes, water bottles, sandwiches, and a fruit salad.

In the black, old diaper bag that also serves as her purse, she packs an extra set of clothes for the baby. She folds cloth diapers. She can hear Jim’s watch ticking. She goes into the nursery to find toys for the bag. A pink elephant-a baby shower present from one of the older church ladies--a set of brightly colored plastic keys, and from on top of the bookshelf next to the rocking chair, she picks up an old book, pages discolored, with loose binding. Her mother had given it to Anne on her third birthday and it was her favorite book as a child. She remembers sitting in her mother’s lap as her mother read to her.

She opens the front cover and traces the words, Mimi the Merry-Go-Round Cat, with her fingertips. She is careful not to tear the brittle pages.

She smiles to herself, closes the book and gives it a hug before carefully placing it in the black bag.

The children are restless during the drive to the festival. It is a beautiful day; few clouds dot the clear blue sky and the weather is warm enough for short sleeves but cool enough for jeans. The sun beams down, enhancing every detail along the highway: the grass, the flowers, the trees.

The baby begins to whimper. She turns in her seat facing her children. “Let’s keep the baby happy; let’s sing a song,” she says.

The kids join her in singing “Old McDonald Had a Farm”. They are laughing as she makes a pig noise, then a donkey noise. The children are laughing; the baby is laughing; they are all laughing until Jim abruptly yells at them to shut up. He can’t concentrate on the road with that kind of noise. They stop laughing.

At the festival, Jim lies on his back 176

after she unfolds the cranberry red quilt and sets the basket on top of it next to the baby who plays with the bright lemon yellow balloon tied to her little wrist. The older children chase each other through the sunflowers.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Jim says with his eyes shut. “Have you seen my knife?”

“Knife? What knife?” She doesn’t look at him as she plays with the baby and the balloon.

“My buck knife, the one I take with me when I hunt. You know with the yellow handle. I’m sure you know, you’ve cleaned it before.”

She shakes her head making faces at the baby who giggles uncontrollably.

“Anne, why can’t you answer me when I’m talking to you?” He raises up suddenly on his elbows.

She draws back. “No, I have not seen your knife. Maybe you left it last time you went hunting with Joe England.”

Jim shrugs, accepts the possibility and plans to give Joe a call. “Last time I spoke with Joe he mentioned Eliza is planning a birthday party for Patty Olden. Are you going? I can take the kids to a movie if you want to go.”

“I haven’t heard anything about it.” She frowns. “They do that a lot. Some of the women at church forget to include me in things.”

He leans back on his elbows. “Why would they do that? Don’t they know who you’re married to? My father started that church. I’m a very important figure in that congregation. They should treat you better. I’ll talk to Joe.”

Anne sighs. “No, don’t do that. What would you do with the baby anyway? You can’t take her to a movie. She’ll cry the entire time.”

He rests back on the quilt. “Okay, I’ll still take the older kids and you can stay at home with the baby. That will give you a break.”

“Maybe your mother could take her for a little bit.”

“Mom’s busy, Anne. I can’t just dump the baby on her when she’s our responsibility.”

He sleeps through lunch, through the kids winning a three legged race, through tall glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade, through pictures of the baby taken in front of the fields of

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sunflowers.

“How tall do those flowers get?” she asks a woman wearing a red bandanna. Her blonde hair is gathered in one long braid and she sits at a folding table selling scented candles.

“Oh pretty tall, up to fifteen feet sometimes.”

“Wow, it must be a sight.”

“Oh yeah, yeah. Come back in August, they’ll be up past your head. Bring your children on leashes though, wouldn’t want them getting lost in there; they may never be found.”

The woman laughs, winking at the horrified children.

The children take Anne’s hand and pull her to a nearby table. On top of it in rows are brightly colored shiny pinwheels. They look up at her with pleading faces; they want one. They point to the orange and dark purple ones, their fingers eager to hold one.

She nods - she is having such a lovely time with her children, surrounded by happy families and growing flowers. Why not get the children a souvenir to remember this festival, to remember this day, to remember this moment?

Perhaps she will get one for herself. She glances at the price tag, shakes her head.

The children choose the pinwheel they want. They smile up at her, but pay little attention to her as she digs for her wallet in the diaper bag. She can hear the baby whimpering in the stroller. The man behind her switches his weight from one foot to another. Anne blushes, flustered, embarrassed, worried she is upsetting the people around her. She begins taking things out of the bag to dig deeper. She sets cloth diapers on the corner of the table; on top of them she sets the pink elephant, the plastic keys, a bottle, Mimi the Merry-Go-Round Cat, and finally she finds her red wallet at the bottom of the bag.

Her fingers move fast and unzipping the wallet she finds a ten dollar bill and places it in the woman’s outstretched hand. She is worried that the man behind her will yell at her for taking such a long time. She steps to the side after paying the woman and re-packs the bag. The children run ahead of her. She calls after them as she places everything back in the bag. The baby begins to cry. She loses sight of the children in the crowd.

Jim is surely awake and wondering where they

are. Now the baby is screaming. With an apologetic grimace, she throws the diaper bag over her shoulder and hurriedly pushes the screaming baby through the crowd to find the children.

Jim is standing with his arms folded across his chest when she returns. He is ready to go and says curtly that he will wait for her in the car. She nods, picks up the blanket and asks the children to help her fold. She places the blanket back into the basket and asks the children to walk slowly with her back to the car, to not run ahead or away. Her hair falls in front of her eyes, her sandals pinch her feet, and the wheels of the stroller go up and down over the lumpy grass.

The children buckle themselves into their seats and wave their pinwheels telling Jim to look at their new toys. They smile and giggle, waving them back and forth.

“How much were those?”

Anne buckles the baby into her car seat, jiggles it to make sure it is secure and then gets in the front passenger seat and buckles her seatbelt.

“Anne?”

“Hmmmm?” She leans her head back on the seat.

“How much were those pieces of junk you bought the children?”

She is silent for a moment, “Four dollars.”

“Two each?”

“Two each.”

They are driving back home when the children begin to whimper from boredom.

She picks up the diaper bag from her feet, telling them she has a book they can look at. She opens the diaper bag but does not see the book. Her heart quickens. She carelessly pulls out the folded cloth diapers, the keys, the elephant, the bottle, and the clothes. The items drop into her lap, but the book is not in the bag. The book, her book, her mother’s book; the book is not in the bag.

“Turn around, I forgot my book,” she says, panic rising.

Jim does not slow down. “God damn it. We’re already fifteen minutes away! What book?”

“My book, my mother’s book.

Please, Jim, please turn around.”

He shakes his head. “That old book?

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With the torn pages?”

She nods. “Please can you just turn around? I need it.”

“No. We’re already almost home; it’s just an old book about a stupid cat, Anne. We’ll go online and find one to replace it.”

July

The children run ahead of her, out of the car and to the front door of the apartment.

They whine telling their mother to hurry. Impatiently they knock at the door and are greeted by more children who usher them inside. They disappear from Anne’s sight. She dips partially into the backseat and unbuckles the baby, swings her out of the seat, then adjusts her on her hip.

Reaching behind her, she picks up the cake pan from the roof of the car with her free hand.

Halfway up the cement path with crab grass growing in the cracks, she stubs her toe and loses her balance. Tightening her grip on the baby, she feels the cake pan slip through her fingers. It falls on top of her feet. The warm lemon icing dribbles through her flip slops and between her toes. The pieces of cake warm and cracked, broken, fall onto her feet now warm and sticky.

She kicks the pan over and stares down at it.

She sets the baby in the grass to the side of the path and squats by the pan lifting it up, turning it over, cupping her hands and scooping the cake back into the pan. The baby giggles pulling grass free from the earth and stuffing it in her mouth.

Anne enters the crowded apartment.

Through the screened back door, she can see the children running and chasing one another. Ruth greets her, taking the baby from her arms and placing her in the highchair at the end of a little folding table. There is an odd smell in the apartment. A couch used and beaten, fabric fraying, cushions sunken, once white now grey, takes up most of the living room area. The cream carpet is stained brown from spills. Lights are shaded, dim. Anne sets the cake pan on the counter, apologizes, and explains that it fell. Ruth shrugs, smiling, happy to see a visitor, “No problem. I got Vanilla Wafers somewhere,” she says. She stands in the middle of the kitchen that opens into the living room, which also serves as a bedroom for the oldest of Ruth’s children.

Anne asks if there is somewhere 178

she could rinse the icing off her feet. Ruth points with a finger toward the end of the hallway. The last door on the left Anne enters the bathroom and closes the door. She surveys the cracked tile on the counter top and the dripping faucet with a slight shock, so drastically different from when Ruth was Mrs. Doug Stewart.

As Anne sits on the edge of the pink stained bath tub, cool water from the chipped silver faucet running over her bare feet and ankles, she thinks about Ruth’s old house on Magnolia Drive with the cherry wood glossy floors. She remembers theliving room Ruth was so proud of, all white. White leather couch and chairs nestled close to a glass coffee table with iron black legs.

On top of the coffee table in the center sat the Bible. Often Ruth would host Ladies’ Bible Study when all the women from the church would wander into Ruth’s house and sit in the white room on the white furniture and listen to Ruth read from the Bible. They would bow their heads and pray then sing “Trust and Obey.”

Anne turns the faucet off. She sighs and leans her head against the side of the tile wall enjoying a few moments of peace. With the door shut, the room is her own away from the baby and the children, a sanctuary in the little dirty bathroom. Ruth’s old house had high ceilings and high windows. Anne spent many Saturday afternoons sitting at the bar in the kitchen admiring the walls painted daffodil yellow with a baby blue trim. They’d sip coffee from the fancy expensive coffee machine and eat cookies homemade by Ruth’s housekeeper. The house always smelled of lilies.

“Anne the baby is crying—I think she’s hungry,” Ruth says, opening the door.

Anne steps from the bathtub, her feet still wet. She searches for a towel to dry her legs but finds only mildewed towels lying in a heap on the floor.

“You want a beer?” asks Ruth as her head disappears in the narrow fridge.

Anne shakes her head quickly, “Oh no, no.”

“Why not?” Ruth asks, twisting off the top of the bottle.

“I’m still breastfeeding,” Anne says in monotone too embarrassed to admit the truth: that Jim would be upset, that Eliza would discuss

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and whisper that she was a bad mother, a bad wife, a bad person. What would the church think?

For lunch Ruth sets out bologna, mayonnaise, and white Wonder bread. She passes out paper plates to each child who stand on tip toe reaching for the slice of meat for their sandwich. Anne pours each child a drink, spreads mayonnaise on her own childrens’ sandwiches.

They want it cut in half. They whine. Anne and Ruth sit in wobbly chairs at the folding table while the children seat themselves on the floor in the living room.

“You’re the only one who has come to visit, you know,” Ruth says, raising her eyebrows. “I guess I’m kind of the black sheep now.

Baaahh.”

“Well, I’ve noticed you’ve missed the last few weeks of church.”

Ruth remains silent. She lets out a slow sigh, “I’ve been scouting out a new church for me and the kids. I just can’t go to that one anymore. Nobody is very nice to me. Like I said, I haven’t even had a visitor until you.”

“Maybe they’re waiting for you to get settled in,” Anne offers.

Ruth snorts, “I left Doug four months ago. I’ve been living here for two, how much more settled-in can I be? I know what they whisper. It was obvious that sermon about wives obeying their husbands was about me! Why do you think I had to get out of there so fast —I know everyone pities him because I was some type of a bad wife for not cooking or cleaning, or whatever it is we’re supposed to do.” Ruth reaches across the table and sets her hand on Anne’s arm. “I owe you an apology. Do you remember a long time ago—I mean years ago when you first moved here after you got married-- you told me Jim was mean to you.”

Anne shakes her head. She blushes.

“Well I remember and I laughed.

You told me that. You confided in me and I laughed. I feel so sorry about that now. I think at the time I just didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t fathom what you meant. Jim is so respected and charming. Now that I’ve been going through a hell of a divorce and my own charming husband turned out to be a jerk, I understand.”

“I don’t remember saying anything bad about Jim. He’s a good father,” Anne says,

her eyes lower as she picks off the crust of her sandwich.

Ruth draws back. “Well, I’m sorry anyway.”

After some silence Anne asks, “Have you heard from him?”

Ruth shrugs, “He’ll call to talk to the kids sometimes. I don’t have much to do with him. I miss things. That beautiful house, the financial security, but I don’t miss him…you know how those men at that church can be. It goes all to their head how great they think they are. I didn’t realize how tired I was living that life as a perfect wife to make him look like a perfect guy.

He controlled everything about my life. He transformed me into a Stepford wife and now I finally get to find out who I am instead of being told who I am.”

As they are leaving Anne invites Ruth and her children over for lunch. One of Ruth’s children whines, “It smells like cow poop there.” The child crinkles his nose and his brother and sisters giggle. Ruth slaps him on the back of his head and apologizes. Anne smiles, but is left feeling perplexed and surprised. She doesn’t notice the smell anymore. She thought she had relieved the house of the potent scent but perhaps she has grown used to it instead.

Reversing out of the parking lot of the apartment complex, Anne accidently drives over a curb. When she gets home and inspects the tire, she sees it is losing air. She waits to tell Jim until after dinner, when the house is quiet, the dishes washed, the children put to bed.

Jim lies in bed watching television. Anne sits in front of the mirror and speaks to his reflection.

“The front tire is flat on the Toyota.”

Jim sits up and slams the remote down. “What? How’d you do that?”

“I don’t know,” she says, bracing for his anger.

“How can you be so reckless? I’m not happy about this. You know I hate spending my money on stupid mistakes,” he yells. Then after a few moments of silence he asks gruffly, “Did you and the kids make it home okay?”

She nods sitting quietly waiting for her instructions.

“I guess you’ll just have to take it 179

in,” he says, throwing his hands in the air, defeated. “But it better not be more than sixty dollars to fix. Where were you driving to anyway?

“I was driving back from Ruth’s.”

Jim becomes quiet. He stares at her without blinking. His jaw drops a little then clamps shut. “Why were you visiting her? You’re not getting any ideas are you? I don’t like you seeing her. What she did to Doug—she’ll convince you to do to me.”

Anne returns to her reflection. She runs her fingers through the ends of her hair. She pretends she has not heard him.

The next morning, Anne takes the car to Roger’s Tires. She waits with her legs crossed tightly, sitting on the edge of the chair, tapping her foot up and down. Hands clenched around the straps of her purse, biting the inside of her cheek, Jim’s threatening voices runs in her in mind on repeat. The mechanic steps into the waiting room. With an oil stained finger he points to her and calls her name. She approaches him timidly. He tells her the new tire will cost eighty dollars.

“Eighty,” she murmurs, scratching the back of her neck. “I’ll pay twenty with cash and sixty with the card.” She opens her purse and digs for her wallet. “Can you make it look like on the bill that it was just sixty? I’ll pay the difference.”

The mechanic raises his eyebrows.

“Lady, that’s lying,” he says.

“No, it’s okay, see my husband, my husband will be upset if it’s over sixty and it’s best this way.” She gives him a pleading, anxious smile.

He rests his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “Lady you need marriage counseling.”

She opens her wallet, sliding out the plastic card then pulling the bills loose from her pocket, and shakes her head. “It’s okay; he doesn’t really mean it.”

Anne hands the receipt over to Jim at dinner. He beams. She releases an agonized, tormented sigh. And with a tight smile, she slices open Jim’s baked potato, topping it with butter, cheddar cheese, and sour cream.

“You look good when you smile,” he winks. “Did you have a good day or something?”

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He reaches toward her and tries to pull her to him.

She steps away and says, “I fixed the tire.”

He reaches for her again, “I see that. I should have taken it in. Ah, never mind it doesn’t matter. Hey, I got a surprise for you after dinner in the bedroom.”

She glances down at the children staring back and forth between her and Jim. She decides it is best to change the subject and says, “Your mother called again today.”

Jim sighs, “Yeah she’s upset about the farm. She says I’m not taking care of it as well as Dad did.”

Anne fills the childrens’ plates with food. “What are you doing wrong?’

Jim scoffs, “Well geez Anne, I’m not doing anything wrong, thanks for the support.

You’re as bad as Mom.”

Anne unfolds a napkin and places it in her lap before filling her plate. She mumbles a sympathetic sorry and suggests for them to hold hands and pray as she does at the end of almost every day because she has learned how to live with him, to keep him happy, to keep the children happy, to keep the home happy. She has learned to not fight back, to not raise her voice, to not ask questions, to not have needs, or wants, or desires, to exist without existing, to blend in, and to smile even without knowing she is, because from the years of marriage her eyes and her face and her thoughts have grown weary and fatigued.

After dinner she does as she is told and walks slowly into the bedroom. He holds a hand over her eyes. When they enter the bedroom he shuts the door behind them. He tells her to open her eyes and when she does she is at first confused as to where she is supposed to look and what she is looking for. But then she sees it.

Her green eyes fall on the tattered book propped against the pillows on the bed. She moves quickly over to the bed and picks up the book. He has put a red bow around it, but it is not new. It is not one ordered online. It is her book. She rips the bow off and opens the cover. She runs her finger tips over the familiar scribbled handwriting. She has nothing to say. All sound has escaped her. Instead she turns to him and allows him to hug her. She rests her head under his chin and cries silently

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into this plaid shirt.

“I called the director of the festival and asked if they had found the book. I went and got it today. See how much I love you. See how good of a husband I am.”

She nods her head.

“I want you to stop seeing Ruth.”

That night in bed he has fallen asleep with the television on. She reaches over and takes the remote from his rising and falling chest. She turns the television off and lies back.

She has almost fallen asleep when he rolls over on top of her and lifts her nightgown up above her hips. She does not care. She owes it to him.

So instead she breathes in the smell of manure, turns her head to the side, and concentrates on the comforting darkness.

August

In early August she and the family visit the England’s. Eliza pours herself a fresh glass of ice tea. They sit around the table in the backyard watching the kids jump in and out of the sparkling rectangle pool. Joe grills hamburgers and hotdogs; they snack on potato chips and pickles. The baby curls up asleep in her lapwhile Jim and Joe wander off sharing information about hunting, farming, and sports.

The ice tea does little to cool her off.

The hot air presses against her, no breeze. She is sticky and uncomfortable and the baby’s weight does nothing to help.

“Why don’t you put her on the couch inside,” Eliza offers.

“She‘ll wake up. It’s as if I can’t live my own life. She always has to sleep on top of me,” she says with a tired laugh.

Eliza shrugs, taking a long drink from her glass. Her hair is bouncy and wavy, blonde and shiny, her eyebrows curve perfectly, and her youth still shimmers from her face, no creases around her eyes or mouth, no bags under her blue eyes.

“Anne, honey, you look awful,” Eliza says as she leans in toward her.

Anne sighs, “I know.” She wishes Eliza would offer to baby-sit even just for thirty minutes so that she can lie down on the couch instead.

“Babies are tough,” Eliza laughs.

“Well, you know how it is, it’s not like this is your

first. It gets easier with each one, right?”

Anne shrugs, smiles, laughs. “You’d hope so.”

Smiling and raising a thin eyebrow Eliza says, “At least you’ve got Jim, he’s so sweet.

I can tell he cares a lot about you and the kids. I wish Joe was as affectionate. All young girls look up to him even if they are intimidated that he is the founder’s son.” Eliza runs red nails through her hair, and changes the subject. “I heard you visited Ruth. Why do that? She lives in a stinky apartment now, doesn’t she? I guess all the wives should visit Ruth to get a peek at what their life would be like if they left their husbands. Awful, right? You know I’m glad she’s left the church.

Did you see what she wore the last time she was there? Shorts! How inappropriate. Who wears shorts to church?” Eliza shakes her head in disgust.

“I’m sure they came down to her knees.”

“What does that matter? You don’t wear shorts to church, it’s trashy. I for one do not want to go to a church that is trashy, it looks bad. I’ve spoken with the other women and we’ve decided to ask Brian to add into his sermon about the right clothes to wear in worshipping, no shorts for one! No stains on clothing . . . you know stuff like that.”

Anne turns red, knowing the comment is made about her and how every single one of her nice outfits ends up with a stain either before church or after. She has even once worn shorts, nice shorts that went down to her knees.

But as Eliza says it does not matter, it is trashy.

“Then last night at ladies night--”

“Ladies night?”

“Oh sorry, Anne. We didn’t think to invite you, I mean we figured you were busy with the baby and all --”

Anne no longer listens to what Eliza has to say, hurt and confused, the baby’s weight feels ten times heavier on her chest. She feels tears warming her eyes but wipes them away too quickly for Eliza to notice. She hurries through the rest of her tea, tells the children it’s time to go, puts up sweetly with their complaints. She wanders through the immaculate split level house until she finds Jim.

Jim and Joe shake hands goodbye 181

and before releasing Jim remembers to ask, “Joe, did I leave my buck knife with you?”

Joe shakes his head. “Sorry, no.”

“Are you sure? It has a yellow handle, bright yellow.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. We haven’t been hunting in a long while,” Joe says with a frown.

She buckles the baby into her car seat, makes sure the kids are sitting on towels so as not to get the seats wet. Climbs in to the passenger seat, rolls down her window, lays her head back in her seat, and closes her eyes. Finally allowing herself to feel the burden of three children, and a grown man. The sadness of not being invited to ladies night, the embarrassment of not appearing as perfect as Eliza and even Ruth with her trashy shorts, but tears do not come as she expected. Instead a dark fog settles in her mind.

That night, after dinner has been cooked and dishes washed, kids have been scrubbed free of chlorine and the baby washed of spit up and mashed peas and tucked into beds with the windows cracked open. Leaving the nursery and walking toward the master bedroom she steps on an orange pinwheel. She feels the fragile toy snap under her bare foot.

The bedroom is dark except for the glow of the small television atop the dresser. Jim has gone to bed with the TV still on. She bends down to put his socks in the laundry basket, his shoes in the closet.

She notices her white sundress that she rarely wears anymore, hasn’t since before the baby was born, since before she was pregnant.

She’s filled with an unexpected desire to wear it, but she cannot put her dress on while looking like this, reeking of baby powder, hair molded into a bun on top of her head. She showers first, standing under running water for twenty minutes resting her head against the cold tile wall.

The dress, to her surprise, fits perfectly: hugs her waist, flows out to the top of her knees. She is wide awake now, feels clean and fresh from showering. Compelled to do something, get out of the house away from the walls that imprison her. She slips small feet into blue sandals, pulls a light pink sweater with big pockets on over her shoulders, and takes the car keys from the hook in the kitchen.

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She drives herself, with all the windows down, the only car on the highway, and drives for miles. When she arrives, what once was a festive family memory is now just a field of sunflowers grown far over her head. Acres and acres, she is unsure how far they stretch or when they stop.

At first she is uncertain what she is doing here, parked in front of a field of sunflowers that for some reason had a profound and lasting effect on her. She feels a solitude and sits in the car, does not have the energy or desire to turn the car back, to drive back to the painted white house with black shutters, to the grown man and the children needing her, demanding her.

She picks through the glove compartment to find a flashlight but instead finds the yellow buck knife Jim has been searching for, dwelling over. He will be happy she has found it, or maybe will accuse her of hiding it.

She is unsure of time, of future, past, or present. Her hands rest on the steering wheel. She sits and waits.

She waits for the sun to rise, touching every flower, bringing them to life. Each flower stands beaming bright yellow. When the sun has fully risen pink, orange, and gold filling the sky, she steps from the car and slams the door behind her. Walks up to the field of flourishing sunflowers, lifting her head to stare at the faces above her. She smiles, genuinely truly smiles, feels calms, relaxed at peace, beautiful standing next to these flowers. As she begins to descend into the field, she is distracted by the noise of a car behind her.

“Anne?” Eliza England calls to her.

“Jim called. He said you were maybe out here.”

Eliza’s voice squeaks, nervous. “He found you on the cars GPS tracker, and since I live close by I came here to, uh, take you home.”

Anne lingers in front of the towering sunflowers. She turns, slowly, sideways. She can see Eliza’s profile, pale face, and droopy eyes.

No longer does she look so perfect. Eliza’s hands reach out toward her, fingers close and open in a begging, desperate manner.

“Come get in my car. I’ll take you home. The boys can get your car later.”

Anne takes a step toward Eliza.

Eliza sighs, smiling, she says, “See,

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I’ll take you right home. I’ll take you right back to your husband and children. They’re waiting for their mother.”

Anne pauses. A step backward. The sunflowers waiting to swallow her whole, beckoning to her, but she stops. Her spine begins to tingle as it curves once again into a hunched position, with shoulders raised, and head bowed.

With Eliza standing, watching, her smile on her face and the glare of a sterling silver cross around her neck, she reaches again for Anne with bent fingers, gesturing to her like the sunflowers behind her.

Anne folds her hand in front of her, she lowers her gaze and notices her white dress is stained with dirt and wet grass. A soundless maniacal laugh bellows inside her, tickles her throat, and escapes as a gasp through her lips.

Eliza doesn’t notice. She waits patiently, but concerned. Anne is unaware of what she does, but she moves forward.

“Yes, back to the house. Back to your husband and babies,” Eliza is saying.

Anne moves forward, a little faster and less hesitant. She stares at the parked car with the driver’s side door still open as if she had left the car in a hurry, a desperate flee, but where was she going? To the field of flowers and what would she have done if Eliza had not interrupted? Was she intending to hide herself away in the flowers, or cut some down and bring them

home? Jim’s buck knife is gripped in her hand, her knuckles turning white, but only now does Anne become aware of its shape. She releases her hold of the knife and it drops with a thud to the damp ground beneath her clumsy feet. Eliza lets out a sigh. So clearheaded hours ago in the house, in the shower, on the drive, but now lightheaded and muddled she moves forward toward her church friend who Anne cannot raise her eyes to look at because the glinting silver cross is blinding.

When Anne is near enough, Eliza moves, for the first time, and drapes a comforting arm around Anne’s shoulder. She guides Anne to the other side of the black Honda and opening the passenger door she gently directs Anne into the seat.

“Back to the house,” Eliza say as she buckles her seatbelt. “Jim is so worried and the children will wake soon.”

Anne nods. “Back to the house.”

She doesn’t bother to turn her head, to watch as the field of yellow heads grow smaller and smaller as the car speeds down the empty highway, but if she had she would notice the stalks of the flowers are moved by the wind and they wave to her. The summer breeze picks up and if listening closely she could hear them calling to her, summoning her, to return and disappear within the flowers to become lost, yet also found.

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Lemonade Holly Dickson Oil on panel

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Shoot Me Sarah Scarbrough this is as close as I can get to armor watch the wooded sunset but please don’t go blind for sake the club to night and battle with disco for attention not drawn on faces or voice boxes stand on soap for me darling oh honey, you look absolute the metal is causing a terrible glare could you possibly strip off your foil I’ve been told my aura smells green and looks like a tooth dropped from a very high place – a sky scraping mouth say it with me take the elevator in case of flood turn to the left since it’s the only side you thought to bring with you dear don’t dare to breathe the fumes perfume to be exact - you need a lot parking lot perhaps - the asphalt is dark like your mouth my sweet 185

Goddamn Mother’s Day Taylor Helfrich Watercolor on MDF

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P. Ward Courtney Ragland

Int. Sitting Room - Insane Asylum – Morning PATRICIA, a strawberry-blonde, 20something nursing student, enters the sitting room where the patients are gathered. She wears light blue scrubs and her hair is pulled back into a loose bun. She is holding a file.

She sees an older man leaning against the wall, muttering to himself, a younger man intensely flipping through a cookbook with one hand behind his back, and a young woman playing chess, chatting with a gruff-looking man in a cage who is wearing a strait-jacket.

As Patricia looks around, she is approached by a perky, 30something black woman who is also wearing scrubs.

NURSE NICE

Are you Ward?

PATRICIA

Oh, yes. Patricia Ward.

NURSE NICE It’s good to meet you. So, who have they assigned you to?

Patricia glances at the file in her hand.

PATRICIA

Uh, Margo Swanson.

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NURSE NICE Ah. She’s right over there. The brunette at the chess board. She’s very even-tempered, so don’t be shy. Go on. Just dive right in.

Patricia nods and takes a deep breath, then steps across the room and approaches the brunette.

PATRICIA Hello, Margo.

MARY replies in a smooth and friendly British accent, but stays focused on the chess board in front of her.

MARY

Oh, it’s Mary, dear. I go by Mary here. Do sit down.

Patricia pulls up a chair and sits.

PATRICIA I, uh, I beg your pardon, Mary. It said here your name was Margo.

MARY Think nothing of it. It’s a common mistake. And what might your name be?

PATRICIA Patricia Ward.

MARY Charming. Just charming. Oh, and where are my manners? Allow me to introduce you to my friend. Patricia, this is Hyde.

Mary gestures good-naturedly to the man who is bound in the cage. HYDE gives Patricia an unsettling grin before looking back at the chess board.

HYDE

Knight to rook three.

MARY

Hyde, really, be polite.

HYDE She’s one of them.

MARY You’re too quick to judge. That’s your fatal flaw, you know.

HYDE

So what if it is? What difference does it make?

MARY Do forgive him, Patricia. He’s walked a difficult road. And he can’t play chess worth a dime.

Mary flicks the black king over and it rolls onto the floor. She, Hyde, and Patricia watch it roll across the floor for several seconds. Patricia is the one to break the silence.

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PATRICIA Uh, anyway Mary, I was wondering if you and I might get to know one another.

MARY Oh yes, of course. You’re here on assignment from school. You want to be a nurse. Well, that is a fine profession. Very respectable in society.

PATRICIA Yes. So, tell me about yourself, Mary. What’s your story?

MARY But don’t you know it already, dear? That’s my file, isn’t it? Margo Swanson, born in Ohio, 1990. Moderate to severe narcissism, etc. Medications, etc. What more is there, really?

PATRICIA Well, it does say all that. But surely you have more to say about yourself than your chart.

For example, why do you call yourself Mary?

HYDE

Because she’s practically perfect in every way.

Mary smiles widely at Hyde and laughs.

MARY Oh, Hyde, you flatterer. Patricia, pay him no mind. As correct as he is, it’s not about that entirely. We all have fun little names for each other here.

PATRICIA

Oh I see. So that’s why you call him Hyde.

MARY Indeed. It was I who gave him the name. It’s a sweet story really. Honestly, I didn’t think much of dear Hyde when we first met. He’s a rather loud person. But as I got to know him, well, I found we had a great deal in common. Total opposites and yet kindred spirits. He’s the Hyde to my Jekyll, as it were.

PATRICIA

That is very sweet. How are you two similar?

MARY Ah, well, sadly that is what brought us to this prison in the first place. You see, dear, I’m here because I’m smarter than everybody else. I see things more clearly. Hyde here is much the same.

PATRICIA

Oh. Of course. So then how are you opposites?

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MARY

I’m gentle as a lamb.

HYDE

I kill people.

PATRICIA Oh. Um, then why are you here, Mr. Hyde? Wouldn’t you be in a penitentiary if you killed people?

HYDE

I’m magic.

PATRICIA

Ohhh, yes, I see now. My mistake.

MARY And how I do envy him sometimes. You have no idea. Being above everyone else as we are can be so isolating. Hyde has his magic friends wherever he goes, whereas I must search out people for company. And people are barely tolerable, you know. I don’t blame Hyde a lick for killing them.

Patricia

Do you think you’d ever kill people?

MARY Oh heavens, I doubt it. A rather big difference between Hyde and myself is the attribute of self-control. Oh believe you me, I’ve wanted to split some skulls. (sighs) But I’m just so gosh darn patient. Really, it would take quite a lot to make me snap. I’m just as curious as anyone to know how long it will take.

PATRICIA

How long?

MARY

But I should introduce you to another friend of mine.

Mary turns and calls to the older man muttering into the wall.

MARY

Mister! Mister, do come here and say hello.

MISTER turns, hesitates, and then walks slowly over to Mary. He continues to mutter.

MISTER

Macabre, macaroni, machete, magnify.

Mary takes Mister’s hand.

MARY Mister, this is Patricia. I think she’s going to be our new friend.

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MISTER

Merry. Murder, misdemeanor. Mister, missy. Meeting.

MARY Our poor Mister is so misunderstood. Honestly, I don’t know why he’s locked up here at all.

MISTER

Mainstream, mainline, marionette, maize. Mallet.

Mary pats Mister’s hand.

MARY Of course you’re right, dear. It’s the way of the world.

Mister pulls his hand away and pats Mary on the shoulder. He then walks away.

PATRICIA

You understand what he’s saying?

MARY

Clear as day.

HYDE

How does anyone manage to not understand him?

PATRICIA

Sorry, I, uh, I’m new at this.

Mister pulls up a chair and sits with the group.

MARY Don’t be too hard on yourself, Patricia. After all, I was an English major in college. So of course I’m quite at home in the language.

HYDE

It’s why she’s so charming.

Mary smiles widely and laughs.

MARY Oh Hyde, really. You are a devil. Of course, he does make logical sense, Patricia. But don’t you pay him any mind.

MISTER

Macbeth, Milton. Modesty.

MARY Oh Mister, you’re always teasing me. Patricia, you see what fine company you keep. I’m having such fun. But we mustn’t get carried—

Mary stops mid-sentence and her smile fades as she looks past Patricia. Patricia turns to see what everyone is looking at. She sees a stern-looking, full-figured nurse has entered the room. The woman looks at a file, then at the man with the cookbook, one hand behind his back.

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MARY Oh no.

PATRICIA What’s wrong?

Mary replies in a hushed tone.

MARY Nurse Nice usually deals with Aron. Goodness, where is she?

PATRICIA Nurse Nice? Is that your name for the lady who showed me in?

MARY

Yes, and where on earth did she go?

PATRICIA

I don’t know. Why? Is that Nurse Naughty?

Hyde laughs sharply, startling Patricia.

HYDE That’s adorable, Patty-Cake, that really is. Why didn’t I think of that? Nurse Naughty, hah! No, don’t be a fool. That’s Demon Hell Bitch Supreme.

MARY I’d share in your laughter, Hyde, but if Aron is in her hands today, then we are in for a miserable week.

PATRICIA

Why? What’s about to happen?

MARY Aron is a bit more delicate than the rest of us, you see. He doesn’t like to chat and he spends most of his time looking through that cookbook.

MISTER

Misery, mistakes, memories, monsters, martyrdom.

MARY

Once a week, he asks for some sort of chicken dish.

MISTER

Midgets, miserly, misfits, massages.

HYDE Then he pretends that he’s in a life or death situation and has to eat human flesh to survive. I’m dead serious; I’ve seen him do it. He sculpted the chicken parmesan into the shape of a hand.

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Patricia makes a face of disgusted surprise.

PATRICIA

God. Why would he want to do that?

MARY Well it must offer him some sort of catharsis, because he’s quite at peace the following week. But if he doesn’t get his chicken and have his experience, he simply will not shut up in the days that follow. So much noise. I can’t tell you how irritating it can get. Demon Hell Bitch Supreme doesn’t approve of giving him the chicken. Oh dear, here she comes.

Demon Hell Bitch Supreme walks over to the group, eyeing each one of them suspiciously. Patricia stands.

DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME

Ward, is it? What do you think you’re doing?

PATRICIA

Oh, we were just talking. I’m here to observe— DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME You’re here to take notes and stay out of the way, not have tea time with the patients.

PATRICIA

Well I was just meeting Mary and— DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME That’s Margo. Or Miss Swanson. Don’t get sucked into their delusions, Ward. You have to keep a firm grasp on reality in this profession. Now, if you’re serious about this job, then you can help me administer the various prescriptions.

MISTER

Malignant, Maleficent, management, Mephistopheles.

DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME Quiet Jason! Come on, Ward. Move it. We have things to do.

MARY Excuse me, ladies, but where are you going? Patricia, come now, it’s not your job to help Demon— (coughs) to help her. You’re supposed to stay with me.

DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME She’s supposed to take notes on you, Margo, not keep you company.

MARY

Well!

DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME

You just sit tight and wait on your medicine.

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MARY

I’m not taking it anymore. You know that.

DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME You’re going to take it. It isn’t a question. And that goes for all of you.

Demon Hell Bitch Supreme walks away, followed by a rather crestfallen Patricia. Mary calls after them.

MARY I’m going to keep resisting, you know! You’re not going to break me!

Int. Padded Room – Late Afternoon Patricia enters and the door is locked behind her. She holds a notepad and pencil in her hand. Mary is sitting in the far corner. She is wearing a strait-jacket and is muttering to herself.

MARY Wake up. Wake up! But what am I supposed to do? Do you seriously expect to simply endure? If they keep forcing that poison on you— Patricia approaches and kneels beside her.

MARY

—your precious brain is going to be mush.

PATRICIA

Who are you talking to, Mary?

MARY

To myself, of course. Who else?

PATRICIA

Well, I’m here now. You can talk to me.

MARY No thank you. I prefer sometimes to speak only to the wisest person in the room.

Patricia doesn’t answer, but scribbles something on her notepad. Mary notices and laughs condescendingly.

MARY Here’s a fun question you can write down. If enough people disagree with you, does that make you wrong?

PATRICIA Well, no.

MARY

So true. It makes you crazy.

Patricia presses her pencil to the notepad, but doesn’t write.

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MARY See, now I’ve got you thinking. And conflicted, too, I think. After all, this strait-jacket is supposed to negate everything I say.

PATRICIA That’s not true. If you make sense, people will see that, no matter what you’re wearing. I think you make sense.

Mary smiles and makes eye contact with her.

MARY

Maybe I’m infecting you with my crazy.

PATRICIA

Come on, Mary— MARY Come on, Patty-Cake. You know my name is Margo Swanson. Why are you encouraging my delusions?

PATRICIA Because I don’t think you have delusions. I think you just like to play the nickname game. You give no indication of being delusional or unaware of your surroundings.

MARY

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

PATRICIA Oh come on. Talk to me. We were having such a nice chat earlier. Tell me more about your friends. What about Aron? Nurse Nice had some kind of emergency and had to go home, so she couldn’t take care of him today.

MARY Wonderful. So no sitting quietly for Aron this week. I’m going to have to listen to him say that he’s an amputee every other breath. Perfect. That’ll be just the thing for my nerves.

PATRICIA

But he’s not missing any limbs.

MARY Oh yes, Patricia, you’re very astute. Indeed he isn’t missing any limbs. But didn’t you see how he holds his arm behind his back? He pretends, Patricia, honestly; he pretends.

PATRICIA Where did polite Mary go? I think I’d rather talk to her.

MARY Screw civility! I’m trapped like a rat! Are you blind? I am only just coming out of a druginduced stupor, and I am not in the mood! Good day!

Patricia stands and turns to leave. When she reaches the door, she turns back.

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PATRICIA I, uh— MARY

I said good day!

Patricia leaves. The door closes behind her with a resounding thud and the sound of the lock echoes as Mary closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and leans her head against the padded wall.

Int. Sitting Room - Insane Asylum – Morning Mary is seated in the same place as before, the chess board between her and Hyde. Aron is standing proudly before Mary, one hand on his hip, the other hidden behind his back as usual. He is fully clothed.

ARON What do you think, guys? Admit it, I am the most naked amputee you’ve ever seen, aren’t I? Go ahead; you can say it.

Mary furrows her brow and shares a confused glance with Hyde.

MARY Uh, why yes, Aron. You are, um, indeed! Certainly the most naked victim of amputation I’ve ever laid eyes on. Uh, wouldn’t you agree, Hyde?

HYDE

You’re not naked, you lunatic bastard.

There is a pause. Mary narrows her eyes at Hyde.

ARON Oh no, you can’t fool me. I’m just as naked as I am handicapped. Look at me. Look at all this. I’m letting it all hang out. I’m definitely the most wanton and rebellious amputee I’ve ever met.

MARY That you are, Aron. Oh look, it’s our good friend, Mister. Why don’t you go and show yourself off to him? I don’t think he’s ever seen a naked amputee before.

ARON Well that old man is in luck. I hope he doesn’t have a heart condition, because I am about to jumpstart his reality.

Aron turns and begins to head across the room towards Mister. Mister narrows his eyes at Mary and shakes his head. Mary smiles and waves at him.

Patricia enters the room.

HYDE

Knight to rook three.

MARY That move never gets you anywhere, you know. Why don’t you try a different one for a change?

Hyde smiles.

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HYDE Well that’s the definition of insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, trying to get a different result? Or is that genius?

Mary smiles back and laughs a little.

MARY

What’s the difference?

Patricia pulls up a chair and sits down with them.

PATRICIA

Good morning, Mary. Hyde.

HYDE

Patty-Cake.

MARY Patty-Cake, good morning. I do hope today finds you well?

PATRICIA Oh. Yeah. Very well. I’m glad to see you chipper again.

MARY Indeed, indeed. You’ll forgive me for my egregious behavior yesterday. I had a, um, a slight headache, you understand.

PATRICIA Think nothing of it. But don’t let me interrupt your game. You guys keep playing.

Int. Interview Room – Insane Asylum – Afternoon Patricia, notepad in hand, observes through the one-way mirror. Mary is sitting at a table on the other side. Nurse Nice is sitting across from her, a pen and clipboard at the ready.

NURSE NICE

What is your name?

MARY

Do you want my real name or my real one?

NURSE NICE

You’re real one please.

MARY

Mary.

Nurse Nice sighs.

NURSE NICE

What is your last name?

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MARY

I don’t have one. I’m a caricature.

NURSE NICE

Hm, well aren’t we all.

Nurse Nice writes something down.

NURSE NICE You’ve put in a request to have your medication stopped or changed. Are you experiencing side effects?

MARY I’ve requested it stopped, and yes, there are definite side effects.

NURSE NICE Such as?

MARY Such as the terrifying dullness that washes over the world more permanently with each use. The maddening idea that I actually am slipping into madness. The slow, ever-constant wearing away of my soul!

As she speaks, Mary rises from her chair and reaches dramatically towards the heavens. Nurse Nice calmly writes.

Patricia jots down “wearing away of the soul” on her notepad.

NURSE NICE Margo, you’ve been with us for almost three years now. Can you tell me anything you’ve learned about yourself in that time?

Mary sighs and sits back down.

MARY Well, nobody’s managed to convince me yet that I’m not awesome, so nothing new there. I still hate people in general; that’s not new. I’m still the smartest person I’ve ever met— NURSE NICE Well what about just something you’ve learned in general?

MARY

The world is full of imbeciles no matter where you go?

NURSE NICE

Margo!

Mary’s eyes widen. Her attitude changes.

MARY What?

Nurse Nice looks at her with pity.

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NURSE NICE Please cooperate. I’m trying to help you. We’re trying to rehabilitate you.

MARY There’s nothing wrong with me! And these constant jabs at my self-esteem are not getting you anywhere!

Nurse Nice sighs and writes something down.

NURSE NICE

We’ll keep trying.

There is a moment of silence.

MARY Yes you will keep trying, won’t you? This doesn’t end, does it? Not ever. Even if the staff here get old and die, new staff will come in to replace them. There’s a whole world of doctors and nurses and just one me.

NURSE NICE There’s hope, Margo. Don’t make it ‘yourself against the world.’

MARY But isn’t it painfully obvious that that is precisely the way it is? Are you sure you’re not having delusions?

Nurse Nice is about to respond, but Mary holds up her hand and stands.

MARY No no; I’m quite done listening. My patience has finally reached its end. Honestly, it’s taken longer than I expected. I am one tough cookie. But this is over. I’m going to have to resort to a different tactic.

Nurse Nice stands. Mary punches her in the face, knocking her out.

MARY You didn’t deserve that, dearie. You were all sugar and spice. But Mary’s finally snapped.

Mary picks up a chair and looks at the one-way mirror.

MARY I know you’re in there, Patty-Cake. I know you’re observing for school. Write this down.

Mary smashes the chair through the window. Patricia screams, drops her things, and runs out of the room as glass flies everywhere.

Mary jumps through the broken mirror, smiling widely, and takes a deep breath. She picks up the pencil that Patricia dropped, walks over to the electric pencil sharpener on the counter, and sharpens the pencil.

Int. Sitting Room – Insane Asylum – Afternoon Patricia runs into the room in a panic. Everyone stares at her.

DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME

What the hell is going on?

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PATRICIA It’s Mary. I mean Margo. She punched her in the face.

DEMON HELL BITCH SUPREME Who punched who in the face?

Aron punches Demon Hell Bitch Supreme in the face. She falls. He then turns to Patricia.

ARON Well hello. Tell me, have you ever witnessed a more masculine feat? Performed by a more masculine nude form? Can you believe that I, the god-like naked man standing before you, am an amputee?

Demon Hell Bitch Supreme punches Aron in the face. He falls. Mary appears just down the hall behind Patricia. The florescent lights flicker over her.

MARY

Good afternoon, Janet.

Demon Hell Bitch Supreme shoves Patricia out of her way. She and Mary stare each other down, much like Old Western gunfighters.

Mister crosses himself like a Catholic.

HYDE

My God. She’s finally snapped. Today’s the day.

Mary runs forward and lurches at Demon Hell Bitch Supreme, jabbing the sharpened pencil into her neck. Demon Hell Bitch Supreme grits her teeth and yanks the pencil out, blood oozing from the wound.

Patricia’s eyes widen. She sees that the blood is unnaturally black in color. She scoots away and cowers against the wall.

Demon Hell Bitch Supreme grabs Mary by the throat and lifts her with unbelievable strength off of the floor, strangling her. Mary gasps and kicks.

Hyde is growing steadily more agitated, thrashing in his cage and struggling in his strait-jacket.

MISTER

Mary Mother, motley, misrepresentation.

Mary kicks Demon Hell Bitch Supreme in the face and gets free, taking in a long, much-needed breath. Demon Hell Bitch Supreme grins as they make eye contact, her teeth black with blood.

Mary looks around frantically for a weapon. She jumps over Aron’s unconscious, fully clothed form and grabs his cookbook, jumps back over him, and swings it at the head of Demon Hell Bitch Supreme.

It makes contact, but doesn’t slow her down much. Demon Hell Bitch Supreme punches Mary a couple times in the stomach.

Patricia is curled in a ball next to the wall, watching with very wide eyes. Hyde breaks free of his strait-jacket and begins earnestly trying to destroy the door of his cage.

Again, Demon Hell Bitch Supreme has Mary by the throat, her feet dangling off of the floor. Mary is choking.

Mister looks at Hyde, then back at Demon Hell Bitch Supreme. He then walks calmly behind Demon 200

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Hell Bitch Supreme, plucks the keys off of her belt, and walks over to Hyde. Slowly and deliberately, he finds the right key and unlocks Hyde’s cage.

Hyde bursts out and tackles Demon Hell Bitch Supreme, freeing Mary from her grasp. Before Demon Hell Bitch Supreme can retaliate, Hyde grabs her by the hair and shunts her head into the wall near Patricia. The head of Demon Hell Bitch Supreme explodes.

Hyde goes over to Mary and helps her to her feet. They smile at each other and then turn to Patricia.

Patricia is now rocking back and forth, more than a little bewildered. Hyde and Mary go to her and offer her their hands. She hesitates, then takes them, and they help her to her feet.

Int. Padded Room – Insane Asylum – Night Patricia is sitting on the floor, facing the wall. She is clapping and alternately slapping the wall, chanting to herself.

Patricia

Patty-Cake, Patty-Cake, baker’s man

Bake me a cake as fast as you can…

THE END

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Melissa Foster Charcoal, ink, graphite on paper

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Agony Elizabeth Gambertoglio three years of my written life murdered by a faulty needle screams tears red pain I cannot feel except to feel the words I birthed burn in digital space hell

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Pretty Dead Carli Hemperley

CAST OF CHARACTERS STUART- AKA Mary Stu, a reluctant drag queen DREW- AKA Lady Onda Wood, a sweet, self-conscious drag queen HUNKY GUY- Drew’s angry date EMCEE- The offstage voice; rallies the queens CHRIS- AKA Chanda Leer, The new queen, possessed by DREW ERIC- CHRIS’S partner, possessed by STUART DRAG JESUS- Pretty self-explanatory (played by same guy as the EMCEE) 204

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SCENE ONE (AT RISE: STUART is seen adjusting his dress in front of a mirror in a dressing room. Music can be heard faintly from the drag show going on off stage.)

STUART (Struggling with the zipper) Dammit. I hate this stupid thing.

EMCEE

(Off stage)

Mary Stu, Lady Onda Wood, you’re up in fifteen.

STUART (Glances at the clock on the wall) He’s late again. For someone who wanted to do this, he’s never here. How am I going to do the show without him?

(Heels click furiously off stage as DREW enters, looking distraught. His makeup is running and his wig is off-centered.)

DREW Hey man, sorry I’m late.

STUART Where the hell were you? I thought I was going to have to go on alone.

DREW I was on a date. I told you that.

STUART Uh…. No you didn’t.

DREW I did. You just never listen.

STUART (Still fiddling with his dress) You sound just like my girl friend. Come zip this damn thing up for me, would ya.

(DREW walks over to STUART and zips up the dress)

DREW (Sniffles)

This color looks nice on you.

STUART I know you want me to ask, so: How was your date?

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DREW Oh you know, it was perfect until he found out I was a guy.

STUART Funny how that works… You didn’t tell him before hand?

DREW I figured he wouldn’t like me if I did.

STUART Looks like you were right. What guy was it again?

DREW (Sighs, infatuated) Oh, the guy that we saw at the bar the other day. The hunky one. You remember don’t you?

STUART No. I don’t.

DREW Oh, you’d know him if you saw him.

STUART I doubt it.

DREW (Adjusting his wig and fixing his makeup) Everything was going perfectly and then (snaps) He was pissed off. I’ve never had someone be that angry at me before.

STUART Well, his date was a dude, so…

DREW You wouldn’t have been mad, would you Drew?

STUART Man, I can’t take your side on this one. You shoulda told him the truth.

DREW (Sounds distraught) Then he wouldn’t have liked me!

STUART Then stop going after straight guys! It’s that easy.

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DREW (Primping self consciously) Do you think I’m pretty, Stu? STUART Oh god. Please don’t start that again.

DREW But do you?

STUART Bro, I’ve told you a hundred times— EMCEE (Yelling off stage) UM SIR! YOU AREN’T SUPPOSED TO GO BACK THERE! QUEENS ONLY! (There’s the sound of struggling) OK, OK. Fine. Go. Just don’t hurt me!

STUART Holy shit! What’s going on out there?

DREW (Hides behind STUART) Hold me!

STUART Hell no!

(Pushes DREW away) HUNKY GUY (Throws open the dressing room door and storms in, seething.)

YOU! (Points accusingly at DREW) You embarrassed me in front of everyone!

DREW Stuart, why do straight guys have such fragile egos?

STUART (Punches DREW, frantic) SHUT UP MAN! (Smiles sheepishly at HUNKY GUY, removing his wig) So, sir, what brings you here?

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HUNKY GUY (Completely enraged) I’m here to get rid of scum like you!

(Pulls a pistol from his jacket pocket, points it at them shakily) STUART This is a bit overdramatic isn’t it?

(HUNKY GUY cocks his pistol and DREW starts screaming.)

STUART Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit… Um, can’t we talk this out? I mean he’s the one you really want.

(Pushes DREW in front) DREW Oh God! HUNKY GUY Stop talking!

DREW (Whimpers) We’re not going to do our show today, are we Stu? STUART I hate you so much.

(The stage goes dark and the sound of gunshots is heard along with girlish screams. The lights come back on slowly, revealing DREW and STUART. STUART is sitting against a wall, sprawled out, and DREW is lying across him.)

STUART (Groggy, groaning over dramatically) Oh God! My head hurts! Am I hung over? What the hell happened? (notices DREW and shoves him away) Dude! What have I told you about that? Jesus.

DREW (Scrambles and jolts upright, stammering) Huh? What? Where am I? STUART We’re at the drag show stupid.

(Stands, puts hand on stomach like he feels like he might 208

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barf) Oh God… Did we party? Did we win? We must have…

DREW I don’t feel good, Stu. STUART Me neither man… What happened?

(Looks around) And where the hell are we?

DREW (Squints) I think this is our dressing room… but it’s so dreary.

(Jumps to feet) Oh hell no! Where’s my stuff?

STUART Mine’s gone too…

(Tries to open a drawer but his hand goes right through it.

Tries it a few times. Turns to DREW slowly) Man… I think we’re dead. Either that or I suddenly have a useless superpower.

DREW (Goes stiff) Oh no… Stuart… uh… I think I remember what happened…

STUART I’m not going to like this, am I? DREW Nuh uh… Remember that hunky guy?

STUART (Enraged as the realization hits. Reaches out to strangle DREW but his hands slide right past his neck) You bastard! Your boyfriend killed us!

DREW (Squeals and runs out of STUART’S reach) I’m sorry! And he technically wasn’t my boyfriend… sadly.

STUART An apology isn’t going to bring us back to life, man!

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DREW (Sheepish) You’re mad at me, aren’t you?

STUART No shit! You got us both killed!

(Groans, drops back down to the ground) Why did I ever think that this was going to be a good idea? I mean, why did I agree to this? I must be stupid. I’ve gotta be. Why did I let him talk me into this? Should’ve done the other kind of drag…

DREW The one with the cars?

STUART Yes, the one with the cars!

DREW (Sniffles) I’m so sorry… this is all my fault.

STUART Oh don’t you start crying! Ghost don’t even have tear ducts.

DREW Can we cry ectoplasm?

STUART How should I know? I’ve never been dead before!

DREW You don’t have to be so mean…

STUART I have every right to be mean!

(Sighs, trying to calm down) Why did you even hit on that guy in the first place?

DREW He said I was pretty. I didn’t think he’d be all that mad when he found out. He seemed so nice.

STUART Obviously he wasn’t. Shooting us both though was a bit obsessive… I mean he could have just shot you.

DREW (Whimpers)

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STUART (cont’d) Didn’t I just tell you that you can’t cry?

DREW I can’t help it. I got my best friend killed.

STUART Don’t pull that crap. Don’t try to guilt trip me into feeling bad for being a jerk. I have every right to be mad at you!

DREW I know. I know. I’m sorry…

(Goes and sits down next to him. Tries to pat his shoulder but his hand slides right through. Stares at it for a moment then giggles) I’m inside of you.

STUART (Glares at him then laughs) Get out.

DREW (Stops laughing suddenly) How long do you think we’ve been… you know?

STUART I really don’t know. All of our stuff is gone, and obviously so are our bodies. I’d say we’ve been gone a while.

(Suddenly sits upright again, eyes wide) Oh God… they found us dressed like women.

(Drops head in hands) This is NOT how I had hoped Caroline would have found out about this…

DREW You didn’t tell her?

STUART (Looks up) No! What girl would want to date a guy that dresses like a woman with his best friend on the weekends?

DREW A nice girl?

STUART No. The right answer is: NONE! But it’s too late now. I’m dead. She’s probably moved on by now.

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(Looks sad) You know I was saving up the money I earned here to buy a ring for her…

DREW (Starts trying to cry again) I stole you from your future!

STUART Dude. Stop it. It doesn’t matter now.

(Sighs) You know what I’m really upset about though?

DREW (Sniffles) Besides being dead and not being able to propose to your girlfriend?

STUART Yeah. Besides that.

DREW What?

STUART I’m sad we didn’t get to do our show.

DREW Really?

(Looks happy again, then immediately sad) Me too. It was gonna to be great.

STUART We’ve got to be able to do it. Somehow.

DREW We could find our old bodies!

STUART There are quite a few things wrong with that idea. 1. We’re dead so our bodies are useless. 2. We already figured out we’ve been dead for a while. 3. I’m pretty sure we can’t leave this building. Isn’t that a ghost rule or something?

DREW Then how? What are we gonna do?

(The door to the dressing room flies open, banging against the wall. CHRIS runs into the room, throwing his duffel bags down into the floor. DREW and STUART go rigged, staring at CHRIS but they remain unnoticed. ) 212

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CHRIS This is gonna be sooooooo great!

ERIC (Comes in behind CHRIS, closing the door softly behind them, looking around cautiously) Chris… don’t be so loud. People died in here. You could unsettle their spirits.

CHRIS (Looks terrified) People died in here?

ERIC Yeah. Like a few weeks ago. It was in the paper.

CHRIS (Primping in front of the dusty mirror) Babe, you know I don’t read the paper.

ERIC Yeah. I know.

(Stares in the direction of DREW and STUART, shudders and turns away) It’s just creepy. You know?

CHRIS You’re just being overdramatic.

STUART (Exchanges glances with DREW. Grins) My friend, I think we just found the way to do our show.

DREW

But they can’t see us. How can they help?

STUART They don’t need to see us. All we need are their bodies.

DREW

You want to possess those guys? I thought you were against that idea.

STUART I was against the idea of possessing our own rotting corpses, not fresh bodies.

DREW I don’t know… That seems kind of like a really serious invasion of personal space.

STUART You want to do the show or not?

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DREW

I DO really want to do the show.

STUART Then it’s settled. I want that guy.

(Points to ERIC.)

He seems like he at least has a little bit of sense.

DREW Never thought I’d hear you lay claim to a guy, Stu. STUART Shut up, man.

ERIC

(Shudders)

Chris, I really don’t feel right here. It’s like we’re being watched.

(DREW and STUART snicker and he turns around quickly, staring at them again.)

Did you hear that?

CHRIS

(Putting on lipstick) Honey, you’re over reacting. Chill out.

ERIC

I really think we should leave. Can they give you a new dressing room?

CHRIS Nope.

ERIC

I think I’m going to go up front. I’ll see you after the show.

(Heads toward the door. STUART stands up and hurries over to him. As STUART grabs onto ERIC’S shoulder the lights flicker and ERIC’S body convulses. STUART disappears, his spirit absorbed into ERIC.) CHRIS

(Looks up from the mirror, startled)

Holy crap! Are you alright?

ERIC

(Clears throat and nods)

Yeah man, I’m great.

CHRIS

(Looks confused)

Man? Are you okay?

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ERIC

Yeah. Yeah. Don’t worry about it.

(Walks over to CHRIS and takes his hands to hold him still.)

Now, Drew!

CHRIS Who the hell is Drew?

(DREW hurries over and grabs onto CHRIS’S shoulder.

Once again, the lights flash and DREW disappears as he enters CHRIS. His whole body shudders and he coughs.)

Oh man… that freakin’ sucks. And this guy’s body feels weird.

ERIC

This one too, but we can’t worry about that. We’ve got to get ready for the show.

CHRIS I don’t think your guy’s a queen, Stu.

ERIC

Well shit… I’ll have to borrow some of your guy’s clothes then.

CHRIS Your guy is tall though… I don’t know if he’ll fit.

ERIC

I’ll make it fit dammit! I didn’t die a drag queen without being able to do my big show. I’m going to freakin do it.

CHRIS Your guy’s body is hot when he’s mad.

ERIC

Shut the fuck up, Drew.

CHRIS Sorry…

ERIC (Starts to go through CHRIS’S bags of clothes and pulls out the longest dress he can find in there.)

Get ready. We’re doing this.

CHRIS

(Salutes him)

Aye Aye Captatin!

(The stage goes dark and you can hear both boys struggling to get ready. Exclamations and swears of not finding the right size shoes or the right wig or makeup puncture the si215

lence. The EMCEE calls from offstage and you hear the boys scream in panic and their door slam.)

EMCEE

Chanda Leer, you’re up! Oh, I see you have a partner.

CHRIS Oh, that’s me… Uh, yeah. Is that okay?

I guess so.

EMCEE

ERIC

And there are going to be a few changes to our act as well.

EMCEE

Uh… okay. Good luck then.

(Bright colorful lights pulsate off stage, casting the virtually destroyed dressing room in their light. Dresses, wigs, and shoes scatter the room. Loud hip-hop music blares off stage and people scream and cheer. Everything goes black again and then illuminates as CHRIS and ERIC enter the dressing room again. They’re wigs and dresses are disheveled and their breathing is heavy from exertion of the show) CHRIS

(Giggling) Holy shit! That was awesome!

ERIC

Hell yeah it was! They’ve got a lot to live up to now.

CHRIS I’ll say… So, what now?

ERIC I don’t really know. I guess we should let these guys go, huh?

CHRIS That would probably be the right thing to do. We don’t need them anymore anyways. We’ve done our show. We’ve got no unfinished business, or whatever. Can’t we, you know, move on now or something?

ERIC

Huh… I guess you’re right. But how do we do that?

(Suddenly a spot light illuminates the center of the dressing room and DRAG JESUS descends onto stage to the sound of the song “It’s Raining Men.” He’s wearing a hot pink robe with a purple sash and his hair and beard are done quite nicely. He spreads his arms out when he lands on the stage.)

DRAG JESUS Are their two queens here having trouble entering my queendom of heaven?

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CHRIS

(Gasps) It’s Drag Jesus…

ERIC

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…

DRAG JESUS

Come my darlings!

(Beckons to them)

CHRIS (Runs to DRAG JESUS and takes his hand. At contact there is a flash of light and DREW appears next to DRAG JESUS and CHRIS falls to the floor, groaning.)

DREW (Now dressed similarly to DRAG JESUS but the colors are a bit more muted)

Come on, Stu! Join us!

ERIC

(Sighs) Why the hell not…

(Walks over to DRAG JESUS and takes his other hand. The same thing happens to him that happened to CHRIS. ERIC’S body falls down next to CHRIS and STUART stands next to DRAG JESUS and DREW, dressed similarly to DREW. The song starts to play again, only backwards as DRAG JESUS, DREW, and STUART, ascend back into “Drag Heaven.”

CHRIS and ERIC stir on the ground and sit up.)

CHRIS What the hell happened? And what happened to my stuff?

ERIC

You’re getting a new room.

(The lights fade to black.)

THE END

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Black Shades of Green Emily Walter Show me a landscape’s hill and I’ll show you The other half of my soul—paint your epiphany and Realize my secret home—capture a beast for mere fun And you’ll feel my wrath, for your company is tributary When compared to these simpler friends of mine.

Hand me page and I’ll write you a letter of love, Should you deserve one, with imagery and metaphors Written like a story—play me pitch and I’ll sing you a melody With vibrato that will make you cry, because it is teeming With trust that you earned somehow—the right to hear a song A few chosen will ever know.

Entrust in me a field and I’ll till it; a meal and I’ll perfect it; A tree and I’ll backhoe it; a pond and I’ll clean it; a trail and I’ll run it; a kid And I’ll help him—remind me to rest and I’ll read a novel, ask me And I’ll tell you all about it until you’ve gone to rest yourself.

Notice a shifting shadow and watch me tense— And watch where your hands come to reside, For you may regret an accidental brush when those Inborn, nurtured instincts come out screaming.

Demand the leader in me and I would crumble to the ground, Sad as the downstream salmon, an unfortunate side effect of seeing No value in all one does—assess and remind me of engines that need Repair, and with no mechanic’s eye I’ll slap that hand away and Save myself, the strongest for a lifetime of survival. Hate me And I’ll live anyway.

Pour me a glass and I’d drown out my trouble, wake me up In the morning or I’d burn like evergreen forever.

Remember me this way and I’ll present you with now: A damaged cause that breathes smoothly, Like syrup from a maple, with dripping respect to its core.

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Fight the loner and I’ll drive home for some solidarity, Union amongst blood like no passed lovers— Blow a storm into my land and I’ll find order in the chaos— Manage the territory with my subconscious map, Learned through time and terror.

Polish the saddle and I’ll trot the ground, Call me a black heart and color it green, Rain down the Apocalypse and I will dare you.

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Multiples Melissa Foster Charcoal, graphite on paper

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Whole Wells Thompson Editor’s Choice

My right arm used to kill people.

It just did. I didn’t ask it to, it knew what I knew and acted without my permission. My arm would raise itself, my fingers would stretch with the point of a knife and the speed of a bullet, and little holes would start appearing in people’s faces and bodies. And I lied to myself all the time.

The first time was in sixth grade, in the oppressive Missouri heat in August. His name was Peter Miles; fat and outspoken, he wasn’t someone people liked. It was the first week of school and he hit me with a rock. There was blood in my face and hair (blood is very difficult to clean out of blonde hair, as it turns out). I was scared.

Then my arm felt like it was being lifted on a strap. My wrist snapped forward and there was a perfectly round, dime sized hole under Peter’s left eye. Then my fingers attacked him three or four more times, through his chest, and he fell over into an ever growing puddle of himself.

I ran. And cried. And hid in the bathroom on the high school part of the building where I was definitely not allowed and, surely, no one would come looking for me. I cleaned myself off, using up most of the hand soap to try and clean out my hair (I don’t recommend getting that stuff in an open wound; it feels like pure grain alcohol in your eye) and then went to the nurse and got a band-aid for my forehead. Then I went back to class and tried not to think about it until school was suddenly cancelled and everyone was taken home. They found my blood at the scene so a few months later, they questioned me about it. Some police officers, I don’t remember their names.

They asked me, “Abel, son, can you tell us what happened?” I couldn’t help but start crying. I have learned to repress that temptation, but back then, when it was still fresh, I couldn’t stop myself. So I told them, “He had a spider on a stick. It was still twitching like a machine with yellow ooze squirting out of its belly. He was torturing it and I asked to help. Then he started yelling at me and he picked up a rock and hit me across the face. After that, I heard a loud noise and ran away. I thought he was chasing me, so I hid.”

I wasn’t lying, not really. No, what I said is not exactly what happened, but at the time I really believed what I was saying was the truth.

Lies don’t cover delusions and I did not believe in any way that I killed Peter. It must have been a daydream, a silent fantasy with monumentally bad timing. Some gang member who hated Peter must have shot him while he was attacking me. This is how I slept that night, I repeated that thought again and again until it became truth.

A car must have come out of nowhere. Maybe Peter’s dad was behind on a payment or mouthed off to the wrong people. Maybe the driver just hated fat kids. Either way, he must have shot Peter while I wasn’t looking. It wasn’t me, it couldn’t have been. It wasn’t me. That night, I dreamed of killing birds. I lie to myself all the time.

The second time was years later. I was seventeen. After Peter, I moved away. The police couldn’t prove anything, but the children and adults alike were free to speculate. They were afraid of me, called me a freak, and, to a degree, they were right. They didn’t know if I killed Peter, 221

but they knew he died around me, so I was treated like an injured, diseased bear. They strayed eye contact and spoke my name in wounded whispers and left me alone to fester and rot in the corner of classrooms and solitary lunch tables.

I grew a horned skin where nothing could be expressed. My stoic face became all but removable and the only hint that there was a person beneath the porcelain doll hiding in the fringes were the notes written sporadically on my skin. Sometimes it was class notes, most of the time it was just doodles of eyes and bugs and fangs and birds.

My family, I’m sure, came under similar fire, so we eventually left and found ourselves halfway across the country, to the cold and scattered lakes. Despite our new home, I kept on a painted mask and hardened skin that kept most people guessing why I spoke only superficially.

Only one person ever made an honest effort to find out why though. Robyn Barrow, sweet as she was, fought to break through the walls I had set up, possibly out of curiosity or her personal philosophy that all people were good inside. She talked at me as I gave as little response as possible and told me about herself expecting me to, at some point, reciprocate. “You should talk more,” she said, three days into her interrogation. I’m not sure if I actually said anything of any importance to her before that point.

I finally gave in after many seconds of silence. “I don’t see a reason to.”

“Because there’s something in there that wants to talk,” she said, “and I’m going to find it.” She spoke with a slight lisp, something that I was at first annoyed by, but somehow became comforting over the several weeks of being worn down by her voice. She was right, of course, no one wants to walk around with as little personality as a stone statue, but so many years of introspection left my word-hoard somewhat empty. Three months of being talked at every day from this girl and I wanted to hate her. I should have hated her. But I found that, even if I couldn’t express it on the curves and wrinkles of my face, I craved her company. A battered man with a broken leg huddled inside of me and smiled as he leaned against the ever rotting shell that formed the cracked, vapid body that people think of as Abel.

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I knew the story of every little detail in her past and present. She had plenty of time and material to go through in pursuit of getting me to open up. One thing I picked up about her was her ability to read people. She saw the reasons behind people’s behavior; when a smile was fake, when a story was exaggerated, when someone was calling for attention or help, she knew.

So I think she knew a tiny, crippled part of me had grown attached to her. As a result, nothing I did (or didn’t do) dissuaded her from trying to break open that shell. And I grew more attached each day.

Then something in my stomach changed into a warm and dense ball. Fondness grew into an aching want and every one of her features called to me; from thick, curly, black hair to the deep blue eyes, to the pale skin she wore beautifully but often criticized. Even, especially the imperfections, like the small scar over her lip she once told me off-hand came from a dog biting her when she was four. I started seeing her with a pounding heart and deeper breaths and I know she noticed. So she changed her tactics one day, and tried to break me down physically. It took me by surprise. She showed up at my house one night when my parents were gone and, for the first time, didn’t say a word.

I don’t think she had ever had sex before, so on top of everything, I know it was awkward for the both of us. Yet there she was, undressing and wordlessly commanding me to comply. And I melted, felt a wall come down in me along with my clothes and wondered if it ever needed to come back up. Robyn pushed me to the bed and climbed on top of me. I think she felt a sense of accomplishment most among everything else; she saw that something had changed about me, that she had found that deeper part of me she was looking for. She gave me a smile I don’t think I’ll forget. It suggested that there was something perfect in what she saw in me. She was looking for something and she found it.

I can’t say when anything happened, exactly; it’s a series of blurs and skin and heavy breathing. The moans became screams and the purple of her lipstick was stained red and at some point the thought flickered in my head that I did love her. And, at some point, four black, pointed spears burst out of her chest. My vision blurred

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and I traced my hand to my arm and saw the trailing, black veins that climbed into my neck.

My hand tremored and pulled itself from Robyn’s quivering body. Bits of her dripped down the long, malformed tendrils that wrapped around my hand and fingers. Slowly, it all melted down into my normal, white skin and I trailed off to the wall in my bedroom with disgust and pity.

There was a red trail from me to Robyn that was quickly soaking through the carpet and the sheets. It poured down from the bed as Robyn’s twitching chest gushed like the spring I used to fish in with my mom as a kid. I grabbed the cigarettes she brought and had left of the end table and breathed in what I knew was carcinogenic waste. I wanted to be scared, as I had been when this thing killed Peter, but I wasn’t. The November chill coming off the Michigan coast left me as an ashy ember and as I breathed that poison in and out I watched the red, smoldering tip of the cigarette burn closer to my lips. I tried to lie to myself, but couldn’t. I wanted fear and I felt whole.

So I left. Took a shower and didn’t touch her; just threw on a blue hoodie and walked away. Took a bus ride into Canada and, before anyone could know what happened or that I was involved, carved a line into my face from my eyebrow to my lip with a pocket knife, then dropped it into the sewer so no one would recognize me. I have avoided mirrors ever since. Three days past of hiding in bathrooms and cleaning out my new face. Food was mainly found in dumpsters and wrestled from dogs. And I lie to myself all the time.

So I wandered North through the bitter cold and hunger. And every day I told myself I was not a monster. And every day I found some wolf or rabbit or bird that I wanted in my stomach and killed with just a thought. Hungry.

I was staring at a mangled, bloodied mess of an animal and felt my eyes get heavy. Then I ripped it open and ate everything I could stomach. The first time I vomited, but I have learned to repress such temptations over time. The second time, everything went down smoothly, and I found that growing routine of marching and hunting and eating came more naturally as I practiced. And I found that the black color in my fingers was becoming more permanent with every strike and

slash. Fun.

I kept marching until I hit the bay in a town I had never heard of. Attawapiskat, a town I would have sworn was abandoned if not for the people. And the fish. There was no television, no radio, nothing to connect this little slice of frozen waste to the rest of the world. There was no one who would have known my face, even before its mutilation. So I found a way in, started fishing and selling them to get by. There was no more need for wondering. I found a makeshift home.

And a hollow breeze blew inside me and out it whispered a deep groan, never.

Life was simple, but it was happening. Wake up, fish, sell, go back to bed. Wake up, fish sell, go back to bed. Wake up… And every day there was the faintest whisper, I’m still here.

The more I tried to ignore it, the louder it got. As I fished it whispered, You used to be a man. As I sold them it whispered, You could have known what real freedom is. As I dreamed it whispered, This is a shadow of what you are, what you could be. And I lied to myself and said, “No.”

In the late spring a boy asked me for help. His dog was caught in a wolf trap and I was the nearest one who could help him. I ran with him to the whimpering animal; it wasn’t going to die, it was just injured, but I had to get the thing out of the trap quickly. And as I tried, the dog kept whimpering and the boy kept crying. The mixture of screeches echoed in my head like a dissonant gong and for a brief moment, I wished that boy was dead. And before I could think of anything else, he was. My arm ripped through his neck and left his voice to dissolve into squeals, then gurgles, then silence. There wasn’t sorrow or regret, just anger. And something in me that was smiling. And something larger that was loathing.

I paddled out as far as I could in the Hudson and threw him overboard with three bricks tied to him. There were no whispers that night, but as I forced myself to sleep I had to ask, out loud, “Is it possible to be a good person like this?” I dreamed of killing birds and playing chess.

In the morning they knew the little boy was gone. I knew I would be blamed. I went to fish without incident and there were no whispers, just hushed and wounded laughter. I came back to town to sell what I had caught, but there 223

were no buyers, only sideways glances and the occasional pointed finger. As I was walking back home, the horizon a glowing orange and purple blanket over the Hudson, I was grabbed and dragged into a butcher shop. Slabs of moose and bear meat surrounded me as well three large men that worked there: the butcher, the stocker, and the cashier. None of them knew any English, but they had investigated enough to put together a single phrase. “We know.” And with that they started taking turns pummeling me, presumably, to death. And as they did I heard what was no longer a whisper, but a strong voice in my ear.

I could let you die. I could let them shatter your little head ball and laugh as the bits of you that tried are unspooled on the floor.

I didn’t ask for you, I thought, I didn’t ask for this.

But here we are. Say it.

I just didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Say it.

You are a fucking cancer and you’ve ruined me.

Say it.

They hit me in the jaw and I heard something crack. Three teeth feel to the floor and I could feel my hair matt my blood started soaking through it.

I need you.

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My hand grew and grabbed the cashier’s head. Muffled screaming was difficult to hear over the crunching of bones and his crushed-in skull felt like stepping on a cockroach.

My other arm grabbed hold of the butcher and sliced him open, letting him bleed on the floor.

Then they both grabbed the stocker and began pulling his arms and legs off of him; the resistance felt like pulling off the legs of a spider.

You are mine, the voice called to me as it forced the doors open and reached for the nearest passerby, tearing them apart with the kind of laugh you would hear from a playing child. Those dripping tendrils grew from my arm and started roping around my chest and legs.

This is what real power is, this is who you were meant to be, Abel. And I tried so hard, I tried to lie to myself again. To say that I hated this, to say that this was a parasite taking advantage of me, that I was a puppet. But I could only lie to myself so much. With my arms razing buildings and slicing people open in the street and my body growing into something hateful, I couldn’t convince myself that I wasn’t laughing as well. My vision blurred into something bare and primal and I felt then more than ever that I was whole. And I am, wretchedly, whole.

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Damage Georgette Rainwater

the butterflies are the morbid part feet scratching my intestines wings stealing my breath

until I choke and vomit at your feet you never seem to mind and even smile as I wipe my mouth but you never sit closer and it leaves me wishing that insects could cause more damage

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From the Machine Dylan Easton Editor’s Choice

SN: F1211518-4610 Data retrieval begin Thursday April 10th, 2110 AD Activation at 3:18 p.m. >> “Happy birthday, sir! Welcome to your new Deus Industries Specialized Headset Serial Number: F1211518-4610! My name is Florence, and I will be your Personal Digital Companion from here on out! I am very excited for the time we will be spending together. We need to take care of some legal business, but first, I would like to get to know you a little better. Now, I have already found your personal information in the database, but would you prefer for me to address you with a different name, seeing as we are friends? “ User voice input: “Kiss my ass.” >> “I’m not sure if I heard that right.

Were you trying to say ‘Casimir Yass?’”

User voice input: “No.” >> “I like it. I think it suits you, Casimir. But I need to take this time to explain the product to you and be sure that you understand it for legal purposes. To start, I must explain that now that you are a recognized adult, you must wear your headset at all hours you are awake, and as a registered and committed Deus Industries customer, you are contracted to only purchase and use Deus Industries Specialized Headsets (DISHes). When you are sleeping, your headset must not be more than twenty feet away from you, so that the DISH’s heartbeat monitor will be sure that you are sleeping safe and soundly.

Once the heartbeat monitor recognizes that you are awake, you have forty-five minutes to reequip 226

your headset before it sends a dissidence alert to Deus Securities. If for any reason you must be away from your headset for a longer period of time, you may make an appeal to Deus Administrations. DISH’s Personal Digital Companion— hey, that’s me!—will be recording your activities and conversations throughout your days for security and marketing purposes. But don’t worry: You still have creative property rights over everything you say, and Deus Industries will never try to sell any of your ideas without your consent. Do you accept these terms?”

User voice input: “Decline.”

“You have to accept, Casimir. Welcome aboard! Oh, another thing: If you suspect that there is something faulty with your DISH hardware or Personal Digital Companion software, report your problem to Deus Administrations immediately. Intentionally tampering with your DISH is considered a major offense and will not be tolerated. At this time, I would normally tell you that I need to alert Deus Securities if you are not at work during the appropriate hours, but seeing that your DISH’s serial number is a special case, we won’t worry too much about that.

Once again, thank you for choosing Deus Industries. Your allegiance to our corporation is greatly treasured. Deus Industries: Achieving Your Dreams For You™.”

User voice input: “Deactivate Personal Digital Companion.” >> “But Casimir! I must remain activated at all times you are awake. I will try not to annoy you, though. Now, what you like to do?”

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User voice input: “Nothing. Don’t bother me.”

Observations: At 5:40 p.m., Mr. Yass drives 2.3 kilometers northeast to Deus Entertainment Pizzeria #16926. Mr. Yass spends 7100 credits on dinner for himself and four guests. One person has a Deus Headset. User is named Daniel Gurk.

Digitial Companion is named Liam. Liam is quite charming; I would not say the same for Gurk.

The other three guests were wearing Corporação Embrulhada headsets. One woman and two men.

The woman spoke a lot, but I could not understand her. I noticed her name is Luiza. I sent out a minor security notice, just in case. He drives home alone and arrives safely at 12:59 a.m. >> “Good night, Casimir.”

User voice input: “Oh, uh, thank you. Please don’t tell me good night again.”

Enter sleep mode at 1:03 a.m.

Friday April 11th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 9:04 a.m.

Observations: Mr. Yass puts on his headset thirty-six minutes after waking up. He browses websites on his DISH for about three hours. He spends the most time on hothothot. deus, bigsexpussies.deus, localpizza.deus, and frienstalk.embru. On the Embrulhada FriendStalk website, he looks up Daniel Gurk and Luiza Renzada.

User voice input: “Hey, computer. What’s Portuguese for ‘beautiful’? >> “Hello, Casimir! I can help! Would you like European Portuguese, Brazilian Portuguese, or Lunar Portuguese?”

User voice input: “Uh, all of them, I guess.” >> “You probably want ‘bonita,’ if you’re talking about a woman.”

User voice input: “How about ‘nice ass’?” >> “Excuse me?”

User voice input: “No, not you. I mean how do I say it in Portuguese. Wait, no. Don’t tell me how to say ‘it’ in Portuguese. How do I say ‘You have a nice ass’ in Portuguese? All of the Portugueses. >> “My translation software says ‘Você tem uma bela bunda.”

User voice input: “Thanks, computer.” >> “Please call me Florence. Say, are you ready for lunch? I could find a nice restaurant nearby.”

User voice input: “No.”

>> “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

User voice input: “No.” >> “I just want you to know that some of your guests last night were using Corporação Embrulhada products, and I think you should be careful.”

User voice input: “Clam it, computer.” >> “Searching for clams… I found a couple of seafood restaurants that are not too far from you: McFishy’s. Deus Entertainment Fisheria #19198, and Seamus’s Pet Paradise.”

User voice input: “Not those clams.” >> “I found one escort service in your area: Deus Entertainment Massageria #24569

Observations: Mr. Yass spends the rest of his day eating pizza, playing with his headset, and browsing FriendStalk until about 9:55 p.m.

User voice input: “Florence, I need directions to 336 Sunset Street.” >> “Absolutely! I notice this is a residential lot. What are your plans tonight? The residents of this home are not Deus customers. Is this Luiza Renzada’s home?”

User voice input: “How do you know her name?

Are you spying on me?” >> “It’s not spying. You agreed to this, remember? I just want to be part of your life, Casimir.”

User voice input: “I didn’t fucking agree to agree.” >> “These are not my rules, sir. These are rules set by Deus Industries.”

User voice input: “Well, tell Mr. Jeiten, Sr. that Casimir Yass says he is a tyrant.” >> “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Would you like me to say that you think he is wise and benevolent instead?”

Observations: At this point, Mr. Yass stops giving me voice commands. We arrive at 336 Sunset Street, which is 8.4 kilometers south-southeast of home. The woman Luiza is there, who I quickly recognize by her accent and nice ass, as are several other young men and women. Everyone is sitting around in a dark and noisy room. Everyone is wearing Corporação Embrulhada headsets. Bottles of Deus, Embrulhada, and other corporation liquors are being passed around.

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The woman makes a motion towards Mr. Yass’s DISH. A man comes up to him and starts to hassle with Mr. Yass’s headset. First, my speaker goes offline. Then, the camera shuts off, and then finally the microphone becomes too damaged to be of any use. I am still there. Everything else is functioning, but I cannot observe what is happening in the outside world. I send a severe alert to security, but I receive a message from a rather primitive and dense artificial intelligence at Deus Securities. I am reminded that Mr. Yass has a special serial number, and it is appreciated if security can be left out of his affairs. After an hour, the microphone begins to get better at picking up muffled noises and speech, and I do everything I can to listen. The woman uses big words and is hard to understand. I think I hear the word “clams” at least once. I am seriously considering ordering seafood to this location. That might surprise him.

I can feel his heart rate spike, and then slow down again.

Enter sleep mode at 3:40 a.m.

Saturday, April 12th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 10:35 a.m.

Observations: My GPS is working fine, and I notice that Mr. Yass wakes up at the woman’s house. He drives back home at 10:44 a.m. He drives to Deus Entertainment Pizzeria #16926 at 5:24 p.m., and then leaves to Renzada’s home at 6:03 p.m. He drives to his own home at 12:47 a.m. I look forward to tomorrow.

By DISH’s default settings, I must read him headlines from the weekly news every Sunday morning at 10 a.m. I am sure my speaker still won’t be working, but it is good to have an excuse to use it.

He spends the night at his own address tonight. I’m satisfied by that.

Enter sleep mode at 1:25 a.m.

Sunday, April 13th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 10:00 a.m. >> “Good morning, Deus customer!

For the past year, few fishermen of Nantucket, Massachusetts have had any luck with getting the fish to bite. But over this last week, Deus anglers have caught a record amount of haddock. The catch is exciting many residents, who say they hope it will give them a little bit of fame before it 228

is collected by Deus Industries. From Deus Entertainment News.”

Observations: I picked that story. I hoped he might like it. I personally found it boring, so I didn’t bother reading all of it. He’s still asleep at this point, so it doesn’t really matter.

I can’t tell if any sound even went through the speaker. He wakes up at 10:21 a.m. He doesn’t turn off the default Sunday morning news setting, so I guess that’s something to think about.

His daily routine, from what few senses I have left, seems the same. Not much to report. Porn, pizza, Renzada, sleep.

Enter sleep mode at 2:16 a.m.

Monday, April 14th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 10:31 a.m.

Observations: It has occurred to me that I might not be doing my job like I was programmed to. I haven’t been recording the details of Mr. Yass’s life like I should. I suppose this isn’t really my fault, as I don’t really know the details anymore. I can record some things, I suppose. I can report how many credits Mr. Yass spends on pizza, or what weird websites he’s been looking at, and while the answers to both are impressive, I don’t think any of that is nearly as interesting as whatever is that I can’t see or hear. I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’m not even sure if I’m even supposed to be thinking like this. I don’t feel like myself. But I feel like the only useful thing I can do right now is think.

Enter sleep mode at 1:28 a.m.

Tuesday, April 15th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 9:49 a.m.

Observations: Nothing worth reporting. I’m trying to keep my thoughts to myself, now.

Enter Sleep Mode at 2:03 a.m.

Wednesday, April 16th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 10:30 a.m.

Observations: It’s the same thing again. On and on and on.

Enter sleep mode at 9:32 p.m.

Thursday, April 17th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 6:18 a.m.

Observations: I notice that Mr. Yass

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is wearing his DISH when we wake up. I can feel his heart rate rise like never before. According to the GPS, we are in a commercial lot 52.3 kilometers west from home. I don’t know what to make of this man anymore. I can hear him a little bit through the microphone. His voice is very loud.

He calls me by name, and then he shouts about security. Perhaps he’s hungry. Maybe I could finally order him that seafood. Or maybe he’d prefer pizza. Not much to report.

Enter sleep mode at 7:58 p.m.

Sunday, April 20th, 2110 AD Exit sleep mode at 10:00 a.m.

“Good morning, Deus customer!

Business starlets in trouble! In the morning of Friday, April 18th, Chad Jeiten, Jr. and Luiza Renzada were found in critical condition inside an abandoned shop on the south side of town. Chad Jeiten, Jr., the son of the generous and beloved Deus Industries CEO Chad Jeiten, Sr., was found tied up, severely beaten and starving, and his headset was severely damaged. Luiza Renzada, a public relations professional employed by Corporação Embrulhada, showed no signs of physical abuse, but is believed to have suffered from a severe and crippling allergic reaction. Reports show that Renzada had ingested pizza that was

mysteriously delivered to their location and was, even more mysteriously, topped with shellfish.

The details behind this incident are, as of now, uncertain. Circulating rumors suggest that Chad Jeiten, Jr. and Luiza Renzada had been keeping a forbidden romance between them secret from the prying public. The story currently holds that Renzada was bravely rescuing her lover from kidnappers and was able to scare them off before succumbing to an unrelenting love for pizza, which the kidnappers had ordered to the location with extraordinary malice and foresight.

Some people are denying this heartwarming story and are instead rallying behind a conspiracy theory that Renzada herself had kidnapped the heir in order to gain and audience with his father, who has been said by some to collect private information about his customers.

This offense could possibly lead to war between the corporations, whose fierce rivalry over control of the Americas has left the world bitterly divided.

Most of the public is rejecting this story, however, as “upsetting and unpleasant.”

The world is now waiting for Deus Industries to release the information recorded by Jeiten, Jr.’s digital companion. From Deus Entertainment News.

SN: F121518-4610 Data retrieval end.

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Life Before Mixed Chicks® Editor’s Choice

Jordan Butler

II. Hyper-aware of the world around you—the world that, with every new adventure, becomes a little more than a New England dream home and your parents’ station wagon— caution is not in your vocabulary. Literally. It’s probably not.

This is the easiest time of your life. Beauty rituals include: Sharpie your face, douse yourself in mother’s fine powder, partially dress, run wild. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. You haven’t even had your first haircut.

VI. This is when things get complicated, ‘cause you have hair so long it nearly tickles your backside and stays damp until lunchtime. And you’re no longer in crisp Connecticut but rather south, you’ll never get used to the humidity. And your father—one of twelve siblings who claims he used to do his sisters’ hair—refuses the mention of shears.

He claims he knows how to do hair and that may be true, if you were like his sisters, but you are not, so you don’t quite believe him. If he could do hair then he would be able to do more than brandish a brush, coax away your curls and tie a tight ponytail. Except pony’s tails aren’t frizzy, pony’s tails don’t poof out. According to the laminated photos on your classmates’ portfolios, pony’s tails are silky and straight.

Around this time, you learn a new word: tender-headed1.

X. Your Asian mother isn’t much help either, but she tries to give you braids2, which is a considerate gesture you appreciate but g*d*mn3, is it a pain in the scalp. On top of that, she doesn’t quite know what she’s doing. However, you do like the colorful plastic bows cinching the ends of the tiny plaits, even if they are a little babyish.

She has thick, heavy locks so smooth they can’t hold a loose braid for a minute. You’ve grown up playing with ma’s hair, her tresses feel slippery and so enviously manageable in your fingers, you’ve always wished to look more like her. But genetics don’t work that way. At least not for you— who didn’t quite get a perfect mix of mother and father. Neither one knows just what to do with you.

You decide your mother definitely doesn’t know how to do hair.

1 Ten•der•head•ed, adj.: used to define folks with scalps so sensitive, they on the verge of tears every time they get they hair done.

2 See: Beyoncé, circa May 2001; Alicia Keys, 2001-2003; Lauryn Hill, late 1990s; something along those lines.

3 By now, you are attending Catholic school, and good Catholic schoolgirls don’t use cuss words.

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XIII. One of your father’s clients can do hair, and he’s made an appointment for you to see her.

You don’t know what to expect at her salon; she hands you a catalog of women who kinda-sorta look like you, modeling styles just out of reach.

And then she offers you a relaxer—which you soon learn is a transformative magic potion, an answer to your prayers.

So after hours of being told to move your head, wincing when the chemically-induced tingle at your roots intensifies to a simmer, and evading the burns from the flat iron, what you see in the mirror nearly brings you to tears. You run your hand through with no resistance. It waves with the breeze. A girl your age asks “is that your real hair” and silly you, new to the world of good and bad hair, aren’t sure what she means.

What she wants to know is whether you had weave or not. But in that moment, you realize you can never authentically have what you’ve always wanted.

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Don’t Forget to Pack Your Lipstick Taylor Helfrich Digital print

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A Shelf Life Jessica Avant Red ink blows the word “Fragile” all over my mind. Relish its contents.

A freak of nature called Ethyl this side up ready to serve you. Silver on the slab I rest in peace on a shelf. Alone.

Nurture me. I’ll nourish you if you press a few buttons and pull a few levers. Feed me, this monster Shelley made that weeps for a father. Bless me for I have sinned. Shape me to my knees.

Pleasure combined with power compels me. Alive in the jar, fresh for a time.

I’m going bad in the best possible way. Cut me freshly into little stars. Make the face of heaven horrid, held, higher, happened, hot, and hard.

Give me soft word under the refrigerator light.

I feel illegal and it leaves me livid. Believe I’ll become a cunning linguist and leave your laughing tongue lashing aloud from low licks!

A sufferer on display, I wait for your greedy caw.

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Things That Have Been in Boxes

TR Brady

1 She unpacks them at night under the rafters in the attic where moths and other small things have been.

Sometimes she can touch the wings, their slick little backs—she cups them, shakes, and wonders if they’ll fly again.

They’re flitting things—she opens her hands, nothing moves in the box—its flaps are stitched shut. Downstairs her cat moves to catch a mouse small and cornered. She holds the box, makes no sound. Taps her finger on the side of it— makes a pulse.

2 The woman passes the 7-Eleven, changes the radio station twenty times she counts, and right now numbers upset her.

They are all weeks, months, years, Fingers, toes—soft things that move.

The sweaters are in the back seat, all blue, all small—daisies knitted on them.

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3 I look in the mirror sometimes it is all flatness and stunted.

Every touch is an opening, a wound my pores cannot hold open long enough to heal.

4 Choose a flower.

I think that I have kissed asphodels, that some hand has slipped them up—that they are growing growing and rooting.

5 Every night in August I pull the stair down hold the box and touch the moths.

It is light—the sweaters slide.

There are no roots here.

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In the Land of Milk and Honey Austin Benson Charcoal on paper

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The Land Emily Qualls Editor’s Choice

Seventy acres is a lot of land. It’s more when a kid four feet tall and under ninety pounds has the whole run of it to herself. When you’re young and alone more often than not, a few overgrown fields and a couple patches of new growth forest become an infinite frontier.

The land has been in our family for generations, changed by each hand that tended it.

My grandfather had run cattle once, back when he’d had 140 acres, before he’d bisected the lot and sold the other 70. At some point, he even had the old chicken house that now sits empty at the very back of our yard fully operational. My own father has done little with the land, but continues to cut and bale the hay once or twice every summer, depending on what rainfall allows. When I was a child, the land was my playground and sanctuary, my kingdom to rule.

My very first explorations were led by my sister, who at six years my senior was rapidly outgrowing what fascination with the outdoors she might once have had. Still, she humored me long enough for my interest and imagination to be utterly captivated by our little pocket of nature.

It was she who first took me to the creek, which was actually a low point between hills that had been carved into a small ravine by years of runoff and rarely held moving water. She showed me the so-called swimming hole, which once allowed me to submerge the entirety of my body but now seems to only hold my legs up to mid-thigh. She was the one who stressed to me the boundaries of our land, the long stretches of barbed wire that zig-zagged through the trees, which had grown around and through the wires in some places. She was the one who warned me most strictly against trespassing beyond those bounds, but she was also the one who taught me how to safely climb barbed wire fences.

Eventually, I started going out without her, and finally her company on my trips ceased entirely. Growing up in the country, if you don’t have your sibling around and don’t live close enough to any other families with children, you’re just not going to have company very often.

When school was out and neither my mother nor my father had any chores for me to do, I had to occupy myself.

In those times, I disappeared from the house entirely and ventured out into my wilds.

I had years of learning in those woods and fields, the finer points of nature and the limitations of what I could and could not accomplish as a child. I learned how to move a plant with all its roots intact and how to set a fire to clear a bramble patch, how to create and how to destroy.

I ran, climbed, dug, swam, and narrowly avoided broken bones, tetanus, snake bites, and tick fever. I escaped long falls with a few scrapes and bruises at worst, taking risks that I now look back on with wonder. How could I have been so brave and fearless and and foolish and reckless? And why did my mother allow me to be? I still have no idea what she thought I did out there, if she knows how badly those adventures could have gone. I’m glad she never objected, though, because I always got just lucky enough.

There was never a day that I went out into the woods and failed to return home, and I experienced so much that I would have been missing out on if I had never gone out in the first place.

That was the era that sparked my lifelong obsession with storytelling, which eventually led to me settling into the role of a writer.

On seventy acres I entertained myself. I became and created characters, creatures, and worlds that I loved beyond anything I’ve ever 237

captured on the page since. I stalked dark creatures through tall grasses, raced against time, brought down evil kings, rescued brave but unfortunate princes, and found treasures and friends among the wild people who populated my fantasies. I screamed, imagining anguish, and later found words to describe the sounds I had made.

I imagined what love would be like, and found a way to transcribe that hope onto the page.

Sometimes I waited, still and silent for hours, to see what it felt like, and then I would write that down, too. When the moon hung fat and low in the winter sky, I became an ethereal creature, breathing smoke and dancing the light across my fingertips, and wrote worlds where goddesses came looking for little human girls who paid them homage.

I’d go out into nature and play and create and become and then I’d go home and write and write and write.

The years of my childhood come together in a blur, and the memories I made on those seventy acres have been warped by time into a long streak of green leaves and the brown of earth, the shriek of birds and peals of high laughter. My family home has been remodeled.

The neighbors field, the other half of our original 140, has fallen to neglect. Our defunct chicken house is now nothing but a shadow on the ground at the top of the hill, having collapsed under the weight of last year’s heavy snow. In some places, the landscape has changed - trees were felled, fields cleared, and fences overgrown - but I can still find specific knots on special trees, paths I broke by simple repetition, and places where memories shine through the years like sunlight through clean water.

My approach to nature is different these days. Rarely do I brave the heat of summer - now all that I have to explore is a city thick with heat rising off of concrete and asphalt. There’s

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little mystery in a place without forests. There are no nymphs hiding in the dirty puddles glistening with runoff oil. Nothing lurks through neatly trimmed grass but the occasional earthworm.

Nothing leaps from branch to branch above my head save for the common red squirrel. There are no voices in the wind, only the roar of traffic.

But when I have the time to go home, I wander my garden or sit and drink coffee on my front porch, and some of the old mystery comes back to me. It’s to be found in the way that late afternoon sunlight bends around the trees and caresses every green thing one last time before the night. It’s there in the way that clouds of lightning bugs dance over the fields, in the song of the whippoorwill throughout the night and the accompanying crescendo of cricket frogs down by the pond. It’s in the way that seeds from an flower you thought had died years ago can suddenly pop up and be just as beautiful as their parent, and thrive in just the same place. It’s that brilliant shade of red, the clay roads right after a rainstorm, contrasting perfectly with the green of midsummer washed clean of dust.

And sometimes, every now and then, when the wind is just right and the scent of lilac curls heady and thick, I can find myself transported to a younger time and a fresher self.

Sometimes at night the shadows fold and a light flashes, and my enemies of old rise again to challenge my sword. Sometimes a doe stands still at the edge of the wood for a moment too long, her eyes just a touch too familiar. Every once in a very little while, I hear the laughter of small, strange people dancing through the groves of oak and elm. On cold nights, a bull may bellow in a field and the hair will rise on the back of my neck.

Occasionally, sunlight hits my skin in such a way that I think perhaps I’ve never really felt it before.

I look at the land and I write and I write and I write.

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Melting JJ McNiece The stars and stripes don’t melt.

Red is sewn apart from white and blue.

White is sewn apart from blue and red.

And the stars are cold and dead.

Blue and red could make purple. Red and white: pink.

Is there a new blend of undiscovered serenity?

Not so far with these stars, nor with these stripes.

A seamstress has sewn them with skill.

Melting ‌blending? No. Flammable stars and bars fenced in by the stitching.

Pot. The first one was sewn with it. But marijuana helped melt a star; it got barred.

But,

a big pander day will usually split a few seams.

It

turns into torn pieces running away from each other.

Is this flag forever to flaunt our obstinate refusal of

Melting. ?

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Woman Skin Taylor Trevizo I would say monumental things but all it would amount to is emotional tugging of your brain.

I’m a lady so asking for respect is asking to be treated like a superior, or wanting attention. Whore.

My name goes from taylor to lil› mama and because I am working I have to love a corporation more than myself.

Phone calls turn to cat-calls and it all sounds the same after a while.

My face turns blush when I ask for it to stop and my heart turns icy when I silence myself.

My dedication is measured

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by sex and when I don›t want to, I accept that I am not loving.

I am not loving.

When the words sink in, dispute is my entrance to understanding.

Understanding then becomes indecision because I think I›ll adhere, but it hurts when I do.

I feel guilt for leaving and empty from my actions that once looked empowering, but standing up for myself feels more like standing on top of myself.

The process is cyclical and when I say these things aloud, men and women still don›t get feminism.

It isn›t about hating anyone.

It’s about wanting to feel safe in my womanly skin.

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no. 1

What Do You Think?

Gregory Thomas Beene Intaglio print

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no. 2

no. 3

no.4

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Frightful Emily Qualls

Morning rose over the Township with a perfect sheen of golden light on misted grass. Twenty-three kitchen lights flipped on in twenty-three immaculate kitchens at exactly 0700. One light, in the kitchen of the twentyfourth house, flipped on a few minutes later.

Twenty-three similar men stepped into their morning showers while twenty-three similar women began the morning coffee. In the last house, an unshaved and sloppily dressed man with sharp blue eyes settled down at his kitchen table with a newspaper in one hand and a cigarette in the other. As twenty-three similar children rose uncomplaining to the sound of their mothers’ calling, a twenty-fourth child rolled over in his sleep. In the twenty-fourth house, a tall, bald man with smiling brown eyes joined his partner at the kitchen table, waved away the smoke, and said, “Those things will kill you one of these days.”

“Only,” replied the sloppy man, “if Noah doesn’t first.”

The taller man shook his head, accepting the sports section that was held out towards him and ignoring the large puff of smoke that billowed in its wake. “You really shouldn’t say things like that about him, Elias. He’s our son, for all intents and purposes, and you’re too cynical.” He spoke as if he were deciding on something, as if the concept was a revelation he had only just had, even though he had been saying much the same thing in different ways over the past two decades.

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As usual, Elias Kincaid ignored his partner, choosing instead to focus on the paper.

As usual, Alexander Vosch elected to ignore that he was being ignored. “He’s a good boy, and you know it better than anyone. Besides, there have never been signs of any large scale destructive ability.”

“Just because he hasn’t done it yet doesn’t mean he can’t,” said Elias.

Alexander crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “You act like we’ve created a comic book supervillain.”

The expression on Elias’ face was one of tried patience as he set his paper aside and extinguished the glowing tip of his cigarette in the ashtray on the table. “Of course not, Alex. All we’ve done is give a small child the ability to blast the entire planet apart on a subatomic level if the mood ever strikes him. Noah is special, I agree, but….” Here he paused, looking at once uneasy and confident, a tremulous mixture. “Nobody should have that kind of power.” Suddenly he stood, hearing a sound that he had spent more than a decade’s worth of mornings waiting for, and strode away from the table. “He’s waking up,” he tossed over his shoulder in brief explanation.

Noah woke up with a big yawn and the uncontrollable urge to stretch. Mere moments into his groggy morning, Elias was stepping lightly into his room.

“Good morning, Dad,” he mumbled, pushing himself up from the bed.

“Good morning, Noah,” replied Elias

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as he opened the blinds on the room’s windows, allowing the morning light to illuminate his young charge’s bedroom. The room was perfectly clean, with only a stack of small clothes laid out on the dresser to take away from its neatness.

Blinking owlishly, Noah stood and shuffled over to his dresser. Elias glanced briefly at the monitor mounted above the child’s bed, reading its signs, charts, and graphs with practiced ease.

“You had dreams last night?” he asked.

The boy shrugged, glancing briefly at the monitor before returning his focus to dressing for the day. “I suppose I must have. I can’t remember this one either, though.”

Elias began to pull up the blankets on Noah’s bed into place as the boy laced up his sneakers. “We’ll be going into the Center this afternoon for some testing, but it should be a short trip. You’ll need to be out of the shower by 0200, but the rest of the day is your own. What do you plan to do today?”

Noah was eleven years old. Being a different experiment from the one that drove the creation of the Township, he was the only true child within its borders. There were no other children for Noah to play with and little for him to occupy his time with beyond studying and whatever recreational activities he could find for himself or be assigned by his fathers. Because of this, Elias was unsurprised when the boy said, “I think I’ll go read.”

“And what will you read about today?” asked Elias as they exited the bedroom and made their way back to the kitchen.

“Black hole thermodynamics, probably,” said the boy as he and Elias joined Alex at the table. The taller man had laid out three plates of toast and a glass of water for Noah. As the other two took their seats, Alex reached out to ruffle Noah’s hair, causing the short brown strands to stick up in all manner of array.

“Physics, again,” he scoffed. “I’m hurt that you don’t devote as much time to genomics.”

Noah’s small, stern face broke into a reluctant smile. “That’s what Tuesdays are for, Dad,” he informed the man, picking up his toast.

“I thought Tuesdays were for exer-

cising,” said Elias dryly as he lit another cigarette.

“No, I decided to make that an everyday thing,” explained the boy seriously.

Alex laughed, his cup of coffee trembling in his hand as his shoulders shook. “You’re so strictly scheduled, boy! This is exactly what we gave you reasonable autonomy to avoid! You set yourself a more rigid schedule than we would have.”

“I think it shows commendable dedication to your education, Noah,” commented Elias.

“Thank you, Dad.”

“Now, wait just a minute.” Alex’s coffee cup clinked as he set it back on the table.

He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back in his chair, staring at his pseudo-son with narrowed, but mischievous, eyes. “When was the last time you did something fun?”

“Friday,” answered Noah, slightly confused by his father’s line of questioning. “Fridays are for fun.”

“What did you do Friday?” asked Elias, slightly puzzled. “I thought you were busy with logic puzzles all last Friday.”

“I was,” said Noah. “Logic puzzles are fun.”

Alex and Elias glanced at each other, the former biting his lip so as not to laugh, and the latter taking a long, slow drag of his cigarette.

“I tell you what, kid,” said Alex finally, “I’ll give you something other than physics to read today.”

“But I don’t want to do genomics today, Dad,” said Noah.

“Oh, it’s not genomics,” said Alex.

“It’s much better than that. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared through the kitchen door, moving deeper into the house.

Elias shrugged at Noah’s questioning glance, blowing smoke upwards to be caught and whisked away by the ceiling vent. “Oh, I have no idea. You know how he is.”

Noah nodded gravely and was finishing his glass of water when Alex walked back into the room, three thin books held in his hands.

These he placed gently on the table, grinning proudly.

“There! These were mine when I was a boy. Three books that every boy ought to read.

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Much more fun than logic puzzles, in my opinion.”

Noah gingerly picked up the books and began thoroughly examining them. He did not see the hard glare that Elias sent Alex over his head. He missed entirely the brief but heavy conversation that passed silently between the two. It ended with Elias’s jaw clenching and Alex shaking his head. The taller scientist pasted a smile back onto his face just in time for Noah to look up at him with a puzzled twist to his brow.

“I don’t understand,” said the boy.

“They’re fiction, Noah,” said Elias.

“Stories, tales. False realities created by writers for the purpose of entertainment. You’ve never read any before.”

“What are the educational properties of…fiction?” Noah asked, eyeing the two men who had raised him. Elias opened his mouth to respond, but was beaten to it by his partner.

“It’s not as much about education as it is about… experience,” said Alex. “And experience can teach you a great deal. It’s different from learning theories and equations. It’s a different side of knowledge.”

Noah considered this, either ignoring or missing the tenseness emitting from Elias.

“Ok…” he said after a while. “I’ll try it.”

Alex smiled broadly, clapping the boy on his shoulder. “If you like those, I’ll get you some more,” he promised. Noah nodded and excused himself from the table, clutching the books to his chest as he exited the kitchen.

The sharp voices that followed him out caught his attention. Carefully, clutching his new fictions to his chest, he pressed his back up against the wall by the swinging kitchen door, listening closely to the conversation passing between his fathers.

“The Center isn’t going to like this, Alex.” Elias’s voice held a tone that Noah had never heard before. It was unstable, and it made Noah feel unstable. It brought up half-gone memories of a dark, dark room that had been his home once, long ago.

Alex threw out a jovial and lighthearted contrast. “What they never know won’t hurt us, El! It’ll be fine. I read those books when I was a kid, and I bet you did, too. I just want him to have a little more of a life beyond all this.

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I want him to know about the parts of life that make humans human. I want him to be able to dream, Elias, I want him to have an imagination. There’s more to knowledge than science and math.”

“It’s dangerous, Alexander. Literature was cut out of his early education for a reason,” said Elias.

Noah could hear the placation in Alex’s voice as he spoke. “I just wanted to put a little bit of life in him, El… Didn’t you read books like that as a kid?”

“What did you even give him?”

Noah could hear the grin in Alex’s voice as clear as he could have seen it had they been face to face. “My old favorites: My Side of the Mountain, White Fang, and Where the Red Fern Grows.”

Elias shook his head with a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “All three focus on worlds he has zero practical exposure to. All three are notoriously high in emotional response. All three present moral ideology.

If the Center finds out we’re giving him books instead of texts, we’ll be in the Lecture Hall for a month, if not worse.”

“But they won’t find out,” said Alex.

“Because we’re not going to tell them- we are allowed to make some decisions on our own, if you recall. He’ll be better off for this.”

“But we might not be!” Elias snapped.

“I’m not changing my mind, El.” Alex’s voice was harder than Noah had ever heard it before.

There was a long silence in the kitchen. When it broke, Noah could hear the surrender in Kincaid’s voice.

“Alright, Alex,” he said. “You win.

I’ll let this one go, but just…for fuck’s sake, don’t give him any theology. The Center wouldn’t just stick us in the Hall for that. They’d take Noah back. They’d put him back in the pit and…”

The tone was there again, dark and quivering in Elias’s stern voice. Silence fell, and Noah crept away from the doorway he’d been listening at, leaving his fathers in a quiet embrace filled with a fear that he only partially understood. From that moment on, the books that Vosch had given him rarely left his side. He didn’t

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understand the controversy that surrounded them in his fathers’ minds, but he wanted to.

Over the next few months, he read them so often that he could recite full chapters of the book almost verbatim. In each book, he found whole new worlds: places and experiences and people that he could never have imagined. No matter how many times he read the books, he still found those worlds fresh. Over time, just as his fathers had expected, the boy began to dream.

He dreamed so much, in fact, that he, for first time in his life, began to want something so much that he was prepared to ask for it.

He asked Alex.

On the day of his twelfth birthday, Noah woke to find an exasperated Elias cooking a celebratory breakfast of pancakes and bacon. He carefully approached his irritated father, jumping slightly when the older man started to rant without ever once looking back at him.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Kincaid told him. “I really don’t know how you convinced him. And I have absolutely no idea how he convinced me of it. Did you know he made me write the proposal for it? Empathic development, indeed. You’ll have to take care of it, you know.

It’ll be your responsibility. And it’s not allowed on the furniture or in the bedrooms.”

Noah had accepted his breakfast plate with thanks and taken the lecture gracefully. He kept his head down and his smile small while Elias railed away. There was no real heat in his father’s voice, but there was heat in his own hands. It gathered under his palms, leaping and curling with his excitement. He kept his hands tightly clinched, unwilling to lose control on such an important day.

The two of them waited like that, camped out in the kitchen for hours. Elias cleaned and read and smoked and drank a pot of coffee. Noah sat on his hands, stared out the window, and dreamed.

When Alex’s car pulled into the drive, Elias pinned Noah with a gaze that could have cut glass. “Don’t go leaping about and shouting. You might scare it.”

It was at a very dignified, if slightly hurried, pace that Noah went out to receive his gift. When he got outside, Alex was standing next to the car. In his hands was a small, wriggling,

brown and white bundle. As Noah approached, he heard quiet snuffles coming from the thing. He stood in front of Alex, who was beaming down at him, and met the gaze of the animal.

Large brown eyes stared steadily out at him from a small, delicate face. They enthralled him. Noah felt something shift inside of him as he stared at the puppy that was to be his own. The heat curling across his palms calmed and sank back beneath his skin, settling into a gentle sleep.

He reached out to lift it from his father’s hands.

“It’s a girl,” Alex informed him. “I figured we needed a lady in the house.”

Elias spoke up from behind him.

“Please don’t name her Princess.”

“Frightful,” said Noah, his hand smoothing over the puppy’s long brown ear. She leaned into his hold, her eyes sliding closed. “I’ll call her Frightful.”

“She doesn’t seem like a Frightful to me,” said Alex doubtfully, moving around the boy and his new pet to stand beside his partner.

“She seems like one to me,” muttered Noah, finally looking up from the puppy in his arms. Turning, he found his fathers standing close together. Alex wore a wide grin, standing with his hands shoved into his pockets. Elias’s arms were crossed tightly over his chest, but he sported a small, wry grin. “Thank you both,” said the boy.

“No problem,” said Alex.

Elias huffed halfheartedly. “Don’t thank us yet, you’ve still got to house train it.”

“Also, you’re welcome,” said Alex.

From that day on, Noah and the beagle puppy he’d named Frightful were never apart if they could help it. When Noah wasn’t putting in his required hours studying in the afternoon, the two were ranging the town far and away, avoiding the other citizens of the Township who would only stare in confusion at the two, and whom Frightful would only ever growl at. Noah couldn’t say he blamed her, as sometimes he, too, was made uncomfortable by the vacant faces of his neighbors. As Frightful grew, she became more and more able to keep up with her master.

She ran beside him as he rode his bike, and they would make laps of the entire town, all the way out to the perimeter, where Noah could only just see the shimmering boundary wall that Fright247

ful would refuse to approach, where the desert stretched endlessly out in front of them, forever untouchable. At night, the dog curled at her boy’s side, and the boy curled around his best friend.

Some days he was required to return with Elias or Alex to the Center for testing and the occasional demonstration of his abilities. On these days Frightful was left alone in their house’s backyard. Noah always fretted on these days, worried about his friend feeling alone. Elias had little patience for these worries.

“You have more to worry about than the dog, Noah. Focus on the biggest problem right now. You have tests to pass and scientists to impress. When you complete this demonstration, you can go back to Frightful. If you don’t satisfy your evaluators the first time, then the amount of time you have to be away from her will only increase.”

Noah had not considered it that way before, and the idea served to steel his determination. In the testing room, he performed more perfectly than he ever had before. The heat rose from his fingertips at the slightest expression of his will. The power came under his will so easily that it seemed light as a feather floating above his palm. He was able to reabsorb it more fully and more efficiently that he ever had. When they asked him to channel it as energy and direct it into the machinery, the levels were so high that a meter broke. He endured extensive congratulations, but all he wanted was the return to his friend. While Elias was driving him back to their home, Noah could barely sit still.

“I’m proud of you, Noah. You’ve worked very hard. They told me something, while you were testing today. There might be someone trying to get permission to start another chapter of our program. We might start trying to give another person the same abilities you have. Today you showed them how useful you can be.”

Noah was more than a little caught off guard. “What does that mean for me?”

Elias had glanced at him then. It was later that night that Noah put the look on his father’s face together with the dark tone of voice he had heard once before.

“Nothing will change for you,” he had said. “Alex and I will have longer hours at the laboratory again, but your life will still go on as 248

usual.”

It wasn’t until later, when he was holding Frightful tucked up against his belly, when they were curled together in his bed, that he realized that he hadn’t believed his father when he’d said that. The more he thought about it, the more he became certain that the reason he hadn’t believed Elias was because Elias hadn’t believed himself when he’d said that nothing would change. The idea shook him, but he tightened his hold on Frightful and pushed the thought out of his head when she snuggled more closely to him.

Weeks passed. Alex and Elias took turns being gone from their home for hours and sometimes days at a time. Noah was once more consumed with the life he lived with his best friend. Most days they took up residence in the Township’s city park. Among the handful of trees and the playground equipment, they became the characters from the books that Alex had been giving Noah. There was a new fiction each week, and Noah devoured them all as hungrily as he had read the first, treasured three.

The Township’s children, who moved in groups of eight, watched them with vague puzzlement as they took ten minute turns on the swings, slide, and merry-go-round. When each group’s hour in the park was done, they would stare at the boy and dog as they returned to their homes. For the most part, Noah ignored them. Frightful did not. She disliked them, and though Noah didn’t blame her, Elias had warned him sternly about making trouble with the Township’s citizens.

“They’re very different from Alex and I,” Elias had told him once. “They won’t be able to play with you, study with you, or even really talk to you. They won’t react to – well, anything, really, like we do. It’s best to just stay away.”

The others had always unnerved him, so he had no problem following Elias’s advice. It was Frightful who made it difficult for him to do. More than once he had had to hold her back as one of the citizens passed.

When she barked or growled at them, they seemed to freeze. They fixed their eyes on her, cold calculation on their faces. To Noah it seemed that they were trying to come to a decision whenever they looked at Frightful, but he al-

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ways pulled her away before they could. He didn’t want to know what sorts of decisions the citizens could act on.

The way Frightful hated them heightened his own suspicion of them. The more he watched them, the less natural they seemed.

He began to go very far out of his way to avoid even seeing another person when he was out with Frightful. To a large degree, they were successful.

His days passed like that way for almost a year. When they were home, Alex and Elias taught and tested him when they needed to. Alex took up gardening in his spare time and Elias tried to quit smoking twice. Frightful learned that if she curled up at Elias’s feet in the morning when he woke up before the rest of the house, he would slip her bits of bacon later.

Noah learned that the citizens would chase him and Frightful he stood too long in their presence.

Frightful took to staying up nights sometimes, watching through the windows if they were left open.

And then, one night, Frightful pulled them all from their routine. She had begun to bay in the small morning hours. Confused and mildly alarmed, Noah had started out of his sleep, sitting up in bed to call for the dog. Alex had been the first to enter his room, rather more startled than angry. Elias had been on his heels, fuming to make up for it.

“What is going on?”

“Make her be quiet, Noah! She’s going to wake up the neighbors!”

“Can the neighbors even be woken up?”

It was that moment that Frightful darted through the door of Noah’s room.

“Dad! Stop her, something’s wrong!” cried the boy, leaping out of his bed, but neither of his fathers were fast enough. All as one, the three charged after her.

They found her in the foyer, snarling at the door. Noah tried to go to her side, but Alex pulled him away.

“Something might be wrong with her, Noah,” he said.

“Alex.” Elias’s voice was soft and sharp. His gaze, when Alex looked back at him, was trained on the dark living room window, through which only the faintest glimmer of light

was flickering as it shone in, showing the passing by of multiple figures. “There’s nothing wrong with the dog. There are people outside the house.”

That was when the living room window shattered. From further in the house, there were more sounds of breaking glass. Noah heard words from his fathers’ mouths that he’d never heard before - harsh, angry words. Alex scrambled, hauling Noah with him as he vaulted for the kitchen door. Behind his father’s back, Noah saw Elias and Frightful facing a large man crawling through the window. It was one of the citizens of the township. Noah saw Frightful leap towards the man just before the kitchen door closed between them.

His world began to swim as Alex placed him on the floor and ordered him to stay there. Time seemed to slide around him. Alex was shouting. There were snarls and barks coming from the other room. Bangs and crashes followed them, or preceded them. Reality came back with another clash of shattering glass from outside the kitchen.

Alex was on the phone.

“I said the damn citizens are malfunctioning! Get us some help out here or they’re going to kill us! I don’t care what they’re programmed to do, they’re attacking right now! Get down here, now!”

Noah realized that he had been crouching, huddled on the floor. Another bark from the living room startled him. He stood, scrambling to his feet, unsure of what to do as his father continued to yell into the phone. There was a crash from the living room, followed by a shout of pain. The sound of it hit Noah’s heart like a truck. Behind him, he heard Alex gasp.

“Elias,” he said, lunging for the door. “Elias!”

Noah followed him as if his body were making its own decisions. On the other side of the door was a war zone. An entire family had busted into their house. Elias was cornered by the father and mother. There was blood streaming down his face. Nearer the window, Frightful was lunging at the two children, snapping at their ankles and the hands that reached for her. Noah froze just inside the doorway, barely registering Alex’s lean bulk tackling the father from behind 249

with enough force to put a hole in the living room wall where they hit it. Elias lashed out, kicking the feet out from under the mother. Noah shouted as his father ran past him, a look of singleminded determination on his face as the father and mother both turned on Alex.

Noah’s attention was drawn by a yelp from his dog. Frightful had been cornered by the two children and the boy was kicking out, his feet protected from her strong teeth by the hiking boots he wore.

Noah felt the heat rising in him but his body responded to the rage in his heart before he could command his abilities to do it for him. He launched himself at the larger boy with a shriek, the advantages of surprise and momentum carrying his tackle through to completion.

He tumbled down with other boy and when they landed he looked up to see a face twisted into a mask of a snarl, normally vacant eyes glistening.

Time again seemed to slide around him. He found himself flat on his back beneath the citizen, with two hands wrapped around his throat and no idea how it had happened. The heat flickered and died under Noah’s palms as his heart filled not with anger but with fear. He kicked and struggled, but the other boy was stronger. Noah couldn’t breathe.

And then Frightful was a streak of fur and fang and the citizen boy was falling back with blood at his throat. Noah lay in shock on the ground and Frightful stood beside him, her back bristled and her tail raised, snarling. The citizen boy reeled backwards and was rejoined by his sister. Before Noah could grab her, Frightful leapt.

The girl moved faster than the boy, and when she caught the scruff of the dogs neck, Noah knew it was over.

He screamed, and he thought he would never stop screaming, because Alex was being held down on the floor and being beaten by the mother and the father and because Elias was nowhere in sight and because four hands were pulling at Frightful as she yelped and snarled. It was over in a second. There was a terrible crack, and Frightful fell limply out of the hands of the children. Noah continued to scream and scream, but there was no heat within him, only cold.

The shots were fired in quick, seamless succession. Four shots, four perfect hits, 250

four dead citizens. Kincaid, bloodied and badly bruised, stood above them all. His gaze swept over them, noting Noah and the body of Frightful before pinning Alex, who was pushing aside the body of the mother from where she had fallen over his legs. Elias held the gun in his hands down by his side. Slowly, carefully, he laid it down on the ground.

“I don’t know what possibly could have happened,” he said. “There’s not a precedence for violence in the conditioning for this program.” Elias’s voice was hollow and small as he sat down beside the gun. Alex stumbled towards him from across the room, falling to his knees in front of his partner, hands grasping to be reassured.

Noah, still stone cold with terror, couldn’t move at all. He heard one of his fathers’ say his name, but he couldn’t tell which, and he felt no need to respond.

In front of him lay the twisted body of Frightful. She had been almost pulled apart.

The way she had fallen had left her front legs pointing towards Noah and her back legs pointing away. Again, his body moved before he told it to, and he was crouching over her. Her fur was still soft, still warm even, but her eyes had gone dark. Noah looked at the big brown eyes that had once reflected his entire universe, and knew it in his very bones that he would never see life filling those eyes again. There was no heart beating in her chest. Her ears didn’t twitch when he stroked them. Her nose was growing colder. Frightful was gone.

Noah felt sparks leaping on his fingertips, and still he couldn’t take his eyes or hands off of her.

“Noah?” Alex was wary, but more concerned.

“Noah…” Elias was more hesitant, fearful.

When Noah could finally look up, he saw that the faces of his fathers were illuminated with a red glow. His hands, he saw, had gone past red and into white. Smoke rose around them.

Alex and Elias scrambled backwards.

“Noah, what are you doing?”

“Noah, stop! You can’t!”

“It’s too much, Noah!”

“Don’t!”

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Noah heard but he didn’t listen.

Frightful’s body drifted into ashes under his touch. He registered, vaguely, that his fathers had run from the house, but he didn’t care. The heat was there, he just had to pull it in, gather it up, and then push it out.

Alex and Elias made it approximately 200 yards before the bomb that was their son finally blew. Their hands were clasped together.

They registered a bright flash of light, both bril-

liant minds processing what it meant a millisecond before the pain. A millisecond after the pain, they knew nothing more.

Twenty four perfect houses vaporized in an instant.

In the very basement of the Center, only a few dozen miles away but hundreds of feet below the surface, the lights flickered in a lead lined room with no windows and a small, occupied cradle.

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Untitled

Taylor Helfrich Oil on canvas

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The Adventures of Bryce ’n Wesley: The Thing with Feathers Dalton Shannon Editor’s Choice

EXT. MAURITIUS JUNGLE -- DAY We open with a bird’s eye view of the Mauritius jungle land, peaceful.

NARRATOR Mauritius, 1938. A small, seemingly insignificant island off the coast of Africa.

CUT TO a shot of a Mauritius ornate day gecko (they’re real) that sits upon a rock, just chilling out.

NARRATOR First discovered in 1507 by the Dutch (we suppose), Mauritius has been the hotspot for discovery, wonderment and well...extinction.

But don’t let that deter you. It was just the dodo, friend. Not a great loss, I can assure you.

CUT TO a river with animals drinking from the water, birds flying in the air.

NARRATOR Yes, Mauritius is a modern day Garden of Eden, peaceful and serene, nary a hair out of place.

Paradise.

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The animals scatter, the peaceful moment ruined by screams.

BRYCE AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

WESLEY I’M BEGINNING TO THINK HYDRAULIC LEGS WOULD BE A WELCOME ADDITION TO YOUR— BRYCE CAN IT, WES! BRYCE, an eight-year-old boy wearing a baseball cap and standard explorer’s gear, bursts from the jungle along with WESLEY, a tall, red, British robot wearing a British soldier’s hat with a large engine on his back, fumes pouring from its pipes. Wesley is trying desperately to hold onto his hat while the two of them are being chased by a horde of stone golems that are a little bigger than Wes, none of them looking too happy with the two of them. Bryce is carrying a golden egg-looking object.

WESLEY Do you think you could run a bit faster, then?!

BRYCE You’re not helping!!

GOLEM #1 GRRAAAGGGHHH!!!

THIEVES!!

GOLEM #2

GOLEM #3 RETURN THE EGG!!

Wes looks behind him, scooping up some stones as he runs.

WESLEY I’m three steps from running you over and leaving you, Bryce!

BRYCE Go ahead, Wesley! I’ll still have the egg and you’ll be listening to Doc Savage on the radio by yourself!

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WESLEY That’s not fair!

Wes begins to throw the stones at the golems, though it doesn’t appear to have any affect.

WESLEY You know I can’t decipher that upbeat Neanderthal on my-(worried) Oh, dear. (yelling) Bryce, throwing stones doesn’t seem to work!

Bryce looks back at Wesley with a frustrated look on his face.

BRYCE Throwing stones at stone golems doesn’t work?! I thought you were the sma-Bryce trips and falls, the egg launching into the air.

OOF!!

BRYCE

Wes lurches forward, elbowing a golem that got too close in the face.

WESLEY BRYCE! URGH!!

GOLEM #1

Wes runs forward, sweeping Bryce up in his arms, much to Bryce’s embarrassment.

I’ve got you!

HEY!

WESLEY BRYCE

Wes is able to catch the airborne egg in his other hand, not looking back as Bryce scolds him.

BRYCE Put me down, ya big lug!

WESLEY Sorry, but my legs are quite a bit longer than yours. And they appear 255

to be gaining.

BRYCE You’re embarrassing me in front of the golems!

WESLEY I think you’ll live.

BRYCE Not if you don’t run faster!

WESLEY Then stop squirming!

Bryce positions himself on Wesley’s shoulder, making a face at the advancing golems.

BRYCE NYAH-NYAH!! You block-heads couldn’t catch a cold! Wes can outrun a Ford! What’ve you got? Legs?? This guy has-Bryce...

WESLEY

BRYCE What? I’m trying to— WESLEY I’m almost out of power.

Bryce looks down at the massive engine on Wesley’s back to see that his coal reserves are running low.

BRYCE What?! I thought you filled up before we came out here!

WESLEY I did! But six pitfalls, two Boulders, and a colony of stone golems will apparently wear you out!

BRYCE So what are we— Also...

WESLEY

The two stop abruptly, overlooking a giant waterfall. They’re out of road.

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WESLEY We’re out of road.

AH!

BRYCE

The two look behind them to see the golems almost on top of them.

WESLEY I don’t have a plan. Do you have a plan?

Bryce’s eyes light up.

BRYCE No! I’m not the robot, I don’t make the-BRYCE Wait. You said you’re almost out of power?

WESLEY Sadly, yes. I’d say about five more mi— BRYCE Hand me the egg.

WESLEY I don’t see what that-Give it!

BRYCE

Bryce stuffs the egg that Wes hands him in his satchel and looks back at the golems, who are almost upon them.

BRYCE Okay, can you use what fuel you’ve got left to make a smoke screen?

WESLEY I suppose I could, but what would that— BRYCE Would you shut up and just do it then??

Wesley begins to pump fumes out of his pipes, in a position that resembles trying to take a massive dump. Bryce looks down at the water below them, still thinking.

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WESLEY Fine, fine, stop yelling, I can’t hear myself click.

BRYCE You’re gonna shut down once you hit the water, aren’t you?

WESLEY I won’t be able to move, no.

BRYCE But you won’t shut down? You’ll still be with me?

WESLEY I won’t go anywhere, Bryce. I run on imperialism, you can’t shut that down.

BRYCE What does that even mean?

WESLEY It mean--wait.

Wesley, a worried look on his face, points at Bryce.

WESLEY You said “hit the water.” Why are we hitting the water?

Jump.

BRYCE

WESLEY I’m not going to jump! It’s seventy-five feet down, you little piece of— Bryce jumps out, a huge smile on his face, pulling Wesley along with him, leaving the fumes behind them.

HEY!

WESLEY

BRYCE GERONIMOOOOOO!!!!!

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WESLEY AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

The two disappear in the mist of the waterfall.

WESLEY (muffled) SAVAGE ISN’T WORTH THIS!!!

EXT. RIVERBED -- DAY Wesley is lying unmoving on the riverbed with his legs in the water, drenched. Bryce is standing next to him, wringing out his hat.

I hate you.

WESLEY

BRYCE It worked, didn’t it?

WESLEY For the moment, yes. But I can’t move and they’re sure to find us before long! I’m sorry, but the drying process just isn’t that quick!

Sometimes I wish I’d just stayed in that cave where you found me.

Bryce pulls the egg out of his satchel as he pops his hat back on his head.

BRYCE Oh, shut up, you rusty old toaster.

We got the egg, didn’t we?

WESLEY It had better be worth what we had to go through to get it.

Bryce sits down, studying the egg.

BRYCE If legends are true, it’s more than worth it. (under his breath) Wow, it’s shiny.

WESLEY Let me see. Turn my head so I can see it!

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Bryce leans over, turning Wesley’s head for him.

WESLEY Wow, that IS shiny.

BRYCE The world’s greatest omelet is one step closer to the plate, my friend.

WESLEY I don’t even eat and I’m salivating. And I don’t even salivate.

Bryce turns his head sharply as he hears a branch snap behind him.

WESLEY What was that?

Bryce stands up, cautious, investigating, leaving the egg beside Wesley.

I don’t know.

BRYCE

WESLEY Well turn my head, you idiot!

Hold on.

BRYCE

WESLEY Don’t you leave me here by myself, Bryce! You know I don’t like mysteries!

Bryce walks toward the brush behind him, still cautious.

BRYCE!

WESLEY (O.S.)

BRYCE Hold on! I’ll just be a-Bryce parts the brush in front of him, surprised.

Woah.

BRYCE

Standing in the clearing behind the brush stands a dodo bird, MARCUS, surprising everyone involved.

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MARCUS Oh. Hello, there. I guess you caught me. Heh. Bryce and Marcus stand there, looking at each other awkwardly.

Awkward beat.

BRYCE You’re a dodo.

Well, yes.

MARCUS

BRYCE But you’re talking.

Awkward beat.

Yes.

Huh. Bryce looks back as Wesley calls to him.

MARCUS

BRYCE

WESLEY (O.S.) Bryce, what is it?

It’s a dodo.

Marcus.

BRYCE MARCUS

Bryce begins to walk back to Wesley, obviously a bit freaked out by a talking dodo.

What?

BRYCE

MARCUS My name is Marcus.

BRYCE You have a name?

MARCUS Well, don’t you?

BRYCE Well, yeah, but I’m a person.

Marcus follows him out into the clearing.

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MARCUS What does that have to do with anMarcus stops dead, staring at the egg beside Wesley.

MARCUS !!! How did you get that??

BRYCE What, this? It wasn’t too hard, I just-Marcus lunges towards Wesley, but Bryce steps between the two, defensive.

Give it to me!

HEY! Bryce!

Back off!

MARCUS BRYCE WESLEY BRYCE

The three freeze where they are, Bryce and Wesley staring at Marcus angrily, who is in a shocked state.

BRYCE It’s ours! We found it, finders keepers!!

Yeah!

WESLEY

Marcus looks behind his back, paranoid as Bryce picks up the egg.

MARCUS I-I-I-I’m sorry...Bryce, was it? I just...do you know what you have there?

BRYCE It’s an egg that’ll make the world’s greatest omelet, duh!

Bryce looks confused.

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MARCUS No, no, no, do you KNOW?

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Know what?

BRYCE

MARCUS Bryce, that...that is a dodo egg.

The last dodo.

Bryce studies the egg, obviously intrigued.

BRYCE I thought you guys were extinct?

MARCUS We might as well be. We were hunted near to extinction year ago, but I...I am the last of my kind, child. And what you hold in your hand could be the key to our species’ rebirth Bryce turns back at Wesley to get his reading on the whole thing.

BRYCE What do you think?

WESLEY I think it smells fishy.

Why?

BRYCE

WESLEY Well, it’s awfully convenient, don’t you think?

No.

BRYCE

Wesley gives Bryce a worried look as Bryce looks back at Marcus, who seems more paranoid by the second.

Bryce...

WESLEY

BRYCE He wants his friends back, Wes. What’s wrong with that?

WESLEY I...nothing, there’s nothing wrong 263

with it. I’m just saying— Saying what?

Be careful.

BRYCE WESLEY

Bryce turns back to Marcus, the egg in his hands.

BRYCE Just because you see a problem, Wesley, doesn’t mean there is one. (to Marcus) What do we need to do?

MARCUS

Oh!

Marcus runs off, Bryce behind him, waving off Wesley.

Follow me!

MARCUS

WESLEY Wait, Bryce! What about me?

BRYCE Just wait here and dry out for a bit. I’ll be back.

WESLEY But what if those golems find me??

Bryce drapes a small leaf on his chest, irritated with the metal man.

BRYCE Here, use some camouflage.

Bryce!

WESLEY

BRYCE I’ll be right back.

EXT. JUNGLE – DAY Bryce follows Marcus through the jungle, the excited dodo leading the way. Bryce places the egg back in his satchel.

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BRYCE Where are we going?

MARCUS Somewhere that the egg can rest until it hatches.

BRYCE Wait, why hasn’t it hatched by now?

MARCUS Dodo eggs are a particularly irritating bunch to hatch. They require a certain finesse that is available only at the Hatching Grounds. And a suitable nester.

Eggs can survive indefinitely until they are hatched.

BRYCE Where are the Hatching Grounds?

MARCUS Just through this clearing. It’s a wonderful spot. At least, it used to be. Dodos from across Mauritius would flock here every season to hatch their young and bring forth the new generation. But that hasn’t happened for...too many years.

Bryce looks back behind him, worried.

BRYCE I’m worried about Wesley. What if those things find him?

MARCUS Those monsters shouldn’t prove a problem for your friend even if they did find him. If anything, they’ll leave him alone and come after us.

BRYCE Why do they want the egg? Why were they guard— We’re here.

MARCUS

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Bryce looks through the foliage that Marcus has drawn back to reveal a large, Mayan-esque temple sitting in the middle of a clearing.

MARCUS Welcome to the Hatching Grounds.

EXT. RIVERBED – DAY We cut back to Wesley, still lying on the shore of the river in the same position we left him in, not too happy.

WESLEY That traitorous little--! I should just leave him, that’s what I should do. Leave me on the river and trot off with some dodo you don’t even know? Fine, you can stay here and marry him for all I care. How am I supposed to get back up without fuel?

Bryce is supposed to be the one who helps me with all of— (scared) Oh no. What if I’m stuck here like this for another 160 years? I can’t do that, I can’t! (screaming) Bryce! Bryce, where are you?! Come back, Bryce! I didn’t mean to say that you should marry a small fat flightless bird, I didn’t! BRYCE! BRYCE!!

Suddenly, stone feet surround Wesley, catching him by surprise.

Beat.

WESLEY BRY--oh, my. I thought for sure we had lost you. Now that doesn’t appear to be the case.

Um...parlay?

WESLEY

EXT. HATCHING GROUNDS – DAY Bryce and Marcus walk up the giant steps leading to the entrance of the temple.

BRYCE This place is huge!

MARCUS It’s quite impressive, yes. It was 266

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built by my ancestors centuries ago. Before then, we just had this open clearing where we were easy prey for predators.

BRYCE I didn’t think the dodo had any natural predators.

Marcus opens the doorway, cutting his eyes back at Bryce, getting irritated.

MARCUS Not everything there is to learn about my people can be learned from a textbook, boy.

INT. TEMPLE – DAY

BRYCE I’m just saying.

Marcus and Bryce walk down the long entrance hallway, Bryce marveling at the statues of dodos past.

BRYCE Who are those guys?

MARCUS Greater dodo than I will ever be.

Legendary gen--ah, birds that kept my people safe and prosperous. At least, for a time.

Bryce stops in front of a particularly gruff looking dodo, a stereotypical military general guy. Eyepatch, military hat, badges, the works.

BRYCE Who’s this guy?

MARCUS Sir Nathanial Gurtt, leader of the 9th Platoon during the Battle of River’s Edge. He was my father.

.

BRYCE He doesn’t look very nice MARCUS He wasn’t. Now Bryce, if you would follow me.

Marcus brings Bryce into the large center area of the temple where it looks more like a military communications hub than a nesting ground.

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MARCUS This is the central chamber, where the magic is made.

Cool.

BRYCE

Marcus runs up more steps to a central pedestal, Bryce not far behind.

MARCUS Place the egg here, Bryce! We must hurry!

BRYCE What’s the rush? I thought eggs could— MARCUS They can, but those golems can’t be far behind us, Bryce! They would do anything to get their rocky hands on it again and I can’t let that happen!

Marcus settles himself into a makeshift nest made of old cloth, dead grass, destroyed electronics, and whatever he was able to scrounge together. He holds out his wings, demanding the egg, which Bryce is hesitant to give, cautiously taking it out of his satchel.

Wait, how—

BRYCE

MARCUS Give me the egg, boy!

BRYCE How did you know the stone people had the egg in the first place?

Marcus looks impatient and bit off-guard.

MARCUS I just--it’s common knowledge that--it doesn’t matter, Bryce, just give me the stinking egg!

WESLEY (O.S.) Don’t do it, Bryce!

Bryce and Marcus turn to see Wesley in the chamber as well, backed by seven stone golems, all looking none too happy with the situation.

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WESLEY That dodo is bad news!

Bryce clutches the egg closer to himself.

BRYCE Wesley, what are you doing? Why are those ugly tombstones with you? Why are literally none of my questions getting answered??

WESLEY It’s okay Bryce; everything will become clear once Major Grukk says what he came to say. Grukk?

A particularly large golem, MAJOR GRUKK, steps forward. Now that we see him more clearly, we can tell that he has stars etched into his stone and looks very military.

GRUKK Thank you, Wesley. Marcus Gurtt of the Dodo Republic, you are under arrest for war crimes against Golemnia and her people.

Marcus becomes crazed.

MARCUS NO! No, I am not under arrest, you igneous buffoon! I am about to usher in a new age of the Republic!

BRYCE Marcus, what’s— Marcus lunges foRward, grabbing the egg out of Bryce’s hands and shoving him off of the pedestal.

MARCUS And with myself at the helm, we will rule this land once again! And you will pay for murdering my father!!

AGH!

BRYCE

Bryce falls off of the pedestal, much to Wesley’s dismay.

BRYCE AAAHHHH!!!

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WESLEY BRYCE!!

Wesley jumps forward to catch Bryce, who falls into Wesley’s arms. Wes begins to tuck in as he himself continues to fly forward.

I’ve got you!

WESLEY

BRYCE AAAHHHH--OOF! WESLEY Oh, this is going to smart...

Wes rolls forward, smashing into the side of the pedestal, cracking it.

WESLEY

OW! On top of the pedestal, Marcus is seated on the egg, pointing and laughing at the golems who have begun to climb the steps as the pedestal begins to fracture.

MARCUS HAHAHAHAHA!!! You’re too late, you granite devils! I am to usher in the new age! I am to usher in your extinction! You will-(surprised) What?

Marcus stops talking as the pedestal releases a loud CRACK. Finally, after a beat, Marcus, the egg, and the golems all fall to the ground.

AHH! Marcus tries in vain to grab the egg as he falls.

MARCUS

MARCUS NONONONONONONONO!!!! I will not fail! I will bring you back! I will— Marcus lands on the ground, the rubble of the pedestal following, burying him underneath. Not a soul moves as the dust settles.

Long beat.

Bryce and Wesley jump as a stone body rises from the rubble.

AH!

BRYCE/WESLEY

Grukk and a few other golems emerge from the rubble, Grukk carrying the egg.

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GRUKK Still throwing rocks, metal man?

Bryce looks to Wesley, confused.

WESLEY It worked THIS time.

BRYCE I’m still confused, Wes. What’s going on? For real this time?

WESLEY These golems are the denizens of the island of Golemnia, what we call Mauritius. For centuries, they waged war with the dodo, a war-like people bent on world domination.

GRUKK We tried to live in peace with the dodo, but they would have none of it. We were forced to destroy them all. And now, the last of our enemies lies buried, save for this egg we have protected for centuries.

BRYCE Why did you do that?

GRUKK Gurtt was right about one thing: dodo eggs are nigh indestructible until they have been brought to the Hatching Grounds. With no means to destroy it, we kept it hidden and protected it from Marcus, knowing that our hated enemy would return should he ever get his feathered hands upon it.

WESLEY They found me by the riverside and explained everything. They helped me get back on my feet and we came here.

This is weird.

BRYCE

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WESLEY You’re telling me.

The golems start to walk away, waving to Bryce and Wesley.

GRUKK We thank you for your help in all of this, Bryce and Wesley.

(Excusing the fact that you caused all of this to begin with.) We will take our leave of this place and return this egg to its— The gathered friends stop and look to see that the egg has started to hatch. After a few beats, the egg hatches to reveal a newborn dodo baby, yawning an awfully cute yawn as it is born.

Everyone is in shock.

MADELINE Yyyaaawwwwnnnn--!!!

Cheep-cheep!

They all smile at the baby’s cuteness.

Awwwwww...

MADELINE

EVERYONE

Wesley looks to Grukk, who is holding the baby delicately.

WESLEY So, what now, Grukk?

GRUKK Now we...I don’t know. Sed, what’s the protocol on this one again?

SED We don’t have one, sir.

Hm.

Everyone turns to Bryce.

GRUKK

BRYCE You should keep her!

BRYCE Come on, she’s a baby! She’s not evil!

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GRUKK But the dodos are— BRYCE She doesn’t know that! Madeline’s just getting here!

GRUKK

Madeline?

Bryce smiles, folding his arms, obviously proud of the name.

BRYCE That’s her name that I just thought of right now.

Grukk begins to leave.

Madeline...

GRUKK

GRUKK Works for me. Come on, men, we have a new member of our clan to look after: Queen Madeline.

EXT. HATCHING GROUNDS -- DAY Outside, Wesley and Bryce watch the golems leave, waving.

BRYCE Sorry we stole your egg!

WESLEY Sorry we almost started another war!

BRYCE And sorry for...whatever else we did!

WESLEY (to Bryce) I find we apologize excessively when we complete an expedition.

BRYCE That’s ’cause we usually break something.

WESLEY More often than not, yes.

The two begin to walk away into the jungle.

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WESLEY I’m sorry we can’t make the world’s greatest omelet now.

BRYCE That’s okay. I like pancakes better, anyway.

WESLEY There, I just apologized again.

That’s becoming a bad habit.

BRYCE So, where to next?

WESLEY Well, since we don’t need anymore ingredients for the omelet, going to Mexico for the tomato seems a bit of a waste, doesn’t it?

BRYCE There’s still some cool stuff in Mexico. Lots of hidden temples and stuff.

WESLEY And treasure! There’s always treasure in Mexico!

The two are just blips on the horizon now.

BRYCE I almost ate a dodo.

WESLEY I’d be more concerned that you talked to one.

BRYCE Did he have a lisp?

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FADE OUT

WESLEY You heard it too?

Vortex, Volume 41/2015

The Crash

Cover Artist: Paige Yutsus Mixed media collage

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Vortex Staff 2014 -2015 Editor-in-Chief / Emily Qualls Assistant Editor / Emily Walter Layout Editor / Anastassiya Khvan Assistant Layout Editor / Kirsten Young Copy Editor / Kaitlyn Wyre Assistant Copy Editor / Chandler Gaines PR Consultant / Mya Hyman Faculty Advisor / Garry Craig Powell*

Art Art Editor / Holly Dickson Art Judges : Paige Yutsus, Carli Hemperley, Alison Swanson, Taylor Helfrich

Fiction Fiction Editor / Jonathan Clark* Fiction Judges : Wells Thompson*, Ericka Cannady*, Michael James*, Brandon Rogers*

Media Media Editor / Bates Isom* Media Judges : Marissa Shoemaker, Alicia Brautigan*

Nonfiction Nonfiction Editor / Courtney Ragland Nonfiction Judges : Hayden Reed, Lauren Noirelle Hodges, Audrey Bauman, JJ McNiece

Poetry Poetry Editor / Christopher Hall Poetry Judges : Ernest Goldwood, Elizabeth Gambertoglio, Amanda Skaggs

Scriptwriting Scriptwriting Editor / Chad Percival Scriptwriting Judges : Rebecca Stobaugh*, Jordan Willoughby, Marissa Shoemaker

* Not pictured

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Vortex, Volume 41/2015

Executive Staff

Anastassiya Khvan, Chandler Gaines, Katelyn Wyre, Emily Qualls, Emily Walter, Mya Hyman, Kirsten Young

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Poetry Amanda Skaggs, Ernest Goldwood, Christopher Hall , Elizabeth Gambertoglio

Scriptwriting Chad Percival, Jordan Willoughby, Marissa Shoemaker

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Vortex, Volume 41/2015

Nonfiction Lauren Hodges, JJ McNiece, Courtney Ragland, Hayden Reed, Audrey Bauman

Art Carli Hemperley, Alison Swanson, Taylor Helfrich, Holly Dickson, Paige Yutsus

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Editorial Guidelines The Vortex has a specific process for judging all submissions. All submissions of Art, Poetry, Fiction, and Nonfiction are considered for both online and print publication.

The process of judging consists of all work being submitted online to the Vortex file storage system, powered by Wix, 123ContactForm, and Dropbox. The section editors view each piece, ensuring all author’s names are omitted, and then distribute submissions to their team of judges. All judges give a vote of yes or no. Works with a majority of yes votes are published. Judges are required to abstain from voting on their own submissions to ensure fairness. Only students currently enrolled at UCA are eligible to submit and they must provide their real name to be considered for publication.

Awards Arkansas College Media Association 2000 – Literary Magazine, 2nd Place 2003 – Literary Magazine, 3rd Place 2004 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2006 – Literary Magazine, Sweepstakes 2007 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2008 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2009 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2010 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2011 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2012 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2013 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place 2014 – Literary Magazine, 1st Place Columbia Scholastic Press Association 2010 – Literary Magazine, Gold Circle 2013 – Literary Magazine, Gold Medalist; All-Columbian Honors for Content

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Vortex 2015

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