Vortex 39.2 November Online Edition by The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art

Content Fiction: 04... Eternity, Sarah F. Wilson 17... The Empty Chair, Lyren Grate 23... From Black to White, Meghan Feeney 31... Reassigned, Chase Night

Poetry: 20... Safety, Sarah F. Wilson 27... Falling, Abigail Graham 29... A Sea-Song, Janie Brown 30... It Gets Better, Sarah F. Wilson 36... Lace Panties, Kayelin Roberts

Nonfiction: 26... 100 Words on My First Date, Sarah F. Wilson 35... That Moment, Sarah F. Wilson

Scriptwriting: 10... Date Four, James Jacob Whisenant

Art: 06... Untitled, Kamiron Walters 09... Inspiration, Monica Vargas 16... Timer, Pham Minh 21... Telepathy, Heather Chiddix 22... Genesis, Sarah Crider 28... Gilded Barnacle, Heather Chiddix 34... Seams Like a Sunset, Nicole Boswell 2

Staff Editor:

Sarah F. Wilson

Assistant Editor: Lisa Ference

Section Editors: Copy Editor: Savannah Moix Poetry: Colleen Ruth Hathaway Fiction: Lyren Grate Nonfiction/ Scriptwritting: Chase Night Media: Mary Mulford Art: Jessica Camp

Layout Editor: Allison Vandenberg

Assistant Layout Editor: Ashley Thomas

Faculty Advisor: Garry Craig Powell

Cover Art:

“Untitled” by Kamiron Walters

Judges: Poetry: Chelsea Calllantine Christopher Hall Taylor Neal Sarah Jane Rawlinson Fiction: Candice Baker Meghan Feeney Nicole Godfrey Emily Qualls Nonfiction: Hannah Bryant Kayelin Roberts Alissa Michelle Sexton Scriptwriting: Taylor Lea Hicks William “Tre” Sandlin III Alissa Michelle Sexton Media: Elizabeth Furrey Emily Walter Art: Meleah Bowles Calli Nicole Morrison Logan Whitington

Untitled Kamiron Walters Best of Web Nomination

Eternity Sarah F. Wilson Fiction There she is. But how? I thought she was…But there she is, waiting for me, at the bottom of the hill. I can almost promise that’s her, in her wedding dress and everything. These are the thoughts racing through my head at the speed of lightning as I stumble through the field of orange, yellow, and purple wildflowers, down the hill towards the love of my life. I can see her standing there while the cool breeze makes her soft reddish-brown curls dance around her innocent pale-skinned face and deep blue eyes. I pull her into my arms and hold her tightly, never wanting to let go. Our lips lock with such an intense passion that I swear fireworks burst behind us like that scene from the old Alfred Hitchcock movie, To Catch a Thief. There is a whistling noise growing louder, so I turn my head for just a moment to see what it is; but when I look back, my Mary Elizabeth lies limp in my arms, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. *** A frightening chill shoots down my spine and my heart pounds, threatening to burst through my chest as I look around the dark room, feeling around for my glasses on the bed side table next to me. I slide my glasses over my bird-beak of a nose and turn to look at the green glowing blurs on the other side of the room. 3:17 AM. My head hits the pillow with a soft thud as I lay back down. Something isn’t right. I can’t tell what it is, but I can sense that something is…well, something is off. I roll over and close my eyes, thinking only of my beautiful fiancée, Mary Elizabeth. *** I throw my pillow at the alarm clock, quieting the obnoxious roaring lion resounding from its tiny speakers to tell me it’s 10:00 AM. I crawl out of bed and stare at the dusty gray suit hanging on the back of my door. It isn’t all that fancy, but to me it is the fanciest thing I will ever wear. As cheesy as this may sound, today is the first day of the rest of my life. In a few hours, Mary Elizabeth will be waltzing toward me with nothing but love in her eyes, promising to spend every day with me for the rest of our lives. *** The intensity of the butterflies buzzing in my stomach grows with each passing yellow dash on the road. I keep brushing over my pants, trying to straighten them, and checking myself in the mirror for any dandruff flakes that might have fallen onto my shoulders. Then I stare back down at the yellow lines and count each one as it passes, becoming more nauseous by the second. The longest moments of my life seem to tick by like seconds as I wait with my best man in a small classroom down the hall from the chapel. I can imagine her right now, standing in the dressing room, having her mother do the back of her dress, the photographer snapping pictures. The bridesmaids surrounding her to help her with her shoes, her hair, her makeup. But, in here, we pass around an old game boy battling Pokémon because we need something to pass the time. *** I find myself standing at the front of the chapel gazing back at hundreds of unfamiliar smiling faces. The doors at the back stand motionless as I stare intensely at them, waiting for my eternal love to walk through them with the toll of the bells I hear echoing around outside. I blink down at my watch. 12:00 PM. The bells sound, and at any moment there she’ll be. I stare back up at the doors, not letting my eyes move away. The bells disappear and still the door does not open. I wait for what feels like an hour before checking my watch, only to realize it has been 4 minutes since the bells tolled. Mary Elizabeth always runs late. There’s no need to worry yet…it’s okay…it’ll be okay. She’s just running a little late. Nothing unusual for her. It’s just a girl thing. My eyes don’t move from the door for more than a second or two at a time while I glance around the room to see if the crowd is becoming as restless as I am. My best man leans in and whispers the time to me. “12:15 dude, where is she?” “It’s okay; she’ll be here,” I reassure him though I am less than reassured myself. It’s just Mary Elizabeth being Mary Elizabeth. But she’s never this late. But she does this all the time. No, something is wrong this time. Nothing is wrong. She’s probably just making sure she looks perfect. She always looks perfect. You think, that but you know she’s a perfectionist; it’s one of the many reasons you love her. She’ll be here. You’re only trying to make yourself believe that. No…she’ll be here. Dear lord, man, stop arguing with yourself already.

Before my mind even realizes that I am moving, I’m out the door and halfway down the hall. To my right, I can hear a sound like the beat of a drum resonating from a room down the hall. A loud scream erupts from the room as I run toward it. I have heard that scream before. I know that scream. It’s Mary Elizabeth. But why that scream? Why now? The pounding beat. The screaming. It is all becoming louder as I race down the hall.. Dear God, this has to be the longest minute ever. I come to an instantaneous halt in front of a large oak door at the end of the hall that leads to the chapel’s parlor where brides and their bridal parties dress. Mary Elizabeth’s sister, best friend, and a select group of her closest friends, all in the same pale pink dress, pace outside the parlor door behind me pretending I do not exist. They all look worried, upset even. One of them looks at me with a hint of sadness and panic in her eyes, knowing that nothing she could say or do would change what is happening behind that door. Or the fact that I already knew exactly what is behind that door. I burst through the door of the room, and all time stops. The brutality of reality stings far worse than anything I ever imagined. There, staring back at me, is a shocked and flushed Mary Elizabeth and a man. Her dress is beautiful, though now it is hiked up around her waist and the front has been ripped open to reveal her perky breasts. She is bent over the table with, I can only assume, the man still inside of her, one of his hands pulling at her once beautifully curled and pinned hair, the other covering one breast from sight. I have seen this man before in an old picture stuffed in the bottom of a shoebox in Mary Elizabeth’s room. He is tall, gangly, ragged, and unpolished with long brown hair that matches his dark brown eyes. I hate, no, loathe every inch of him from the stunned dumb look on his face to his red and black heart boxers crumpled around his feet. Her eyes brim with tears as she stares at me, exposed and humiliated by her own choices. I look behind me at the door where every last bridesmaid fights to watch the drama ensue. I slam the door in their faces with a loud thud and the shriek of, “HOLY SHHHHHIT! I think he broke my nose!” from one of the girls. Behind the closed door, the air is cold and stale. We stand like Greek statues caught in a tragedy. She isn’t moving yet, but instead just standing there, staring me down with a look of anger and disgust that takes over the apologetically guilty look she had before. I thought I knew this…this…this bitch standing in front of me better than I knew myself. For years, we have loved each other unconditionally. I know she is waiting for me to cry, scream, or yell at her. I know she is waiting for something to happen so she can respond. Nevertheless, I refuse to give her any satisfaction, no matter how little I would be compromising. My heart plummets into the bottomless pit of my stomach as a surge of numbness takes control of my body. Never before have I hurt this way. Felt this angry. I try to take my eyes off her standing there frozen with her just-been-fucked hair and ruined, white wedding gown. The man is the first to move. His arm slowly stretches for his clothes. As if I don’t see that. I let my stare drill a hole of detestation in his back. As if he was a horse who just heard the crack of a whip, he snaps into action. Frantically grabbing his clothes, never stopping to look at me, but instead to mutter, “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry,” over and over under his breath. The door slams behind him as he pushes his way through a large crowd of people gathering outside. We are alone again, just the two of us. She moves and comes closer to me, taking a seat in a large leather armchair beside me, but my eyes can’t leave the place where I watched her crime take place. Where I saw him do to her only things that I should be doing. I kept picturing her there, over and over again, jumping up with that look of fear in her eyes as I entered the room. Over and over in my head, I can only see the pictures of her running her hands through his dark, greasy hair and his hands fondling her nipples, the sounds of her screams of ecstasy. Oh, the way he must of thrown her over the table before having his way with her. Then I flash back to her face, and it starts all over again. I stand there staring until she clears her throat and I look at her. Her eyes now full of hate. I feel my body shaking as if I could break down and have a full-on seizure from the mix of anger and the bitterness I feel towards her. How could she do this to me? I want to take her, strangle her. I want to find that man and remove his man hood, slowly, painfully. I want to make it known that she belongs to me and no one else. If she didn’t love me then why did she say yes? Because maybe she did love you. If she didn’t love me then why didn’t she call off the wedding? Because she wanted the wedding. Why did she do this? What kind of sick son of a bitch cheats on their fiancé in a church?! In a fucking church! Why the hell didn’t God strike her down with lightning? Or send a plague of something horrific? Why didn’t he punish her when she so clearly deserves to be punished? Couldn’t we have at least gotten to Aruba before she slept with another guy? My chest rises and falls steadily as I clench my fists and stand staring yet again at the spot in which they…

“It…it was nothing. It was just…I…” Mary Elizabeth stuttered, pulling me from my thoughts. “I have nothing to say to you,” I said, surprising myself by the calmness in my voice. . “I was stupid, just plain stupid.” “You did what you wanted.” “I did something stupid. I didn’t know what I wanted.” “Well, obviously it was not to marry me. You’ve made that more than clear.” “I want you.” Her eyes soften with those words. “I chose you. I said yes to you.” “And then you went and screamed yes to him over and over again.” “He was something that I needed to finish before I could be with you. Actually be yours. You…you are going to treat me with love and respect. You are going to do great things with your life, and I can depend on you for a stable life and family.” “Is that how you see me? The man who would never leave you? That’s all I am to you then. Just the man who will provide for you the best? I don’t think that you understand how much I love you. I would do anything for you.” “Do you not think I know that? I know you love me. I know you would do anything for me.” She doesn’t love me. She loves the life that I would be able to give to her. She loves him. That other man. I am just the money, the stability, the man who can’t hurt her. “I want to marry you,” she pleads. “Please, please forgive me. It was just once; it will never happen again.” “Don’t you get that it’s not the other man that is our problem now?” “Please, you know I love you. You know I want you more than anything.” She stands behind me pressing her breasts into my back while she kisses my neck. “I know everything you like baby,” she says as she nibbles my ear. “We can do this. We can get married.” “Stop!” I pull away from her. I don’t want her to kiss me the way I imagine she kissed him. I don’t want her to run the same fingers over my body that she ran over his. “We are not doing this. You just fucked another guy for Christ’s sake, you bitch! This guy who I know you’ve had a thing for in the past. What was he even doing here?” “I sent him an invitation. I didn’t think he would actually come. I just wanted to rub it in his face that my life was better than his now. I mean, he’s the one that got away, the one I thought I would be walking down the aisle to meet. And then he just shows up here today and…” “Wait…was that Aaron? That was the Aaron? It was, wasn’t it? The one that broke your heart that you said only I could fix? God, I’m such an idiot!” “No you’re not, baby.” “Stop calling me baby. Don’t you get that we’re done? He’s your baby now, isn’t he?” “No, I want you. He just came here and he said the right things and did the right things, and it was like college all over again. He told me not to marry you, that I was making a mistake, and we could live happily ever after. But I didn’t believe him-” …“No, you just fucked him.” “I’m sorry…I don’t have anything else to say except I’m sorry. Nothing is going to make this right. Nothing is going to make this go away, and all I can say is I’m sorry. But I chose you. I stayed here with you.” The room stays silent for a moment, then I continue, “You’re right…there is nothing you can say…” My mind is wiped clean, and I find my body taking over my actions all over again. “…But I still love you and, in time, I think you will love me, too…” I pause for a moment waiting for her to say the only words that would make everything better. Still, she can’t bring herself to say, ‘I Love You.’ “I’m sorry,” she whispers quietly, starting to sob as she moves closer to me with her arms held open. I move toward her, slowly unbuckling my belt. I don’t see her in front of me. Instead, all I can see are the tears in her dress, the bulge of her breasts, the limp curls hanging past her shoulders. The belt is now in my hands. I open my arms as if I am about to hug Mary Elizabeth, bringing the belt down behind her back and up around her neck. “I’m sorry,” she whispers ever so softly in my ear. “Me, too,” I whisper back. My fingers take control and tighten the belt around her neck, suffocating any cries for help she would have been able to muster in the seconds it took for her to realize that this was her end. The room grows silent. I can see Mary Elizabeth’s pleading screams resounding from her dulling eyes to let her live just one second longer. Her body falls cold and limp in my arms like an old rag doll as she stops fighting off her inevitable death. The power of what I am doing pumps through my veins. A trickle of blood drips from the corner of her mouth, and I let her body fall to the floor. At the sight of the living nightmare lying at my feet, emotions once again flood my soul. I look at my hands and begin to panic.

What have I done?! I am going to be spending the rest of my life in a cell with another man, praying that he never gets mad at me and kills me with a spoon he swiped from the mess hall. My fingerprints are everywhere. There’s a chapel full of witnesses. Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Damn it! God, what have I done? Please help me, Lord,” I pray, staring at the ceiling. A light falls across my face, causing me to squint. For the first time, I notice the window is open. “Thank you,” I whisper up to the sky, before slipping out of the church. Running as fast as I can through the field, I come to the other side of the hill where I lay down in the grass, hoping the tall strands will cover me like a blanket and hide me from view. This is how I am going to spend my last few moments of life as a free man. Lying in the grass, pretending everything will be okay. Nothing seems right anymore. Just an hour ago, I was standing in front of a crowd of people, happy about the joyous occasion -- the joining of two lives. Now one of us is dead, and my life is practically over. I stare up at the sky, never wanting to leave this spot that feels so safe. The wind seems to carry the sounds of someone softly whistling in the distance. A high pitched wedding march, dancing around me, slipping through the blades of grass surrounding me. I straighten up to look around. There, at the bottom of the hill, is a beautiful girl in a flowing white wedding gown with deep blue eyes and soft reddish-brown curls. She raises her hand gently, and beckons for me to come to her with a smile that could make anyone feel warm inside. My mind is surely playing tricks on me; the girl looks exactly like my Mary Elizabeth. My beautiful, but very dead, Mary Elizabeth. Curiosity gets the better of me as I run down the hill. Overwhelming happiness erupts inside me because maybe, just maybe, she isn’t dead. Maybe it had all been a bad dream. I was going to wake up now, just like I had this morning. I was going to wake up. I leap over a large rock in the middle of the hill with a silly, child-like grin plastered on my face as I run faster and faster. It is now a race to get to her, to make sure she is real. The closer I get, the louder the whistling becomes. She is no more than six feet away from me, and I can almost reach out to touch her. She is beautiful, just the way I imagined she would look when she walked down the aisle. She stares at me for a moment; her eyes seem to pierce mine as she gazes not at me, but through me. “Why did you scare me like that?” I yell at her over the wind’s whistle that has become so strong and so loud that it is like standing in a storm. Her eyes fill with life as she glares at me with a look of deep revenge, then turns her head to reveal the impression of my leather belt on her neck. She looks to her right. The field beneath my feet is replaced with cement. The tune that the wind has been whistling is replaced by a truck horn bellowing at me to get out of the road. I know now that Mary Elizabeth and I are going to be united together forever today. We will get our eternity.

Inspiration Monica Vargas 9

Date Four James Jacob Whisenant Script - Best of Web Runner Up (SAWYER is playing a game of solitaire on the coffee table inside their small big-city apartment. He is clearly frustrated as he plays. After a couple swipes through the deck, he lights a cigarette as KATIE emerges from her bedroom. She is in a sexy dress and is clearly ready for a big date). KATIE: Hey, hey. No smoking in the house. SAWYER: We smoke in here all the time. KATIE: Not cigarettes. That’s gross. SAWYER: I’ll Febreeze later. KATIE: At least open a window. I don’t want my dress smelling like cigarettes. (SAWYER rises to go to the window. He raises it and pulls up a nearby footrest to smoke out of the window.) SAWYER: Better? KATIE: No. SAWYER: Calm down. What is this? Date number four? Clearly he’s interested. KATIE: I know. But the fourth date is special. SAWYER: Oh, that’s right. You’re a fourth girl. KATIE: Shut up. SAWYER: Why do you wait so long? KATIE: Sorry, I can’t just have anonymous sex with every guy I meet, Sawyer. SAWYER: Uncalled for. KATIE: Retracted. Besides, he’s been really nice. He hasn’t really tried anything so far. SAWYER: Gay. KATIE: Shut up! He’s not gay. Just a gentleman. Sorry, he stays on my team. SAWYER: Why is everything a competition with you? KATIE: I was born this way. SAWYER: Katie, I came out of the same uterus. Less than four minutes after you, and I didn’t get the gene. KATIE: I must have taken it all before you could.

SAWYER: Selfish bitch. KATIE: Uncalled for. SAWYER: Retracted. KATIE: Forgiven. What are your plans for the night? SAWYER: Oh, well, I intend to find out if Joey chooses Pacey or Dawson. KATIE: Pacey. SAWYER: Bitch! And that WAS called for. KATIE: Agreed. Retracted. SAWYER: No, you already fucked it. Guess I’ll see what else Netflix has to offer that you haven’t ruined. KATIE: ORRRRRR you could go out with us! SAWYER: On your sex date? KATIE: It’s not a sex date and not WITH us. Just at the bar. We’ll run into each other and we can find you a nice guy. SAWYER: I don’t like nice guys. Or third wheels. KATIE: Just one night stands? SAWYER: You know me well. KATIE: Well, what about that one guy from the bar that you went on and on about? SAWYER: All I said was that he had a nice dick and was decent at karaoke. KATIE: Ah, standards. SAWYER: Bite me. It was just a lay. KATIE: Okay, but your eyes said he was special. And you think of him often. SAWYER: My eyes don’t talk. KATIE: Everyone’s eyes talk. SAWYER: No, Katie, your mouth doesn’t stop long enough to let them. KATIE: Rude AND uncalled for. SAWYER: Retracted. And the only time I think about him is when porn isn’t handy. KATIE : I thought gay guys had tact and class. SAWYER: You must have taken all of that, as well. Anyway, I’m gonna go check our box and see if the check came in yet. KATIE: Sawyer, you sold that song like yesterday. Give it some time.

SAWYER: My broke-songwriting-ass needs some dinero, bueno? KATIE: Copy that. I’m gonna go finish my make-up. SAWYER: Oh, thank God. KATIE: Go! (SAWYER and KATIE both rise and go in separate directions -- in the hallway and back to the bedroom, respectively. KATIE makes a full exit while SAWYER moves for an encounter in the hallway with MITCH, a young attractive man that is well-dressed. He is carrying a bouquet of flowers and is clearly nervous. SAYWER is texting while MITCH is walking with his head down. The two collide, knocking each other to the ground. SAWYER drops his phone, and, as the two rise without looking at each other, MITCH picks up the phone to give back to SAWYER. As their hands touch and eyes meet, the two both jump back in a shocked manner, dropping the phone again. The two stare at each other in awe, not speaking before MITCH’s phone rings with a text alert.) MITCH: Ya wanna get that? SAWYER: Uh, how about "hey karaoke guy, how you been since your dick was last in my mouth?" MITCH: SSSHHH, keep it down. I’m here for a date. SAWYER: With a girl? MITCH: Yes with a girl. I only date girls. SAWYER: And only fuck men? MITCH: Well, kinda. SAWYER: What a waste of closet space. Anyway, I’m off to check the mail. Great running into you, karaoke guy. MITCH: It’s Mitch. (MITCH outstretches his hand to SAWYER to formally meet him as SAWYER bends down to pick up his phone, placing MITCH’s hand on SAWYER’s ass. SAWYER lets out a "whoo" noise as MITCH quickly withdraws his hand.) SAWYER: Well, Mitch, you know the rules...buy me a drink first. Best of luck on your girl date. MITCH: Yeah, thanks. (SAWYER starts to walk past MITCH toward the elevator as MITCH knocks on SAWYER’S door. SAWYER hears the knock and quickly turns around. He bolts toward the door, tackling MITCH to the ground. MITCH starts to yell in protest as SAWYER puts his hand over MITCH’S mouth.) SAWYER: Shhh. Shhh. SHHHH. Listen, listen! Is your date with a quirky girl named Katie? (MITCH nods his head in an affirmative manner. SAWYER gasps.) SAWYER: Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, damn, fuck. Oh, Jesus, fuck...Okay, this is okay. She never has to know. Right, Mitch? She NEVER has to know. And I mean never, like if you guys get married and have my nieces and nephews, then she can still NEVER know...you hear me? Even after fifty years of marriage and seven kids, she NEVER finds out. NEVER! (MITCH bites SAWYER’s hand causing him to yelp in pain. MITCH is free to talk.) MITCH: She’s your sister?

SAWYER: She’s my wombmate. MITCH: Oh, so just your roommate. When you said nieces and nephews, I thought you meant.. (SAWYER cuts him off) SAWYER: No, not ROOOMMATE, WWWWOMBBB MATE. It’s her quirky-ass term for twins. (KATIE is heard saying "COMING" from offstage. Both boys quickly scramble to their feet. SAWYER shoves MITCH down the hall, opposite of the elevator, causing him to fall into the shadows and not be visible to the audience. They communicate in whisper-screams.) SAWYER: Sorry, karaoke. Just stay there! MITCH: What? Why? SAWYER: I’m gonna buy us some time. MITCH: Until? SAWYER: Until I figure out what to do when I’ve screwed my sister’s boyfriend. MITCH: She’s not my girlfriend; we’re just dating. SAWYER: NOT NOW, MITCH. (KATIE opens the door to see SAWYER standing awkwardly and facing the unseen MITCH. He quickly turns his head to her.) KATIE: Sawyer? Why did you knock? I thought you were my date and I’m not ready yet. SAWYER: I’ll say! Go finish your make-up. KATIE: I did! I was doing my hair. Oh, does my make-up look bad? I look like a clown-whore, don’t I? That’s awful. I have to go fix this... (KATIE turns and takes off toward the bedroom again. SAWYER’s body visibly relaxes as he exhales before KATIE turns around midway.) KATIE: Wait, why did you knock? And was your check there? SAWYER: No. Uh, I mean, I don’t know. I forgot my keys and that’s why I knocked. KATIE: But the door wasn’t locked. SAWYER: Yes, it was. KATIE: No, it wasn’t. SAWYER: Yes, it was. I think you inhaled too much hairspray. KATIE: And I think you’re high. SAWYER: Probably. Anyway, go get ready. I’m gonna venture out again. KATIE: Don’t forget your keys. SAWYER: Thanks, bitch.

(KATIE scuffs as she turns and exits into the bedroom. SAWYER turns and slams the door to find MITCH behind him. The boys are nose to nose.) SAWYER: Jesus, karaoke. MITCH: It’s Mitch. SAWYER: Ok. Mitch karaoke. MITCH: Cute. SAWYER: See what I did there? No, no. We don’t get to bond. We have to think of something. MITCH: No, we don’t. You said it. She never has to know. SAWYER: No. That was me thinking crazy. I can’t let my sister date and potentially marry a closet-case. MITCH: Hey, stop that. It’s just a confusing time. SAWYER: Grow up, karaoke. You’re like what...twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? This is no longer your experimental college days. You like dick, that’s all there is to it. So, here’s what I propose: I will go in there and pretend to know nothing, and you will send her a very sweet, apologetic text saying that you have to stop seeing her due to some terrible event happening in your life. I don’t care. Just make it good and be nice. You better be fuckin’ nice, Mitch. MITCH: And if I don’t? If I just take her out anyway? SAWYER: Then, tomorrow I will show up at your office, in full gay-mode, and make a scene about how you don’t love me anymore. MITCH: You don’t know where I work. SAWYER: Katie does. And after two shots of tequila, she talks. She talks a lot. MITCH: Okay, okay. I’ll break it off. Not like she’s the only girl I’m dating. SAWYER: Oh, get out of here, you piece of shit. MITCH: That’s not what you were calling me the other night. (SAWYER’s fist clinches as his body tightens. He swings a punch, knocking MITCH to the ground. SAWYER does an extremely feminine jump of excitement.) SAWYER: Now, I’m gonna go inside and I expect to hear a scream or a mirror break or loud cursing coming from her bedroom in less than three minutes, got me? (MITCH whimpers and nods while holding his nose, still lying on the ground. SAWYER nods back and enters the apartment. Lights go off on MITCH and the hallway. SAWYER takes a seat on the couch. He props his feet up and waits, smiling smugly. A scream is heard a few seconds later as KATIE comes rushing out of the bedroom, holding her phone up and pointing at it. She was clearly in the middle of teasing her hair, and her make-up has gotten worse.) KATIE: He...he....but, I thought...I mean, it was going so well...and he...he... (SAWYER gets off the couch and heads toward the kitchen.) SAWYER: I’ll get the tequila. You pick an episode of Dawson’s Creek. (SAWYER exits into the kitchen as KATIE mumbles an okay and shuffles to the couch, in a true heart-broken manner. She plops down loudly on the couch and throws her phone behind her before taking the television remote and pointing it toward the television. A click is heard as a blackout occurs.)

Telepathy Heather Chiddix Best of Web Nomination 15

Timer Best of Web Winner Pham Minh

The Empty Chair Lyren Grate Fiction -Best of Web Winner The yellow cab comes to a stop at the curb. As I get out of the cab, I turn and wave, giving my thanks and appreciation for the ride. He may very well be the only man I am so dependent on. He rolls the passenger window down and calls to me, “Pick up at 5:00, right sweetheart?” I nod and force my lips to stretch into a small smile. “Same time as usual,” I shrug, laughing a little to lighten the mood. “Alright kid, it will either be me or Burt to pick you up. You take care and don’t tire yourself out too much, eh?” He winks at me before rolling the window back up, cutting our goodbye short. I wait until the cab is out of sight to enter the building. In the waiting room, I take a seat next to a woman with charcoal gray hair. She wears an oversized purple sweater and black pants. She sits in a wheelchair staring out the window. She looks me over. I am startled when I feel her cold hand on top of mine -- old skin on young, wrinkly on smooth. I have an urge to jerk my hand away. Put it in my lap and far from her grasp. I don’t like to be touched, especially not by them. “What type do you have, baby?” She asks sympathetically. I scoff: a small sound in the back of my throat. My eyebrows rise. I can’t believe how rude this old lady is. The type I have is none of her business. I brush my bangs out of my eyes and stare at her not knowing how to answer. I’m not able to form the words in my mind or even say them aloud. A young man comes through the waiting room doors and calls out to her, “Come on, Mimi, I got the car waiting for you.” “’Bout time,” she says rolling her eyes. She points at the man coming toward us and mentions he is her grandson. I nod politely, thankful for the interruption. He takes hold of the back of her wheelchair and backs her up ready to wheel her away. Before they are too far from me, she leans in and says, “Bowel, for me.” I shrug. No longer being polite or caring to be. This woman needs to learn that it is not appropriate to share her business with strangers. I begin to read a book I brought with me, as the magazine selection is selective of one topic. I can’t concentrate. The coffee pot is hissing too loud, and my bra is itchy, uncomfortable. My sister told me I should see it as a liberation from bras. She said this while laughing awkwardly. She was, I guess, trying to make light of the operation. I hung up the phone on her and haven’t spoken to her since. Not even when she called after the left side of the closet, three dresser drawers, and the right side of the bed became bare. My name is called. I follow a familiar face, whose name I’ve never bothered to memorize, down a long hallway. Others pass me and wave. They say hello. I don’t know their names either. She leads me to a scale. I step on. My weight is recorded. Then my blood pressure. Followed by my temperature. Now she leads me down another hallway -- a darker, longer one that stretches to the back of the building. We stop at the end of the hallway. She turns toward a large white poster thumb tacked to the wall. In the center of the poster is a tree and surrounding the tree are names written in different colors. She hands me a red sharpie and says, “It’s a survivor’s tree. You want to sign?” I do not reach for the pen. I leave my hand limp by my side as I reply, “Well I haven’t survived yet, have I?” I meant it as a kind of joke, but it came out cutting harshly through her offer and left a bad taste in my mouth. She didn’t seem bothered and put the pen back in her pocket. I follow her into the round room, or perhaps its square and the position of the chairs in a wide circle allude to the roundness. “Anyone of `em that’s empty.” She waves her hand above her head. I find a chair in the middle. To the left of me is a smaller, less comfortable chair. It is an empty gray chair with a tasteless floral cushion. The cushion matches the tasteless floral curtain that is partially drawn around me. The small chair is absent of a body. It is always absent, always empty. To the right of me is the IV which will soon hold the bag of fluid that will drip down the plastic tubes into my veins. There are four windows along the far wall, all with blinds wide open. The sun fills the room in splinters; it shines light on the gray tile floor. Color doesn’t exist. Not back here. Everything is gray. Always gray. There are other chairs, comfortable rocking ones like the one I sit in, all around the walls. There are more of the small chairs like my empty one next to the comfortable ones, but these are not empty. Only mine and mine alone stays vacant. The lights are florescent. They hang from the ceiling. They are too bright. The too-much unwelcome light makes everything look grayer, deflated, dead, deceased, dying. That’s what the room looks like in the light. The familiar face comes back over to me and holds a long thick needle in her gloved hands. She rubs a cream on my

port. The section of my chest exposed. When I first had it implanted under the skin in my body, I couldn’t stop touching it. I was fascinated by the foreign object that currently sticks out from my tight shirts. It doesn’t belong. I hate that it is a part of me. And now, that’s just what it is -- a part of me like my fingers and my toes. I don’t even notice it is there until the needle goes in and punctures the skin. Sharp intake of breath to fight the pain. “Sorry,” she says wincing as I tense. “I’m fine.” I watch her draw four tubes of thick red liquid. I wonder how I have any blood left. It’s always being tested on. This is nothing. No big deal. It’s a nothing. I’m fine. It’s just an appointment. Like a meeting for work, something I can’t get out of. It’s nothing. I’m normal. I’m healthy. I met Julia for lunch last week; we went to one of our favorite cafés. She ordered a turkey pesto sandwich, and I just sipped on hot chicken noodle soup. She reached across the table and took strands of my hair in her hand. She felt the ends of my hair. I closed my eyes and wished I could feel her fingers playing with my hair. She said in disbelief, “Your hair looks amazing.” I managed to mumble a thank you. “I thought you’d lose it!” she said inquiring into things that weren’t her business. I shrugged. “Guess I got lucky.” This is my hair. This hair on my head, it is real. It is brown, bouncy, and full. This is my hair. It shines and flips out better than my old hair. Underneath my hair, my scalp itched. I wanted to remove my hair and scratch my head with all my fingers digging into the bare scalp. I was at a café. I was in public. Julia loved my hair. My hair is real. I wear no wig. This is real. “How are things going and such, Lydia?” she asked while biting into her sandwich, which left pesto on her top lip. When she asked me this, I felt everything breaking down and I felt desperate, anxious, needy. “Would you go with me sometime?” She wiped her mouth with the tips of her fingers. She laughed a little at my absurdity. “Honey, I don’t have time. You know I got three kids and a husband. When I am not playing car pool I am at the grocery store. When I am not at the grocery store I’m cleaning -- get my point?” I looked down into my hot soup with chunks of chicken and thick noodles. I was no longer hungry, and my scalp was burning. I wanted to rip my not-fake hair off my head and stand under cold water. “I think I may be depressed.” “Well, you’re not suicidal, are you?” I shook my head. She waved her hand and smiled. “Then you’re not depressed.” There are only two species of people in this room. There is life and there is death. There are the nurses and there are them. The nurses wear gray scrubs, but, outside of this room, they are green. They have gray hair, but they are all blonde out there -- outside. The doctor likes the color yellow. It symbolizes happiness. He likes to put happiness in the room. He does so by hiring only blondes. The nurses all smile at them and give them blankets. They pat their legs. The ones in gray scrubs are here to make sure they live, and me? I’m not one of them; I’m just here for two hours; I’m a decoration on the wall; I’m a nobody, and I don’t belong among them. The people around me are old. I am the youngest and I am alone. In the corner is an older man. He is bald. He wears dark gray sweatpants and brown slippers. He sleeps with his mouth open. His wife sleeps, too. She sits in the chair like my empty one and lays her head on the shoulder of her sleeping husband. She drools a little onto his shirt. They hold hands as they sleep. On the other side of me is an older woman. She wears a purple bandanna. She knits. She looks at me with pity in her eyes and she smiles. I ignore her eyes. I’m reading. Leave me alone. I’m fine. Purple bandanna is here with a friend. The friend sits in the chair like my empty one. Her friend asks if her legs hurt. Purple bandanna nods without taking her eyes off her rhythmic knitting. The friend rubs the woman’s legs and asks, “Better? Mother, is it better?” I was wrong; she’s her daughter. One of the nurses in gray scrubs and a pale face and gray hair comes over to me smiling. I see nothing to smile about. I hate their smiles. She verifies my identity by asking my date of birth and then hangs the bag of liquid on the hook of the IV. “Got any plans for the weekend?” she asks, still smiling. I think under different circumstances we could be friends. “Catching up on work, I suppose.” I rub my arms. “You cold, Lydia?” Concern leaks from her lips. “I can get you a blanket.” I shake my head. I will not show weakness. I’m fine. I like being alone. I like being cold. I’m fine. She pushes buttons on the monitor. The liquid begins to drip slowly from the bag, making its long adventure through skinny tubes to my plump thirsty veins. I listen to her tap her white sneaker up and down. Without looking at me, acting as if she doesn’t care, she says out of the side of her mouth, “I thought your husband would come with you sometime.” I look down at my left hand. The round ring looks dull. The diamond is small. Probably fake like everything else about him, us, and vows. I feel limp. My heart skips a couple beats. From what? Anger, disappointment, sadness -- I don’t

know. I don’t know anymore. I like being alone. I enjoy it. I love taking care of myself, depending on no one. I can face things, unlike some people. “Maybe he will sometime. I’d hate for him to see me like this,” I say with a pained expression. I force my lips into a smile. It numbs my mouth. I stare straight ahead looking at anything other than the couple asleep in the corner or the IV above me. The nurse’s attention is drawn away from me. The IV of the man across from me begins to beep. The nurse leaves my side to stop the loud constant beeping. She pushes some buttons to turn it off. “Come on, you’re free to go. Get outta here,” she says teasingly. The man playfully jumps a little. His feet barely leave the ground. His wife laughs and pats his shoulder. She tucks her arm around his, and they walk each other out of the room. . I am not surprised when the nurse disappears and returns with a toasted white blanket. She does this every week. She hands it to me, and I reluctantly take it. “I’m not cold, but thanks.” When she turns her back, I tuck myself into it. I hold it up to my chin. I can’t read my book. The words blur together from the Benadryl now pulsing through my veins. They only give it to us to put us to sleep, so that it can just be some dream, some blur; only the bruised port says it’s real. I grow annoyed and irritated at all the bodies in this room and all the bodies filling the chairs. I cross my arms and press them close to my breastless chest. I try as hard as I can to look anywhere, everywhere, but at it: the chair. The empty, loveless, abandoned chair. I tilt my head up and stare at the ceiling, but there is nothing to look at but gray-swirls of gray. I lift the cooling blanket and pull it over my head, as I do almost every week. I shall remain cocooned securely wrapped in this cotton blanket. The gray world in front of me disappears. I silently wait until I beep and can be taken by Burt back home to the empty house.

Safety Sarah F. Wilson Haiku -Best of Web Nomination

Cocooned in my bed In darkness, silence, alone You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find me here

Untitled Kamiron Walters 21

Genesis Sarah Crider Best of Web Nomination

From Black to White Meghan Feeney Fiction Light spilled in from the window, painting the lacy cushion resting on top of the windowsill with golden life. With delicate fingers, I stroked the pale roses, sewn carefully and with purpose. Hair as pale as the lace I touched fell from behind my ears and into my face, obscuring my view of the world inside. The window lay open though, and I could see the sunrays peeking through the oak tree’s limbs and emerald leaves. Such a pity that I could not touch the tree. Instead, I was left only with objects that obscure instead of free. A pair of aged hands, wrinkled and worn like the face they belonged to, reached out to tuck the locks behind my ear. I did not wish to look into the face of the one who cared for me. I did not want to speak to her. She sighed, and I knew she left the room when the floorboards quit creaking. My pale eyes went to that tree again, and I felt them prickle in the corners. But nothing happened because nothing was allowed to happen. I looked up this time when footsteps approached the room I resided in. But it was as if I could not see. I knew it was a man here for me; but what he did and what he said had no meaning and gave me no room for understanding. All was white fluff and sugarcoated nonsensical words. But apparently he was pleased with himself and what he saw for he continued to speak strange rhymes and odd incantations — or as only I could perceive — and never ceased to gurgle things that did not make sense. I wanted him to stop, but I could not find the air to pull into my satin lungs to tell him so. Instead, all I could do was wait. He left, and then the day continued. Things were placed and then removed from my hands. And I spoke not one word for it was improper for me to think. So, I lived in silence. The next day caught me staring out the window, as well, and I felt a strange depression overcome me when I noticed that the sun no longer studied me as I studied it. There were blue-gray clouds swimming in the sky, hiding it from me, obscuring. They swarmed like the waters of an ocean and continued to do so even as the heavens opened up and let loose raging winds and pouring rain. I was captivated by what I saw and pulled into it. I wished to dance like those water droplets did on the leaves as they spilled from one to the next with a beautiful fluidic movement. But the aged woman pulled me away and shut the window, taking me back to the room that I slept and was dressed in. Others came in as she called out commands to them, directing them like a conductor would direct an orchestra — full of practice and mastery. The brass took me to a room with a water basin and poured cold water on me that shocked my senses; they attempted to snap the fragile reality of my waking dream, but nothing broke the veil. The flutes played with my skin, prickling it with basic soap and ripping away any dirt that managed to cling to me. The basses tore into my scalp and scrubbed unsaid impurities from my head, before the brass surprised me with another onslaught of water that removed all traces of cleaning agents. Piccolos tittered along as they patted me softly with fluffy white towels. Next came the violins, drying my hair and setting it to curl delicately encompassed by the warm air. The orchestra left me there, naked and vulnerable, before that wrinkly woman returned with petticoats, a bodice, dress, shoes, stockings, ribbons…She had other orchestra members dress me up like a doll and made me an exquisite specimen of a woman at marrying age. Within moments, she had me placed on display on that windowsill again, and just in time for that man with no face to return. He stayed longer this time, talking and talking and talking. I wanted to fall asleep, not because he had a silky smooth voice, but because his talk brought me to a new state of boredom that I never thought I was capable of reaching. My eyes glazed over with glass, and my ears ceased to work, my lips growing dry with the time I did not spend wetting them with my tongue. When he left, he left something as a reminder of him. The orchestra broke silence with a cacophonous din, and the wrinkled lady returned to gush over some achievement. Achievement? What success has there been today? I do not know of anything happening that is worth celebrating. I obsessed over my confusion until a clinking sound created from glass hitting mahogany caught my attention. I shot up from my slightly slouched perch on the sill and stared at the cherry-polished wooden table. It rested in front of a glass case containing miscellaneous pieces of intricately decorated china. But that was not where my attention resided. Now resting on the once uncovered table was a crystal vase filled with water…and a black rose. A black rose. My attention turned back towards the tree outside again, but this odd, itching sensation raised the minute blond hairs on the back of my neck. I twitched, then whipped my head back around to face the rose. It was as if there was some unearthly, ungodly force pulling me toward it, aching for me to make physical contact with those dark, velvety petals. I stood up and crept over the carpet-covered floorboards, leaving my slippers behind at the windowsill. Reaching out, I

brushed the petals with my long fingers, cupping the bud in my hand. It was…beautiful. Exquisite. Breath-taking. I felt captivated by the rare sight that lay before me and fascinated by its existence. Black roses were so rare in these parts and were an exotic beauty that surpassed any other flower by far. But my interest did not lie in its rarity or in the fact that a suitor left it for me. I began to wonder if I truly did find it beautiful since I was obligated to take joy in it regardless of what was truly within. But as I continued to study it with each day’s passing, I found my opinion changing. I discovered that I had an opinion. It was beautiful, I suppose, in its dwindling beauty, its aging glory. Days would pass by, but I would know nothing of it because the sight of the black rose would consume my entire consciousness. Plump, fleshy, and moist with water and life as it sat in the rainbow glass, with the light reflecting its absence of color. The time would pass, the light would fade, the darkness would come forth, and then run as daylight returned once again. The man with no face continued to call upon me, and each day, I would be pulled around into the swaying, dancing motions that I was supposed to take part in, the aged woman at the head of the procession. For hours each day, I would not think, but I would talk if prompted, laugh if prompted, smile if prompted, bat my eyelashes if prompted, tear up if prompted. But none of it meant anything. Nothing at all. He came more frequently still and brought other roses that ended up in the crystal vase with the black rose. Though exotic roses, as well, they were nothing in comparison to the black one. I obsessed over the black rose, and, as it began to shrivel up, I felt sorrowful; I felt pity for it. No matter how much water was poured into that crystal glass, the rose would reject it and continue to dry up…and fade into white. Petals began to fall, white petals, and, soon, only the core of the rose was left. Dry and lifeless. But it was white -- pure white -- pure in life. Trying to make sense out of this, I could not. Each passing day, this thought crossed my mind, and I would squint my blue eyes and scrunch my eyebrows together in such concentration that the wrinkled woman would come and ask me to quit. I would immediately wipe the expression away as if someone had taken a towel to my face, erasing it completely. Yet this thought never ceased to haunt me. My suitor returned the next day with a myriad of roses, each in a different color. I saw that he failed to bring a black one though. A part of me wished to ask him for another so that I may study the outlandish creation, but that would be improper and not recommended. There seemed to be an occasion for the roses, though, as he almost immediately fell to one knee and held out an elegant piece of jewelry — a ring. A ring with a black diamond. I felt my throat close up, choking me, my satin lungs unable to inflate after deflating once already. Next my body froze, stiffening like a doe that knows her time is up when she catches a glimpse of the hunter through the trees. It was right and proper for me to gasp and place my hand delicately over my mouth in shock, but I could not bring myself to do it. I simply could not physically manage it. In my mind’s eye, I saw the wrinkled, aged woman clasping her hands to her breasts and mouthing words to me, pleading, urging me to accept this offer…but I could not. I just could not. I did not want to. I did not…want to. He looked up at me, emerald eyes like the tree leaves begged me…no, they did not beg me. They did not ask anything of me. They expected me to respond in a certain manner. So, I did not. Curled, uncurled fingers. Tightened, relaxed fingers. I reached out…and pushed away his hand. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head back and forth, curls bouncing here and there. His eyes widened in what I could only assume was shock as I refused him. The wrinkled hag broke into the room at that very moment, apologies leaping out of her mouth, coating his ears with sweet lies. She took my arm, grasping, no, squeezing it as she dragged me out of the room and into another. The ugly woman whispered frantic words to me, furious that I refused him. When I would turn to look away, she would grab my chin and force me to look into her eyes. She spat in my face, asking if I was sick, telling me that I was sick, begging me to be rid of this sickness. But I would not have any of this. I would not listen to her as she waved her arms about in an unrefined manner. Her saccharine words of insanity flowed through space, but failed to seep into my mind; I refused to be corrupted by her any longer. She told me to get back in there and tell the poor man yes; look at his eyes and then try to see if I had it in me to say no again to him; just give him a chance; he is a proper gentleman who will give me a home and allow for me to live luxuriously in a place where I could have as many trees as I wanted in a garden; he would provide me with handsome children that would carry on the bloodline; just give him a chance, my sweet, give him a chance. No, I could not fathom this future she spoke of nor did I want to live it. It was in this moment that I could perceive the reason for my intrigue in the rose: maybe it was because it was free. Free from the constraints of life. Free from the constraints of reality. The rose was not conformed to a life lived by

another nor was it forced into being something it was not; the rose was allowed to be a rose, and not one person would ever object to that idea. Not one person would ever say that that rose was useless as a rose, maybe it should be a carnation. No, a rose was a rose. Why did I not see this earlier? Why did I ever let my life be orchestrated by another? I am not the girl the wrinkled hag molded me into. I am not a doll. But who am I? She forced me back into the room with that man, but when I rejected him a second and third time, he shook his head and threw down his arms in exasperation, storming out of the parlor and out of the wretched house. She slapped me then, breaking my porcelain skin and coloring it with blood before she left. I did not cry. I was supposed to have cried, seeing as I greatly upset her, but I did not feel like crying. Even if I were to force myself, as I would have before, I would not be able to muster enough…nothing to make something. Returning to my perch on the windowsill, I studied the rose core. Shadows came and left with the changing of the day, the sun moving beyond the horizon as it welcomes the darkness of the night. The rose core seemed to glow like the moon, what with the moonlight reflecting off of it, bringing an unearthly glow to my eyes. Leaning back against the window, despite the fact that it was prohibited, I shut my eyes and sighed. What do I do now? Floorboards began to creak, and my eyes fluttered open. A violin stood directly in my line of vision, and I could no longer see the rose. When she moved, all that was left was one of the wrinkled woman’s roses in the crystal vase. In the fire it went, the flames bristling with excitement and devouring the stem and core whole. The black rose was gone. She took it away from me. My porcelain lips broke, and I made an attempt to cry out, but all I could muster was a soundless whimper. When my eyes pricked at the corners this time, tears began to fall down my face in rivulets, cleaning away specks of dust in their pathway. I covered my mouth with both hands and tried not to gasp. The black rose was gone. She took it away from me. Enough. Enough. I had had enough of this tyranny. This rose, this rose started a torrent of thoughts in me. What a shocking task for someone like me who has had somebody else thinking for her her entire life. And I found myself thinking. Who am I? Who am I really? What is the point for me to continue to exist when someone else lives my life? Emptiness filled me with a stronger fear that encouraged a new concept in me — motivation. This fear filled my entire porcelain shell and gave me something to live off of. I did not want to be a shell any longer. I did not wish to be manipulated into doing things that I honestly had no desire to do. I wanted to be. And the only way that could ever happen was for me to leave. Yes, leave home. Rip off all the lace dresses the maids slipped over me on a regular basis, find something that I wish to wear, and set off. Until I do, I continue to remain under the influence and utter dictation of my tyrannical parents. That damned wrinkled hag. That was it. That was what I needed to do. I crept back toward the room I slept and dressed in — the doll’s room — and tore through the wardrobe, searching frantically for the riding clothes — my riding clothes — trousers and all. I ripped off the dress and fixings and quickly laced up the new clothing, pulling on my boots and taking down my hair. Rummaging around for a few minutes, I found a decent sized bag and stealthily headed over toward the kitchen in the back of the house, tossing miscellaneous food items in the bag. This would have to do; I will manage somehow. Somehow. I returned to the parlor and stole the crystal vase, then exited the house for good. Tracing my steps to the tree I used to gaze at before the rose came, I found myself facing the window, staring inside the house rather than out. It looked so dreary inside. So much gray, so much black. The color, the life, appeared to have been leached from the house. I suppose life truly could not be sustained in that horrible place. Glancing down at the vase still in my hand, I tossed it into the air and caught it, weighing it in my hand. I pursed my lips, thinking, then shrugged. I threw the vase at the window with all the strength I could muster and was ever satisfied at the crashing sound and the startled scream that resulted. Laughing, I ran off. Now. Now is the time. I will be reborn — pure, white life.

100 Words on My First Date Sarah F. Wilson Micro-Nonfiction

John, a heavy-set, ginger-topped goober, picked me up in his jeep. I paid for my own dinner at Rosaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s CafĂŠ (a fast-food taco joint) where he talked about World of Warcraft and Nerf Guns for the next two hours until we went to see Legion, where he made me pay, hated the movie, and informed me that he hated Harry Potter and all HP fans (aka me). Then, he took me home and bitched about how ugly and fat he was up all three flights of stairs to my apartment. At least he walked me to the door.

Falling Abigail Graham Poetry

Falling into a pit Of despair, Grasping at the Cold, black air, Falling down with Nowhere to turn, Looking up at the One whom you spurned.

Heather Chiddix Gilded Barnacle 28

A Sea Song Janie Brown Poetry “Nani, nani” Sang the sea, “Come and jump into me. Up above you stand so tall, Come an’ jump one ‘n all. Down below my waves do crash, Roar and call and snarl and smash. But you love me don’t you dear? I don’t have to taunt you near.” “Hither, hither” Sang the waves. “Won’t you join us for a rave? Come and fly down from your perch. With us your world will pitch and lurch.” Tither, tither On that ledge. “To my death” I dearly pledged.

It Gets Better Sarah F. Wilson Poetry

Their words hurt but the loneliness hurts more, Still she flew with brave wings into the darkness and found the light

Reassigned Chase Night Fiction -Best of Web Nomination They believed that we were basically good. Knowing as they did that there was no God, they ignored every word written in any book allegedly authored by Him, and, in doing so, they ignored the warnings that our species was unredeemable without magical intervention and continued to let us sort things out on our own. These rose-colored space goggles cost them the Polar Bears and the Atlantic Salmon and left the Canada Lynx hanging on by two claws. They weren’t impressed. For thousands of years, Earth had been classified as an Intergalactic Park. As such, it was off-limits for commercial use, but could be visited recreationally for a small fee. Take only photos, leave only contrails -- the general rule. The inhabitants of Earth were not to be disturbed or influenced in any way. Nature must take its course. So, they hovered just outside our solar system while the Dinosaurs died, and they hovered there still when the Dodo disappeared, when the Aurochs vanished, and the Passenger Pigeon passed away. They did nothing for the Barbary Lion, the Javan Tiger, and the Mexican Grizzly Bear. The Western Black Rhinoceros may have furrowed their equivalent of brows, but the Polar Bears... that was just too much. They came down. I wish I could remember the exact moment of their arrival, but, unfortunately, I was still unconscious from the night before. By the time I came to, it was already over. Every military had been neutralized. Every nuclear weapon had been disarmed. Every factory vaporized. No more smart phones, tennis shoes, or automobiles. We wouldn’t be needing such things anymore. I wandered downstairs late in the afternoon. The sun slipped through the broken plastic blinds like it always did, painting my husband in gray and pink zebra stripes as he slouched in his chair, watching Fox News as he always did at this time of day. My body recoiled at the sight of him even though my mind knew damn well he was pacified for now. My neck could still feel the hot burn of his stubble, and my hips, the sweaty pressure of his hands, holding me down, holding me still. My face felt purple. “What’s going on?” I couldn’t make sense of the images on the screen. “Aliens are here.” He sucked on his beer bottle with the same fervor he liked me to use on his dick. “Good or bad?” “Well.” He belched. “Seems like they really loved Polar Bears.” “Fuck.” “Bring me a beer.” I did as he asked, took one for myself. “Good thinking,” he said when I reached his chair and took both bottles from my hands. “One was for me.” He pulled them against his chest like twin babies he meant to nurse. He certainly had the tits for it. I can feel them flopping around on my own last night like two rubbery fish in the bottom of a boat. I let him keep the damn beer. “Our services are no longer needed,” says the elfin evening anchor, paraphrasing a statement from the aliens. “We will be reassigned as quickly and painlessly as possible.” A panel of talking heads appeared, shouting at each other about whose fault this was. Nobody talked about what it might mean, only who was to blame. It was a lot less interesting than I had always imagined alien invasion coverage would be. I fell asleep sitting up on the couch. I woke up with him inside me, crouched between my legs, stretching out the neckline of my T-shirt so he could slobber all over my breasts. My body tensed; he mistook it for pleasure, an invitation to let loose. He whimpered when he did, a weak sound that made bile bubble in my throat. I swallowed before I could spit it on his head. When he finally slid off and slumped on the floor, I limped upstairs to bed. Locked the door. Aliens, I’d say, if he asked. I was afraid of aliens. They didn’t show up for several days. By then, we all knew we were in trouble. We just weren’t sure what the punishment was going to be. Human news no longer existed. The aliens occasionally made broadcasts, urging us to stay calm, but, for the most part, they had dedicated every existing channel to a continuous marathon of Animal Planet shows. Channel 5 was Emergency Vet. Channel 7 was America’s Funniest Pets. Channel 13 was My Cat from Hell. The only anomaly was Channel 47 which showed the final episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show twenty-four hours a day. A letter arrived on Day 5 of the invasion, detailing where and when my husband and I should report for our reassignment.

“What do you think it means? Reassignment.” My husband scratched his balls. “Maybe they’re moving us to Mars.” “Don’t be stupid.” “Watch your fucking mouth.” I twisted my toes inside my shoes, a secret replacement gesture for rolling my eyes. It was like my husband had watched every Lifetime movie about how bad husbands behave and scribbled down some standard lines to insert into appropriate moments of perceived sass. I turned the letter over and over in my hands, searching for some indication of the nature of this impending event. But the letter was vague. A handful of words on a creamy, textured sheet. Comic Sans. (This was also the font they used for messages broadcasted on TV, messages underscored by an instrumental version of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”) The only instruction that wasn’t simply a direction was that we were absolutely not to bring any belongings with us, including any body adornments aside from basic clothes. It would slow the process down. This was fine by me. Anything I had ever valued had been smashed long ago. I went ahead and unscrewed the gold band on my left hand. Two days later, my husband and I reported to our reassignment station at nine o’clock a.m. It was a spaceship. It rested on three giant legs, bent like a grasshopper’s at rest, as if at any moment it would spring into space and onto another planet. A field of undulating cornstalks surrounded the shiny metal orb. A path had been mowed through the corn in a style that was familiar to all of us from the pictures of crop circles on the nightly news for the past few decades. My husband and I were placed in that line behind a hundred or so residents from our town. People I didn’t know, but recognized from feeling their judgmental glances around the bank and grocery store. The couple in front of us clung to each other. I reached for my husband’s meaty hand, not because I took any comfort in it, but because it was the appropriate thing to do. He surprised me with a firm grip; possessive or frightened, I couldn’t tell. “Whatever happens, we’ll stay together, right?” The young woman in front of me asked her mate for the fourteenth time, and, for the fourteenth time, he hugged her shoulders, kissed her forehead, and promised that that was true. I had my doubts. Or maybe my hopes. Maybe I would be reassigned to George Clooney or Bradley Cooper. Maybe my husband would be reassigned to that talk show regular who had to padlock her fridge to keep herself from eating all day. The line crept forward. People who entered the orb did not reappear, but throughout the day we heard the blast and whoosh of small shuttles departing and our confidence grew that we were simply being moved. “It’s Mars,” my husband blurted after four hours in the sun. “I told you. They’re taking us to fucking Mars.” “Whatever happens, we’ll stay together, right?” The woman in front of us asked her mate for the thirty-seventh time that day. His reassurance -- now that we were just yards away from the orb’s entrance and the glowing being stationed at the receiving kiosk -- had been whittled down to a tight nod. And then it was their turn. The wispy light of the alien shifted, extended one long strand toward the huge, sliding doors as they opened and the trembling couple stepped in. For a second, the woman caught my eye and it was as if we had been dear friends all this time. The doors slammed shut. My husband threw a rough arm around me, tugged my bony shoulder into the soft mass hiding his rib cage. “Don’t worry, babe. I won’t let them tear us apart.” My legs remembered being spread open with one of his hairy knees last night. My uterus remembers wishing it had the power to throw up. We stood before the white ball of energy guarding the gate. I understood now why they had taken such an interest in us all these millennia. Our solidity must be as baffling to them as their gaseousness was to us. Up close, they generated a pleasant heat that they probably couldn’t even feel. Such pleasures were the playground of the skin, and these beings had no skin, nor even a skeleton on which skin might hang. They were low-grade stars, really, beings built to burn themselves up. The doors opened, and the being extended its light arm in invitation. We stepped forward together, but the being shifted its arm, held my husband back. “What the hell? You let those kids go together.” My husband took another step. The little star scorched his chest, left a brown burn on his white tee. He yelped and jumped back, and immediately began to shout obscenities at the being. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” I stroked his arm. “I’m sure we’ll meet up inside.” He took me by the shoulders, crushed my breasts against his gut and tilted his face into mine with wet puckered lips. As his tongue lolled around in my mouth, I thought of how perplexed the star-thing must be with how rigid my body could become. My husband drew away with a slurp. We didn’t say another word. He patted my ass as I turned, and I tried not to run through the metal doors. An elevator took me into the belly of the orb where another star-being burned behind a fire-proof desk. Nothing happened for a long time. The being had no face, but I felt it was staring at me, sizing me up, fitting me for some unknown

task. “You are injured.” The voice was inside my head, a replication of a gentle, female human. “Not bad,” I said, touching the fading purple blotch on the left side of my face. “What happened?” “I fell down the stairs.” I never use this excuse on humans, but what could an alien made of burning gas know about such things? “The physical scans we ran while you were in the elevator informed us that you have an excellent center of gravity and cat-like reflexes. It is highly improbable to me that you fell down the stairs.” Shit. I hugged myself in the cold room. Shrugged. “That’s what I did.” How can something without a face purse its lips and narrow its eyes? “You are here to be reassigned,” said the star-thing. “Based on our scans, we have selected the North American Cougar. Will this be satisfactory?” I stared at the amorphous glowing ball. “I’m sorry. What?” “Do you find the Cougar a satisfactory assignment?” “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The star-thing flared and then shrunk again in what could only be described as a sigh. “The human population is out of control while other worthier species have declined. We cannot bring back those we have lost, but we can bolster the populations of endangered species by converting existing stock. Will the Cougar be a satisfactory assignment for you?” “You’re going to turn me into a cat?” “A Cougar. This is an honor. They are one of our favorite species.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I had always dreamed of being a cougar. Of leaning on bars and seducing young men with flat torsos and slender hands. But not this. “I take it staying human is not an option.” “Your species is obsolete. Everyone will be reassigned.” “Then, yes, I suppose a Cougar will be just fine.” “Excellent. Please step this way. The process is quick and painless.” *** I woke up in a field of tall grass, in the cool shade of an enormous snow-capped mountain. The Rockies, maybe. Alaska? Hard to tell. My brain was extremely fuzzy. Proper names were hard to grasp, and I forgot them almost as soon as I thought them. I climbed to my feet -- my paws. I rolled my shoulders, and a ripple of muscles trilled down my back, all the way to the tip of my long, slender tail. I flicked it. I liked it. I blinked my huge new eyes. Smacked my strong new jaws. Inhaled a million scents I never knew existed. I was not alone. I padded around the field sniffing them out. Most were still unconscious. Most were predators like me. A young bear. A bright red fox. A pair of young gray wolves, heads resting on each other’s sides as they slept. A rustle in the grass. A feeble bleat. I lowered my lean belly to the ground. Flattened my ears to my broad head. Breathed in the hot stink of meat. I slithered through the grass. There. A flash of brown pelt. Another pitiful bleat. I peered through the curtain of weeds, saw the drunk stagger of a newly-awakened Bighorn Sheep. The rectangular pupils in his amber eyes flared as he caught my scent. I wasn’t very good at this yet. But I didn’t have to be. Neither was he. My husband dashed away, giant sheep balls slapping from thigh to thigh as he ran, bleating stupidly and rolling his eyes. I flexed my claws. Wiggled my hips in the universal gesture of cats about to leap.

Seams Like a Sunset Nicole Boswell 34

That Moment Sarah F. Wilson Nonfiction - Best of Web Nomination

There was no sun the first morning we woke up together, just rain. Good things happen when it rains. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my theory. Your arms were wrapped around my body, holding me like your favorite teddy bear. Your body keeping me warm. Your skin soft and comfortable. Everything felt right. It felt like forever was there, in your arms and nowhere else. You opened your chocolate colored eyes and stared at me for a moment before you pulled my body closer to yours. Your lips touched mine, and it was magical. In the brief moments our lips locked, I realized that there is no better way in the existence of the universe to wake up than to be kissed by you. Our lips pressed against each other for only a moment, and you smiled. I like your smile, with the white, shiny teeth and the way your dimples sink into your face. I like the way you smile at me, so I folded your arms around me and smiled as you held me, before kissing you once more through a grin to rival the Cheshire catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. And, in that moment, trying to kiss while smiling, I knew this was how I wanted to wake up every moment for the rest of our lives.

Lace Panties Kayelin Roberts Poetry

Lifting her skirts, My brother took a peek. He invited me to join him and We gazed at the pale pink Of her panties. She barely noticedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Her skirts were so big. She tilted her hips Brother reached up Touching lace, He smirked. It looked like fun So I reached up too, And the woman shrieked. She wiggled away In her giant, poof dress. Then mother saw us She frowned and we knew We wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be able to sit soon.

The University of Central Arkansas Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art Thompson Hall 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72034 Torreyson Library 126 201 Donaghey Ave. Conway, AR 72034 vortexmagazine.squarespace.com vortexmagazine@gmail.com

Colophon & Judging The Vortex October 2012 Online Edition was created on a Macintosh iMac, using Adobe InDesign CS5.5 and Adobe Photoshhop. Theme fonts are Lucida Calligraphy Italic and Georgia, with varying font sizes and styles throughout.

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All pieces are judged â&#x20AC;&#x153;blindâ&#x20AC;?. Judges and Section Editors only find out who submitted the piece after it has been selected for publication. Each piece will receive a vote of yes or no and must have a 75% rate of yes votes and approval from the managing editors to be published. Staff Members automatically vote no to their own works to ensure fairness.