2021 Cotton Alley Writers' Review by Arts Council of York County

"Now there was my cousin Eliza," Outwardly Appleboro is just one Miss Sally Ruth Dexter once said of those quiet, conservative, old to me, "who was forced to make Carolina towns where, loyal to the her home for thirty years in customs and traditions of their Vienna! She married an attaché of fathers, they would as lief the Austrian legation, you know; white-wash what they firmly met him while she was visiting in believe to be the true and natural Washington, and she was such a character of General William pretty girl and he was such a Tecumseh Sherman as they would charming man that they fell in their own front fences. love with each other and got O c c a s i o n a l l y married. Afterward his family somebody will procured him a very influential give a backyard post at court, and of course poor henhouse a needed coat or two; Cousin Eliza had to stay there but a front fence? Never! It isn't with him. Dear mama often said the thing. Nobody does it. All she considered it a most touching normal South Carolinians come proof of woman's willingness to into the world with a native horror sacrifice herself—for there's no of paint and whitewash and they doubt it must have been very hard depart hence even as they were on poor Cousin Eliza. She was born. In consequence, towns like born and raised right here in Appleboro take on the venerable Appleboro, you see." Do not think aspect of antiquity, peacefully that Miss Sally Ruth was anything drowsing among immemorial but most transparently sincere in oaks draped with long, gray, thus sympathizing with the sad melancholy moss. Not that we are fate of poor Cousin Eliza, who cut off from the world, or that we was born and raised in Appleboro, have escaped the clutch of South Carolina, and yet sacrificed commerce. We have the usual herself by dragging out thirty shops and stores, even an years of exile in the court circles emporium or two, and street lights of Vienna! Any trueborn until twelve, and the mills and Appleboron would be equally factory. We have the river trade, sorry for Cousin Eliza for the and two railroads tap our rich same reason that Miss Sally Ruth territory to fetch and carry what was. Get yourself born in South we take and give. And, except in Carolina and you will the poor parish of which I, comprehend. "What did you see Armand De Rancé, am pastor, and in your travels that you liked some few wealthy families like most?" I was curious to discover the Eustises, Agur's wise and from an estimable citizen who noble prayer has been in part had spent a summer abroad. granted to us; for if it has not been "Why, General Lee's standin' possible to remove far from us all statue in the Capitol an' his vanity and lies, yet we have been recumbent figure in Washington given neither poverty nor riches, an' Lee chapel, of co'se!" said the and we are fed with food colonel promptly. "An' listen convenient for us. In Appleboro hyuh, Father De Rancé, I the pleasant and prejudiced Old certainly needed him to take the looks askance at the noisy and bad taste out of my mouth an' the intruding New, before which, it is red out of my eye after viewin' forced to retreat—always without Bill Sherman on a brass hawse in undue or undignified haste, New York, with an angel that'dT Hhowever, and always unpainted lost the grace of God prancin' on and unreconstructed. It is a town ahead of him!" HeTHadded where families live in houses that reflectively: "I had my own ideah have sheltered generations of the as to where any angel leadin' him same name, using furniture that was most likely headed for!" "Oh, was not new when Marion's men I meant in Europe!" hastily. hid in the swamps and the "Well, father, I saw pretty near redcoats overran the country-side. everything in Europe, I reckon; Almost everybody has a garden,

darkened room, and saw what lay there with closed eyes and hair still wet from the river into which my girl had cast herself. No, I cannot put into words just what had happene d;

coast-town: he meant to cure me, the good man! I should have the worst at the outset. "And I hope you understand," said he, sorrowfully, "that this step practically closes

Literary C MPETITION

of a man in the flower of his youth. His hair, beautiful as the hair of Absalom, falls about his haughty, high-bred face, a n d so magnificently is he clothed that when I was a child I used to associate him in my mind with those "captains and rulers, clothed most gorgeously, all of them desirable young men, ... girdled with a girdle upon their loins, exceeding in dyed attire upon their heads, all of them princes to look to" ... whom Aholibah "doted upon when her eyes saw them portrayed upon the walls in vermilion." The other is an Audran engraving of that same man grown old and stripped of beauty and of glory, as the leaf that falls and the flower that fades. The somber habit of an order has replaced scarlet and gold; and sackcloth, satin. Between the two pictures hangs an old crucifix. For that is Armand De Rancé, glorious sinner, handsomest, wealthiest, most gifted man of his day—and his a day of glorious men; and this is Armand De Rancé, become the sad austere reformer of La Trappe. My mother rose, walked over to the Abbé's pictures, and looked long and with rather frightened eyes at him. Perhaps there was something in the similarity to his of the fate which had come upon me who bore his name, which caused her to turn so pale. I also am an Armand De Rancé, of a cadet branch of that great house, which emigrated to the New World when we French

She shared many of their prejudices, and she of all women could appreciate a pride that was almost equal to her own. When they initiated her into the inevitable and inescapable Carolina game of Matching Grandfathers, she always had a Roland for their Oliver; and as they generally came back with an Oliver to match her Roland, all the players retired with equal honors and mutual respect. Every door in Appleboro at once opened wide to Madame De Rancé. The difference in religion was obviated by the similarity of Family. Fortunately, too, the Church and Parish House were not in the mill district itself, a place shoved aside, full of sordid hideousness, ribboned with railroad tracks, squalid with boarding-houses never free from the smell of bad cooking, sinister with pawnshops, miserable with depressingly ugly rows of small houses where the hands herded, and all of it darkened by the grim shadow of the great red brick mills themselves. Instead, our Church sits on a tree-shaded corner in the old town, and the roomy white-piazza'd Parish House is next door, embowered in the pleasantest of all gardens. That garden reconciled my mother to her exile, for I am afraid she had regarded Appleboro with somewhat of the attitude of the castaway sailor toward a 1 desert island—a refuge after shipwreck, but a desert island nevertheless, a place which cuts off one from

1 8 A N N UA L L ITE RA RY C OM P E TITION 10 A NNUA L YO UTH L ITE RA RY C OM P E TITION PO E T RY & S H ORT S TORIE S

INTERIM ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR FOR PROGRAMMING AND MARKETING MELANIE COOPER

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GALLERY MANAGER MICHAEL GENTRY

CENTER FOR THE ARTS 121 EAST MAIN STREET | ROCK HILL, SC 29730 GETTYS ART CENTER 201 EAST MAIN STREET | ROCK HILL, SC 29730 MAILING ADDRESS PO BOX 2797 | ROCK HILL, SC 29732 PHONE (803)328-2787 YORKCOUNTYARTS.ORG FACEBOOK, INSTAGRAM, & TWITTER @YORKCOUNTYARTS

VOLUME EIGHT PUBLISHED NOVEMBER 2021 The Cotton Alley Writers’ Review is an independently published annual journal founded in 2014 by the Arts Council of York County. The winning poems and short stories from the Arts Council’s Annual Literary Competitions comprise the writings contained within.

AWARDS & CONTENTS

04 Who We Are 05 2022 Literary Competitions 06 Supporters 07 Sponsors

1st 9 2nd 14 3rd 24 HM 29 HM 39

A D U LT S HO RT STORY Contraption by Anthony Torres Sacrifice by Erik Schutzman Uncle Will by Janet Sarjeant Den of Rhyme by Craig Faris The Path Home by Brian Wilson

A D U LT P O E TRY 1st 47 The Thief by Brittney Blaskowitz Prichard 2nd * Awash in Light by Earl J. Wilcox 3rd 48 Another of Nature’s Plans by Austin Lange HM 49 Buzzword by Kristy Bengivenga HM 52 Magic Evening by gratefulsue 1st 54 2nd 56 3rd 64 HM 67 HM 69

YO U TH S HO RT STORY Common Casualty by Marina Puno The Ice Wolf by Cody Bruns Outside the Box by Grant Luebbe It Happens Every Night by Jack Dickens The Color Blind Justice League by Maiyah Kee d. b. a. Paige Turner

YO U TH P O E TRY 1st 73 The Day the Sun Set by Gaby Roman 2nd 74 In His Throne by Harlen Rembert 3rd 76 The Twisted Tongue by Jack Dickens HM 78 Eyes by Alex Diederich HM 79 I Am by Lily Sinclair

* Not Included

WHO WE ARE ARTS COUNCIL OF YORK COUNTY The Arts Council of York County is a non-profit organization that was founded in 1977 to support the arts throughout York County, SC. The Arts Council of York County connects people through art, culture, dance, drama, film & music with a vision to create and support a thriving, diverse, and vibrant community in York County, SC. The Arts Council manages two cultural buildings in Old Town, Rock Hill - the Center for the Arts and the Gettys Art Center. The Arts Council serves the local arts community by renting artist studios in the Center for the Arts and at the Tom S. Gettys Center; by providing exhibition space within ACYC managed galleries; by offering a platform for emerging and established performing artists, and affording Small Grants to local artists and organizations. The Arts Council produces more than 70 programs and events annually, including the Blues & Jazz Festival, art markets, concerts, art classes, art exhibits, public art installations, and more. The ACYC also hosts competitions for visual and literary artists.

LITERARY COMPETITIONS The Arts Council of York County presents the 18th Annual Literary Competition, highlighting the best in short stories and poetry from across the Southeast United States; and the 10th Annual Youth Literary Competition, highlighting the best in short stories and poetry by students enrolled in K-12 programs from across York County, SC. Prizes and awards for the 18th Annual Literary Competition are underwritten by the Perihelion Club. Prizes for the 10th Annual Youth Literary Competition are underwritten by Williams & Fudge.

Awards given in each category: 1st Place: $125 2nd Place: $75 3rd Place: $50 Those who place in the competition have the opportunity to have their winning works placed in the Cotton Alley Writers’ Review, an online literary magazine published annually by the Arts Council of York County.

Literary C MPETITION

2022 LITERARY COMPETITIONS 19TH ANNUAL LITERARY COMPETITION 11TH ANNUAL YOUTH LITERARY COMPETITION

POETRY & SHORT STORY CATEGORIES The Annual Literary Competitions include two categories - short story and poetry. Authors are eligible to enter both the short story and the poetry competition, and entries are eligible to win an award in each competition, however, there are no repeat prizewinners within the categories. ADULT COMPETITION CRITERIA Open to adults across the Southeast United States. Must be 18+. YOUTH COMPETITION CRITERIA Open to students enrolled in a K-12 program in York County, SC.

SUBMIT A POEM OR SHORT STORY IN 2022! Entries will be accepted beginning in spring 2022. Check yorkcountyarts.org in next spring for guidelines and entry forms.

AWARDS CEREMONY HOST Angelo ‘Eyeambic’ Geter is a dynamic poet, spoken word artist and motivational speaker who merges his passions for poetry and speaking into a unique performance that educates, entertains, and inspires. Angelo’s work touches on a variety of issues including social justice, race, grief, character, and manhood. He blends his pieces with commentary, stories, and personal narratives that transcend a traditional lecture or performance.

Over the course of his career, Angelo has amassed several accolades and currently serves as the Poet Laureate of Rock Hill, SC. He is a 2020 Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellow, 2019 All-America city winner, 2018 National Poetry Slam champion, Rustbelt Regional Poetry Slam finalist, and Southern Fried Regional Poetry Slam finalist. He has also performed and competed in several venues across the country. His work has appeared on All Def Poetry, Charleston Currents, and the Academy of American Poets “Poem-a-Day” series.

SPONSORS

10th Annual Youth Literary Competition Awards Sponsor

Perihelion Book Club 18th Annual Literary Competition Awards Sponsor

This program is supported by South Carolina Humanities, a not-for-profit organization; inspiring, engaging and enriching South Carolinians with programs on literature, history, culture and heritage. This project is funded in part by the South Carolina Arts Commission which receives support from the National Endowment for the Arts. The mission of South Carolina Humanities is to enrich the cultural and intellectual lives of all South Carolinians. This not-for-profit organization presents and/or supports literary initiatives, lectures, exhibits, festivals, publications, oral history projects, videos and other humanities-based experiences that reach more than 250,000 citizens annually. South Carolina Humanities receives funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities as well as corporate, foundation and individual donors. It is governed by a volunteer Board of Directors comprised of community leaders from throughout the state.

The Arts Council of York County is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. Support for this project is provided by the SC Arts Commission (which receives funding from the NEA), Rock Hill Accommodations Tax, York County Hospitality & Accommodations Tax & the ACYC Annual Campaign. For visitor information including lodging, contact Visit York County, SC at 888-702-1320.

on poor Cousin Eliza. She was born and raised right here in Appleboro, you see." Do not think that Miss Sally Ruth was anything but most transparently sincere in thus sympathizing with the sad fate of poor Cousin Eliza, who was born and raised in Appleboro, South Carolina, and yet sacrificed herself by dragging out thirty years of exile in the court circles of Vienna! Any trueborn Appleboron would be equally sorry for Cousin Eliza for the same reason that Miss Sally Ruth was. Get yourself born in South Carolina and you will comprehend. "What did you see in your travels that you liked most?" I was curious to discover from an estimable citizen who had spent a summer abroad. "Why, General Lee's standin' statue in the Capitol an' his recumbent figure in Washington an' Lee chapel, of co'se!" said the colonel promptly. "An' listen hyuh, Father De Rancé, I certainly needed him to take the bad taste out of my mouth an' the red out of my eye after viewin' Bill Sherman on a brass hawse in New York, with an angel that'd lost the grace of God prancin' on ahead of him!" He added reflectively: "I had my own ideah as to where any angel leadin' him was most likely headed for!" "Oh, I meant in Europe!" hastily. "Well, father, I saw pretty near everything in Europe, I reckon;

born. In consequence, towns like Appleboro take on the venerable aspect of antiquity, peacefully drowsing among immemorial oaks draped with long, gray, melancholy moss. Not that we are cut off from the world, or that we have escaped the clutch of commerce. We have the usual shops and stores, even an emporium or two, and street lights until twelve, and the mills and factory. We have the river trade, and two railroads tap our rich territory to fetch and carry what we take and give. And, except in the poor parish of which I, Armand De Rancé, am pastor, and some few wealthy families like the Eustises, Agur's wise and noble prayer has been in part granted to us; for if it has not been possible to remove far from us all vanity and lies, yet we have been given neither poverty nor riches, and we are fed with food convenient for us. In Appleboro the pleasant and prejudiced Old looks askance at the noisy and intruding New, before which, it is forced to retreat—always without undue or undignified haste, however, and always unpainted and unreconstructed. It is a town where families live in houses that have sheltered generations of the same name, using furniture that was not new when Marion's men hid in the swamps and the redcoats overran the country-side. Almost everybody has a garden,

haughty, high-bred face, a n d so magnificently is he clothed that when I was a child I used to associate him in my mind with those "captains and rulers, clothed most gorgeously, all of them desirable young men, ... girdled with a girdle upon their loins, exceeding in dyed attire upon their heads, all of them princes to look to" ... whom Aholibah "doted upon when her eyes saw them portrayed upon the walls in vermilion." The other is an Audran engraving of that same man grown old and stripped of beauty and of glory, as the leaf that falls and the flower that fades. The somber habit of an order has replaced scarlet and gold; and sackcloth, satin. Between the two pictures hangs an old crucifix. For that is Armand De Rancé, glorious sinner, handsomest, wealthiest, most gifted man of his day—and his a day of glorious men; and this is Armand De Rancé, become the sad austere reformer of La Trappe. My mother rose, walked over to the Abbé's pictures, and looked long and with rather frightened eyes at him. Perhaps there was something in the similarity to his of the fate which had come upon me who bore his name, which caused her to turn so pale. I also am an Armand De Rancé, of a cadet branch of that great house, which emigrated to the New World when we French

that was almost equal to her own. When they initiated her into the inevitable and inescapable Carolina game of Matching Grandfathers, she always had a Roland for their Oliver; and as they generally came back with an Oliver to match her Roland, all the players retired with equal honors and mutual respect. Every door in Appleboro at once opened wide to Madame De Rancé. The difference in religion was obviated by the similarity of Family. Fortunately, too, the Church and Parish House were not in the mill district itself, a place shoved aside, full of sordid hideousness, ribboned with railroad tracks, squalid with boarding-houses never free from the smell of bad cooking, sinister with pawnshops, miserable with depressingly ugly rows of small houses where the hands herded, and all of it darkened by the grim shadow of the great red brick mills themselves. Instead, our Church sits on a tree-shaded corner in the old town, and the roomy white-piazza'd Parish House is next door, embowered in the pleasantest of all gardens. That garden reconciled my mother to her exile, for I am afraid she had regarded Appleboro with somewhat of the attitude of the castaway sailor toward a desert island—a refuge after shipwreck, but a desert island nevertheless, a place which cuts off one from

ADULT

SHORT STORY 8

Contraption by Anthony Torres F IRST P LACE Thomas heard stars and static humming out from the tinkering contraption inside of him, familiar as a sliver of sun in a dark room. Coming online was first a matter of noise; then, of color and speech. Searing fluorescents and twinkling white tiles populated before Thomas like coalescing sections in the contraption’s orchestra. A rippling fellow in a mint gob hat had been fixed on Thomas, who, sensitive to silence, sent a glance to either side where he found he was flanked by two faces bright as the yummy lumps in the case before him. Well, “YUMMY” had been promised by a neon sign, but the colors sang out to him: the contraption quickened. “Need a recommendation?” said the man in the mint gob. “Thomas,” chimed the voice from his left, “you’ve gotta get mint mocha!” “Roddy the extra,” said the one on his right, sonorous. “His first time should be something simple like coffee cream swirl.” The man in the mint gob waffled aloud about liking both but not loving either. Soon, the line at Flotsam Creamery frothed with this new discourse of the not-quite passionate. Thomas’s contraption whisked the droning and popping conversation into its function, the weird transmissions of its whirling. Sometimes they produced colors before him, flashing in patterns after a theremin player’s hands. Ice cream was something new, and Thomas had nothing to do, so this was just the idea. Coffee cream swirl was about the same color as the girl on his right. How confusing that the sight made a sound he liked. “I like what I like, Andie, but you’ve got a point,” said Roddy. Outside, a healthy spring sun sizzled its one synthy note.The trio’s every footstep felt, to Thomas, like muffled strikes of a carillon. Two friends and their new noise-operated classmate taking their time enjoying ice cream in the cathartic aftermath of another drab school day. Andromeda and Rodrick wore colors that matched their sound, ruddy beiges and always candy cane socks for the latter. Thomas often felt gray, but Andie and Roddy had activated him, changing his mode from mere data gatherer to interpreter.Thomas understood color to be the result of reflections on the world around him, each petal, blade, bulb, and body alchemizing in them noise and light to issue an emblazoned thesis, as if they all had their own contraptions. Only as if, though; for Thomas had never met another machine of his ilk.Was there a funny way to ask if Andie and Roddy had “heard it too?” At a fountain, Andie went on about how recruiting Thomas for a hangout had been her idea. Thomas learned from her that it was weird watching you choose to stay behind in class and play fish whisperer, but it was neat to find someone so analog for a change; Roddy, meanwhile, was of the mind that you just needed to like a cooler fish, man. Thomas made no comment and maintained complete commitment to his fascination with the betta and schools of neon tetra.The

betta danced to the contraption, sweetening the tune. Sally and Thomas had plenty of fun.Thomas thought so, at least. Feeling and memory were curious matters. Coffee cream swirl there in his hand, with its wet, cool prickle, set off brilliant pops and hisses in the contraption, his noise and the world making sweet music withal, like a charmed caller dialing just to hear the touchtone. For every bit he thought about the world, it brightened that much more, but only the faintest traces ever remained, as an exhausted strip of tape. Still, just maybe there would be one laugh left over, one last drop of ice cream teasing the corner of his mouth when he activated after his next shut down.When quiet came, their merriment resting in the fountain’s water, he wondered when that might be. Flashes of this moment, as from a failing screen so much itself like embers, lingered in Thomas’s mind — the contraption’s core. Each sunlit blink in the contraption clarified more and more the shape of that glimmering hope. Thomas imagined the pattern of its fulmination on a staff, the sound of eureka and its many moving parts, as conducted by Brahms, of course. Thomas held fast. “What do you think about joining us to study from now on, Thomas?” Andie said. “You’re the only one of us who can focus on anything, so yeah,” Roddy said. Thomas’s acceptance caught the wind of a new sensation and lived a life of its own, like when one touches their skin to the moon and bathes in the resulting shiver. A cool breeze tap-danced from Thomas’s ears to his fingertips, a massage undoing machinery and revealing flesh. Flesh like Andie’s and Roddy’s and Mint Gob’s, real and exposed to so much of the world’s colorful succor. The contraption quickened. Feeling remained a curious matter that evening when he lay awake trying to reflect. He could output no thought and have it stick while Andie and Rodrick were stuck on his mind. Thomas let them stay there as they had let him. Maybe this joy would be enough for the rest of his life. *

“I’ve had time to prepare,” Andromeda had said to Thomas the night before they were to confront death. As words were bound to in the wake of losing her grandmother, Andromeda’s fizzled like a failed spell. Magic had gone, sapped from the trio’s tabletop games and even those two fateful scoops of coffee cream swirl. What was it, this event? A cobweb of people whose weary, wool-clad shoulders lined up beside one another to confront a polished, wooden box? Death had heretofore no cause for knocking on Thomas’s door, not in any substantive way. So far, there was color and its counterpart in silence, tantamount to death. The contraption’s whirring conjured Thomas’s last memory of Gramma Andra, glowing like fresh-brewed coffee, her soul hearty, her embraces sweet; she was no less colorful for her passing. Andromeda herself was like a blazing silk ribbon, her hair a firework of curls determined to find cause to celebrate.

With their cloud of black hats, the mourners called to mind a hurricane stirring in place, its eye stricken blind by grief. The contraption’s creaking revolutions loosed a wasting dirge, the light from long-sleeping stars given voice. Sat beside Andromeda in the front pews with Rodrick beside them, Thomas held Andromeda’s hand through all the silence. How quiet a storm could be! Of Contraption | Anthony Torres

all in attendance, Thomas knew how quiet could make one shiver like a patch of earth feeling the first of many falling leaves. When his mind stopped wandering, he thought of those now-rare deactivations. At the peak of his interiority, the contraption was but a void bubbling with gray light like a great, slumbering sea creature. So far, silence had only meant unrest with his own sort of death; now, it was an effort to be at peace with another’s. Andromeda’s fingers buzzed against Thomas’s in their zig-zag interlace. Only her skin had helped him feel any safer in his own when he discovered his flesh all those years ago. “Thomas!” Andromeda whispered. “I’m not sure I can do this.” But Thomas could not have convinced himself of anything more than his certainty in Andromeda’s spirited wit.Thomas squeezed Andromeda’s hand, and she squeezed back; each with their shy eyes decided then that five months of further obliviousness should suffice before reifying their feelings. For now, the eulogy was hers to give; she eulogized — everyone then, eulogizing. Later, the trio dined away at Flotsam Creamery, now ubiquitous as a small town’s craft brewery and complete with lunch and dinner menus. Rodrick still wore candy cane socks and Andromeda had since changed into her box-of-chocolate colors. A neon sign promising something inside was “YUMMY” hung on the wall. Nothing about the scene was recognizable. For instance, Thomas felt goosebumps now, the cold plastic of the seats bumpy like stale biscuits; he was warmer against it now than he ever remembered; a polished Popeye of a young man worked up front, the new Mint Gob; most of all, Andromeda spirits were sunken. Anxiety prickled up Thomas’s arms like a thorny miasma, and the contraption sputtered. The contraption still ground out circles, but the grandiosity and luster of its light shows waned as he gained flesh.This newfound vulnerability shadowed that innocence of yore; discrepancies revealed by this clarity of perspective earned Thomas’s bitterness toward the process of imagination itself. Sputtering though the contraption may be, Thomas realized that wonder alone would no longer be enough to guide him. Rodrick had been an “undercover” or “U.C.” fellow for all his life. Rodrick had also been an exceptional interlocutor for about the same length of time, counting first words. As a character who invited little observation, the opportunity to watch Rodrick make better strides with Andromeda’s feelings than Thomas had so far been able felt instructive. “I wish you could ask for a different worst thing ever,” Rodrick said. Andromeda’s chuckle dislodged her tears. Rodrick went on: “I mean, I know it was scare after scare. It feels that much more unfair, but I think she wins in the end for having lived the kind of life she did.” “It’s not some kind of struggle she won or lost, Rodrick,” Andromeda said. “I know, but—” He searched. “You can still choose how you feel. Like, she was cool and spent more time alive and cool than anything else, so why not hang onto that?” “Do you get any of this? No matter what, it feels sudden, like her death is all there is. It would be that way for anyone, I think: how I was used to having her around changed, but that she was around had never changed.” Contraption | Anthony Torres

A pause. “You’re right — you’re right: it has changed, and it’s an awful way for things to have to change.” “You don’t get the last word!” Laughter, with its impeccable sense of direction, always found a way back to Andromeda. Again, it had been instructive for Thomas to witness the complete, corkscrewing failure that was Rodrick’s outreach. His every misstep had the net result of a mishandled lint brush, each wrong word redistributing and complicating the mess he meant to clean. Emotional lint abounded, and Rodrick never flinched at his effort to be available for Andromeda’s comfort. Avoidance was a consequence rather than a trait of Thomas’s being machinery once upon a time. Cowardice would be an attribution far unfair. Instead, being armored for so long insulated and isolated had him, as if most every colorful succor had been experienced through glass. At least he had the contraption, the engine powerful enough to attempt making up the difference.There could be no more making up for experience, Rodrick’s thwarted consolations proved as much. That evening,Thomas lay reflecting the same way colors did.Thomas, of course, now understood color to be the result of reflections literal, not figurative. Schooling and two good friends corrected his record, but the figurative conception held power in that deep corner of his mind still laboring to kindle his sense of wonder. Being human, having a life and tending to it, was a weary compromise just as a farmer between their field, the sun, their light-wearied bodies; a stoker between their engine, the heat, the loneliness, the many scraping, scuffing, burning, straining reminders of their fragility. Both of them know if they should continue to live, so must their work, and so they take to loving life’s petal-soft grit, its winding stillness, its ados about nothing for need of hassle, or otherwise love something, someone else — but they turned to love all the same. Yes! However, the contraption zapped that powdery metaphor from Thomas’s mind, jolting him from his reverie. Suds might have clogged his functions forever had he kept lathering himself in the romance. The contraption still had a use in tempering his melodrama after all — also, there was a place for its brand of light in his life. He had not forgotten that, nor had he discarded in full the saccharine thesis of his metaphor, even if love now felt myopic and incomplete as a worldview itself. Thomas sometimes questioned Rodrick’s being a person who could accept so much, but Thomas would not doubt his need to be more accepting. The contraption trundled like an old turntable now, a noisy collage of heretofore unseen colors leaving him in gooseflesh. The contraption’s whistles, bells, buzzing, and static fled in exaltation of the silence into which Thomas seeped. No gray light, nothing lurking, no white hiss of settled ice like everything before. There emerged from his dreamy sojourn a noodling, wheedling whistle, keeping time with the first heartbeat he felt: a color at last. Yes. Maybe following this spacious noise of eureka would be joy enough for the rest of his life. *

Thomas had never possessed a wealth of energy and no such wellspring ever revealed itself to him when one of Mauve’s journeys snatched him up as if from a coat rack and set off into their Contraption | Anthony Torres

wooded backyard yonder. For the past week, Thomas’s daughter had been studying fungi, and he was just the parent to play lab assistant. Mauve seemed to take only from Andromeda, for she smiled with the same dry wit of three prior generations of stellar women.Thomas had long buried his chromaticism and now moved in whole-steps on his daughter’s heels. Thomas’s home season would always be summer, but Andromeda and Mauve loved bundling up for autumn. Mauve’s invitations to all that was ochre and roasted apples kept Thomas from finding a way to shrink and live in any of his dioramas. His day job saw him play architect with music, structuring noise for film and television. For as much as he tried to explain the job to his growing child, it was Mauve’s producer father who seemed more the scientist than her chemist mother. Even Rodrick, rarer still these days, with his amorphous, location-agnostic consulting job, earned an interview from Mauve when he made an appearance. Thomas’s little worlds lacked an immediate or even communicable appeal. They were dwarfed by greater shadows. “Dad, are you listening?” Mauve teased. Had Thomas told her that the stream by which their studies were staged reminded him of the fountain by which he had met his two best friends? Mauve collected samples and gave quizzes out of a junior botany primer: “Name at least five varieties of glowing mushrooms” she challenged. Thomas treated his test like a lightning round and aced it. Her favorite of the enumerated was mycena haematopus, the bleeding fairy helmet. Convinced of urgent need for fairy aid and healthcare, Mauve dove headlong into the sciences after her mother, albeit with greener motives. Thomas’s enjoyment of these backyard trips grew from vicarity into something shared, then into a learning activity. Mauve’s lectures were about her enthusiasm, the dogged artistic spirit which meant that she must create, conserve, and keep step with her passions. When old vulnerabilities crept on these moments with Mauve,Thomas tuned into the wheedle, made it his lodestar. He chose flesh for a reason, and it was still taking shape right in front of him. Thomas listened to Mauve. “And the bleeding fairy helmets are my favorite ‘cause I love their tiny shadows, you know? Those red dudes do a kind of work that I don’t know most trees and bears are really thinking about.” Mauve raised her eyebrows: maybe her father could change the discourse? A question balanced on her lips. “What’s your favorite color, dad? I’m not sure you’ve seen mine.” Thomas canted his head toward Mauve, curious. Mauve shimmied on her knees to meet her father with the cool intentionality of an educator. “Sometimes I sneak out onto the deck ‘cause I love to hear the owls hoot along to this light show bursting out of the hills and trees. Mom might think it’s a fun story, but it seems like it might inspire a diorama for you: early mornings, ‘cause they’re like being behind the set, and the patience it takes to see some mushrooms glow — all that makes up my favorite color. Have you heard the owls too?” Feeling is a curious matter: nothing soon in Mauve’s life would make sense of the way Thomas held her in his eyes, folded her in an embrace like a sunrise to a lone, flowered clearing, arms full of his favorite color at last. Everything about the scene stayed recognizable when Mauve heard stars and static humming out from the tinkering contraption inside of her father for the first and last time. Contraption | Anthony Torres

Sacrifice by Erik Schutzman S ECOND P LACE In a stone shelter at the base of a cliff gathers Chakka’s tribe. Centuries of wind and water erosion created this oasis hidden from view. There are many massive stone shelters like this one throughout the foothills, but an available one like this is hard to find. Rival tribes, or a large animal usually occupy them, and they can only be taken with a fight. Chakka’s tribe was fortunate to have found this one unoccupied. Best to avoid a fight when you can. Jungle vines hang from the edge of the shelter like a curtain giving them some concealment. Trees sway beyond the vine curtain in the constant gale. The roof angles up hundreds of heights high like a cathedral. Too far to touch, but several adolescents have managed to climb the vines to precarious heights as their parents watched from below. The space is so wide, it would take their fastest runner several minutes to go from one end to the other. It smells of damp freshness and mushrooms. A waterfall trickles water into a pool at the center. That area is reserved for the elders and the chief. Children run and play in a grassy area where sun shines through the hole above created by the waterfall. The young adult males and females camp at the outer edge near the opening to keep watch and protect against attacks. On top of a hill next to the pool, a fire roars. Around it sit large stone form seats where the elders gather and talk. Smoke crawls up the angled ceiling and filters through cracks. A crowd has gathered in front of the fire. Elders watch intently. Chakka and Chee stand before the warmth of the bonfire and face the crowd. Chakka flails his arms. “It was like dream. I flew like a bird.” He moves his hand through the air. “A magical feeling overcame me. A place called to me.” He points up. “The haven of our forefathers in the sky among the clouds. There was a bright, foggy light. I felt at peace. However, this place has new feeling. This place not have feeling of familiarity, but of alien… weird feelings. Cold like snow. Quiet. No scents. I lay on back and three godlike creatures look down at me. Thin like white trees… large heads.” Chakka motions his hands around his head to indicate how big they were. “Large, black eyes studied me… gentle hands explored skin. Motionless mouths spoke strange words that sounded like the singing of the grass plain birds, but more magical.These are not like anything seen before.” Children gasp.Adults look at each other and chatter. Chakka spins around to study the reaction of the council sitting around the fire. They look back with skepticism. He spins back to the crowd, see excitement in their eyes. He walks to a large stone and draws the aliens with white chalk. Silence overcomes the shelter. Water dripping in the pool echoes.

“White light above.” He draws the light shining down on the aliens. He spins and gestures wildly. “White stone ground. Fruit. Odd forces… like someone else controlled me. I feel touch on shoulder where there is no hand. They poked and pulled at me. They make things appear… disappear. The glowing ball!”

Chakka holds up a crystal globe. Chee yanks the ball from him and wraps her arms around it. A gasp flows over the crowd. Whispering side conversations spread. Chakka feels the energy of attention. He is important. Safin stands at the back of the crowd, arms crossed. “Dakma!” shouts Chakka as he holds up his hands like claws.The crowd leaps back. “I was alone facing Dakma. He stalked forward…” Chakka stalks toward the crowd. They back up in fear. “The beast came from the shadows into the light. I step back on spear. How is a spear there? I pick up spear and will go for its eyes first. Then I thought, where is my tribe? I cannot face it alone. Then, Dakma disappeared. Gone as fast as appeared. “I was alone under a light like one after sunset. It was blue. I looked in the shadows around me for long time. Something was in the shadows. Could not see it, but could feel it. You know the feeling when something watches you in jungle. Then… it came.” Chakka holds his hands menacingly. “The Hooba!” Children scream and run. “No!” shouts Safin. He pushes his way through the crowd to the front. “Hooba not around in many cycles. No Hooba here. We left it behind when we moved here. Now stop with these false stories.” “No. Hooba not here,” says Chakka. He points to the sky. “Hooba there. I have only seen the Hooba once when hunting. You were there.” He points to his friends, Bint and Boll. They nod in agreement. Bint whispers something to Boll, then looks to the ground, shaking his head. “We sat for long time in forest when hunting,” yells Chakka.“Quiet,” he whispers.“Hooba came out of ground, look around, then go back. Gray head and hands, no hair. Orange eyes. Lightening flowed over black body. That is what I saw in room with white floor. The Hooba snatched Chee and I.” Safin grumbles, “What about white tree people? Now you saw Hooba? Which is it?” Stumped, Chakka pinches his chin. “I saw both. Tree people like a dream. Hooba was real. He stood in front of me.” “If it was Hooba, why they return you?” Safin shouts, suspicion in his eyes. “No one ever return when Hooba takes them. Why you?” Chakka looks to Chee and shakes his head., “Not know?” “I tell you why. It was not Hooba. It was something else. I saw when you disappeared. Hooba not in sky… Hooba underground. The white tree people you saw, that is what took you and Chee… not Hooba. We hunt tree people. Not need another menace haunting us.” Chakka looks at Safin. “You have good point. White tree people looked at me. Then I under light. That is where Hooba was. Then he disappeared and I wake up in jungle.” He points. “Over there.” Safin points at the wooden cart with wheels.“What is this?” The crowd’s attention shifts to him. “I do not know,” says Chakka. “Found it in forest. Maybe tree people give to us.” He pulls the handle. “See, circles move. Easier than poles.” Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

A curious crowd of hands explore the cart. “Well,” says Safin. “Now, we have tree people taking us. Hooba taking us. Dakma hunting us.” “But white tree people return us,” says Chakka. He senses Safin’s jealousy. He wants the attention. He will steal it anyway he can. A loud tap, tap echoes through the shelter. All eyes turn to the Chief seated on the other side of the fire, his staff pounding onto the ground. His booming voice echoes, “We must not allow Hooba to find us here in our new home. We cannot be found.” He points to Chakka., “You bring trouble. I do not know what you four were doing… “He points at Chakka, Safin, Bint, and Boll. “ ...but it sounds like dream.” He looks to the elders. “Too much leaf.” The elders chuckle. “I do not know if what you say is real, but if Hooba knows where we are now, we need to make sacrifice. To keep Hooba away, we make sacrifice.” The crowd murmurs. Energy evaporates. Sad eyes are on Chakka. He turns to the Chief. He knows he must make amends. “My fault . What must I do to make amends?” “You will make the sacrifice,” the Chief says. “Safin will lead a party to the pyramid. Bint and Boll will go as well. Recruit others. Not too many. Keep it small.” Chakka turns to look at Bint and Boll. His heart sinks. They look back, anger in their eyes for Chakka. They do not want to go into the forest to the Hooba’s home and possibly be hunted by the Dakma. He has put them in a dangerous situation. Chakka spins. “No. I go alone,” The Chief raises an eyebrow. He looks to the back of the crowd and taps his staff. From the back walks a mother holding a baby close to her breast. It is Sira, a close friend of Chakka’s. She looks back, a tear in her eye. She is widowed by a Dakma attack and Chakka has stepped in to help raise her children. Anger flows through Chakka. He spins and shouts, “No!” The Chief leans back and raises his eyebrows. “You will make sacrifice.” The eyes that were locked on Chakka now water and look down. Heads drop. “Go now,” says Safin to the crowd. “Enough of story time. Go back to your work.” The crowd obeys and shuffles away to their space under the stone shelter. The Chief looks to the elders and they file away in order after him. The chief glares at Safin and Chakka as he approaches with a knife. “This is the sacrificial knife.” He places it in Chakka’s hand. “With this you will make sacrifice.” He places a hand on Chakka’s shoulder and nods encouragingly. The council of elders follows. They all pat Chakka’s shoulder as they pass. Chakka has never held the relic. He studies the knife.Transparent blade like water, Unbreakable and never needs to be sharpened.The knife holds magical qualities. He must protect it with his life. Safin and Chakka watch the crowd leave. Chee puts the globe in the cart. Safin studies the crystal ball. “What is it?”

“I do not know,” says Chakka. “Never seen such a thing. Rolled to me from the shadow, then disappeared. I found it when I woke up in the jungle. It was in the cart.” “It looks like Makka’s eye,” says Chee. Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

“Makka’s eye,” Chakka says. “That we call it. What we do with it?” Just then, it glows orange from within. Chakka looks at it in amazement. He rests a hand on it, which warms and gives him comfort. He looks at Chee and Safin. “Touch it!” Chee touches it and smiles. “Magic,.” she says with awe. Safin lays a hand on it and grunts. A smile cracks his face. “Come, we take it home,” says Chakka. Chee pulls the cart and the wheels squeak. “See. Easier,” she says. She admires it as if she made it herself. Safin stops Chakka with a hand on his chest. He growls through clenched teeth, “Your children alone, your mother worry.” “I was just gone a short time. Why angry?” “You gone seven cycles.” Chakka’s jaw drops. “I just gone short time.” “No,” says Safin. “I know not what game play you.” He squints. “I challenged my father just to find you two and hunt whatever took you, and you just return like nothing happen? Now we make sacrifice? One of us must die, because you disappear and bring trouble. Now I must lead us down jungle pyramid road.You know what hunts that road.We all put in danger for this sacrifice, because of you two.” Chakka stutters, “I… we did not choose for this to happen. It happened to us. I do not know where I was. It felt like only a short time… one light cycle. I do not know if it was real.” Chee puts a finger on Safin’s chest. “I had same dream.You think I lie.” She pushes the finger and Safin’s eyes light up as he backs away from her, but she pursues him, continuing to tap her finger on his chest. “How do we get such things from dreams… from imagination?” She points to the cart with the crystal ball. Safin squints and studies the cart, then looks back to Chee. “No. I believe you.” “You saw it,” Chakka says. “You were there with me.” Safin stands close to Chakka. “I just want…” “I know.You not want to put others in danger. I am regretful of causing this for us.” Safin steps close to Chakka, staring him directly in the eyes. Any other member of the tribe would be intimidated by such a display, but Chakka knows Safin better than even his own father. His threats are all for show. He is as gentle as they come, yet ambitious and will do anything to realize his aspirations. Even lie and steal. He will come for the crystal and Chakka will not allow him to have it. Chakka stares back defiantly. Safin relaxes and backs away, looks at Chee, then back to Chakka. “I will leave you to say bye to Chee.” Safin says, “Time to go recruit.” He marches to the vine curtain, throws it aside. Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

“I will return,” Chakka says to Chee. He drops his head, unable to look her in the eyes. “I bring shame.” “No,” says Chee. She lifts his chin with her finger. “You did nothing. I will be here. Now go, recover your honor. Not for me, but for the elders. I am always here.” Chakka’s heart warms. He smiles. “I will return.” The trail stretches out before Chakka, Safin, and the rest of the party as they stalk toward the jungle pyramid. Safin leads in front of Chakka. Bint and Boll follow quietly behind, shielding Sira who holds her infant son, Sar. Zat, Shib, and Nost, who were recruited by Bint and Boll, follow Sira. The path is less open and clear than Chakka remembers. Fallen branches criss-cross the highway making for difficult passage. The jungle canopy waves and sways with the constant gale. The deafening rattle of leaves and whipping wind through branches drowns out their march. Safin knows the highway as if it were the palm of his hand. Every turn, descent, and climb. He knows where an ambush is likely and good places for rest and shelter. What is unknown is whether the Dakma still hunts here. So far, they have seen no sign of them. The balance of the forest is favorable. Its inhabitants chatter in a harmonious chorus. Chakka stays vigilant, not only for the Dakma, but also for the Frego. The forest watchers that fly in flocks high in the canopy. If anything is out of place an alarm will spread throughout the valley. The Dakma is known to use the Frego to locate prey. “How long will it take us to reach the pyramid?” says Sira. She will not hold anyone’s gaze and looks to the ground. Chakka’s gut wrenches. His own relatives have been sacrificed. He remembers the feeling of losing someone to sacrifice, but also knows the feeling of losing one to the Hooba.What the Hooba leaves behind demonstrates the brutality of the snatching. Blood and entrails left, and no sign of a body. Months later bones may appear, stripped of flesh. A horrible and less than honorable death. “A half day,” Safin says. “We will return before the bigsun is down.” A whimper and a sniffle are all Sira can muster in response. Boll and Bint run past Chakka, next to Safin. “What is our plan for the Dakma?” says Boll. “We only have seven plus Sira, who is useless.” “We have enough. If chief is able to kill Dakma alone we can kill one.” “We are not as big as Chief… you are not,” Bint says. Safin sneers at him. “I am bigger than you.” Bint cowers and falls back next to Boll. “Tell Zat left behind Sira, Shib right behind, and Nost last,” Safin says. “They remain vigilant at rear. We will remain in front. Me front, then Chakka. Boll behind me left, Bint right. If rear attack happens, those three hold spear wall toward attack. Bint flank left and charge, Boll flank right and charge, I launch spear from back. Chakka protects baby. If attack from front, switch tactics.We will rotate left and right for side attacks. Front holding the wall on both. Is good?”

Boll and Bint nod and relay the tactics to the rear. Safin nods to Chakka looking for approval. Chakka nods back in agreement. Chakka evaluates Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

the crew. Boll and Bint, two of the top warriors in the tribe. Their manes are not fully grown, but that does not matter. He has seen them fight and knows the mane is just for display. They will grow with time, and even challenge for Chief. Zat, Shib, and Nost are promising young fighters. They have each survived a moon cycle alone in the forest and taken down a full grown Bultipit to become adults. They can each take down something twice their size. The seven of them can kill a Dakma if they remain coordinated and keep their heads on top of their necks. If the Dakma hunt in a pack, that will be a different story. They will have to go to the trees. Hopefully they see only one, none would be better. Safin stops and turns to the group. “This is the last spot we can speak openly. From here forward, only bird whistle and hand talk.” He makes the signal for “understand?” They all signal “Yes.” Two hours pass. Several game animals have been open for the taking, but this is not a hunt. Taking an animal now would only raise alarms and reveal their presence. Seeing game is a good sign the Dakma is not near.The signs indicate one has not been on this road for many moon cycles. But Safin knows that does not mean one is not here now. An easy trap to fall into while deep in the jungle. Safin raises his fist to stop the party. A rock outcropping is ahead. He signals, “Rock, group, ahead. Approach, quiet. Clear, area, rest, eat.” The group responds with subtle clicks of the mouth in acknowledgment. Safin signals Bint ahead to scout. The rest crouch down and hide. Bint disappears into the foliage. No sound or sign reveals which way he went. They wait. Minutes pass. Chakka studies Sira and the infant, Sar, wrapped in soft grass seed fluff and leather. He quietly sleeps as Sira caresses his head. Sira’s wet eyes shift up, locking on Chakka. A tear drops from her cheek. Chakka’s heart melts in her eyes. His breath catches. He thinks of his own children, nieces, nephews, and cousins.The entire tribe a family. He does not want to do this. Every cell in his body rejects the tradition, but he has no choice. If he defies the order, he puts the entire tribe at risk and he would be banished. Leaving him to fend for himself, or to start a new group with others that have also been banished. Not desirable either. They are alone for a reason. He must redeem himself. A tap on the shoulder spins Chakka around. Safin points. In the gap of the rocks stands Bint who signals “Safe.” Safin leads the groups quietly to the outcropping. The roads path is becoming less clear. Now fully overgrown. And this side path to the rocks is gone. Passing through thick foliage even more risky as sounds increase. Leaves brush, sticks snap, ground moves. Safin takes up a spot with a good view of the valley below and pulls out a small ration of nuts and fruit. He signals to the group “Eat.” He signals for Bint to watch above, Boll to watch back down the road, the others to watch ahead on the road. Chakka sits next to Sira in the small shelter, hidden. All sides covered.The outcropping offers a view of the valley and surrounding area. Their scents carried above the forest floor. A safe spot for a stop. Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

Sira eats and feeds her baby without making eye contact with Chakka. Safin keeps looking back to her. They know the baby’s scent is an attractant to many predators, not just the Dakma. Chakka watches Sari feed her baby. How odd it is that they protect and feed this child only to later take its life. Does not seem to make sense.This baby could easily be his own. Could be Safin’s. Safin must be agonizing as well. Sira is one of the many mates vying for Safin’s attention since she was widowed. Safin had spent a lot of time with Sira. Chakka knows he desires her as a mate, but the current events will put the entire possibility into question. She could not trust him, thus recall her desires for him. If he cannot protect her child, he has no use to her. A flock of birds erupts from the trees just in front of the outcropping. Chakka looks to the tree, nothing visible. He then studies the floor below. He sees nothing, but something is off. Safin rushes air through his lips, short of a whistle. All of his warriors turn to him. He points down. A leaf rustles. Not more than ten leaps away lurks a Dakma back down the trail they took.Their outcropping did its job. Their scent lingered in the valley and has been broken up by the climb upward. They wait as the Dakma passes, tracing their path. However, the Dakma will eventually realize he is losing the scent and double back, then catch the scent up the side trail. They are blocked from retreating back home.Their only safety lies in the stone pyramid.They need to move now. Safin signals, “Let, pass. Caught, scent. Will, return. We, continue. Immediate.” He points, signals to Sira, and they quietly descend back to the road on the other side of the outcropping. Upon hitting the trail, signs of the Dakma are apparent. A wide path is pushed through the leaves. Dirt overturn from sharp claws. It is alone and large. Full-grown from the signs. They know that the likelihood of another Dakma being in the area is slim if one this large is around, so they can pass with more confidence and move quickly. They know the Dakma avoids all of the Hooba dwellings, so if they can make it to the pyramid, they will be safe. Safin signals to the group, “Make, pyramid, safe. Dakma, stay, away. Must, hurry.” The group doubles their pace. They must still remain silent and avoid being spotted by the Frego. The longer it takes the Dakma to find their scent, the better their chance to make it to the pyramid. What they do after is yet to be decided. An hour passes and they are making quick progress toward the pyramid. Chakka recognizes that the forest has gone silent, a sure sign the Dakma is near. Safin signals quickly over his shoulder, “Pyramid, close.” They enter the ravine. A pool of water marks the beginning of the climb. Safin points and signals, “Trail, Up.” The group looks up the ravine, a steep and long climb over rocks and through the stream as it zigzags across the water and up the mountain. This will give them an advantage, breaking up the scent path and confusing the Dakma. Safin barks quietly, “Go.”

He leads them in a sprint up the path. It shows signs of use from smaller animals. Both good and bad. The way is clear of obstacles, but many animals will be traveling on the path and drinking water from the stream. Speed is their only chance of getting to the waterfall entrance before the Dakma catches them. Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

They reach the first crossing. Safin stops the group with a fist held high, sniffs the air. Eder and Muskfish are about, but no predators or alarm callers. He waves them forward and sprints across the gap. Water splashes, but the falls mask the sound. He glances back as he runs. Chaka looks back. All safe across. They climb a narrow path twisting through boulders and tree trunks. A prime spot for an ambush, but Safin does not stop. The second crossing. A wide pool that only offers a way across at its outer edge on slippery rocks with a short leap to the other side. A narrow knife’s edge that is done with assistance, but time will not allow that. The crossing also exposes them to view from below. A risk they have to take. Chakka reaches for the baby and Sira pulls her child back. Chakka signals, “Give, baby. I, carry, across.” Sira pauses and Chakka frantically waves for her to do it. “You, cross, alone. Dangerous, carrying, child. I, carry.” Sira gives Sar over. Chakka sprints carrying the infant in one arm, balancing with the other, and leaps to the others side. Boll follows, then Bint. Sira is next. She slips on the rocks, sending scree falling into the stream below, leg hanging over the edge. From above a flock of Frego burst from the trees and their alarm echo down the valley. They have been spotted. The Dakma knows where they are now. From below, a hooting bark of the Dakma sends birds flying from the trees. He is close. Safin shouts, “Go.” Sira steadies herself, holding arms out to balance, reaches the crossing and leaps. Zat, Shib, and Nost easily cross and the group sprints up the path, Safin holding the baby. They reach the third crossing, a well-covered, but rocky crossing that requires dexterity. No time to look back. The Frego follow the party and continue their alarm calls. Several swoop down tapping their heads with beaks. They negotiate the third crossing and continue up the path. A loud splash sounds from below. The Dakma has leapt into the pool and swims across. The waterfall above roars, it is close. One more crossing. The terrain levels out and the forest opens up.The sky is visible from above and the Frego have left. A straight sprint to the next crossing. The trail winds left over a knob, then down a drop. A short loop around the small gully, then the waterfall. Safin leads them down the gully, leaps over the stream and begins to loop back from the back of the ravine—the waterfall in sight to his right. Legs and lungs burning. Rushing blood roars through Chakka’s ears. He looks back. Sira struggles to hold the pace. Nost holds one of her arms. Chakka waves his arms to encourage them to move quicker. They sprint, as quick as tired legs will allow them, to the waterfall and safety. Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

Chakka can smell the spray from the waterfall and the mildew of the damp cave behind. He makes it to the edge of the waterfalls and spins to wave Sira and Nost through. Ten leaps away sprints a black shadow up the path toward them. Chakka’s body freezes. He cannot move his legs or his arms. Bint looks at Chakka, eyes grow wide, and spins to see the Dakma. Bunt shoves Sari to Zat and Shib and waves Nost to continue. He wedges his spear into the ground at his feet and crouches. In a flash, the Dakma is on Bint with a lunge, takes the spear to the shoulder, and encloses Bint in one bite. The Dakma throws Bint up in the air and catches him, shakes his limp body and swallows him whole. The Dakma swats at the spears in its shoulder, breaking it off. Blood pours from the wound where the rest of the spear remains. Safin shouts,“Into the waterfall!” Chakka hands Sari her child as she passes. Boll and Nost stand their ground, facing the beast. It pauses and studies the two. A gruesome snarl rattles Chakka’s chest as the beast circles to the side to cut them off from the waterfall. He’s not finished eating. Boll and Nost slide to the side with the Dakma blocking its flank, spears pointed at the creature. The Dakma stalks forward, head lowered, and swats Nost with this right paw, sending him flying down the ravine. A blood curdling scream echoes through the forest. Boll launches forward sending his spear into the Dakma’s chest.The beast howls in agony and swats Boll with its left paw thrusting him into the rock face with a wet splat. Chakka sees his opening on the beast’s left chest. Without hesitation, he launches his spear at the Dakma and hits with deadly accuracy, piercing the center of the Dakma’s chest. The Dakma lurches back with a gurgling roar, landing on his back. The beast flails and rolls back on its haunches and sits up. Eyes locked on Chakka. It shudders, but remains standing. Chakka is weaponless, his only protection is the cave behind the waterfall. As he tip toes backward, the Dakma limps forward, one arm curled at its chest. Heavy water chills Chakka’s shoulders and falls over his head as he backs under the waterfall. He sees the rippling shadow of the Dakma through the curtain of the waterfall. Chakka trips backward over a slippery rock and falls on his back. The dark shadow of the Dakma recedes and fades away. Chakka leaps to his feet, and flounders up the greasy stone cave, eyes watching for another attack. He reaches the small opening and slides through. Panting and flopping feet echo in the dark tunnel. A light appears ahead. Warm, dry air. The scent of flowers. Sunlight. Spread out before Chakka is the warm jungle bathed in sunlight. Hidden within the twisting and choking jungle is the entrance to the Hooba’s home.A massive door stands stark against the green jungle. Safin, Shib, Zat, and Sari wait with eyes wide. Sari hugs Sar tightly. “Where are they?” says Shib. “Bint? Boll? Nost? Where are they?” Chakka’s eyes well up. An emptiness opens up within him. There are no words to speak. He walks up and brings them together in a hug. Their arms reach around Chakka comforting him. They crouch and mourn together.

“The Dakma will not follow,” Chakka whispers. “We need to go to the pyramid… then take road back home. I do not think it will bother us anymore. We put stone and wood into its flesh. Its blood feeds the forest. He will not hunt us again.” Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

Safin holds the ceremonial sacrifice knife before him. It’s yellowing, clear blade glistening in the suns. “Come. We do what we came for. We do it in their honor.” Safin looks at Chakka with new respect. They climb up the stairs to the black gate and to make their sacrifice.

23 Sacrifice | Erik Schutzman

Uncle Will by Janet Sarjeant THIRD P LACE Bonaparte was a long way from France. The small town in Virginia was not even that old by the standards of other Virginia towns, only incorporated in 1904. When the railroad finally made its way into that part of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the town started to grow along Chestnut Creek, and someone thought it was a satisfactory name. A Frenchman in the New World? An historian in those mountains? A lover of exotic names? Well, so be it — Bonaparte it is. I entered the town in the 1950s, born into an extended family of relatives because both my mother and father were born there. My Uncle Will lived there. My people may have lived there, but I never did because my parents moved away ( but not very far away ) when they married in the 1940s.Visiting, however, happened frequently, and my brothers and I did not even mind that our parents packed us into the car and made the thirty- mile trip many times a year. My Granny Ada’s home on Main Street never failed to entice: Coca-Colas in the fridge, treats from the “filling station” sitting catty-cornered just across the street, cousins living nearby within walking distance, and an attic dark and mysterious to explore whenever we wished. And Uncle Will was there.

Hard to explain our feelings toward Uncle Will. We children knew he was different, but he was ours and we accepted him “as-is”. “As is” — that phrase for accepting something just the way it is, maybe fixable, maybe not. Anyway, Uncle Will was there when we visited. We children called him “uncle” as we did many adult relatives who were not really uncles. Uncle Will was first cousin to my father and just a few years younger. Will’s older brother and younger sister had their own lives by the time I was born, so Will was the only one of his generation in the house. His crutches leaned against the wall beside his rocking chair when he sat in the living room.They leaned against the wall in the kitchen when he sat at the table, or against the outside wall of the house when he sat on the porch, or against the wall in his bedroom when he went to bed at night. The crutches leaned close by not for Uncle Will to pick up and use, but because someone always had to pull Will upright from a chair and place them under his arms for him. His mother, my great-aunt we called Aunt Ruth, would pull him up out of the chair, hold on to one hand or arm, and reach for the crutches. The crutches needed to be near. Once he had them, he could walk, sort of; the braces on his legs that kept his knees locked and his legs straight helped support him so he would not fall. His heavy walking movements went like this: one crutch forward, then a leg, the other crutch forward, then the other leg. A rhythmic four-beat measure. As a child, I could not have lifted him from the chair. None of us children could have. But we would grab the crutches for the adult who raised him, never giving much thought to it. In my early years, a Black man named Clarence came morning and nighttime to help him dress and start the day and undress him and end the day. After Clarence left each morning, it fell to Uncle Will’s mother or to my Granny Ada to help him. Ruth and Ada. They were sisters who lived together with Will in the Main Street house in Bonaparte

that had been their parents’ house before them. The two women had returned to the homeplace after their divorces, looking after their mother and father until they died. Will came along, too. “Mama!” Will would shout at any given time. Again, “Mama!” “I’m coming, Will,” Aunt Ruth would holler. It was only when I reached an age to think about such things that I pieced together what must have been the fabric of their lives.Will’s body had such limitations; enwrapped tightly in the womb by the birth cord, he was born in 1932 showing the effects of that binding. The cord had been wound around his head, around his torso, and around his legs, pinning his hands against his body and into their deformed shape, like a butterfly’s wings that, when they can’t open fully, solidify into a pleated shape forever. Will’s hands bent downward at the wrist and could not open. He was born misshapen and, therefore, entangled for the rest of his life in invisible cords. His restricted jaw would not let him word the language easily or eat food like others. His legs would not develop enough through the years to hold him. My Dad, his first cousin, told me that when they were young together, he would just pick up Will and carry him like a sack of flour under his arm and walk all around Bonaparte. Dad carried him to the movies and sat him down next to him in the theater. He carried him to the soda fountain in Martin’s Drug Store on Main and sat him on one of the little stools. He carried him to Round Hill Farm, Granny Ada and her husband’s dairy farm they had owned for some years before they divorced. “Bring Will when you come over,” Gertrude would offer when my father visited the Round Hill Farm. “He can sit right here on the porch while I snap beans or shuck corn,” she said. Gertrude, along with her husband Roland, were the couple who helped with the dairy and lived in a house on the property.There’s a picture of a young Will with Gertrude on her porch. Of course, I did not hear all these things until I was older and asked about some of those pictures in an old photograph album. Dad said Round Hill Farm gave Will a change of venue, much like the trips to Florida and Long Island for surgeries on Will’s legs and hands when there was more family money and more hope for some success that might lead to a more normal life for Will. The money and the hope must have run out eventually, just like Aunt Ruth’s marriage, and then the long years of living in the Main Street house began. I was older when I actually thought about Uncle Will having to call every time he needed to go to the bathroom. Will had to call every time he wanted to change rooms. He had to call if weather drove him from the porch. His internal thoughts stay hidden from me because I did not ask him what he thought. That interior space that we all have but take for granted as just one of our free spaces must have been different for Will, for he had so little freedom. He was not free to move unless someone got him started. He was not free to drive away or even walk “away.” Away — Where if anywhere did he want to go, I wonder. Would he have told me some of his thoughts if I had ever thought to ask him? Who knows. I didn’t ask him. Uncle Will remained “as-is” to my young self. We children did, however, fight over him. When I visited my Granny Ada and Aunt Ruth with my brothers and cousins, we raced each other to get to his kitchen chair and position that armless, red-vinyl, rolling chair so that when Aunt Ruth lowered him backwards onto it, his braced legs sticking straight out in front of him, the child who won the race got to roll him around on the linoleum kitchen floor and push him up to the table.Then a spoon or a fork was placed in his hand and he could feed himself the chopped-fine food on his plate. What did Uncle Will think about us, Uncle Will | Janey Sarjeant

the children, wanting Aunt Ruth or Granny Ada to cut up our ham or chicken into tiny little pieces, too? We begged for the cut-up food.The radio played the local news and the current hit songs, the children laughed at anything and everything, and the two sisters spoiled us. I can see Aunt Ruth stirring a pot on the stove, her whole body shaking because when she thought something was funny, she shook with laughter from stem to stern. One of Uncle Will’s pleasures on any given day would be to ride with his mother around Bonaparte in the big blue Chevrolet Impala Aunt Ruth had in those days. On pretty days, Will would be lifted from his chair and told to head to the car parked out back under the carport. Crutch, leg, crutch, leg. Four-beat measure. It took him a while to get there.There were two ramps attached to the house: one from the front porch to the grass in the side yard and one from the kitchen door to the carport.When he arrived at the car, he would lean against it and wait. He was often — maybe always — waiting. “Mama!” he would call. It was an effort to form the word, and his spittle often formed in the corners of his mouth. “Mama!” “I’ll be there in a minute, Will!” she would holler back, trying to finish up whatever she was doing while Will had taken the long walk to the car. “Can we come?” we begged when we visited. Ah, but we were savvy creatures. We knew the rides in the big blue car would often lead to The Dairy Bar, a drive-in on the outskirts of Bonaparte. Aunt Ruth let us ride in the backseat. Uncle Will always sat in the front, his legs rigid in front of him, his head and shoulders barely rising above the window ledge. And off we would go. It was fun. Ice cream or hotdogs or other treats awaited us at The Dairy Bar. The car radio would be playing songs that Aunt Ruth sang along to, particularly the ballads by Eddy Arnold, her favorite. “Make the world go away, and get it off my shoulders . . .” she sang with the radio. Sometimes Aunt Ruth, along with our grandmother Ada, took us all to the Drive-In Theater in the summertime. The Main Street theater in town was just too hard to get Uncle Will into anymore. You get the picture — anywhere one could just “drive in” and stop worked for Aunt Ruth and Uncle Will. The Dairy Bar, the Drive-In movies, the local football games where Aunt Ruth parked the car on a rise behind the field, and he could watch out the window.

Will was an ever-fixed mark in Bonaparte. He could be seen sitting for hours on the front porch of his house. He was recognized in his Mama’s car as they drove around town. He belonged to the town like the Old time Fiddlers’ Convention belonged, like the swinging bridge across Chestnut Creek belonged, like the 4th of July Parade stretching for blocks down Main Street with horses and riders prancing along at the end every year belonged. Main Street was busier in those days, and local people driving by, or walking by, would stop to say hello to Will. Or wave to Will. Or stare at Will. When my brothers and I visited, we witnessed this while we played in the front yard, laughing and running as we played Snake in the Gulley across the sidewalk leading to the porch, or games of tag or kick the can. Will was there, watching. What was he thinking as he sat there for hours? I see him sitting there on the porch smoking cigarettes . . . ah yes, I remember now. He could take a cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips. He took the book of matches and bent one at a right angle, folding the cover over the rest. He wedged the matchbook between his legs and, using his thumb, dragged the match head across the striking surface. How long did it take him to master this technique, I wonder now? How many burns did he suffer? How many Uncle Will | Janey Sarjeant

ashes fell on him or the floor or the chair? Granny Ada smoked, too. Did they share packs of Pall Malls and Chesterfields, the filterless brands my grandmother smoked? “Mama!” Will would yell when he needed something. “Mama!” A couple of times, when things probably got to be too much for Aunt Ruth, when she was older and had back trouble and had beaten breast cancer into submission, when she tried to balance all the finances with her sister and balance a life for herself with the ever-ness of taking care of Will, I witnessed a harsh exchange, an argument between mother and son. About what I can’t remember. What I do remember? Aunt Ruth coming into the living room where Will sat in his rocking chair in front of one of those boxy wooden radios from the 1920s and 30s. She is exasperated about something.Will is, too.There is a back-and-forth argument, and then Aunt Ruth sputters out, “Will, you’re killing me!” That’s what I remember.That’s the truth that just hung in the air for a moment, through the Pall Mall smoke or the radio’s voice, or through our voices playing marbles on the floor. “Will, you’re killing me.” The 1960s turned into the 1970s and 1980s for me and my brothers. We visited less in that Main Street house because we were off getting married, teaching school, working, living in other towns. Will kept sitting there in front of the radio, kept rocking in the wicker chair on the porch, kept riding around in his mother’s car until she died and Granny Ada died, and his sister took him in. His sister built a ramp from her side door down to the driveway. She drove him around Bonaparte like his mother had, and she cared for him until his own death in 1995. My brothers and I saw him rarely at his sister’s house, for our family and Will’s sister’s family were not close, familiarity undone by some estate-settling dispute over the Main Street house. All those years of my early life, Uncle Will was there in Bonaparte. My brothers and I still talk about how his presence touched our lives, and these talks usually lead to more questions than anything. What did Uncle Will think about his situation and that misshapen body of his? What feelings did he have about Clarence and Roland and Gertrude, who were paid to help keep him going? Did Will feel close to our Granny Ada, his aunt? Did our father do enough for his cousin, staying close to Will like he did growing up? Did Will have desires for women? For a career? Were my brothers and I kind enough? On and on go the questions. There is no one alive now who can answer most of these questions, so we search our memories for clues that help us unravel the mystery of Uncle Will’s internal life. I somehow sense that I have witnessed something important, that something about being human is revealed if I can remember enough, see enough in my memories. “Mama!” “I’m coming, Will!” “Mama!” “You’re killing me, Will.” I am at the age that Will was when he died. I think of him quite often and still talk to my brothers about our lives with Granny Ada, Aunt Ruth — and Will. That family of ours that came “as-is” because children usually accept the family that is theirs with few questions. Now I have Uncle Will | Janey Sarjeant

questions with few answers. But I can summon their faces, their bodies, their words anytime I want and bring them into the present. They are here with me. I remember a night in Bonaparte when I was about twelve years old. My older brother and I were on one of those rides in the big blue Impala, the Dairy Bar our destination. A waitress walks outside and up to our window to take our order. Will takes in the deep breath he needs in order to utter the words “Mama, ask her.” Aunt Ruth asks; “Is Gloria working tonight?” “No, she’s off tonight. What can I get for you?” We get our ice cream cones, licking them quickly before they melt in the warm air of summertime in Bonaparte. My brother and I are happy. We leave the drive-in and ride for a bit before turning onto a road that climbs a hill. Houses line the hillside. Darkness has descended, and we drive on, starting down the hill on the other side. Aunt Ruth is whispering to Will in the front seat. Something feels different, quiet and different. No Eddy Arnold on the radio, no laughing and talking. Suddenly, Aunt Ruth turns off the car lights. Down the hill we glide, slowly, slowly past the modest houses. The Impala makes almost no sound at all. We in the car make no sound. The night air comes in through the windows, and it seems the world of Bonaparte has slowed down. I lean forward from the back seat until my head is in-between Aunt Ruth and Will. Their heads are looking to the right as we glide past houses and then hesitate oh-so-briefly in front of one. Just a modest house with a front porch and a light behind the shade in the front room. Then a shadow of a person moves behind the shade. Uncle Will’s turned head is between me and the lighted window of the house, that house that held, well, what? Perhaps a kind waitress from the Dairy Bar named Gloria? What is Uncle Will thinking? Is it a house that perhaps holds dreams and desires only? For he must know, surely he must know that they will never be requited? Or perhaps it signifies something else — invisible cords, binding a mother and son as they watch a lighted window together?

28 Uncle Will | Janey Sarjeant

Den of Rhyme by Craig Faris HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N The old building was just as I remembered, despite the wisteria vines covering part of the rusted tin roof. Paint peeled from the clapboards above the front porch and the sandblasted sign that hung over it. The sign was round, carved to look like the Earth. Wood letters surrounding it proclaimed the building as the former home of the Globewalker Arcade and Grill. It served as a general store until the ’70s when the traffic moved to the interstate. In the ’80s, the owner’s son, Ed Glasscock, renovated it as the Globewalker, but that too had failed. A cool November breeze swirled leaves around my car like a flood of memories as I got out. I grew up here, rode to school every day, and stopped at this store for snacks on the way home. Down the road was the church we attended and where I got married. The best times of my life were spent in this community, but those fond memories intermingled with more recent images. The Globewalker had been empty for years before Ed suggested we use it for our local writers’ meetings. An aspiring writer himself, Ed cleaned it up and served sandwiches and spirits when the crowd was large enough. It usually was, and for five wonderful years, the Thursday evening critiques at the Globewalker stretched late into night. That is, until one Thursday, a decade ago, when a new member arrived. *

JULY 1999 She told us her name was PJ with no initials, and like the rest of us, she had difficulty finding her way into the building that first time. Ed posted a wooden sign over the front door which read: There are no doors into the Globewalker. Knock on the window. Having missed the sign, she almost left, but I caught up with her in the parking lot and invited her inside. She was young for our group, probably in her late twenties with shoulder-length, brown hair and hazel eyes. Gwen, our chapter president, told her she was allowed to attend and read at three meetings before joining. Membership was forty dollars, and I got the feeling PJ would have to scrape to gather that sum. That night, she brought several poems and, being late, she read last. Halfway into her work, I knew she was an extraordinary writer. Her word choices and descriptions filled us with vivid images. Our critiques covered her pages with checkmarks and words like “fabulous” and “wow.” I longed for more and felt slightly jealous. By the time we adjourned, most of us nursed a glass of wine or beer, but PJ sipped only a soft drink. She thanked several members, and then lingered to ask if I would walk her to her car. “There’s no streetlight,” she said. “Would you mind?” “Of course not,” I said. We headed outside toward the far end of the lot. “Do you live around

here?” “Not too far. We have a place at Cedar Valley.” Cedar Valley was a mobile home park. “So, where did you learn to write like that?” “I’m usually home alone, so I read a lot.” “That’s essential for writing.You have a real talent.” “I wrote in high school.” She walked slowly, as if prolonging the conversation. “I had pretty good grades in English, especially in creative writing.” “Your poems are excellent,” I said. “I’m not into poetry, but I know great similes when I see them.” She smiled. “You really think so?” “It’s not just me. Just wait until you read those critiques. Everyone loved them.” “That’s a sweet thing to say.” She unlocked the car door and faced me. “Are you coming back?” “This is the first time in years I’ve heard compliments on my writing. I’m hooked.” “Good. I’m looking forward to more.” “Thanks for showing me the entrance.” I extended my hand and she squeezed it. Maybe it was only my imagination, but it felt like she didn’t want to let go. *

2010 Although Ed had moved to Columbia with his family, he still owned the building. The day I phoned, our conversation was brief. “You mind if I look inside the Globewalker?” “Go ahead,” he said. “Take a flashlight. The fuse box is in the back closet. Switch it off when you leave.” “Do I need a key?” Ed chuckled. “That front door is like Fort Knox.You know how to get in.” Three iron pipes supporting the front porch grew out of cracked concrete where ancient gas pumps once stood. Wooden steps ran the full width of the building where Ed and I used to eat ice cream as kids. They were worn deep below the twin front doors attesting to the thousands of patrons who had passed through. The rusted screen doors had chrome push bars and still advertised Royal Crown Cola and Moon Pies as the “working man’s lunch.”

The skeleton key to the brass door locks had long since vanished and rather than replace the locks, Ed opted for an alternate entrance. On either side of the doors were solid, wooden shutters with a steel bar diagonally across them.The bar was secured with a foot-long pin that ran through one end into the wall. I twisted and pulled the pin, and it came free. Behind the shutters was a tall window, its bottom sill only three inches above the floor. A slight pull at the sill sent the counterweighted lower sash up six feet, and I stepped inside. Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

Using my cell phone flashlight, I located the fuse box and switched on the power. A row of dusty light bulbs dangling from long, twisted wires flickered to life, revealing a beadboard ceiling high above. During the Globewalker’s renovation, Ed added dark green felt wallpaper, and the long grocery counter was refinished as a soda fountain and bar. A thin layer of dust covered everything including the green barstools and tables with ladder-back chairs still hanging inverted from them. The bar became symbolic of our rite of passage into the publishing world. Tradition required that you stand on top of the counter and spew forth your greatest published achievement. On the faded walls, darker rectangles marked where pictures once hung of those who achieved that goal. A few remaining photos stared down from dust-shrouded frames. There was Millard, holding his award-winning poem, and Melissa with her long blonde ringlets. She was the first to perform the rite: climbing onto the bar, only to discover that it was best not to wear an above-the-knee skirt. Here, in this literary forsaken den, we had gathered, spilling out our hearts and emotions onto twenty-pound bond in double-spaced black ink, always in an attempt to move closer to the edge of the publishing abyss.Those of us who made it worked our poems and prose onto a hook as one might an earthworm and flung them as far as we could into the swirling maelstrom of unpublished manuscripts. Some only got a nibble; some a bite, but in landing our catch, each of us was careful that the literary trophy bass we longed for wasn’t a bottom-feeding carp. *

1999 By late August, PJ was a regular in the group and never failed to astound us with her writing talent. She said she was working on a novel, but the only selections she read were from short stories and poetry. She usually sat by me, and we exchanged notes about the boring or grammatically challenged critiques we suffered through. However, she showered my work with an array of accolades like “outstanding” and “brilliant.” She called me her mentor. It was flattering, especially to an overweight, middle aged man, but in truth, I thought she was the better writer. In one particular story, she placed her character inside an hourglass, using her fingers to push the sands of time back up through the neck, instead of a cliché about reversing the hands on a clock. “Where do you get those images?” I asked, walking her to her car. “I don’t know. There’s plenty of inspiration in my neighborhood.” “You mean Cedar Valley?” She nodded. “It’s a trailer park.” I smiled. “What a venue for literary intrigue. No wonder you write so well.” “Are you married?” The question took me aback. We had grown close but never shared these basics. “My wife is a teacher. We have two kids.” “I thought so, but you never wear a wedding band.” “It doesn’t fit my fat finger. I see a crease on your ring finger, but never a ring.” “I never wear it until he gets home. So, you liked my story?” Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

It was obvious that “he” wasn’t her favorite topic. “Yes. I think it could win a literary award.” “Really?” “There’s a competition at the Myrtle Beach writers’ conference in October. You could win hands down, but you have to register in order to enter.” “How much does it cost?” “The room and fees are $150, but there’s absolutely no better place to find an agent or editor.” She frowned. “Money is a little tight right now.” “If you win first place, you’ll get a check for a hundred bucks.” She mumbled almost to herself. “Maybe I could tell him I’m visiting my cousin Sheri in Murrells Inlet.” She threw both hands into the air and screamed, “Billy works the night shift in October!” Then she turned and planted a kiss directly on my lips. *

2010 I remember thinking it was nothing, but her impulsive reaction startled me. I should have known better and said something to my wife right then, but that’s not the kind of discussion that ever ends with “That’s nice, dear.” It creeps into conversations, is always present in an argument, and awakens you repeatedly at three o’clock in the morning.The truth was, that I was attracted to PJ, yet torn between the woman I truly loved and the prospect of this exciting temptation. My eyes turned to the beadboard ceiling of the Globewalker, to the very spot I had focused on a decade earlier. PJ’s final words came flooding into my thoughts. I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “Hello!” A deep baritone voice snapped me from my trance. “Is anyone in there?” “Detective Lee?” I called toward the store front. “Come through the window.” *

SEPTEMBER 1999 We had plenty of discussions in the weeks that followed. PJ apologized for the kiss and said that she couldn’t imagine how Billy would react if he found out. “Is he abusive?” I asked. “Not physically, but he yells and ignores my needs. He hasn’t read any of my stories since high school, and he treats me like some life support system for his sex toy.” “Have you considered divorce?” “Of course, but I have no job, no money, and my parents haven’t spoken to me in years.” She nodded at the pages in her lap. “The only positive thing in my life right now is this.” “Are you reading that tonight?” “No, it’s part of my novel. I’ve been working on it for years, but it’s not ready to present.”

“I’d love to read it sometime.” “Well, maybe after the conference. What are you working on?” Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

I fingered my pages. “It’s the beginning of a new book. Actually, it’s about all of us, our group and this place where we meet and share critiques, but I’m struggling with the ending.” She took the pages and studied the cover. “A Den of Rhyme. I love the title.” “Yeah, so far that’s as good as it gets.” “Maybe your ending hasn’t happened yet. Just let it flow.” She laughed. “Like I’m the expert. You’ve won how many literary awards?” I looked down, embarrassed. “You’ll be next. We meet two weeks after the conference, and it will be your turn to stand on the bar. Be sure to wear jeans.” She smiled and poked me in the side. “If I win, I’m wearing the shortest black skirt you’ve ever seen, and everyone can admire my red panties because I won, and I won’t give a damn!” *

2010 I met Detective Robert Lee only once, back when he was the sheriff’s department investigator assigned to the case. I helped him navigate the window entrance and we sat at the same table again. “Thanks for bringing the file.” “For what it’s worth,” Lee said, “this case was closed years ago. So, you found her?” “I’m not sure. Even though we were friends, I never knew PJ’s real name. Her husband’s name was Billy. I can’t remember his last name.” Detective Lee opened the file and flipped pages. “Billy Joe Ratford. His nickname was Rat. PJ’s name was Pamela Jane Ratford.” Pam seemed too quaint for her, but it confirmed my findings. “Was her maiden name Woodbridge?” “It doesn’t say. How did you find her?” “Years ago, I outlined a novel about a writers’ group, but it didn’t have a climax. Before our 1999 writers conference, I told PJ the basic storyline, but after the incident I quit writing. Three years ago, I found the perfect ending and finally finished it. I always do an internet search on titles before sending out a manuscript. That’s when I discovered that a New York novelist, Pamela Jane Woodbridge, had received a six-figure advance for her book, The Den of Rhyme. The synopsis is almost exactly the same plot, and that was my title.” “She stole your novel?” Lee said. “The plot idea. It was only an outline.” Lee began flipping through the case file. “There are a lot of unanswered questions here. What exactly happened at that conference?” *

OCTOBER 23, 1999 On Saturday evening, all of the conference attendees gathered in the main ballroom for dinner, drinks, and the keynote speaker’s address. Six members of our chapter sat together awaiting the announcement of the writing competition winners. Everyone cheered when Melissa’s poem, Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

Hellfire Hath No Fury Like the Backseat of a ’48 Ford, won first place. My entry, Silent Assault, was the nonfiction winner, and we all held our breath to see if PJ’s story would place in the short fiction category. When they announced her name as the first-place winner, she shrieked, and we cheered her on stage. I’ve never seen anyone get so excited about a certificate and a hundred-dollar check. Afterwards, Gwen hosted a party for us in her room with several agents and editors in attendance. PJ was on top of the world and shared the news of her award with anyone who would listen. She came up behind me as I refilled my drink in the kitchen and whispered, “I brought my novel. Help me find my room, and I’ll let you have a peek.” She seemed tipsy and, despite my misgivings about going to her room, I was curious about the novel, so I agreed. However, in the elevator and walking down the hall, I began to feel uneasy. PJ appeared sober and easily found her room and key. She opened the door, but I remained in the hallway. “I should head back down.” “Quit being silly,” she said, nodding over her shoulder. “My computer is right there on the table. Go take a look while I visit the restroom.” I followed her to the table where she opened an expensive laptop and scrolled down to chapter six. “I think you’ll find this interesting.” I sat and began reading, but this story was unlike anything PJ shared at our meetings. The scene was erotic, and the further I read the more the main character’s description began to look like me. “So, what do you think?” she said, her voice inches behind me. “Uh, I think if my wife ever—” My words froze as I saw her reflection in the dresser mirror. I stood and turned to find her completely nude. “You wanted a peek,” she said, moving closer. Her stunning beauty was every man’s fantasy. She pressed her mouth to mine, wrapped one leg around my thigh, and ran fingers through my hair. I tried to say “no,” but her lips covered my words and her hand slid down past my belt. It took all of my moral strength to push her away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t do this.” “Come on, let’s celebrate,” she whispered. “We’ll do it here on the floor. I need someone who makes me feel cherished. No one will ever know.” “I’ll know! “PJ, you know I like you… but if we do this, I’ll lose everything — my wife, my kids, and I’ll never forgive myself.” She watched as I straightened my clothes, saying nothing, nor bothering to get dressed. When I reached the door, she said, “Don’t tell anyone, ok?” I nodded and left. *

2010

Detective Lee stared at me, transfixed by the story. “So, you’re saying you two never had sex?” “That’s all that happened,” I said. Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

“Did you see her again?” “I planned to let PJ have her celebration and afterwards to stop attending. She was too great a temptation. I thought about it for two weeks before deciding to attend the next meeting.” “This is all starting to make sense,” Lee said. *

NOVEMBER 4, 1999 True to her word, PJ showed up at the Globewalker in a thigh-length, black dress. She sat beside me and whispered, “Don’t worry. That won’t ever happen again.” I told her we needed to talk, and then she announced to the group that she had to leave early and asked to read her piece by 8:00 p.m. We critiqued others for a half-hour and while Melissa was climbing onto the bar, PJ excused herself to use the restroom out back. When she returned, Melissa was finishing up. PJ climbed onto the bar, revealing that the red panties were actually her high school cheerleader shorts. A few minutes into her story, we heard the deep rumbling of a truck engine outside, followed seconds later by pounding on the front door. Gwen went to investigate, and PJ yelled, “Lock the window!” A man in his late twenties threw up the window sash with such force that it cracked the pane. He stepped inside and surveyed the room. “What the hell is this?” He glared at PJ on the bar. “What, are you stripping now?” “Go home, Billy,” PJ growled. “It’s not like that.” “We’re a writers’ group,” Gwen interrupted. “She’s reading her—” “Shut up, bitch!” “You need to leave,” Gwen said, brandishing her cell phone. Billy pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his waistband and pointed it at Gwen’s face. “You got anything else to say?” Gwen shook her head, and we all shrank into our chairs. “That slut up there is my wife, and we’re both leaving.” “I’m not going anywhere, Billy,” PJ said. “I filed for divorce today.” Billy pointed the revolver at her. “I know what you’ve done. I read your story, you whore!” “That’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do once I’m rid of your sorry ass.” “Here’s your divorce, bitch!” The gun exploded with a deafening sound. PJ crumpled and fell off the far side of the bar. Screams filled the room, and everyone ran for cover. Then Billy spotted me. “There you are, you bastard!” I raised a hand. “Look, I didn’t do anything. I —” “I saw what you did to my wife,” he hissed, the revolver pointed at my chest. “Freeze!” a voice yelled,“and drop your weapon!” A sheriff’s deputy stood by the front window, his pistol aimed at Billy’s back. “Now!” Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

Billy just grinned at me and squeezed the trigger. *

2010 “Being shot feels nothing like I imagined,” I said. “The impact knocked me off my feet and a sharp, burning sensation pierced my left shoulder. I remember lying on the floor looking up at red lights reflecting off the ceiling. Someone said, ‘He’s dead,’ and I wondered if Billy had killed me. I was so angry at Billy for shooting his wife, angry at PJ for dragging me into their relationship, but mostly angry at myself for getting involved. Someone pressed down on my left shoulder, and then PJ leaned over me, saying, ‘I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.’” “That’s not what Gwen heard,” Detective Lee said. “What?” “Gwen was holding a bandage to your wound. She heard PJ say, It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” “What’s the difference?” “This way implies premeditation,” Lee said. “You mean she planned it?” “Absolutely. The first round in Billy’s revolver was a blank, and PJ claimed she fell off the bar. When questioned, she said Billy always kept a blank in the gun to scare off burglars, but that sure was a convenient excuse.” “A damn clever one if she replaced the bullet,” I said. “But how could she know that the sheriff’s deputy would show up right before Billy squeezed off a live round?” “Our 911 operator got a domestic disturbance call at 7:50 p.m. It came from the pay phone outside.” “Her restroom break?” “Yes. She claimed she suddenly remembered leaving the laptop on and was afraid that Billy might see it when he got home. Her testimony that she was trying to prevent a crime was key to her case with the insurance adjustors.” “What insurance?” “She collected a million-dollar life insurance policy on Billy that was purchased in July. Plus, when we investigated their trailer, Billy had smashed her laptop screen with his fist. It had a Logitech camera attached, and we found a video on the hard drive showing you reading her story and then her, naked, kissing you. The scene of you leaving was missing, but there was a scene with just her legs sticking up from the floor in a V-shape, with her moaning your name and giving you some rather interesting directions… Convincing stuff.We thought it was you, but obviously it was edited for someone else. We also found evidence that she was supplementing her erotic writing income with an amateur porn site.”

My mind spun in disbelief. “She wasn’t broke? She left that video where Billy would find it?” “Right beside the divorce notice. We also found a printed copy of that erotic chapter you Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

mentioned, along with your business card. It had the Globewalker’s address scribbled across it.” “I gave her that card the night we met,” I said, her scheme becoming clear. “She used that story and the video to infuriate Billy, then called the cops knowing he wouldn’t back down. She set all this up to get rid of him.” “Why not you as well?” “Me?” “Someone needed to die to make sure Billy either got life or the needle,” Lee said. “Plus there was that fabulous story idea with only you in the way.” It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, she had said. “I wasn’t supposed to live?” “Probably not, but either way it still worked in her favor. Billy got the grave, and you quit writing.” “Can she still be indicted?” “With what? She didn’t kill anyone. Billy shot you. The insurance company couldn’t even prove causation. But you might have a civil case with your book.” “No.” I sighed. “You can’t copyright an idea or a title.” I thanked Detective Lee for his research, then turned out the lights and closed the shutters on the Globewalker Arcade and Grill one last time. As we shook hands, he said, “PJ’s plan was flawless except for one thing.” “What’s that?” “You lived. She may have gotten away with it, but she isn’t the only one who can write.” *

2012 The New York bookstore on Broadway was huge with several areas designated for author book-signings on the first floor. I waited in a line behind an overweight, dark-haired woman, a burgundy sweater covering her rounded shoulders. She had PJ’s novel clutched in the crook of her arm and I caught a glimpse of a quotation printed on the back of the dust jacket. The words were familiar, spoken as my angry response to PJ’s I’m-so-sorry line while I bled on the floor, “I just want to get the hell out of this literary forsaken den of rhyme and go home to my family.” Those words, my words, now graced banners and the covers of stacks of books around us. Over the years my anger had faded into regret, unaware that PJ had built her deception as one might a rock wall, stacking layer upon layer, turning each stone until it fit perfectly. Detective Lee’s statement had reignited that fire, and in my arms was all the ammunition I would ever need. Burgundy Sweater collected her signed copy and moved away, revealing that Pamela Jane was still attractive, a little pale, but had barely aged. Her hair was now shorter, gold-rimmed glasses were perched low on her nose, but she looked like she had a head cold or the flu, a box of tissues within reach. Looking up, she gave me an unrecognizing smile and took the novel from my hands. PJ frowned at the title and said, “This isn’t my—” her mouth froze as she read my name on the cover. She struggled for words. “Oh…so you… finally wrote a book.” Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

“My second,” I said, glancing around. “Since you quoted me in yours, and stole mine.” “It wasn’t…” she coughed. “It was only an idea.” “Yeah. My idea and my title!” “You can’t—” “Copyright an idea? I know.This is my new book: a gift for you, since we were such close friends.” “Oh.” PJ opened it. “Self-published?” “Hardly. They expect five thousand copies could be sold by next month. Tomorrow I’m doing the morning news circuit.” She swallowed hard. “What’s it about?” “It’s right there on the dust jacket.” I recited the line aloud. “An aspiring young writer sets up her husband’s death-by-cop, collects his insurance, and then steals her lover’s story.” Her face paled. “You can’t prove that.” “Relax, PJ. It’s only a novel.” “I was… cleared of any—” “Wrongdoing? Detective Lee says they have a new tech lab with some amazing equipment.They were able to salvage an erased video from your old hard drive, along with my deleted outline.” She stared at me, her mouth agape. “They also found some kind of checklist that you wrote a week before the shooting. It was quite detailed. He’s contacted your insurance company and publisher. They seem real interested.” “But… you never wrote it.” “I didn’t?” I pointed to my quote on her dust jacket. “It seems that legally only a few lines are grounds for plagiarism.” Her cheeks were now white, her lips blue. “I… I have an attorney.” “Good.You’ll need one.” PJ put a hand over her mouth and tried to stand. Then heaving, she threw up on a stack of her new novels. “Well, it’s time to sign my books. Good luck in prison.” I walked away feeling much lighter on my feet. A line was already forming in front of my table, now joined by those escaping from the odor and mess at PJ’s. Someone asked, “What was that about?” I gave him my novel. “It’s called A Murder in Prose.”

38 Den of Rhyme | Craig Faris

The Path Home by Brian Wilson HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N This work is a fictional dramatization based on actual events in the life of the author.The views and opinions expressed in the story are those of the characters only and do not necessarily reflect or represent views or opinions held by the individuals on which their characters are based.

Standing on the two largest pavers of the drive leading from my garage door, I looked up. Morning never seemed to come this early before. Even as a prior orthopedic surgeon, I had always risen early, but not this early. The neighbors still called me “Dr. Samuelson”. I knew my first name was Steve - only because my driver’s license had “Steve” listed as my given name. For over three decades, I had dutifully awakened, slipped into my Lexus, and driven off to the hospital. It had been years since I paused to look up at a night sky. Orion, Gemini, Aquarius, they were all there. February’s waning crescent moon made Venus appear brighter in the eastern sky of the wee morning hours. Taken back to my boyhood days, I remembered first learning what a constellation was.Why I remembered the layout of the stars in the sky, and not the layout of my bedroom - well, I had no idea. The temperature was dropping. Even with my thick terrycloth bathrobe, the thin hair on my lower legs had begun to stand on end, attempting to warm my body. Rubbing my toes against each other helped lesson the chill of the cool night biting breeze. Why hadn’t I taken time to slip on some moccasins before coming outside to bid my oldest son off? Shivering, I pulled my robe tighter with one hand, and slowly waved goodbye to Nathanael with the other. Nate had been staying with me since my most recent hospitalization. This time, the doctors told me I had drowned. The physicians in our local emergency room knew me well. Evidently, I had totaled a couple of Lexus, and had drowned once before - all within three years. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. I couldn’t remember. With the type of seizures that plague me, you often don’t remember the few minutes surrounding the fit. You have to rely on the doctors - what the doctors tell you.You have to trust what they say. Being a physician, I knew that sometimes they didn’t tell you everything. This time they wouldn’t let me leave the hospital without a “caretaker” at home to assist me. At least, that’s what they said. But, I knew better. I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. After surviving two ugly divorces, I could take care of myself. It was all just legalities. They just didn’t want to be responsible for anything that might happen to me after I left the hospital. The real reason I was being discharged was my insurance company wouldn’t authorize any rehab, so the doctors had just sent me home. Transitioning from a twice divorced, self-reliant professional, to someone who was dependent on public transportation was humbling for me. The physicians said it “wasn’t safe” for me to drive anymore. I suppose they were right. My automobile insurance rates had skyrocketed. But it was my legs that were the real problem.They were spasming rhythmically now in the cool night breeze. Walking had never been a challenge before. Constant muscle jerks had changed all

that. My legs no longer worked like they used to. “Something to do with your nerves” the doctors kept telling me.Then, there was the stabbing pain on the left side of my right knee. It was constant. I vaguely remember having stumbled sometime during the night trying to get to the bathroom since arriving home from the hospital. Surgery hadn’t helped the torn meniscus. Evidently that thin membrane of cartilage between your femur and tibia wears out with the passing of time. It seemed everything was falling apart now. Remembering how confused I was in the hospital when my feet wouldn’t turn flat to the floor while attempting to stand for the first time, was still frustrating - And that was with two physical therapists at my side! To be honest, I was just grateful just to be limping now. Three weeks in the intensive care unit had taken its toll. I had lost twenty pounds - a pound for each day on the ventilator. Now, none of my clothes fit. Even my favorite jeans wouldn’t stay up without a belt. And I couldn’t find any of my belts. No matter, one would show up. Everything showed up, eventually. Everything I owned was all still in the house - somewhere. I just couldn’t remember where. There were lots of things I couldn’t remember now. Things I should know - my phone number, my ex-wife’s name, and how many children I have. The medicine helped some, when I remembered to take it. Peering into the distant darkness, the taillights of Nate’s car were barely visible as he rounded the corner onto the main road. It was just me now, alone and barefoot, balancing on two unstable legs in the moonlight. My son had protested leaving. He said I wasn’t ready to live on my own yet. I assured him I was. To prove it, I had placed all eight of my new medicines in separate containers according to the exact time of day I was to take each one. It was his idea. Turning my ears to the north, I could hear the wind drifting across the treetops. Yet the cool air surrounding me was strangely still. The air’s stillness was a quite a contrast to my rhythmic trembling. And the biting cold made my tremors worse. Looking westward, I wondered if a storm might be approaching. Following the resonance, my head turned slowly all the way around to the south.With eyes wide open, I struggled to visualize what was just over the crest of the hill. I knew it was familiar, but in the dark, I just couldn’t remember. Waning fall moonlight penetrated the clouds, descended downward, and came to rest upon the trailhead of the neighborhood path. Of course, how could I forget? That’s where the neighborhood path began. Since I couldn’t swim or ride a bike anymore, I had taken to walking the neighborhood path for exercise. Walking was supposed to help the tremors that plagued me now. Our neighborhood path twisted and turned as it looped its way around the houses. Its sharp turns and differing elevations made the path more challenging now. Most of the footpath meandered through a dense wooded area just behind the neighbors’ properties.That was the most exhausting stretch. It was also the most refreshing. A small babbling brook weaved its way underneath an old wooden bridge. You could always count on experiencing something interesting while walking the path; if you kept your senses attuned to the natural beauty of the surrounding woods. Yesterday, I had heard cardinals courting each other under the pine canopy. The cardinals were always the first to wake up, and always before sunrise. But this morning, it was still far too early for even the cardinals to be awake.

Afternoons were the safest time for me to walk the path. In broad daylight, I had fallen more The Path Home | Brian Wilson

than once. Finishing the full mile and a quarter loop was something a man who walked haltingly could be proud of. If I stumbled in the afternoon, there was usually someone who would eventually come by. They would always stop to help me stand up, until I could gain control of my legs again. It was that bum knee of mine - or maybe the constant quivering, that made my legs occasionally just give way. Shaking muscles, no longer controlled by motor nerves, had made an invalid out of a once prominent surgeon. Sometimes the tremors weren’t noticeable, but they always were there. Involuntary tremors were a part of my life now. And any physical activity using your legs was supposed to help the tremors. But at night, the path was a world of its own. A symphony of natural sounds filled the air - sounds you never heard during the day. The hoooing of owls overhead, piercing chirps from countless crickets, and squirrels scampering across decaying leaves - all sounds of life usually hidden - they filled the woods once the sun descended. I had walked the path at sunset, but never at night. Pausing, I pondered. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees. And the wind - I could feel it on my twitching legs again. A storm was approaching. Sure, it was cold, but it would only take me 20 minutes to finish the full loop. I’d be able to knock out my physical therapy for the day, before the rain started. If my bare feet became too cold, the dry needles lining the path could provide some relief. And today - today, I wouldn’t have to conceal my limp from the neighbors. I knew they talked about me. What happened to Dr. Samuelson? Why doesn’t Dr. Samuelson drive anymore? Why does Dr. Samuelson always stutter now when he speaks? Studying the night sky, I accepted it was probably still too early to attempt walking the path. Sunrise wouldn’t come for a couple of hours.There wasn’t even enough light for shadows to form against the blackness. Still, challenges had always breathed new life into me. I could usually finish the entire loop with a couple of Motrin; before, and after. Of course, this morning I hadn’t taken any Motrin before bidding my son goodbye. Scanning the night sky, only half the stars were visible now. Cloud cover was moving in quickly from the north. With the faint remaining starlight, I could barely make out the old dilapidated sign marking the entrance to the path. Technically, the footpath was only open between the hours of 6 AM to 10 PM. “Use at your own risk” it read. No matter - I wouldn’t actually be breaking the rules. I was more worried about being seen by an unknown neighbor. The last thing I needed was somebody posting a picture of me in my bathrobe at night, on the neighborhood social media site. Glancing back toward my house, I wavered on whether to venture ahead at this early hour. High-pitched pinging from hidden bats urged me on. Flickering fireflies beckoned, promising to light my way. My breathing quickened for some reason - probably just the residual fluid in my lungs. Before leaving the hospital the pulmonologist had had told me my lungs weren’t quite back to normal yet. He said it would take a few weeks for them to clear. It had already been eight weeks. I thought they should be working better by now. With a bit of trepidation, I stepped onto the trailhead. The meandering path was fairly easy to follow during the day. But this was different. There was nothing to focus on. Walking in the darkness was like walking with my eyes closed at physical therapy. Oh, I could do it. I had done it several times during my therapy sessions. In fact, I was getting fairly good at it.Taking the first step, The Path Home | Brian Wilson

I convinced myself to get going before someone actually did see me. Today I would knock out my assigned therapy before the first rays of daylight. Following the serpentine path down into the forest, blackness quickly enveloped me. I stopped. Silently, I chastised myself for not bringing a flashlight. Remembering phones were equipped with lights now, I reached into my bathrobe pocket. It was empty. Twisting in the dark, I checked the other pocket. Hmmm, that’s strange. I was sure I had placed my phone into my bathrobe pocket before exiting the garage.Turning once again, I peered into the darkness. From which direction had I come? My feet told me I was standing on pine needles. Somehow I had already strayed from the footpath. Conscience-stricken, I knew it had to be near. Rotating slowly in the dark, my toes felt for an edge. Finding one, I whispered out loud, “Thank God.” The tree canopy blocked any remaining starlight. It was now pitch black all around me. Which way was forward? Which way was back? I had no idea. Fumbling with my toes, I floundered along the edge of the pine needles, seeking any clue that might guide me back to safety. Suddenly pausing, I silently pondered, “Why head back now? You’ll miss out on whatever thrills the path might reveal at night.” Motionless, I mulled over the pros and cons. Then, inhaling deeply, I choose to advance downward, deeper into the woods. The fact that my feet were bare was actually helping me discern where the path’s edge faded into the forest. The distant sound of water dripping over pebbles assured me the creek was not far ahead. I knew where I was - sort of. Limping in the dark proved to be more challenging than I had imagined. Unfamiliar pains radiated out from my injured right knee. Why hadn’t I taken a moment to put on my knee brace? If I could just make it a little further, I could support myself on the railing of the old wooden bridge. As I recall, the old wooden bridge was near the beginning of the path. But then again, my memory was still a bit fuzzy. “Owe!” Something hit me in my right eye. Flailing my arms in the dark, the back of my hand struck what felt like a hanging tree limb. “Humph!” I don’t remember a limb dangling that low over the path. Despite repeated blinking, the sting didn’t go away. Something had scratched my cornea. Or worse - something was stuck between my cornea and upper eyelid! Both my eyes had been dry since leaving the hospital. I had purchased some lubricating drops, but they were at my house - along with the Motrin and my phone. The night wind was gusting now. Wrapping my robe tighter helped protect against the wind’s unmerciful bite. Cold, clammy air confirmed a storm was near. Should I keep going? Guessing I was probably about halfway, either way would be about the same distance to my house. There was no one was around to ask. There was no one was around to help. I was beginning to feel something damp on my soles. The faint sound of trickling water was still too distant for the dampness to be creek water. Perhaps the high humidity had coated the ground with an extra covering of dew.

Somehow I needed to lift the bottom of one foot up to my fingers. Perhaps those ridiculous yoga poses I had been learning might help. My physical therapist had strongly suggested I enroll in what was supposed to be a gentle yoga class. “Learning to balance again will help retrain your leg muscles” he said. Being 52 years old, I was the only male in a class of twelve older women. The class was anything but gentle. But I do have to admit; it was helping me to learn to balance again. The Path Home | Brian Wilson

Somehow, I needed to lift one foot up to ascertain where the dampness was coming from. Hmmm… was it tree pose, eagle pose, or pigeon pose? I should have paid more attention in class. Increasing confused in the dark, I couldn’t remember the names of the poses, let alone how to do them. Stork Pose was something I was still struggling with, but I could do it, at least for a few seconds. Balancing on my left leg, I managed to twist my right foot above and in front of my left knee. With two fingers, I wiped along the entire length of my right sole before it fell to the ground. Only then was I able to bring the wet substance to just under my nostrils. I inhaled. Dabbing my tongue on my index and middle finger tips confirmed its origin. Despite a poor memory, this surgeon knew the scent of fresh human blood. Limping haltingly in the dark had rubbed the balls and heals of my feet raw. Now, only a mix of flayed skin, dirt, and sticky blood separated my body from the path that was supposed to provide me with new strength and vigor. Abruptly, the path made a 90-degree turn to the right, then began ascending again. At last! Soon I would emerge from the woods. It would be only a short, couple of hundred feet until I arrived at the drive leading up to my garage door. With every other breath, tiny spasms began skipping along my diaphragm - a bad sign. Involuntary tics of my diaphragm muscle often portended an oncoming seizure. Did I take my medicine last night? I couldn’t remember.Yesterday morning, I was sure I had placed the two anticonvulsant pills I take at 9 p.m. into their proper section of my daily pillbox. As for taking them - I just couldn’t remember if I had, or if I hadn’t. Frantically, I floundered deep within my bathrobe pocket, searching for a pill - any pill. I had learned the hard way to keep an extra anticonvulsant in various pockets for times like these. Finding an oblong tablet, I placed it on my tongue and forced it down without any saliva. If it were going to help, it would take several minutes. Meanwhile, the involuntary tics radiating along the entire surface of my diaphragm were increasing in their forcefulness. My teeth began to chatter. Legs, arms, teeth - they were all shaking. It wasn’t the cold air. Muscle spasms were all too familiar to me. I knew the difference. Overwhelming fear welled up in me, flooding my whole. “Please God. Don’t let me have a seizure out here.” I just wanted to make it home again. Home, where I could get some water, and bandage my bloodied feet. Shallow quick breaths no longer satisfied my hunger for air. No matter how much I attempted to inhale, not enough air managed to go in. In between each wind gust, I could hear the faint echo of fountain spray hitting a water surface. Wasn’t there a pond with a fountain directly across from my house? I couldn’t remember for sure, but I could conceptualize one. On hands and knees, I inched onward. Agonizing pain gripped the whole of my body. Knees raw from thorns and thistles only added to the torment. Collapsing, I could neither inhale nor exhale. My lungs - my lungs were filling up with some sort of fluid. Propping up on elbows helped some. A drop hit my hand. The fountain! I was close. Bringing the back of my hand to my lips, I licked the water I so desperately needed, immediately spitting it back out. It wasn’t fountain spray water! The taste of more fresh blood was nauseating. Shallow quick breaths had desiccated my lips. Gently opening my mouth I could feel two large fissures separating my lower lip into three separate pieces. Fresh blood flowed freely from each fissure, dripping steadily to the earth, like clockwork. The Path Home | Brian Wilson

In the east, the horizon was just beginning to lighten. Directly above, only the North Star was visible through the clouds. Daybreak would come shortly. Soon someone would find me. This section of the path ran parallel to old Rawlinson Road. In the distance, I could make out two headlights approaching. Lifting both my rhythmically spasming arms, I frantically tried to wave in the direction of the oncoming driver. He would stop. Someone had always stopped to help me. An old pickup truck approached, its headlights blinding. Once again, I had been saved by fate. The dark pickup truck slowed down deliberately; then continued on, gradually regained its previous speed, leaving me alone in the night. Bewildered, my arms dropped exhausted - forearms still flapping symmetrically. Why hadn’t they stopped? Someone had always stopped. Someone had always come to my aid when I couldn’t help myself. I needed water. I needed air. With the dim morning light, I could make out a mailbox between where I lie, and a garage door. Inch by inch, I forced my chest upward, leaning against the mailbox for support. Intense spasms of uncontrolled muscles made breathing arduous. With my chest elevated, I could inhale a bit more. Each gasp encouraging me to press on. It might be my mailbox. It looked like my garage door. The path had taken its toll. Where skin once protected, raw flesh now lay bare. Leaning against the mailbox post gave my bloodied elbows some relief. With my neck jerking rhythmically, I attempted to focus in the direction of the garage door. Despite open eyes, I couldn’t see. Everything was blurry. Blinking repeatedly, I could make out a faint light - the keypad! If I could just crawl to the large paver under the keypad, I could lift my spasming arm - I could force my flopping wrist towards the dim light of the keypad. My fingers could find the proper keys in the dark and press them in the proper order. The garage door would rise. I vaguely recalled a case of bottled water stored on the floor in the corner, just on the other side of the garage door. I could get some water. I could get some air. Suddenly, a bright light engulfed me where there was no light before. Confusion shrouded my thinking.Where was I? What was I trying to do? A code - the code! I couldn’t remember the code. Warm fluid welled up in my chest, filling my lungs. Short quick breaths no longer sustained my craving for air. Exhausted, my arm dropped. Despite the breaking dawn, my eyes could no longer sense any light. Touching my eyes with the back of my trembling fingers, my eyes were open, but no light came in. Vibrations from a phone echoed through the garage door. “Dad! Dad! Answer the phone!” Leaning on my right elbow, I was able to inch the fingers of my left hand up the painted wallboard where the keypad had to be mounted.Yes! Even though I couldn’t see the keys, I could feel them. Determined, I focused on how I could make my fingers press the correct keys in the correct order. I could answer his cries. He would come back and help me. My son had always come back.

Acting own their own, my fingers fumbled the keypad above. Nothing. They kept fumbling, pressing key after key. Then, slowly... the garage door began to rise. Holding tightly to the keypad with one hand for stability, I extended my other trembling arm along the cold concrete floor of the open garage toward the vibrations. Fingers on my flopping wrist managed to grasp the vibrating phone. It must have dropped out of my bathrobe pocket. Tightly, I held on to the vibrations. Seconds passed… then, abruptly, the vibrations ceased. The Path Home | Brian Wilson

Slowly, the fingers of my uplifted arm released their tight grip on the keypad. My high stretched arm began to fall in stages, coming to rest on the cold concrete. Defeated, I lay motionless. One by one, tight tendons released their determined grip on muscles they had once been assigned to control. Gradually, one by one, each muscle surrendered to a stronger power. Lastly, my fingers relinquished their tight grip on the now still phone. Exhaling what tiny breath remained, I lay immobile. Yielding wholly, I knew I had made it. My path home was complete.

45 The Path Home | Brian Wilson

ADULT

POETRY 46

The Thief by Brittney Blaskowitz Prichard F IRST P LACE My grandmother was a thief. First Blue, my blue goldfish. She was only supposed to watch him for the weekend while my family RVed to the ocean, all cramped up and miserable, our house on slow wheels. When I returned, running towards her scraped knees and sunburn, she would not surrender. She had him eating tiny flakes from her wrinkling hand, jumping from his bowl to reach her. “He’s mine now,” she said and that was that. Ten years later, sixteen, I begged for a dog for Christmas. My mother surprised me with a parakeet in my stocking, a yellow serenader with black sideburns. I named him Elvis, tried to hide my disappointment. I had all but forgiven grandmother. Blue a distant memory. My mother convinced she would not steal another companion, made me leave Elvis in her company while we searched for new apartments, a place without father. And just like that, I lost them both, our new space stripped of its tenors, no more shouting or song. When I begged her to give him back to me, she said I should have never left him in the first place. Bad things happen when good girls leave their men behind, all caged up.

Another of Nature’s Plans by Austin Lange THIRD P LACE He and I approach this new peak in disbelief Stand back in awe of what will converge when given this new life. We dream of our chance in the Badlands with you resting on my back, a handful of leashes in your father’s hands as the three of us climb, passing over ground compressed with layers of our ancestors, bones of species pass, fungi spores, dragonfly paper wings lost in the wind, eggshells of those who broke the surface, blood and spit. For now, in the yard’s underbrush, I think of you as you propagate listening in silence as I tell you of the smell of ripe plums hanging in our tree, the evening vibrations of cicadas rising in the humidity’s drawl, how to wash the dog’s paws of mulberry stains or shoo chickens out of the blueberry bushes. The pecan tree continues her feedings now, her veins prepped for carrying to the many hard-shelled young she will grow. In time, you will be here resting with your soft cheek on my neck or with warm hand laid down on your father’s chest as we doze together in the dappled morning of winter’s plans.

Buzzword by Kristy Bengivenga HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N Covid Covid Covid… I know you’ve heard that famous buzzword too many times. The crimes that virus has done is many, from Boomer to Gen Z, going from full life to empty, the isolation, depression, intrepidation, anger was plenty! People had busy lives, lots to do and see and all of that chaos STOPPED when the name Fauci and a grouchy President set the precedent that we all needed to be masked and 6 feet apart. It’s a start, anyway, and being at home is like a stay-cay; it can be a break from the madness if you think positively like me although I wouldn’t dare put that on Facebook or Instagram for fear of getting slammed and damned by someone who’s not a fan, hiding behind a keyboard. Oh Lord, here we go! This friend and that friend, going at it again. They haven’t even talked since I don’t know when, if ever. Lots to fight about I guess: the disconnect, social unrest, the violence, the silence, Denialists, political detesting, unjust arresting. It’s unnerving, feels like I’m swerving to go a straight line. I’m fine but are you? It’s a lot to go through, I know. So many changes though. The way we eat, shop, learn my guts churn going into any place. Should I mask my face? Give a person more space? All these different rules and I don’t wanna be THAT fool who didn’t know. Even still, I go and overflow with anxiety of who I should be. I mean, I want to fit in with society even though they’re so disconnected f rom C.

me. But lately, I’ve felt a change, a slight rearrangement of the universe. Less worse, if you will. Maybe the thrill from a vaccine, maybe a settling. People are preparing, hoping to get “back to normal.” There’s a joy with that, to abandon our masks, hug and laugh and have fun in groups of 20. Spend lots of money in stores with no rules. In 2019 we longed for extraordinary and now we just want ordinary. I just want ordinary. In 2018 I was diagnosed with cancer, a rare disease, and it scared me. Had chemo and lots of surgery to achieve some normalcy and my husband was beside me, for support and advocacy. He loved me, and helped heal my body. It wasn’t easy, but he was there for me.

My husband was a casualty of the buzzword. It sounds absurd just hearing the words but it’s true. I wish I knew how to save him but I didn’t. It started with a cough and on his birthday was his first day at the hospital. And 2 days later he was better: BEST NEWS EVER! I picked him up - he still coughed and such and we ate cake. And then the next day, trouble breathing, weaving in and out of traffic to get him back quick to heal his sick. And 9 days later, feeling better, lots of treatments, oxygen, IVs. He’s feeling ready, optimistic to come home. But on that 10th day, something was strange. No texts to say ‘Hey’. No calls with ‘I’m ok.’ Just… Silence. From the doctors, the nursesfrom him. On a whim I called, anxious he was bedridden -visiting was forbidden Buzzword | Kristy Bengivenga

all compassion neatly hidden, but the nurse said “He’s fine. A little behind on his progress but just having an off day.” No way could I have known that would be his last day. In every way I wish he was here today telling me “you’ll be ok” in his own Jersey way. My husband Ed, I loved him wholly, completely, wanted him to grow old with me, a father of 3, including our son, who cries beside me. So you see, I view the buzzword differently. For me, and his family, “back to normal” will never be.

51 Buzzword | Kristy Bengivenga

Magic Evening by gratefulsue HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N Warm summer night, Mid-June delight… A family reunion. Casual conversations, Culinary invitations… Some soul-communion. Go down the dirt road, In silent mode… Away from lights, walk… Stop. Look and listen, The woods speak and glisten… While crickets talk. Unfolding grand wonder, Like Christmas in summer. Laced through the dark trees… Light strands of Fireflies. Hundreds! Before my eyes, Going where they please. Dancing and blinking, Like “Tinkerbells” winking… The quiet lights fly. “Such magic!” I’m thinking, “It’s beauty I’m drinking…” Worship draws nigh.

YOUTH

SHORT STORY 53

Common Casualty by Marina Puno F IRST P LACE I have never really been a yawner. Even when the days are too long and the next begins too soon, when my eyes puff with circles and my feet begin to scuff, I barely yawn. My parents, avid yawners, make their tiredness known, echoing through the house with every jaw dropping scoop of inhalation, a sigh - the cherry on top. Their yawns reflected a life satiated rather than spent. I, on the other hand, barely yawn. Yet, in the spring of solitude, I became witness to three new yawns, precipitated by the season’s unbearable, undiagnosable monotony. Yawns characterized by a furrowing of the lips, a jaw opening to possible contamination, and eye ducts dripping like caves - these were not the yawns of fatigue or fulfillment. These were the yawns of impenetrable boredom. The first yawn appeared during the beginning weeks at home. As a piano player, I occupied myself with the taps of black and white keys. The C major scale followed by warm-up tunes, eventually steering to a methodical and familiar song remained part of my daily agenda. As days became weeks, I decided to challenge myself with a new composition - Liebestraum Love Dream, a favorite Listz piece, hoping to lighten isolation’s mood. My fingers battered the keys, playing the song at first with heavy force. Driven by purposeless purpose, my daily regime continued until my fingers began to caress instead of force the ebonys and ivorys. No longer was the song a daring distraction to emptiness. Instead, the mundane muscle memory replayed as easily as cutting with a fork and knife.The excitement of perfection dwindled until even my own mastery made my eyes grow weary and my foot weigh heavily on the pedal, blurring the sounds and eliciting the genesis of yawn number one. A couple months in, my second yawn appeared. Unlike my piano playing, my sleep cycles followed no agenda or routine. Sleep became a new hobby, always attempting to beat my last record of twelve hours then thirteen with two naps in between. I slept uncharted like a reckless seaman, traveling waves of slumber by my own compass, landing at some deserted isle of rest until I felt it time to sail again. To me, these imprudent dozing sessions were my only beneficial source of self-care. “I was never this alert,” I thought. “Hell, what else was I to do with the lonely hours spent in isolation, detached from the world itself?” Though, despite my faulty understanding of the productive snooze, the second yawn came from the azure REM sleep currents, sinking my ship into bottomless fatigue. I awoke from the depths, seasick from the salty, sweat-dripped blankets and yawned deeper than the sea itself. I was not refreshed; I was exhausted. And, my attempts to distract myself with misguided hibernation proved to only lead my vessel to the shipyard again, bored and deserted.

Unlike its predecessors, the third yawn, however, did not come from my own mouth. As my past attempts to diminish my boredom were unsuccessful, I took to the public, masked of course. My mother offered me trips to the local hardware store, as her form of entertainment lied in

excessive house renovation. There I became an observer of yawn number three. Every public yawner followed the same routine. Through the surgical blue of nonwoven masks, lips appeared to tighten to an O-shape, slightly pulling the fabric down the bridge of the nose, until an index and thumb pinch readjusted its fit to follow CDC guidelines. Lids pursed together, closed eyes relieved the dry stare. And, as I and my remodeling obsessed mother travelled down aisles of Hampton Bay fans and Black and Decker drills, I also felt relief. The man in aisle three yawned as deeply as the two kids in aisle fifteen. My own mother followed the same pattern. This third yawn was universal - a common casualty. I have never really been a yawner, but in these months, the yawn became a familiar foe. We all yawned. We all felt the seductive malaise of seclusion. We all occupied ourselves with our own tedious and unbearable routines. Loneliness almost drove us mad. But, despite our solitude and desertion, our yawns were our great equalizer: the commonality keeping us sane.Yawn.

55 Common Casualty | Marina Puno

The Ice Wolf by Cody Bruns S ECOND P LACE The harsh, icy winds blew in his face as Nathaniel London climbed out of the car. He glanced around, taking in the almost untouched beauty of Chione. Chione was a beautiful town which was rapidly becoming popular for its prime location and views. The town had a view of three snowy mountains rising up like some sort of great trident overlooking the land, as well as amazing hiking trails winding through hills and forests. In the summer, Chione was still a nice place to visit, but winter was when it truly came alive. Come Christmastime, the town was full of tourists who came to see the Northern Lights, take in the view, and maybe see a little bit of the surrounding nature. Nathaniel, or Nate, as he was known to everybody except his parents, had come to Chione for the holiday season, along with a few of his friends.The four of them had rented a cabin not too far from the town, out in the forest, which was currently covered in a blanket of fresh snow. “This looks incredible!” Nate’s close friend, Ben, exclaimed. Nate had to admit that Ben had a point.The cabin looked even better in person than on their computer screens, with large windows facing the forest, a cozy feel to it, and a roof covered in snow. Nate was of the opinion that covering a building in snow made it much nicer to look at. “Can we get out of the cold now?” Nate’s other close friend, Alex, grumbled. Alex’s brother, John, chuckled at his sister’s obvious distaste for the snow. “Yeah, let’s go inside,” John said, “Dibs on the room with the big window, though.” Nate shook his head in amusement as Alex led the way to the cabin’s front door, while Nate and John grabbed the bags and Ben stared in awe at the three mountains looming in the distance, easily visible above the trees. “Enjoying the view of the pitchfork mountains?” John called over to Ben. “It’s not called that,” Ben corrected, then glanced at Nate, “Is it?” “No,” Nate shook his head, “The mountains are called the Chione Peaks.” “I like Mount Pitchfork better,” John said stubbornly. Nate and John, laden with bags, headed towards the front door, and after a moment more of enjoying the view, Ben hurried after his friends. None of the boys saw the wolf standing in the shade of the trees, its azure eyes glowing bright. The interior of the cabin was no less welcoming than the exterior, with a warm hearth crackling in the large brick fireplace over by the wall, a couple of soft leather couches placed in a semi-circle around the hearth, and a dining area over by the small kitchenette in the corner. “Hope we’re not doing any cooking,” John noted, “The oven looks like it’s in need of repair.”

Nate looked over at the oven and saw that it was definitely not operational. There were two

strips of yellow caution tape forming an X on the oven door. “I’m just glad the fireplace was already lit,” Alex sighed from her spot crouched down in front of the warm flames. “It’s not that cold,” Ben said to Alex. “Seriously? There’s snow on the ground!” Alex reminded Ben. “I like snow,” Nate said peaceably. Alex scoffed. She opened her mouth, probably to respond to Nate’s comment, but her brother unknowingly cut her off. “Whoa! Check out the view!” John shouted. Nate looked over curiously to see that John had climbed up the flight of log steps set against the wall of the cabin opposite the fireplace, and Ben was already moving towards it, so Nate followed. Footsteps behind him confirmed that Alex was following as well. When Nate reached the top of the stairs, he saw what John had been excited to see.The stairs led up to a loft with a huge circular window giving an amazing view of the Chione Peaks, rising up above the forest like a… well, like a pitchfork. Nate had to admit John might have had a point about the trio of mountains that cast their shadow on Chione. The sun was just setting, casting a rosy hue across the snow-covered ground and trees. “See? This place is awesome,” Ben said, elbowing Alex. “The view’s not bad,” she admitted. Ben flashed a triumphant grin at his friend. The moon was high in the night sky when the four finally left the living room after a night of board games and went to their own rooms. Nate wound up with the room facing away from the Peaks, which was a bit of a letdown, but the forest was still plenty exciting enough to be classified as a good view. Nate changed out of the warmer clothes he’d been in for traveling, and pulled on some pajama pants and a soft T-shirt that was comfortable for sleeping in. He crossed to the window and was about to pull the curtains shut, when he caught a glimpse of something out in the forest. He squinted hard, and managed to see two small pinpricks of sky-blue light. Had they been gleaming yellow like a cat’s eyes, Nate might have thought an animal of some kind was watching him, but what kind of animal had glowing blue eyes? Nate pulled the curtains shut feeling indescribably on edge, but he put it aside as he climbed into bed, and pulled the string of his lamp, which sent the room into total darkness. *

The next morning found Nate, John, Ben, and Alex hiking along a trail through the snowy forest. After a breakfast of waffles and delectable maple syrup in Chione, the four friends had headed out into the forest along Trail 6, which lead towards the base of the westernmost Chione Peak, but they had no plans to climb the mountain. None of them were rock-climbers, and so that was not an appealing activity to any of them. Currently, the four were in a very dense part of the forest, where the trail was barely noticeable, and hills and slopes were frequent. Snow crunched under their feet, but there wasn’t much to look at beyond the thin trail winding between the trunks of trees, and the falling snow which only served to further their inability to see the beauty of Chione. The Ice Wolf | Cody Burns

“I wish I could see anything other than leaves,” John bemoaned. “According to the trail guide, after this part, we’ll be up on a hill with a great view of a pond. It’s frozen this time of year, of course, but it’ll still look nice,” Ben said, patting his jacket where the trail guide pamphlet was tucked away. “Do you think it’s safe for ice skating?” Alex asked hopefully. “Do you have ice skates?” John challenged. Alex glared at her brother. “How far to that hill with a view?” Nate asked Ben, quickly defusing the impending argument. “Just a few more minutes, I think,” Ben answered. As the four continued walking, Nate felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and goosebumps spread along his skin. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of something big and black on all fours. The animal darted behind a tree and away too quickly for Nate to identify it, but it was unmistakably large. “What was that?” Nate exclaimed. “Was it a bear?” Alex asked worriedly. “No, it wasn’t big enough to be a bear. It was black and moved on all fours,” Nate recalled, “Maybe it was a wolf.” “A wolf?” Ben asked skeptically, looking around the forest. “Where did you see it?” John asked Nate. Nate pointed at the patch of trees where he’d seen the animal, and the other three strained their eyes to try to catch a glimpse of any creature matching Nate’s description through the dense foliage. “I swear it was right there,” Nate said after a moment passed and nobody saw anything. “How big was it?” John asked, looking to Nate. “Uh, I’m not exactly sure. Definitely not bear size, but it was a wolf, it was a large one.” Nate said. “Great. So there’s a giant wolf out there?” Alex asked nervously. “Could be a snow leopard. They’re big and gray,” Ben suggested. “Are wolves or leopards even in this area?” Nate asked. “Only the Ice Wolf,” John said like it was an inside joke, but Nate had never heard of an ice wolf. “What’s an ice wolf?” Nate asked. John and Alex shot him incredulous glances. “The Ice Wolf. It’s an urban legend around here. How have you not heard about it? Basically, a lot of people have reported seeing a wolf with these weird glowing blue eyes trotting around at night. Especially these last six months. Several people even claim they saw it running down Main Street back in town,” John explained.

Nate felt suddenly wary. Last night, he’d seen two glowing blue lights and had suspected it was an animal of some kind, but what if it was this Ice Wolf? “Is the Ice Wolf real?” Nate asked. The Ice Wolf | Cody Burns

“There’s been a few pictures that were allegedly taken of the Ice Wolf.The weirdest thing is that there’s no wolf in any of them. Just two glowing blue lights the size of eyes. It sparked some kind of theory that it’s a ghost or something,” Alex put in. “I heard that the Ice Wolf likes to prey on people it finds wandering the woods alone.” John said, grinning. “That’s not true. Ignore him.” Alex rolled her eyes. “Well, people-eating wolf or not, I’ve never even heard of this story.” Nate shrugged. “I’ve never heard of this thing, either,” Ben agreed Considering their current topic of conversation, it was a bit unsettling that a wolf’s howl suddenly pierced the late morning, seemingly not that far from the four. “I don’t like that at all,” Alex decided, shaking her head. “Should we go back to town?” Ben asked worriedly. “No, I want to see the mountain,” John said stubbornly. “But you heard that howl, it’s gotta be a wolf, whether it’s the Ice Wolf or not,” Nate said. Another howl went up, and this one sounded much, much closer. The four friends made an unspoken agreement to run. John, the most athletic of the bunch, quickly took the lead as the four scrambled down slopes and up hills, avoiding tree roots and rocks as they ran. But Nate wound up avoiding a large boulder by dodging around it and right over a tree root while on the crest of a hill. He fell forwards, barely managing to catch himself on his hands as he sprawled sideways down the hill, rolling through the snow. Nate didn’t fall far, but the disorientation of falling and then rolling at a high speed down a rather large hill left him breathless and dazed. His left leg was throbbing and his vision was unfocused, so Nate didn’t move for a few minutes, trying to recollect himself. When his vision finally sharpened, he used his elbows to push himself up into a seated position, looking around. In this dense forest, Nate was just glad to have not smacked into a tree as he fell. As it was, Nate couldn’t see much through the thick forest and the snow falling through the sky. He wasn’t even that sure where he’d come from. There were quite a few hills rising and falling all around him, and Nate couldn’t see an obvious trail from where he had rolled down the snow-covered hill. Fear began to creep in. He was in an unfamiliar forest which he knew went on for miles. He wanted to call out to his friends, but if there really was something chasing them, it would be bad to draw attention to himself, right? Wolves had a keen sense of hearing, so it would definitely hear Nate’s cry for help, but his friends might not. Feeling terribly alone, Nate sighed. He used the trunk of a nearby tree to haul himself up onto his feet. Gingerly, he took a step with his left leg, and felt a sharp pain in the calf of it. Nate crouched down and discovered that something had torn open his pants and left a jagged cut down his calf, a cut that was dripping scarlet blood down his calf and to his foot. Nate unzipped his puffy winter jacket and then unzipped his light cotton hoodie to reveal the soft green T-shirt underneath. Using his teeth to pull the glove off of his right hand, Nate ripped off a significant chunk of his shirt, and then hastily rezipped his hoodie and his winter jacket so he didn’t let the cold in. With the unevenly torn piece of shirt in The Ice Wolf | Cody Burns

hand, Nate wiped the blood off his calf, and then did his best to wrap it around the wound, but he was by no means an expert in treating wounds. At the very least, it would plug the hole that had been made in his pants. Nate pulled his glove back onto his right hand, then set off into the forest. He was, of course, unsure about which direction to head to arrive back at the cabin, but he did know that they had headed west away from the cabin, so surely, if Nate just walked in the direction of the morning sun, he’d arrive somewhere he recognized. Probably. So, Nate walked. He traversed several snowy hills, staggering down their slopes. Several times he would step down on the snow wrong, and the white powder would give, sending Nate sprawling down the hill. After the first three falls and consequent tumbles down the hills, Nate began anticipating the snow dislodging, and was able to keep himself upright from then on. Eventually, the forest turned less dense, and Nate could finally move freely without having to move out of the way of tall, thick trees every other step. He limped across the snowy ground, his left leg throbbing more and more. Eventually, with the sun beginning its slow decline, Nate had to stop. With a grunt, Nate lowered himself down at the base of a tree, and leaned against it heavily. Nate was exhausted from the day’s laborious walk on his injured leg, and it wasn’t long before he ended up falling asleep in the snow. *

When Nate jerked awake, it was nighttime in the forest, and he was absolutely freezing. He shivered profusely as Nate tried to tug his jacket down tighter around him, but there was no hope of that working. Jackets worked by storing body heat and after hours walking out in the snow and then sleeping in it during the icy night, Nate was lacking body heat for the jacket to store. It hadn’t been too bad with the sun out, but now the forests of Chione were icy graves. Nate, for the first time, began to worry about hypothermia. Prior to this, his sole worry had been being unable to find the cabin, but now things were getting dangerous. Nate might not just be unable to find his friends again, he might be unable to survive his exposure to the wilds. Nate cast his gaze around the dark forest, completely black except for the odd shaft of gleaming silver moonlight, straining hard to see if any sort of creature was there. An angry animal would only make Nate’s situation worse. But beyond being far too cold, another worrying prospect was food and water. Nate was already ravenously hungry, and the only water he’d seen had been frozen over. Just as Nate truly began to think he was alone in the forest, he saw two glowing blue lights, like twin spectral fires the size of eyes and the color of the midday sky, a luminous blue. Fear sank like a ghostly chill into Nate, and he couldn’t help but shiver, but not from the snow.The twin fires drew nearer, and gradually, Nate was able to discern a shape, a dark shape in the black night. The Ice Wolf passed through a shaft of silver moonlight, and Nate couldn’t help but gasp. He was already pretty sure it was a wolf, but being able to see it and guessing at what it was were entirely different things.

The Ice Wolf was large, probably a little larger than the average wolf. It had jet black fur, looked to be incredibly muscled, and gave off a distinctly ominous feeling. Nate realized quickly why he felt so terrified. The Ice Wolf didn’t leave footprints in the snow, and didn’t have one fleck of the The Ice Wolf | Cody Burns

white powder in its onyx coat. Nate backed up weakly as the Wolf drew nearer, its cerulean eyes glowing in the dark.The only sound as the ghost wolf approached was Nate’s labored, terrified breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves as the harsh winter winds blew, but they did not disturb a hair on the Ice Wolf. The Ice Wolf did not attack Nate, but it stood, unmoving, in front of him. It felt like hours passed, but it was probably only a few minutes. The Ice Wolf still did not move. Eventually, the initial wave of terror subsided, and all Nate could feel was anticipation. Finally, the Wolf moved, but not to attack Nate. Purposefully, the black wolf turned and walked at a slow pace into the forest. Nate stood, back still against the tree, and watched the Ice Wolf go, afraid that if he moved a muscle, the beast would attack. The Wolf paused when it realized Nate remained pressed against the tree, and it jerked its head purposefully in the direction that it had been heading. Did… did the Wolf want Nate to follow it? Unsure what to do, Nate tentatively leaned off of the tree, standing on his own in the snow. The Ice Wolf jerked its head again, and against all of his instincts, Nate took a slow step forwards, his eyes straining to detect the Ice Wolf, hoping that he’d be able to see the wolf well enough to dodge it if it leaped for him. But Nate knew very well that even if one of his legs wasn’t wounded, he wouldn’t be able to outrun a wolf, ghostly or otherwise. Nate slowly walked towards the Wolf, and the Wolf set out at a carefree trot through the forest, its blue eyes glowing like a car’s headlights, illuminating the forest ahead. Nate was absolutely mystified. He was following the Ice Wolf, which until tonight he thought was a mere urban legend, through the dark forest, hoping it didn’t turn on him or lead him into danger. But frankly, Nate didn’t have long left before he would drop to the ground and never get back up. Following the Ice Wolf seemed to be the only option, and if he didn’t follow the Wolf, it might upset him, and the Wolf could attack him. So, for now, all Nate could do was follow the Ice Wolf. The Wolf led him through the night, and moved with vastly more grace than Nate did. Unable to see, Nate kept tripping over roots, or sometimes even walking into trees. The Wolf, it seemed, was non-corporeal, and could trot through trees at will, which then blocked the blue lights from Nate’s vision, so he often wound up walking into trees. Nate stuck out his hands and one of them caught on a tree branch, and Nate let out a surprised exclamation as it left a cut on his hand. Nate felt something brush up against his leg, and froze. He cast his gaze around for the Ice Wolf, and didn’t see it. Slowly, Nate looked down to see the Ice Wolf looking up at him from right beside him, his eyes casting a strange blue glow across Nate’s face, and up close, Nate could see that the glowing blue eyes had a pinprick of a more normal reflective yellow in the center. Maybe it was left over from the Ice Wolf’s original body, and not this spiritual reincarnation? How did ghost wolves work anyway? The Wolf aggressively head-butted Nate’s leg, thankfully it was the uninjured one, and then stuck close to Nate’s side as Nate kept walking forwards. The Wolf dutifully kept close, and as they walked, Nate realized that he could feel the Wolf. It was suddenly solid. Maybe the Wolf could The Ice Wolf | Cody Burns

change between non-corporeal and corporeal at will. Nate and the Wolf walked for hours, until eventually, the moon began to subside, and Nate could walk no longer. He took one more step then fell to the ground, catching himself on his hands in the snow, then rolling onto his back. Nate’s breathing was labored, and the Wolf leaned over his face, peering down his snout at the fallen boy. Nate saw something akin to concern written on the Wolf’s face, and the Wolf nosed at Nate’s neck. “I’ll be alright,” Nate gasped, “I just need a minute.” Hunger and thirst were prevalent in Nate’s mind, and he knew that he needed water or food, but he had none of either. Ben had been carrying the water. Nate had, in fact, played rock paper scissors with Ben to determine who had to carry the water. If only Nate had lost, he might not be quite as water-deprived. Nate heard an odd noise, and then snow was dropped onto his mouth. Nate coughed in surprise, spitting out the snow, and reaching up with his non-bloody hand to wipe it away.The Wolf leaned over Nate’s face and dropped more snow on Nate’s mouth. “What are you doing?” Nate asked, coughing. The Wolf just dropped more snow, taking the opportunity to get it into Nate’s mouth instead of on it. Nate tried to spit it out, but then realized quickly that the snow was melting in his mouth. Creating… water. He was so stupid! He’d been practically dying of thirst since he’d gotten lost, and all the while he’d been walking across thick layers of snow! Nate rolled over onto his stomach, and started shoveling snow into his mouth, using the light from the Wolf’s gaze to avoid snow that had stuff in it like dirt or rocks. Nate coughed from the snow, and sat up, wiping the snow away with the back of his hand. Not a perfect solution, but hopefully it could sustain him until he reached some kind of civilization. Nate pushed himself up onto his feet, and so the trek continued. Nate had no idea where the Wolf was leading him, only that he had no choice but to follow if he wanted to survive. The Ice Wolf seemed to be pretty knowledgeable about survival and directions, but Nate had no idea why the walk was so long. Unless Nate had been heading the wrong way this entire time he’d been lost. In the dark, he was unsure if he was traversing already traveled ground, as his only landmarks were trees, rocks, and snow, none of which looked particularly familiar. From what Nate could remember about hypothermia, it could set in very quickly, and Nate had spent nearly all day and most of the night out in the snow. He was dressed very warmly, but that wouldn’t protect him forever. If they weren’t close to wherever the Wolf was bringing him, Nate might not make it there. The Wolf paused suddenly, and Nate looked around. The forest here looked no different, did it? The Wolf pointed with its nose towards a thick shield of trees and leaves, and then it turned and around and raced off into the night. Nate gave a shiver of cold, and headed towards the trees and leaves obscuring his view of what lay beyond them, pushing forwards and staggering out into a clearing.

A clearing that contained a cabin. Nate fell to his knees in relief, taking deep, strangled breaths of utter joy. Nate scrambled back up onto his feet and limped as quickly as he could forwards. He took care that he didn’t trip over the pebbles on the winding path up to the front porch, and The Ice Wolf | Cody Burns

knocked on the cabin’s wooden door. It opened to cast a warm glow onto Nate, and Nate gave a relieved grin. *

The Ice Wolf stood on a hill, her blue eyes watching as the boy that she had saved in the forest was ushered into the cabin by his friends, and then she turned back to the forest. The Ice Wolf tilted her head, and then she let out a howl into the night, and took off through the forest, loving the thrill of racing through it without having to avoid obstacles. Now, the Ice Wolf was off in search of someone else to help. She was the guardian of this forest, after all.

63 The Ice Wolf | Cody Burns

Outside the Box by Grant Luebbe THIRD P LACE Hank Jennings opened his eyes. He dressed for work and stepped outside.The innovation of the Box always amazed him—a 200-kilometer enclosed Utopia. He gazed at the familiar skyscrapers reaching up to the Box’s ceiling as he walked. If they were any taller, they would poke the lights that mimicked a summer sky. He stopped at his favorite lake, staring at the city upstream. He dipped his toes in the water, sending small ripples through the lake. This quadrant was Hank’s favorite. A perfectly regulated ecosystem. No pollution, no climate change, just beauty and productivity. Not even noises from the weapons testing in the city could be heard. Welcome to Paradise. Hank’s first observation of the day was Worker 618-E. Hank liked to call him Farmer Sprott. Sprott’s task for the hour was detassling the corn stalks. He methodically snapped and pulled the tassels off the plants, row by row. Hank filled in his report. As he completed it, he looked up and saw Farmer Sprott standing still. He had finished the last corn stalk, but had not moved on to his next task. Hank checked Sprott’s work order. He should have moved on to weeding by now. “Hey, 618-E!” Hank yelled. No response. Hank walked over to Sprott and immediately noticed something was wrong. Sprott wore a blank expression. He didn’t move. But even stranger, his eyes pulsed and rumbled with a black-and-white static. Hank could see nothing in those eyes. He checked Sprott’s invigilator watch. Everything seemed to be functioning. Hank waved his hand in front of Sprott’s face. He poked and prodded him. Still no reaction. Not panicking just yet, Hank checked his schedule. The closest Worker was 532-E in the barn. Hank ran over and threw the barn doors open to find 532-E idle, with the same blank face and static, surrounded by pails of milk. “What is going on?” Hank said, trying to bury his panic. Just like Sprott, she’d finished what she was supposed to be doing and then…stopped? He took a picture with his watch to include in his report. “There’s no way these are the only cases…” Hank muttered to himself. If he raised the alarm now, he’d be bombarded with questions by the Colonel that he wouldn’t know how to answer. He needed more information. Hank ran to the hyprochip factory at the center of the city. He frantically flung open the factory doors to find 300 Workers slack-faced and static-eyed. Before Hank could even submit a report, his eyes involuntarily closed and he felt himself being pulled out of the Box. Hank’s eyes opened. The hum of machinery and muted explosions told him instantly where he was. Outside of the Box, in the Board Room. Colonel Anderson sat at the head of the table, surrounded by Boxies, the scientists. An American flag wilted in the corner. “Do you mind telling me what the HELL is going on in there?” Anderson was more irate than normal. Hank blinked. “Well, uh… I’m not exactly sure, sir.”

Anderson scowled. “Oh, you’re not? Well, you better GET sure, because we have a war to win. What is happening with the Workers?”

Hank took a deep breath and replied calmly. “Obviously there is some malfunction. Maybe you could ask one of the Boxies if…” “Don’t you DARE put this on us,” a haughty Boxie interrupted. “We programmed them to invent, you observe them. If they stop inventing, that’s your ass.” “They have invented everything! That’s what this is about!” Hank protested. “Every energy source, every medicine, every weapon…they have nothing new to create! They no longer have a purpose! Can’t you see that?” Hank realized he hated everyone in the room. “They are done! Kaput! This experiment is over!” he finished, seething. A silence hung in the air. Colonel Anderson looked at Hank, pure vitriol in his eyes. “Is that so? Then as Leading Colonel, I find that this establishment has no other choice. We need to find the next level of weapons. If they need a reason to build, by God we’ll give them a reason. Put our observer back in his Box. He gets to watch his race start all over again. There must always be progress.” Hank realized what Anderson meant. “You wouldn’t…That won’t work! It’ll just…” But midsentence, Hank’s eyes were closed, and he felt the familiar pull return. Hank’s eyes reopened. He scrambled to his feet, back in the Box. But it was too late. He stared down at the lake, now coated with viscous, black oil. Noxious chemicals poured into air, turning the sky red. Everything inside the Box was destroyed. Blown to rubble. Blocks and blocks of city, demolished. “There must always be progress.” Colonel Anderson’s words rang in Hank’s head. He looked around, trying to see the extent of the damage. Throngs of Workers, from all different areas of the Box, shambled to the center of the city. When Hank saw them, his heart sank. They still had static, empty eyes. Hank followed them to the rubble of the hyprochip factory. He knew he had to take control of the situation quickly, if he had any hope of keeping his job. The crowd formed a circle and stood there, staring blankly. The static splashed around their eyes, showing no sign of stopping. Hank walked to the middle of the circle, studying the Workers as he went. Everything was silent except for the crackling of the burning fires. As Hank weighed his options, he looked into the lifeless eyes surrounding him. He knew he didn’t really have a choice. They were still humans. This wasn’t right. “My name is Hank Jennings,” he shouted to the crowd. I’ve been living among you for a year now. Observing you, watching your progress. I’m part of a team. A team who is using you to invent everything that humans can invent, but mostly weapons.You are being kept in a Box and controlled by people on the outside. They converted you, so you could invent for them. But because you are finished inventing, you have run out of purpose. They destroyed everything, trying to give you that purpose again.” As the Workers processed this new information, the static disappeared from their eyes. Inside them, Hank could see curiosity returning. There was something new to discover—the world outside the Box. Hank put his hand on his invigilator watch. He took a deep breath, and pulled. The watch resisted, pulling itself back down onto his arm. With a yell, Hank ripped it off. With the watch came meters of wires and blood. It poured out of the precise, small hole where his watch Outside the Box | Grant Luebbe

used to be. The Colonel and his lackeys couldn’t control his eyes now. The Workers all watched in quiet curiosity. They followed Hank’s example, and in perfect synchronicity ripped their watches off of their bodies. The bloody wires were thrown down in a tangled mass. The Workers mobilized. Moving as a unified force, they excavated a massive energy cannon from beneath the rubble. Hank watched, amazed, as the strongest ones carried it toward the edge of the Box, the rest of the Workers following in a silent parade. When they reached the edge, the Workers prepped it, aiming the cannon at the wall. The cannon began to hum. Ready... Aim... Hank’s blood ran cold. He watched in horror as a small turret rose out of the ground behind the Workers. “Hey, look out!” Fwooooosh! A gust of flame blew through their ranks. Workers dropped like flies. The few survivors ran. They were met with more turrets, in every direction. Immediately, their eyes lost the hopeful curiosity and Nature’s instinct gave them a new purpose—to survive. Some of the Workers put up a futile fight. They never made a sound as they were euthanized. The Box was quiet. Hank sat by his favorite lake, no longer pristine, but dirty and polluted. Fires crackled around him. There were no more static, empty eyes…no more attacks from turrets… just the sound of the dying fires and the gentle splash of ripples. “There must always be progress.” Hank felt the static start to envelop his eyes.

66 Outside the Box | Grant Luebbe

It Happens Every Night by Jack Dickens HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N As I drift off to sleep, I hear a voice. “I must be dreaming,” I think. The voice starts softly, and then gets louder and louder. “Wake up, oh great prophet! Show us your wisdom,” it whispers to me. It’s strange. Most of the time, dreams have to do with what happened in real life.This morning, I hadn’t been woken by someone. Rather, I was woken by something. My alarm clock went off like it always does! As the dream becomes clear, I see an old man sitting in front of me. He seems to be some sort of priest. Is he worshipping me? “Where am I?” I ask. “You’ll remember in a few minutes. You do every night.” Every night? What is he talking about? I don’t remember any dreams like this…or maybe…Yes, I seem to remember something like this before, multiple times actually. Strange. “Who are you?” I ask. “I am your servant,Your Majesty. I am here to do as you say.” What am I? A ruler? A god? Well, he had said I was a prophet. What does that mean? “I must go now,” he says. “I am needed elsewhere.To wake the others.” The others? Who else is here? “Excuse me! Can you explain to me—” I start to say. Suddenly, he vanishes. I am alone. “What’s going on here?” I think, “What is this alternate realm?” Then, little by little, pieces of the puzzle come into my mind. About 10 minutes in, I seem to remember the “others.” We seem to have been discussing our different versions of “real life.” Is that it? Is real life…fake? About 30 minutes in, I remember the old man waking me up every morning. I generally ask the same questions every day, and every day he leaves me to figure it out on my own. Why couldn’t he just explain it? About an hour later, he comes back briefly. “Your breakfast has arrived.” I didn’t realize until now how hungry I am. “Excuse me,” I say, hoping that he heard me. “Yes, your highness?” “Why did you leave me without answering my questions? You obviously know I’m confused.” He stops and thinks for a moment. Then he whispers, “Because to tell you the whole story at once would break your heart. We must give it time to heal before the next piece of the puzzle is revealed.” “What puzzle?” I quickly ask, but it’s too late. He is gone. Every two hours or so, I remember a part of who I am. Two and a half hours after I woke up, (or fell asleep, whichever the case may be), I remember that “real life” is not what I think. But I can’t seem to understand why. About four hours and fifteen minutes in, I remember something horrible. I remember that “real life” isn’t real. I start to panic! “WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” I scream. No one hears me. I am alone. I start to feel sick. The man was right. I need some time to heal. The next thought, however, comes sooner than I had hoped. I had been almost hoping not to find out the full mystery, but now it is obvious.

What I thought was real life is simply a vision. It tells me what is going to happen in this realm. I then have to tell it to the man, and he interprets it and predicts what will happen. From what the weather will be to what bad things will take place (and how to stop them). For example, a few days ago in the “real world,” I saw on the news that there was a shooting at a school. Because of this, the old man told all of the schools in this realm to shut down. Each was heavily inspected, and sure enough, there was a gun found in a bush just outside an elementary school. “How horrible,” I remember thinking. “Killing innocent children who are still learning how to read and write? That’s just sickening!” The reason that I am considered a “prophet” is that the same things that happen in this realm happened previously in my “real life,” or at least something similar. I take a few hours to process all of this. After some hard thinking, though, I decide to make the best of it. I leave my room and walk outside. After a day of talking to the others, eating, and telling everyone about my “real life” experiences, I find myself getting drowsy. I head back to my room, now confident and ready to repeat the process tomorrow. I drift off to sleep. As I awake, I seem to remember a weird dream. Was it…an alternate reality? It quickly leaves my mind. It was probably just my imagination. I only remember one thing about it, and soon after I forget. It happens every night.

68 It Happens Every Night | Jack Dickens

The Color Blind Justice League by Paige Turner HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N Chapter 0: Orange’s Story (Origin Story) Orange lived in a land with no color with her friend Blue. One day, they decided to travel to find others that looked like them… Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Pink felt exactly like Orange and Blue. When they met, they decided to find more people who felt (and looked) the same way they did! In Africa, Green was getting tired of being the only color children used to draw. They used him too much, and on top of that… their drawings were BAD! No offense! Sorry! When Orange, Blue and Pink found Green, they all decided that all they needed was one more color that looked like them (you know, not just Black and White like everything else around them). One day, while Orange was in a dull, colorless forest, she met a human that drew very nicely. Green instantly liked her! Her name was Maiyah... last name Kee. Together, they became The Rainbow Crew! Each with the power to bring their own color into the world! Oh, and Maiyah has powers, too... the power to draw them TOGETHER!

Chapter 1: The Stuff of Legend Did you know that TVs first showed colors in 1967? The Rainbow Crew did that! Since then, they have been the biggest hit! It’s 2019 now, so The Rainbow Crew has been bringing color into the world for… 49… 50… 51… borrow the one... 52 years... WOW! I wonder if they’re ever going to retire… THREE WEEKS LATER… (The Rainbow Crew is having a meeting about retiring.) “I would definitely go for it!” “Yeah, we should retire.” The whole team agreed but who would take over for them?...

Chapter 2: The Replacements Meanwhile… At a secret base, a small group called “The Grayscales” cackled about The Rainbow Crew’s retirement. They hated color! The Grayscales were going to cause havoc all over the world by becoming the new Rainbow

Crew but with a secret plot to remove all colors again. “Uh-Oh… I know The Rainbow Crew told me not to interrupt but this is crazy! Oh, Hi! Yeah, I’m talking to you, reader! My name’s Maiyah Kee. The Rainbow Crew sent me here to be their personal spy. I’m a big fan of The Rainbow Crew, so when they asked me to do this,I just had to say ‘Yes!’ This… is… terrible! I’ve got to get back to The Rainbow Crew to tell them what we just saw!” “OH, SNAP!” (they all shouted together)

Chapter 3: Color Blind It all happened so fast. Before we knew it or could do anything about it, everything was colorless again. The crazy thing about it is that everyone in the world was cool with it. They even cheered on these imposters! The Rainbow Crew pretended to be okay with this madness, but they were not having it! They were all hoping that God would protect them but they felt so bad about not doing anything. They had a hard time forgiving themselves. They technically just let the whole world down! Wow, Pink was so angry at herself and the way things turned out that she turned Red! “Why so mean, Grayscales?!?! Why so lame, self?!?!”

Chapter 4: Color Clash! Things eventually got so gray that The Rainbow Crew just couldn’t take it anymore! They didn’t know how to beat The Grayscales but they didn’t care! The Rainbow Crew decided to fight back! They were gonna use their God-given colors to change the world back! They were gonna join together and run into battle! Though there were only two of The Grayscales, they really knew how to fight… and they were HUGE!! After fighting for awhile, it was clear that they were about to win. Scared and upset, Maiyah did the only thing she knew she was good at… she began to draw. Just then, something really cool happened. Actually, two cool things happened. All of the hero colors of The Rainbow Crew combined into one superhero... This new superhero was bigger, stronger and faster than The Grayscales but just as she was getting ready to beat them down, they screamed: “We’re sorry! We give up! Have mercy on us!” Suddenly, a light from heaven came down, lifted The Grayscales up and… ...Wait, what? The Grayscales came back down… alive?! And… Whaaat? They looked nicer! Not so… villainy… let’s go see!

They look just like our heroes now... For real! But can they become superheroes, too? The Color Blind Justice League | Paige Turner

Chapter 5: Joining the Fight “You know, we’ve got a lot of coloring to do if we’re going to undo what you guys did when you were The Grayscales. “We sure could use some sidekicks... what do you say?!! Let’s see what you’ve got!” “Wow! Sure - we’d love to join!” Chapter 6: Fighting Color Blind Crime “We... Are... The Color Blind Justice League!” “The world sure looks better in color - doesn’t it, Maiyah?!!” “It sure, does! And I can’t believe I had a role to play in bringing it all together!” Maiyah was right! It was HER drawing that not only pulled our heroic colors together into one superhero, but also drew The Grayscales in to be transformed from bad to good guys, too!

THE END

Meanwhile, in a “remote” corner of the world, a group of EVILDOERS is shown on TV creating new colors by mixing other colors together… That can’t be right… or can it?!!...

71 The Color Blind Justice League | Paige Turner

YOUTH

POETRY 72

The Day the Sun Set by Gaby Roman F IRST P LACE My family was a sunny day. Everyone slipping into roles, soaking sunrays on Saturdays. My mom was a radio Her laugh filling the air with a melodic pauses and snorts. Her voice soothed the flowers and quieted the birds. Her tongue spoke a language so delicate filled with rolled r’s and loud familiarity. My dad was a grill. His hands were spatulas, carefully flipping carnes and constantly poking at chicken. His sweat evaporated into smoke that rose out of a stone chimney.The air would smell of meat, slowly rising into the sky until the clouds became hungry. My sister was the shady tree in the backyard. Her arms beckoning you to play. Her body softly swaying to the rhythm of the wind. She would quell thirst through cups filled with the fanciest hose water found. Her feet following her across the yard, leaving footprints of innocence and joy. I didn’t know what I was. My head could’ve been a glass of lemonade, attracting the buzz of mosquitos. My hands could’ve been paper napkins, absorbing messes, wiping sweat off of dripping foreheads. My body could’ve been an umbrella, one of those big ones at a family table you see on a home magazine. Spreading my arms around my family, tightly holding on. My family was the sunset. Packing up everything back into the house, wiping down surfaces. Coming to an end. The radio would be unplugged. The grill would be turned off. The tree would absorb no more sunlight. Red, orange, yellow, pink, purple would all paint the sky, expanding over long horizons, capturing memories in color.

In His Throne by Harlen Rembert S ECOND P LACE

He finds himself still sitting in the driveway, in the same lawn chair, from the same warm, sun-soaked garage. It is his throne, for he is the ruler of his own invisible world. A world which he is no longer sure he can know, or even see distinctly. In two years’ time, he fell into more than he ever imagined. He discovered a group of people, different from him, yet impossibly similar, like members of a foreign civilization living next door, looking out at the same street. He fell headfirst into a whirlpool of color, skin as soft as lace, eyes like gems yet to be polished, brilliant within, only encased in a film of dust. He fell into the realization that the greatest gem of all is found under the most dirt. In his mind, a projector runs, replaying every moment, every memory preserved in spiritual celluloid. He watches the movie he has made, and begins to wonder if it ought to have been redone, scene by scene, take after take, if it is all only one installment in a never-ending franchise, or if it ever really happened that way at all. A firefly blinks in the murk under a tree, a friend coming back from the numbness which never seemed to end. Gradually, like sparks drifting up from a dying fire, another blinks, and more follow. He reaches out his hand, enclosing one gently, tentatively, within his fist. It crawls out, its antennae waving, and flies off. So does the next one that comes by, and the one after that, and the next one. They don’t need him in order to fill the crevices of the dusk with their glow. Each of them flies through the world, winking at each other, not caring whether or not he watches,

or if he thinks they are beautiful. They were beautiful, even as they floated away, blurring back into the murk. This is the one other thing he has come to know, in addition to the sounds of the other insects, as he looks up at the sky (for the thousandth time? The millionth? The infinitieth? The last?): that each one he saw was beautiful, the ones that blinked the brightest, the ones that blinked often, even the ones that never blinked in front of him. His thoughts crescendo as the image of the sky fills his eyes. Clouds rumble silently overhead, swimming away as they always have. Some roll over themselves again and again, clumping into a different shape each time. Others, like his world, grow longer, then break into gauzy strips, and eventually fade from view completely. He knows now, more than ever, that this moment he loves will not last forever, or even much longer. It will all unfold, a massive book spread open from cover to cover. For even the longest book, the author must still write “The End.” Finally, the projector flashes the dark question in his mind, and he wonders if, as God watches him, He already has the final chapter in mind, when He will write “The End” and close the book. The thought sits in his mind, like everything that sat, unresolved, between him and the beautiful creature that quietly slipped into his mind through the bottom of a locked door. He thinks it ought to disturb him, but he instead contorts his face into something that is no longer a smile, but not quite an expression of pain. He breathes it all in, because he doesn’t care what will happen anymore, he just wants to gaze at the sky. For the boy in the lawn chair grew up, and lost some of his wonder, but he never lost the sense of amazement he got when he looked up at the clouds.

75 In His Throne | Harlen Rembert

The Twisted Tongue by Jack Dickens THIRD P LACE This story is strange, But this story is true. This story all started When I sang a tune. The silly song, The strange old tune Twisted my tongue And tangled it, too! I couldn’t speak! It wouldn’t move! Curse that silly, Dumb old tune! I’d just have to hide My tongue all day long! To show it would be An embarrassing thought. So I held the tongue in! It filled up my mouth! I couldn’t talk Or scream or shout! My teacher asked, “Are you okay?” I shook my head yes And she went away. Oh, how it hurt! It was starting to strangle! I just HAD to get This darn tongue untangled!

Then my mom asked

If I was okay. I wrote on a paper, “I have a toothache!” My mom replied, “Well, that is okay! I’ll schedule a dentist Appointment today!” “Oh no!” I thought. I wished I could scream! I had to untangle! To end this whole thing! The more I untangled, The tighter it grew! The more it was strangled! It turned a dark blue! Oh, how it burned! It throbbed like a fire! It twisted and turned Until I was tired. Then an idea Came into my brain! I had to sing backwards The tune that I sang! It made perfect sense! To untie a shoe, You have to reverse it! Sing backwards the tune! Slowly and carefully, My tongue unwound. It was now there for me, Safe and sound.

77 The Twisted Tongue | Jack Dickens

Eyes by Alex Diederich HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N With these eyes I feel oceans run warm, tides breaking waves upon my skin, Only rearing its seafoam silver face behind quietly closed doors. I watch a screen flickering between static and a thousand nameless faces, Catch glimpses of other lives, other times, and occasionally the dark shadow reflected just behind. I peer endlessly through panes of crystal in stunning color and array. Yet while the sunlight streaming in is cheerful, I look down and see only cloud and sky. I read a hundred words in a hundred different places, each more morbid than the last, And still, remain detached, as if it all goes away the moment my eyelids close. I gaze on hollow sights among the city’s blinding lights, and at times it feels as though the clock has stopped. But at last, as I set down to sleep, and can hear only the buzzing of lonely flies, I lay and reconcile with the mind behind the eyes.

I Am by Lily Sinclair HONO R AB LE M E NT IO N I am from, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” Family gatherings with mountains of food. Creamed potatoes and collard greens. Nana’s chocolate cake. I am from, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” Looking at Christmas lights and opening gifts on Christmas Eve. Celebrating Jesus’s birthday. Papa’s garden and colorful fruit trees with the sweetest, juiciest fruit. Eating cobbler and ice cream at The Peach Festival. I am from, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” “Slide Clyde,” and “Pretty as a peach.” “My dogs are barking,” and “Hush your mouth!” My Nana saying, “Well, I Swanee.” I am from, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” I am from people that live in small towns in the middle of nowhere. Fields that go on as far as you can see. Grandma and Papa’s church, where everybody knows everybody. I am from, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”