The Huron River Review, Issue 15 Digital, 2016 (6/20/16 update)

The Huron River Review Issue 15 Digital | 2016

Tom Zimmerman

Young Musicians in Nice

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The Huron River Review Issue 15 Digital | 2016 The award-winning journal of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, and art by students, faculty, and staff at Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editing and Design Tom Zimmerman

Editorial Board Philip Gibson Michael McNally Simon Mermelstein Ember Plummer Davon Shackleford Tyler R. Wettig

Copyright Š 2016 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors and artists.

Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works.

The works herein have been chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students

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Mission Statement The Huron River Review is a forum and showcase for the vibrant literary and arts community made possible by the students, faculty, and staff at Washtenaw Community College.

From the Editor This fifteenth issue of The Huron River Review is packed with excellent poetry, prose, and images. Enjoy!

My thanks to Kristin Good, Dean of Arts and Science, Math, Science & Engineering Technology; Michael Nealon, Vice President for Instruction; Rose Bellanca, President; and the WCC Board of Trustees.

Finally, thanks to the following: Zach Braun, Nina Buckless, Max Gibson, Karen Karatzas, Angela Law-Hill, Michael Nischik, Jas Obrecht, Aimee Smith, Sue Smith, Julie Tanguay, the WCC Bookstore, WCC Public Relations and Marketing, WCC Student Development and Activities, the WCC English Department, the WCC Writing Center, the WCC Copy Center, Jessica Winn, and Ann Zimmerman.

--TZ Ann Arbor Ember Plummer’s poem “discovery” first appeared in The Big Windows Review, no. 7, Spring 2016.

Colophon This issue was produced on a Dell PC using Microsoft Word. Fonts used are Berlin Sans FB and Calibri.

Submissions The Huron River Review is an annual publication of Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan. From September through January, it is open to submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography by WCC students, faculty, and staff. The editor and student editorial board select pieces for publication based on their aesthetic merit. We’re fond of work that is beautiful and/or strange, but we’ll look at anything. If you’re not sure, send it: we’re friendly.

We prefer electronic submissions. E-mail to tzman@wccnet.edu. Snail-mail to Tom Zimmerman, LA 355, Washtenaw Community College, 4800 E. Huron River Dr., Ann Arbor, MI 48105. Phone: 734-973-3552.

Website: thehuronriverreview.wordpress.com

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The Huron River Review Issue 15 Digital | 2016 Contents Sofia Lynch Tom Zimmerman

4 SOFS Young Musicians in Nice

Front cover Ins fr cover

Poetry Jack White Ember Plummer Jack White Tyler R. Wettig Jamie Fulcher Wroxanna Work Kali Wealch Wroxanna Work Ralph Kennedy Ahmad Khazaei Kathleen Strnad Ahmad Khazaei Tom Zimmerman Steven Hoekstra Arthur Brakel Linda A.W. Brakel Tom Zimmerman Denise G. Klein Jack White Robin Anderson Kathryn Beechler Olivia Oakes Ahmed Muhammad

Dexter Bike Path and out of the silence, poetry comes. discovery Dark Skys in the Sun Light Endless Fascination Union in Black and White The Boy from North Carolina A Challenger Drag Racing at Milan Drag Way, Summer 2015 Coat Hanger Untitled Continuity Leaves At the Gallery A Morning at the British Museum The Passionate Lives Marooned Walter Wimer Sings the American Dream Blues The History of Anatomy Crow Sonnet Through a Window in Wales Taken by a Sheep in the Night Huron River Sunrise How to Fall in Love Drunk Off You Poison Candy Eight Haiku

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9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 30 31 32 33 35 36 38 40 41

Kaigapen Le Chant Du Cygne Arnold Lyles Cassidy Eubanks Ryan Scherz Alicia Velasco Miranda Kulig Tyler Strauss Miranda McCarthy Martika Allen John Castro Harrison Fischer Audrey Talbot Max Gibson Jack White Adella Blain Tom Zimmerman Edith Morris Croake Kathleen Strnad Calvin McMillin Malcolm Barrett Emma Gabriel Jessica Pomorski Sarah Raby Diane M. Laboda Ralph Kennedy Janet Kavanagh Scott Schuer

Honey Bunches of Haiku Leaves (seven haikus in one poem) Not a Poem Concerning Labels They Make Me Wear (And How I Must Incinerate Them): The Ghost of Jimmy Chimera Pancakes What Was Astronomer’s Ode to a Meteorite What Happened Revolution Working Class Prince The Process Eyebrows and Stars Bell Rd. Swirl Eighteen Again Paris Plages, August 2011 The Lady of the Lake Ode to a Lemon Love Poem from My Girlfriend “A train stalls on the Upper West Side” The Lock That Replaced Me The Short and Beautiful Lifespan of Millions Bon Voyage Easy, Like Trix, Is for Kids Untitled Rage against the fading Landscape Lawn Possible Carlos Gravity

42 43 44 46 47 48 49 50 52 54 56 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 70 71 72 73 74 76

Gallery Mike Frieseman

Judy Bemis

Mystic #2 Mystic #1 Mystic #3 Abstract #5 Cuban Dancer 1 Cuban Dancer 2 Cuban Dancer 3 Cuban Dancer 4 Lost in Thought

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 84

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Kathleen Strnad

Nate Laurant

Jamie Fulcher

Kali Wealch Hadeel Abdo

Malcolm Barrett

Christina Shannon

Fadwa Ashur Nicholas T. Slane Annalee Guenther Harrison Fischer Jessica Winn Laela Qader Alison Henkel Sofia Lynch

Mill Seated Nude Fall Flowers Red Tulips Dead Inside Pernicious Defeat Passion Silent Night Bronx: The 1 Theory Remembered Day in Spring, Dedicated to Dad My Barn Cat Loxodonta Catching Waves Take a Risk Drought Closed for Revegetatic Continental Divide Hands Sun and Moon Still, a Life at Rest Innocence in Transition at the Dawn Gate Forbidden Fruit of the Midnight Sun Beautiful Nothingness Fremont Jordan Camera Football Spanish Dagger The Butterfly Dress Artemis II.II.MMXVI The Dreams of a Housewife

85 85 86 87 88 89 90 90 91 91 92 93 93 94 95 96 96 97 97 98 98 99 100 101 101 102 103 104 104 105 105 106 107 108

Fiction Jack White Ben Dussault Chanel Stitt Roma Ziarnko

Portage Lake The Best of William Kent Sky Is the Limit The Perils of Yda DeVries

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109 110 114 115

Corinne M. Painter Halley Bass Amy Poling Nate Laurant Michele Sweeney Jessica Shapiro Michael McNally Olivia Sedlacek Tom Zimmerman Hana Finder Jack White Philip Gibson Dara Nafiu Joe Bradley Max Romero Adam Lowis

And Then She Remembered Precipice Transience Enclosed Demons Where the Briar Gnomes Grow Nymph The Crow A Beautiful Face Halifax Figurehead Sempiternal Winter Fog, Bell Rd. Deadlines 1001: A Modern Retelling of The Arabian Nights Fadeout Transmute Au Sable River

117 120 123 131 132 134 135 136 141 142 143 144 146 150 152 154

Nonfiction Jack White Christina Shannon Fadwa Ashur Julia Henshaw

Morning Fog Near Bell Rd. Not Just Another Boy Outreaching Upheavals

155 156 160 161

Index of Authors and Artists Julie Tanguay

Because Gourds

168 Ins bk cover

Hadeel Abdo

Catching Waves

Back cover

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Poetry

Jack White

Dexter Bike Path

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EMBER PLUMMER_______________________________________________________ and out of the silence, the poetry comes.

Note: After Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried.” Thanks, Max! the things i carry like to force me out of my body. like to take up too much space until i’m crouched in corners, kicked animal, whining mutt. like to drive me out, across fields to wait in the trees until it’s safe to come back. the things i carry like to hurt me, like to call me names and put those names down on skin— recently, i have been able to convince the things to write rather than scar. it sends just as much of a message, feels almost as good. the things i carry are loud, screaming, sometimes. red-hot anger, a boiling stomach i used to say housed a monster. used to say i carried nessie in this acid sea. used to say the monster in my throat was choking me, i couldn’t breathe, i couldn’t breathe— now, i call this panic attack. used to say the monster in my head would threaten me, sit in my skull, force my head down, and say ‘if you look up, i will pop your eyes out’ no longer. these monsters have been quieted (with words, for once, i did not have to hunt them down myself) the things i carry are quiet, now, 10

some always have been. these things i’ve never written a poem about because i don’t know how to face these parts of myself. the death, and the forgetting, and always the forgetting. i learn how to deep breathe these things into nothingness call it diaphragmatic, therapeutic, new beginning. the things i carry used to break me, starting in the shoulders, snapping my collar bones and ripping and ripping and ripping— the weight of the world, they’d say. too young for this, they’d say. wise beyond her years, they’d say. fuck this, i’d say. let the world fall because i can survive a god damn earthquake. the things i carry are not deadly (anymore), mind safely in body, healed skin, dead monsters, and the memories.

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EMBER PLUMMER___________________________________________________ discovery i’m of the belief that anything is beautiful if you learn enough about it— so i buy medical scalpels. i start with the thickest parts. thighs, stomach, i peel back layers. everything i ate for dinner, sadness from two months ago, anger from middle school, coiled into thicker skin, scars, puckered and white. i sew myself back up. new scars form. i pull the stitches out too soon. they say hurting yourself can be a twisted form of self-care. i cut open my chest next. find lungs shriveled with second-hand smoke that escapes when i cut them open. my lungs deflate. i fill them with dirt and flower seeds. the smoke makes my eyes sting so i close them. keep cutting. i find my heart— surprisingly whole for all they told me to find my other half. i don’t cut further. i don’t want to understand this. my chest is hard to put back together. i rearrange the bones but it’s hard to put the breasts back. i decide i won’t miss them, bury them in the dirt. maybe they’ll make good fertilizer. i pull the stitches out too soon. they say i don’t do this for attention, but i am a scientist. all i want is the fame of figuring myself out. i cut my arms next. open veins, find hate—hate—sadness—fear—fear—fear—fear— close them. collect the blood to paint with later.

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move on to my hands. these are my weapons. i sew them quickly, let them heal properly. i will need them. they say i can be everything. but i know the great secret—i can also be nothing. maybe at the same time. i open my head. clean slice around, mind the hair, dig into the soft and slimy brain tissue. here is everything. i’m going to be famous. i’ve figured it out. i try to tell them. i open my mouth but flowers are growing. thorns pressing against my windpipe, and there are vines in my voice box. i choke.

Jack White

Dark Skys in the Sun Light

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TYLER R. WETTIG___________________________________________________ Endless Fascination Just weeks ago, I had no idea disco was en vogue; but, to quote Fred Mertz, I got wind of it.

Well, more like a tempest— my whatever senses suddenly inundated with visions of John Travolta eating pizza; or perhaps my neighbors are just reenacting that scene where John Travolta tries to convince a guy to not jump off a bridge (someone else may need convincing soon).

Why not move out?

Why not complain?

Is it an abject fear of this disco dancing troupe?

Is it their party van that threatens to uproot the foundation of a three-story apartment building?

Maybe, just maybe, it’s that I’m slightly perturbed that their leader wears a white suit white gloves and doesn’t smell of fried chicken.

Why not move out?

Why not complain (again)?

It’s endless fascination— something like those colorful characters of Lucy Ricardo’s novel— the realization of, as Fred Mertz put it, the bending and twisting of the ordinary like pretzels.

It’s ageless fascination— 14

has white hair

something like the exquisite pleasure a middle aged man derives from a fetish model following him on Twitter.

It’s timeless fascination— something like standing in Walgreens at midnight as your friend tries to show you a diagram of a female uterus.

This is synchronicity, and these are strange things— but as the wisdom of I Love Lucy imbued in me, We’re all odd, aren’t we?

Jamie Fulcher

Union in Black and White

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WROXANNA WORK_________________________________________________ The Boy from North Carolina He said he wanted to be remembered.

He always carried the best of terrible clichés in his cheek until they rolled off his tongue.

He had checkered Vans that looked beat half to death and he styled his hair to match.

The only sideways thing about him was his smile.

He was the kind of boy who was breathtaking to even know— for the first week of knowing him.

He was slick in ways that oil couldn’t compare to, sliding from sentence to sentence so seamlessly that you’d think it’d sound rehearsed.

He managed to be flawlessly raw: he couldn’t make you believe that the sky’s purple, but he could make you believe he’s the reason it’s blue.

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He wanted to be remembered, to be written about, to have his presence echo in daily conversation.

The saddest part is that this is the most fame he’ll ever get: this poem without so much as his name, not even a full page in the book of my life.

Kali Wealch

A Challenger Drag Racing at Milan Drag Way, Summer 2015

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WROXANNA WORK_____________________________________________________ Coat Hanger I carry the burden Of winter on my shoulders So you do not have to.

I can feel the sadness, The weight, The mothball neglect From the chest In the corner.

I am crooked-mouthed, The fish hook of the closet Bent and sculpted To your very mold, And I— I am dead.

My neck was twisted so long ago Welding my throat shut forever.

I am cold to touch, Amongst the loose thread And Slack buttons And Passive-aggressive Dust particles, All bits of you, I have known you longer Than you have known yourself.

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I am the contortionist, I can fold and fit to Scrape fetuses, Claw life away Before it can be given.

As I recall, I belonged to your mother Once.

Ralph Kennedy

Untitled

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AHMAD KHAZAEI_______________________________________________________ Continuity I am in love With the bends in the road: They compose me Out of the ashes Of fallen stars.

Thus, life is an unending echo Of a presence In the interwoven labyrinth Of ways and byways That would lead me into The paradise of your embrace Or would catapult me Into the realm of a dead god; A hell governed By the laws of masks and daggers.

But, I return After every defeat.

I return To resume the fight Against the shadows Of the dead God That eclipse your face, Excommunicate the rainbow, And prohibit the naked dance.

I return After being burnt into ashes To fight for my right 20

To a life-giving kiss from your lips I return With every morning breeze To embrace you as tightly As the air you breathe.

I return With the weeping spring clouds To caress you With thousands of my rainy fingers.

Kathleen Strnad

Leaves

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AHMAD KHAZAEI_______________________________________________________ At the Gallery To Nina Buckless, a great teacher The world is an old, worn out drum Beaten incessantly by the wind.

Raw sensations, however, Have a life, a logic, a momentum of their own; They would not turn into a Fifth Symphony Unless an ear is cut. And now, Lying in my bed, in full blossom In the context of the starry night, You invite me to embark On an aesthetic expedition Within the borders of your body.

A hammer and a chisel are all I need To shape the world in the image Of the curves in your body. But, The flowers you brought me Are already fading; The window shifts in the wind And the summer stars disappear from delirious eyes. And, The only lasting impression In my mind Is a fleeting, inexpressible, enigmatic sensation Of the purity of form And the inclusiveness of your body: It is not an island It is the ocean itself The waves of which Submerge me, the world and the stars.

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To be complete Beauty needs to be mingled With a little bit of ugliness.

Tom Zimmerman

A Morning at the British Museum

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STEVEN HOEKSTRA______________________________________________________ The Passionate Lives The passionate lives crumble the quickest, with each fiery breath taking its mortal toll.

They explode into beautiful colors, and vanish into thin air.

Into thin air, into drunk tanks and hospital beds quarrels and cathouses madness and majesty and then they recede into thin air.

The passionate lives are the most beautiful and perilous, they are the tenacious and despondent, they walk for hours in the cold rain, they broken-heartedly fling themselves into rush hour traffic, and plunge themselves with needles, to tame the inner-fury, to suppress their palatial appetites, and then, they will vanish into thin air, stealing away their contagious ecstasies and resplendent agonies and their consuming, magnetic presences.

They will vanish into thin air, with the ghosts and the prophets leaving us confounded and alone.

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STEVEN HOEKSTRA______________________________________________________ Marooned Seashells, litter, southerly wind Teeming with dissociation.

You are my salvation, bombastic and rare Sinew, lamplight, chattering bones This ugly, beautiful world Seems opaque—not transparent Horseshoes, shell casings, seaweed Bootprints cast in silt $15 bills, charred and tumbling across the landscape Musketballs, shoehorns, polypropylene Elucidate hymns of lament You are salival now—diluted in the viscera

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ARTHUR BRAKEL________________________________________________________ Walter Wimer Sings the American Dream Blues Who would have thought I’d end up in Denver?

I, Walter Wimer, Né Walter Wimpfheimer, 1924, Ittlingen, Baden, Deutschland über alles?

I, the fifth and final son of Recha and Sigismund I, a little Jew in die Nationsozialiste Volkschule I, who took the train to Paris in 1936 all alone My passport stamped with J (for Jude) I, who made my own way to L’École Maimonide because My oldest brother Manfred failed To meet me at the Gare du Sud I, who won first prize for learning French the fastest I, who wrote a letter to Franklin D Rosenfeld asking For a visa for my family I, who sailed to America in 1940 I, who knew no English, but in Washington Heights Living with my parents, and my brother Ernst Went to George Washington High School, Where Henry Kissinger went….

Where they told me I needed my own “towel” Which sounded like a rumbling from the gut— But nothing like Serviette de bain, Or Handtuch 26

I, who made no sense of Silas Marner and gave up reading stories I, who off at boot camp They called me “Wimpy” And sent me to the Thunderbird Division To replace some dead GI I, who came ashore at Anzio and Dug in on the beach, to Wake up among Replacement soldiers strewn dead upon the sand I, who lobbed a hand grenade into a machine gun nest and Was decorated—a Bronze Star I, who walked from Anzio to Rome I, who standing on French soil pissed on Deutschland— Deutschland unter Walters Pisse I, der kleine Walter, who returned with my buddy Len to Ittlingen and Collared Herr Hartlieb Who felt the barrel of my 45 against his head Who said he never was a Nazi Who said he never made me stand in the corner with A dunce cap on my head Len said: “Kill the bastard, Walter”…

(Herr Hartlieb collected his teacher’s pension ten years later) I, who arrested Frau von Ribbentrop I, who de-enlisted when they set Frau von Ribbentrop free: “I knew nothing about all that.”

I, who returned to America too restless for college 27

I, who went to work at First-O-Line Import-Export as an elevator boy I, who courted Paula, the prettiest woman at Camp Tamarack I, who lived in Washington Heights with my wife Paula, And mother Recha And father Sigismund And brother Ernie I, who introduced Paula to the delights of shrimp and lobster I, who used my German, French and English To buy and sell chemicals and To move up To buy First-O-Line Import-Export and To move out of Washington Heights I, who in Flushing fathered a daughter, Leah, With a patent ductus that needed Surgery Leah, my brilliant, troubled daughter Who grew to taunt me and call me a Nazi Who became a doctor Who married a Professor of whom I said I’d like better if he were Jewish I, who five years later in Long Island fathered a son: Schlomo –“The healthy one” Who needed no surgery Who wanted to be a train Who went to college in Berkeley Who went to Denver to Study pharmacology and Snort coke Who married a Paula Who wasn’t Jewish Who divorced Schlomo Who is unemployed 28

Who wants my money I, whose wife has died Whose brother Ernie has died Whose best friend Len has died Whose daughter lives in Michigan Whose son-in-law calls der grosse Wallig to my face And on the phone I, who hates this assisted-living ward Where I can’t remember a single inmate’s name Where night is day and day is night Where the trains don’t let me sleep Where they lock me up Where they feed me Where a nurse kissed me Where I can’t operate The TV The phone My C-pap breathing machine (Who knows how long this can go on?)

I, who could have been a bar of soap.

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LINDA A.W. BRAKEL____________________________________________________ The History of Anatomy It was dresses they made in the Kneeland St. building Where we cut up bodies, one cadaver for five.

It was wages they worked for in the Kneeland St. building Where we are the students of body part secrets, keeping humans alive.

It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter with lighting from dim to despair.

Where for us it is freezing, cold corpses the reason, formaldehyde scent in the air.

It was sewing machines and those used for cutting, no dead space at all in that room.

Where for us it is bodies wherever we gaze; all dead space; all dead space; no sound.

How can I learn this?

How can I not?

How can I just endure The smell and the cold and the cold hard fact that the body’s the body no more.

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LINDA A.W. BRAKEL____________________________________________________ Crow Sonnet Assembled in tall trees of autumn, they’re An army, no an air force, all in black.

So many, the colored leaves, now in wing-ed stacks, Crow clouds reach up through branches, fill the air.

They’re always bigger than you think, I aver, Their calls of caw and caw again so loud.

Impressive, so impressive, I’d be proud Were I to take to sky and be that bird.

So hard to be a raven, you’re so smart.

Your kinship ties we humans cannot know.

Yet to rest coal black feathers on bright snow, You do all embody stark nature’s art.

The trees you crows command, how do you choose?

Why always cemetery-trees near tombs?

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Tom Zimmerman

Through a Window in Wales

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DENISE G. KLEIN________________________________________________________ Taken by a Sheep in the Night You find a place where a sheep comes to your hand at the back door of night where its nose is as close as the smooth of your face You could wear it as a scarf if it asks you glistening as a raven’s blackness is to your whiteness If you know anything it will give you a kiss forehead to forehead You have a friend from Patagonia who meets you there whose skin is already the raven’s echo And your friend takes your hand and he will ask You ride a horse to the edge of the opening big enough for one or two if you are small Where the air has inbreathed beauty And the horse has no saddle And you ride as it has grown to your leg 33

And the wind sways the tall grass at the brink of your eye And you are a little girl small as the blade of grass you hold in your hand And maybe it is planted in a wrinkle You could write your first words here The trees swirl the sky in a new light As you enter the springtide emptied into a vast canyon and know each drop is for you And you don’t expect a storm because there are no houses And because your friend is here You sing of a rainbow so transparent it covers every puff of your breath You sing soft then loud as you can when no one listens You hug the sheep close it is your silhouette 34

You have discovered more than words For as you leave a footprint of your name remembers

Jack White

Huron River Sunrise

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ROBIN ANDERSON______________________________________________________ How to Fall in Love Search.

Among the billowing dust and artistry of spiders you find them sitting, waiting.

Do not read the back.

Do not see the cover.

Merely taste their title on your tongue.

Let syllables swirl and consonants consume.

The journey begins with the first line on the first page when the scene is set and the marks on the page do not think to say “hello.�

Breathlessly, impatiently, leaf through bound sheets with a sliver of moonlight under the covers.

Smooth down the dog-eared pages that have tainted 36

their perfection.

Let wrinkles on paper be prelude to paradise.

Confess your love in candle light on a rainy day when the power is out.

Spend sweet seconds rapt in the way they spin sentences in clever diction.

Feel the weight of them in your arms while you are alone on a crowded bus.

See marks of age along their spine and know that time is waning.

During final lines, listen closely for anything at all that they may have left to say.

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KATHRYN BEECHLER____________________________________________________ Drunk Off You I drink you in, hoping I’ll fall down drunk That your glances might be subtle hints of longing I tempt myself keeping you in my view There was one moment You smiled at me From behind the desk Eyes curiously not on your work Like we were two kids, elementary Lighthearted and swift Nothing ever came of it I doubt it ever will I heard that you’re with someone But that hasn’t stopped me I am an alcoholic I drink myself sick on someone who offers me nothing I luxuriate a fantasy where you are the imagery Tawny-eyed, round tip nose Slim Fit 33x32 Levi’s Intoxicated on your saliva I wish Yesterday you walked right by no glance no smile I continuously revel in your demeanor 38

Brimming gulps with harsh reaction I break the glass the bottle and my heart Losing all that you were to me Radio clip on on your belt, towel in your pocket You angle through the aisles, out of view I’m bound back, out of time Today you wore glasses Still craving your everything I down you as a three digit proof A two digit ABV I see the fatigue in your eyes I know You were with her last night 911 10-52 I can’t stop Poisoning myself with you 911 10-18 I want you You don’t want me 911 drunk off you And losing, losing, losing, lost me.

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OLIVIA OAKES__________________________________________________________ Poison Candy He slipped the koolaid in my coffee while I was working with a student.

He didn’t know that I was a veteran koolaid drinker.

Ah, the many koolaids I have tried, Been forced to try.

I escaped the hospital before the exits were glued together, A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, Opened my mouth for the nurse to check that I’d swallowed.

With the sweet liquid I’d grown immune to this tranquilizing syrup Even good on pancakes.

BTW, the other day, I thought it a good idea to get a peanut butter fountain Like those chocolate fountains rented for weddings For those lonely nights with only Barnaby by my side.

I’d let creamy peanut butter lather my every inch.

Barnaby’s little pee pee got quite a dollop of the stuff.

I’m not usually up for oral peanut butter sex, But it was just one of those nights That I had to pull the old fountain out.

So back to reality and the insane people in inane places.

I slid through the crack of the walls through the not yet hardened glue, Threw up the koolaid and ran for the closet.

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AHMED MUHAMMAD____________________________________________________ Eight Haiku Spring’s blossoms traipse Atop the swollen river Thunder claps in the distance The small boy squeals As the goldfish flounders Dirt on its belly Countryside ringing A ewe bleats desperately But the lamb’s face only questions The soldier’s wide eyes Take in the gentle night sky Before it bursts in flames She seems quick to flight Tells me she’ll never be caged Still, desolate skies?

A prostitute coos Under a flickering streetlight The car hesitates Measure? Calculate?

Poison is poison, it’s bound To accumulate It's a chilly day I sit beside my shadow Watching songbirds nest 41

KAIGAPEN______________________________________________________________ Honey Bunches of Haiku Beneath a full moon’s night fireflies dance together— man waltzes alone.

A tiny boat drifts away from aimless days— her body stiffens.

Cherry pink petals flutter sway, dance, and fall as the skeleton cries below Letters to the sky— songs of urging emotions reach to faraway worlds.

A bitter morning’s arrival— the stained and darkened silhouette stares back at me from the mirror

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LE CHANT DU CYGNE___________________________________________________ Leaves (seven haikus in one poem) I move through the woods/ So quietly, the leaves fall/ But I might go back/ I stare back, sadness/ In my eyes, Ravens pass by/ I wish I could fly.

Where would I go to?/ Not Edo of course, just North/ But I walk instead My sword on my side/ The cold steel, is like my soul/ Cold and heartless too I really do not know/ If to go back is the best/ I will keep away My conical hat/ Tilted to cover my face/ But why do I hide?

I ponder and walk/ In hope to find an answer/ But I am still lost.

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ARNOLD LYLES_________________________________________________________ Poetry is putting ideas on paper and intending for them to sound pleasant, rhythmic, and relatable to an audience?

Not a Poem I bet you love Satan don’t you…

Why else would you purposely read a Poem?

Well, Lucky for you I’m here to sanctify The hell out of you.

No… I am not a poet.

Poem is to python As reader is to rat If a poem brings you to a state of Zion, you may want to flick that light on Because in reality it’s the serpent’s fangs piercing deep into your back.

Poets or rather Poetic terrorists use paper as their medium If that fills you with hot air Then to hell with you and your helium Poets aren’t real but Hypnotists are running rampant They don’t feel what you feel They use their talent to seem candid as they Start preparing you for a meal Don’t let a poem touch your heart Unless you want to be gutted like a fish Because poets are cannibals And you are their favorite dish Reading a poem is simply a satanic ritual Camouflaging itself behind well placed syllables Your favorite poet is a psycho 44

With the worst of tendencies They eat baby’s back ribs with a side of juicy centipedes They are getting more deceptive In setting traps to catch your ass It used to read: Roses are red, violets are blue I’m feeling a little hungry So why don’t you hop in my stew Nowadays They’ll leave a raisin in the sun And mention your deferred dreams Luring you to your death by exploiting your fantasy There is no good in a stanza, but There is a Satanz!

That’s who you’ll be worshiping If you ignore my statements So before you start a poem Or submit your final copy Ask yourself this How would my grandma feel about me joining the illuminati?

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CASSIDY EUBANKS______________________________________________________ Concerning Labels They Make Me Wear (And How I Must Incinerate Them): Do you understand how fed up I am?

I cannot get anyone to understand. I am not the assumptions you have made of me. I am not what you think.

I am not ignorant, I am innocent.

I am not quiet, I am stifled.

I am not loud, I am made so small I must make my voice big.

I am not soft, I am decidedly tender.

I am not naive, I am forgiving.

I am not someone who needs protecting, I am a wildfire. And I will burn anyone lesser into the ground with my heat.

I am a burning ember, a scrap of fire, and if you continue to try and act as if I am burnt out...I will eat you alive.

I will burst into flames one of these days, spontaneously combusting into a beautiful rage, and you will all be shocked to know I am not who you thought I was.

I am not an indoor candle. I am the sun.

Watch me burn.

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RYAN SCHERZ___________________________________________________________ The Ghost of Jimmy I’ve seen a ghost.

Not bedsheets fluttering in the dead air, not a goblin, slimy green in hotel hallway, not Carol Anne’s TV, and surely not Bruce Willis with a shotgun blast to the back.

But the ghost was dead people, good and dead; and I do see Jim at night.

He was a man.

I knew him as manager of many pizza drivers knew where he was coming from, knew what he had to say, and I certainly knew where he’d finished up.

On the floor, in a pile with a stack of Valiums to the gut and without Jim’s last look at heaven.

But there I was.

On that site when I had the sight of fright I saw a scene, an image of Jim, I witnessed a vision and profoundly perceived it myself to the gills.

In the flesh, with a face I hadn’t seen before and Jim handed me a hoagie.

So I head out.

From whence I came to where I’m going From white to black, under the dinging bell, open to close and undoubtedly between heaven and hell to the end.

But not forever between, here nor there and I do see Jim at night.

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ALICIA VELASCO________________________________________________________ Chimera I am a figment of your imagination.

What you see is an illusion, The thirst you crave Is that of the beast The crawler which trembles in your Intestines.

I am the wind that scratches your window, The critter under your bed, The little monster that feeds your temptation, That taps your knees and begs for more.

I am Lord of the Flies, I am your knight, I am who you fear, Your fantasy and your Convulsions, I am who I am, The reflection in the mirror.

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MIRANDA KULIG________________________________________________________ Pancakes I am waiting, but every touch is cold.

I am waiting, but my skin is numb.

I am waiting, but her form is a ghost, a whisper in the night, a flickering shadow.

I am waiting for my love, but she is dead.

She promised to make pancakes on my birthday morning.

She promised not to take too long at the grocery store.

She promised to return to me, and make coffee, and sit with me.

She promised to be careful, and she was. But it didn’t matter.

And now I am waiting for my pancakes, and I am waiting but she is taking too long at the grocery store, and I am waiting for her to return to me, and make coffee, and sit with me, but she’ll never come home.

My love—my sweet, sweet angel—is dead.

I am waiting, though her blood stains the asphalt.

I am waiting, though the car is too mangled to bring her home.

I am waiting, though her lips are cold and smothered under six feet of dirt.

I should never have asked for pancakes for my birthday morning.

I should never have let her go to the grocery store.

I should have asked her to make coffee, and sit with me.

I should have said “I love you” instead of “Be careful.”

Because now her form is a ghost, a whisper in the night, a flickering shadow.

My love is dead.

So I am waiting.

I am waiting.

I am waiting.

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TYLER STRAUSS__________________________________________________________ What Was What could be more wonderful Than this?

The almost poetic Simplicity Of waiting for the inevitable.

He watches a man Still a boy Sob softly In the cool spring reflection Of the pond’s shallow gaze.

Here, Where his father taught him to swim Where he caught his first bass And had his first kiss So long ago.

He wants to feel The soft grass That held him as a boy And softened all his falls.

But he cannot.

He tries to caress The long oaken leaves Which sang lullabies On windy, sleepless nights.

A leaf breaks.

He listens for birds 50

And their hymns of vitality Which taught a young heart love Love for a girl, and a world.

He hears no songs.

He hears the sirens now They are coming.

Flashing red and blue Staining the pond the same blood red As his shirt and pants.

The pond recoils from him Or him from it.

It cannot wash away these sins Which cover his face and hands.

And if it could, he would not ask it to.

He soils the loveliness of this place With his presence.

There is no sanctuary for him here.

He turns and runs, and runs, and runs Refusing himself the pleasure of one last look At what was.

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MIRANDA MCCARTHY___________________________________________________ Astronomer's Ode to a Meteorite You come with your own soundtrack.

You come with the ethereal humming of the display next to you, You come with the swells of an old movie about the future past, You come with the silent playing of a spider from Mars, You come as you are.

You came with your own soundtrack.

You came with the roar of an atmosphere ripped apart, You came with the fire and fury and light of entry into our skies, You came where none of our eyes could see you but the dust, You came as a piece of cold, cold, cold fury.

You were found, Found so far away from home but so very close to your birthplace, Found in dust and rock and dirt under a blue sky you'd never felt the likes of.

Found where your family was a million miles away so that even light takes time to reach them, Found where the rest of you was at the bottom of another crater so very very deep and wide it was almost four times deeper than you were when you were whole, Found and brought up here, even farther away.

What do they think when they see you?

What do they say when they pass you by?

You have been for billions of years. You are older than not just them, but their planet, the planet they walk on and the air they breathe. And they say nothing, because you say nothing, and they think nothing of it.

But I love you, strange little thing.

Look at you, you little wonder, you.

Saying so very very much just by being here, 52

So out of place, so far away.

You passed through dark like we can never sleep through, Cold that would flash-freeze us in an instant And being so very, very alone it would drive us mad in less time than you may barely perceive.

But we have thought of you, little wonder.

Though to you we have barely been here, Barely brushed your surface before we go and wither and die and birth and go and wither and die and again and again and again But it makes sense to us, because we see you, and we study you, and we love you.

That your alien shapes should enchant us and the feel of alloys birthed in fire and darkness and crossing so so many many miles should draw us in until we fall so very far upwards That we will keep going and moving and breeding and teaching your story over and over and over again until we know all we can about you, and then again until we are sure.

That the dark is so beautiful to those who love the stars.

We love you, little strange thing.

You, our first universe, when we came in holding our parent's hand and putting our little fingers through the holes that mark your scars.

You, our first telescope, our first lens, our first introduction.

Hello, little universe, and we're so very pleased to be here.

I love you, strange little thing.

My very first stars.

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MARTIKA ALLEN________________________________________________________ What Happened Two days ago, A man asked If I could spare some change for food.

Now, I consider myself a good person— But I am also an Aspie, And my immediate thought was “How can I make this person go away As quickly as possible?”

So I told him, “No. Sorry.”

He smiled, said thank you (thank you for what?)

And left.

I thought about how I was standing in line For a meal with all its accoutrements, While he may have been happy for a dollar for a side of chips.

(Yes, maybe he was out for drug money, Yes, maybe he wanted to rip me off, But Maybe not.)

So I turned and looked for him, to tell him okay, But my Aspie eyes couldn’t tell if it was him Going into the store over there, him Walking out the doors just there, Or if he was even still here at all.

Guilty, I ordered my own meal, Thinking of him.

I was angry at how he made me feel (I’m an Aspie, I couldn’t react so fast— 54

And I would never do such a thing if it were me, No matter how hungry I got) But I realized, That was probably the last thing he’d wanted to do— Ask me for money— And how much courage the act must have taken.

My anger returned to guilt.

I thought about him as I ate, Lunchdinnerbreakfast Lunchdinnerbreakfast (wondering if I’ll be eating my words, “No. Sorry,” For the rest of my life).

I think about him, And I pray for him, That someone fed him, And I pray for me, That next time, I’ll see hunger instead of a person, And I’ll have the courage (the courage he has to ask) To say, “Yes. Come, Eat.”

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JOHN CASTRO___________________________________________________________ Revolution I can taste revolution On the palms of my bloodied hands.

The scars of those before me Paint them in crimson streaks, Crimson peaks, and shattered dreams.

Blood doesn't always evoke pain, Especially when it's pouring out of You in written verse, spoken words, And shouted cries of long needed triumph.

It tastes of metal, torn into The flesh of your struggles Like oppressive shrapnel.

It tastes of salt, Conjured up and released Through your eyes in Tears kept invisible To the common man.

Revolution, the new Trend on social media, Spreading through progressive minds And progressive thoughts, Springs to our youth's Fingertips and tongues Like sacred streams Of pure water.

Revolution is lapped up By filthy dogs and Spat out to be filed Under, “Work in Progress,” And “Teenage Angst,” as To deter us from the truth.

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It is burned at the stake, Lynched, stoned, and tossed Into oblivion to never Spread as if it were A disease of the mind, When in reality, it's A supplement for the Heart.

We raise our voices, our Thumbs, our ears to Slaughter ignorance In the same fashion It had slaughtered our Fallen.

Revolution will not be The fall of humanity, but The rise of a million Oppressed peoples living Under political chains, Wrapped in them and Suffocated by their Disgusting lies disguised as Truths.

Blood will spill into Their oceans and dye Them maroon; it will Seep into their lungs And pollute their minds As they did ours.

The gashes in our Psyche, our morale, shall Not go without vocal, Artist redemption.

I can taste revolution On the palms of my bloodied hands, 57

And it is sweeter than any Delicacy the world may Shove down my throat.

Harrison Fischer

Working Class Prince

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AUDREY TALBOT________________________________________________________ The Process It’s like a circle, Going around and around.

Is this the writing process?

I don’t like it— Too repetitive, too unoriginal.

It almost makes you scratch out all creative thought.

Who said we should change?

Weren’t things fine the way they were?

I know we all aren’t writers, But that doesn’t mean that those of us who are, Should be confined to standard rules of writing.

We’re meant to think outside of the box.

We were never inside the box.

We happy few, gifted with writing, Have been outcasts.

It’s unfortunate that too often The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.

We are bashed by society, By those too afraid of anything different, Children are taught to blend in Rather than express who they truly are.

And too many of us, the ones who try, End with efforts made futile.

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MAX GIBSON____________________________________________________________ Eyebrows and Stars “For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted,

and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard.

There isn’t any other tale to tell, it’s the only light we’ve got in all this darkness.”

--James Baldwin, “Sonny’s Blues”

The woman who remembers my birth story is gone, but I do recall the part when she went into labor with me—how their dog, Sandy, did too— whelped seven puppies, foreshadowing my six siblings.

I wish I heard more of her stories before she died, but they’re emptied into my sleep where they swim with all the others—stories that grow gills, stories eaten alive, tumbled smooth and weightless, collected on shores, hidden in pockets, or skipped across the glass surface of my life.

Tell me the story of when I was born Again, I tell each daughter her story— the same story, and each time it is different.

But the father’s never missing (that chapter comes later). For now, he’s by their mother’s side waiting to catch his beautiful daughters— cradle them in his arms—there with the right answer, at the right time—a story to ground them.

But nothing could ground the girls that Sky drew, so she always added wings. Her hovering angels, and Lara’s, self-titled art flicker from frames above my hearth: Eyebrows and Stars; Hearts and Lines; & A Little Girl Touching the Window While Her Mother Does the Dishes.

Yes, we can be calm inside lonely, inside accusations, fly above sad, if only we can draw it—feel the word water splash in our open palms.

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Jack White

Bell Rd. Swirl

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ADELLA BLAIN__________________________________________________________ Eighteen Again If I were eighteen again long hair tangling in the wind, sun above Oahu on my face, I’d hold him tight on the Harley … no … I’d drive the Hog myself past roadside food trucks and pineapple groves.

I’d stop, swoon over Kalua pork and spicy Ahi, then ride on past shimmering turquoise waves –oh, how they dazzle!

I’d tip toe on scorching sand into the Pacific and watch it stretch to cover spray-veiled surfers seeking nirvana.

If I were eighteen again I’d say Good-Bye to the sixth commandment and sensory deprivation. Isn’t purity, after all, like leis of white kukua blossoms, simply beauty undefiled?

I’d sip sweet tea, munch on salted Macadamia nuts, groove not on ukuleles but on Django’s jazz guitar.

I’d let him drip cool water down my bikini bottom, rub Bain de Soleil over my fair skin, tickle my arches with shattered conch shells, whisper promises of passion in my eager ear. I’d trade Blake’s little lamb for any tiger burning bright.

If I were eighteen again I’d love more. I mean, of course, I’d show my open heart, show the way it reaches out, sending beating warmth to persons I adore.

No longer shy, I’d give lush bouquets of affection, 62

generous offerings of approbation and praise, second helpings of sweet romance.

While once I hid my desire behind a curtain of propriety, I’d throw open the sash, greet my lover and make intimacy de rigeur.

If I were eighteen again I’d ask more questions. I’d bang on closed minds, toss stale truths out open windows. I’d bleed passivity from my system.

No longer mute, I’d raise a clamor. I’d be a brass band blasting at false authorities who stole my voice, or cymbals crashing on ears that refused to hear.

I’d step forward smiling, eagerly facing my future, not as Mother Teresa or Joan of Arc, just as the braver me I’d like to be.

Tom Zimmerman

Paris Plages, August 2011

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EDITH MORRIS CROAKE_________________________________________________ The Lady of the Lake is a sinewy, silver tree on the far shore.

Her gnarled arms stretch wide, fledglings nest in her twigged hair, ducks weave feathered circles at her webbed feet.

Storms have ripped her bark to the bone.

Now, she is a blanched landmark for boaters by day, a hostess to forest spirits as they glide by in the lifting fog, a haven for small animals at night.

She oversees the riot of fall colors and the birthing of spring, the sunlight slipping over the mountains, the tempo of waves—slow to slap-fast— the whispered, lapping lullaby of night.

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KATHLEEN STRNAD_____________________________________________________ Ode to a Lemon Lemon, cupped by my palm and fingers.

I am comforted holding you, small sunlike earthy globe.

Lemon, tart mandala, wheel of heavenly zing me awake, I pray in the mystery of your slippery seeds, your slices floating in water, your juice quenching our thirst, increasing water’s power.

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CALVIN MCMILLIN______________________________________________________ Love Poem from My Girlfriend You don’t Really know who the Love of your life is Until you’re about to die.

Only until the millisecond Prior to the moment of death Can you truly be sure.

But I suppose It’s possible That you’re The one.

(But really, who knows?)

Happy Valentine’s Day!

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MALCOLM BARRETT_____________________________________________________ “A train stalls on the Upper West Side” Maybe it’s true that I’m more like a cave of snow.

You know the type. Brought up by a boy in the afternoon & gone by evening.

Listen, will you lick the snow off my boot? It’s what my cat used to do.

No, it’s OK. It’s too much to ask. It’s like a muskrat lifting its head at dusk.

The water parts & suddenly you’ve got a million years of heritage & dinner for Lent.

The tracks are frozen & all I’ve got is this coffee & a book on biostatistics.

Worse yet, I don’t know how right you’d be to call these wet streets snow.

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EMMA GABRIEL_________________________________________________________ The Lock That Replaced Me Dream-webs of clouds and whispering trees, Winds that scrape up dirt, muddy swamp, an ice-encrusted gas gauge, The dried up well, and isolation…

Somewhere I was locked away Without forethought or insight, Or friends, sidewalks, busses, museums, or others like me.

I tried not to be like me.

Where I asked for “My Little Pony” toys, “Lee Press–on” nails (they didn’t come in red), And to wear tights to school like the girls.

Where no kind of love was given To misunderstood questions, interests, or longings.

Where terror reigned, drawn by poverty, humiliation, and screams.

Where nothing was sacred, cherished, or even respected.

For so long, I tried.

And somehow, I got locked away, further and further, Every moment I stayed there, being bitten into With every doubt, put-down, demand, false promise, and false security.

All I needed was a foundation—one like others expected; One that defied the lazy and stupid judgments of the rich, The secure, the established, and the enslaved.

But I was still locked away.

What does it take to survive?

To stoop lower than we think we ought?

To stand over whoever might be down?

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Or to hide away so craftily, And disappear even to yourself?

A retiary lock and camouflaged key, Safeguarded blindness and repression, Whose champion wounds delighted in pain, Knowing no way but what they knew: Only failure, fault, conceit, intolerance, and rage, Arrogance, vanity, lust, selfishness, and laziness.

Bleeding wounds that cut under fattening insulation Caused lies to seem true, and truth to seem undeserved.

Locks rust away in the open, you know.

And the spirit trapped behind them goes free.

Jack White

Delhi Rapids at Dawn

69

JESSICA POMORSKI______________________________________________________ The Short and Beautiful Lifespan of Millions We start out so small, so unnoticed, but soon develop our natural beauty.

The frequent chilly rainfalls of our youth provide the nourishment we need to thrive. The view below blossoms into a field of radiant colors.

We reach our prime and the sunlight warms our faces—we brighten the world. Humid breeze blows all around us—we dance on its currents. We whisper amongst ourselves, singing with the rhythm of the wind.

The air grows colder as we all grow older, our change begins. One by one, we paint the sky into a perfect sunset. We soon become frail and brittle. As our comrades fall, we rejoice and await destiny.

As the first snowfall approaches, the last of us descend. Left now are only empty branches, soon to be covered in icy pillows. Settling into the ground below, we await the warm season that will melt away the frost, giving birth to a new generation. New life born. Live long!

—The Leaves

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SARAH RABY____________________________________________________________ Bon Voyage Quiet drive night sky passing me by.

Familiar twists and turns, and these tear drops burn.

Roadway Highway Fate.

It’s all the same.

A journey from A to B and back again.

Finding God, Love, Loss, and Yourself.

A never-ending hour-glass, sand always falling.

Quiet drive night sky passing me by.

Memories flooding this river bank.

The current pushing through my mind.

From a child to a broken girl.

A constantly changing, evolving story, with one constant.

Family.

Quiet drive night sky passing me by.

No moonlight shining, No Starlight guiding.

No Big Dipper.

Just headlights and a rearview.

God is driving.

Forward toward family.

Forward toward grief and sorrow.

Forward to tears and condolences.

Forward to the only love worth driving under a night sky.

Constant. Loyal. Devoted.

Never gone, just a see you later.

Bon Voyage

71

DIANE M. LABODA______________________________________________________ Easy, Like Trix, Is For Kids Well, I won’t die immediately.

They tell me salt will cause me pain, but I won’t die. Good enough.

Age and allergies notwithstanding, I’ll take those odds. The last to do me in was mulberries, white, sumptuous—and deadly.

When the allergy test itself requires treatment, the allergen is poison, such an innocuous package of the latest super-food. Who knew?

I’ve begun to think I’m allergic to aging itself.

As the years stack up behind me, obstacles to comfort loom ahead— catching noses and digits and knee bones and patches of hair and sleep.

My concept of self is driven askew.

I didn’t arrive at this age to do nothing but read labels. Guess again, I did.

Might it be better just to have a lunch receipt show up with a message— something like: “Tonight Diane will have a heart attack,” or “You need to refill your Epipen by tomorrow,” and “By the way, if your rheumatologist is not on speed dial—do it now!”

72

The wiser we get, us sixty-plus-ers, the less we know about our body’s ways, and the prognosis for total and sudden breakdown, but the more we care.

I guess the only way to survive is to chart our food intake like our medications, ice or heat our appendages’ aches and pains and let go of the idea that life will be easy.

Easy, like Trix, is for kids.

Ralph Kennedy

Untitled

73

JANET KAVANAGH______________________________________________________ Rage against the fading I. At eight he has discovered death and is preoccupied, fixated.

We romp with dogs in the sun and newborn grass, yet time and again he draws back to kneel beneath the feathering willow.

That patch of earth adorned with early dandelions and a Popsicle stick cross.

He seeks his mother and fixes her with solemn eyes, saying "I don't like it when grownup ladies get old, and I won't like it when it happens to you."

She is mute, dumbstruck, searching for the right reply but panicked in her own interpretation of his need.

I think he is sage, and right—he won’t like it.

I don’t.

II. It is all I can do not to shake you, to force an accounting of how you can bear to squander 74

your possibilities— our possibilities.

I understand the need to no longer set the pace, or hold back the hanging branches, but not the dissipation, your pursuits all abandoned, unfinished.

You who taunted make yet a higher mark, never admit defeat!

All around you dreams are ending loss is piling and I am forced to stand by and wait to add yours to the accumulation.

An obscene and cowardly waste.

We never speak of it, or look directly in its eye.

For pride’s sake.

It is mine, and not mine to question and mourn your contradictions.

How in fear of death are you not grateful for life?

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SCOTT SCHUER__________________________________________________________ Landscape Lawn Possible Carlos Gravity The rain-glazed windshield from a red Corolla driver’s seat reveals a drab landscape a trace of white speed-blurred car disappearing behind aluminum siding and wonderment triggers gravitas.

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Gallery

Mike Frieseman

Mystic #2

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Mike Frieseman

Mystic #1

78

Mike Frieseman

Mystic #3

79

Mike Frieseman

Abstract #5

80

Judy Bemis

Cuban Dancer 1

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Judy Bemis

Cuban Dancer 2

82

Judy Bemis

Cuban Dancer 3

83

Judy Bemis

Judy Bemis

Cuban Dancer 4

Lost in Thought

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Kathleen Strnad

Kathleen Strnad

Mill

Seated Nude

85

Kathleen Strnad

Fall Flowers

86

Kathleen Strnad

Red Tulips

87

Nate Laurant

Dead Inside

88

Nate Laurant

Pernicious

89

Nate Laurant

Defeat

Nate Laurant

Passion

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Nate Laurant

Jamie Fulcher

Silent Night

Bronx: The 1

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Jamie Fulcher

Theory

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Jamie Fulcher

Remembered

Jamie Fulcher

Day in Spring, Dedicated to Dad

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Kali Wealch

My Barn Cat

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Hadeel Abdo

Loxodonta

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Hadeel Abdo

Catching Waves

Hadeel Abdo

Take a Risk

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Malcolm Barrett

Malcolm Barrett

Drought

Closed for Revegetatic

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Malcolm Barrett

Malcolm Barrett

Continental Divide

Hands

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Malcolm Barrett

Sun and Moon

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Christina Shannon

Still, a Life at Rest

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Christina Shannon

Innocence in Transition at the Dawn Gate

Christina Shannon

Forbidden Fruit of the Midnight Sun

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Fadwa Ashur

Beautiful Nothingness

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Fremont Corn, Corn, Corn, Corn I feel like Mormont’s Crow Corn as far as the eye can see.

It’s not all corn though, just mostly.

We have a Walmart, that’s a thing.

It IS the only one in the county.

There’s Terra too, the community college.

That’s worthy of note, breaks up the corn, Corn, corn, Walmart, corn, Terra, corn.

A president lived here once, Rutherford B. Hayes.

In 1873. A time before there WAS entertainment.

We immortalized his homestead, Spiegel Grove. Spell that.

If you’re keeping count it should run like this: Corn, Spiegel Grove, corn, Walmart, corn, Terra, Corn.

If you sat that the right way it can be musical!

There is something really important there though.

It’s a reason to return to the Sea of Corn.

Family. Most of mine is in the area.

I don’t get to see them often, so when I can, I’ll brave the dull waves of the ocean of veggies to journey back to little Fremont, OH. My Home Town.

Nicholas T. Slane

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Annalee Guenther

Harrison Fischer

Jordan Camera

Football

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Jessica Winn

Laela Qader

Spanish Dagger

The Butterfly Dress

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Alison Henkel

Artemis

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Alison Henkel

II.II.MMXVI.

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Sofia Lynch

The Dreams of a Housewife

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Fiction

Jack White

Portage Lake

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BEN DUSSAULT___________________________________________________________________________ The Best of William Kent I’ve always been uncomfortable in offices. The sterility gets to me; everything is just so meticulously organized. I can’t imagine keeping things so clean. When I work, I won’t come up with anything decent until the floor is coated in rejects. I’ve seen artists who work in laboratories—never the good ones, just the jackasses who stumble into a hit and stuff their egos with the windfall. Those are the guys who would be here. They’d line up to be interviewed for some gossip rag or wherever the hell the spotlight is. They spend more time in perfectly manicured offices than they do in the studios, and it’s insulting. I made a mistake; I shouldn’t have come here.

This is what happens when I sit in a clean office. I think. I can’t make music when I think. I can’t do anything when I think—except make an ass out of myself, which is exactly what I’m doing. I’m debasing myself, I’m wasting my time, and I’m making a mockery of— The door opens. A shrimpy man leans into the room.

“Mr. Kent? I’m sorry I kept you waiting; come on in.”

I follow. He sits down behind a spotless desk and motions toward a modern artist’s interpretation of a chair. I take a seat, looking him over. His scruffy red hair seems painstakingly set into a detailed imitation of carelessness. The color appears unnaturally strong; is it dyed? That doesn’t seem right; no one dyes themselves ginger. Not men, at least. If he did, he added some to his halfbeard, too. He looks much younger than I expected; I’m not sure he was alive when my last album came out.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Kent. I’m Wesley Hammil. Are you all set for our interview? Can I get you something? Water, scotch, beer?”

“Uh, no thanks. I’m good.”

“Alright, just let me know if you change your mind.” He tilts back to a sleek, black mini-fridge on the back wall, and pulls out a bottle. The label is blindingly colorful, and the logo is impossible to make out. He pops the cap off, and takes a sip as he opens his laptop. I can’t put my finger on why, but the way he drinks the beer just seems wrong. Not offensive, but like he’s giving it his best shot and still failing.

“Okay, so you’ve got an album coming out. How about you start by telling me about that?”

“Well sure.” I shift in my chair. “It’s The Best of William Kent. It’s a collection of my greatest hits, so to speak.”

“Ah, yes. And the set-list does go on, doesn’t it? How much of your work is represented here?”

“It’s pretty diverse; I’ve included a couple songs from every album I’ve put out.” He watches me as I speak, but he doesn’t seem to notice the words. His fingers run across the keyboard; I imagine he’s typing up my response, but he must have a recorder running on that thing, so why bother?

“You never wanted to release a Greatest Hits compilation in the middle of your career, and now it’s been a couple decades since you released anything new. Why the sudden interest?” No surprises here; I think my agent included a list of suggested questions. I wonder if he even bothered to do any research.

“Well, like you said, it’s been quite a while since I released anything. I’ve seen two new media formats spring up, and the label wasn’t all that eager to re-release my old albums over and over. As a result, a lot of my fans have had a hard time finding my music, and I want to fix that.”

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“Does this mean a full conversion of your albums is out of the question?”

“No, not at all.” If my agent didn’t give him these questions, someone in marketing certainly did. “My full catalogue will be available to download, including a few alternate takes and live recordings that have never been released. If there’s enough interest in those, maybe some remastered versions would be next, but it’s too soon to speculate. I’m focusing on this right now.”

“Very...good…” He hangs on each word, more focused on his computer than me. We sit without speaking as his tapping continues. What could he be typing? It’s clearly much more than I said.

“Alright, I think we’re just about done here.”

“Already? Seems a bit quick for that.” Is this all he dragged me down here for? He could have gotten all that from the press release.

“What can I say? The issue’s filling fast! My editor isn’t giving me much space.” He sounds insincerely apologetic.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been on your cover!” Wesley doesn’t react; either he’s sociopathically unsympathetic, or he’s learned to hold his small and snide grin after sitting through countless shitty garage band concerts.

“Look, I understand, and I’d be the first one to say you deserve more attention, but there’s nothing I can do. This is what the editor wants.”

“Fine.” I get up and walk to the door.

“Hang on, Will, I was hoping to ask you one more thing.” Where does he get the nerve to call me Will? My wife doesn’t even call me Will.

“What’s your favorite song on the album?” ********************************************************************************** My agent, Ryan Smith, has a remarkably cluttered desk. The floor is spotless, though. I’ve always wondered if the janitors took care of that for him, or if he was just good at balancing everything on his desk. Now wasn’t a very good time to ask.

“Where the hell did you get off, berating him like that?” My agent’s due for a heart attack any day now. He’s ten years younger than me, but comparing heartbeats instead of years he could be my grandfather.

“He’s doing us a favor!” he shouts, as he stands up from behind his desk. “I really can’t understand this attitude of yours. Explain—please explain to me what is going on with you.”

“It was insulting,” I explain, calm and composed. “I’m filler to take up the last few inches the child pop-stars couldn’t give him.”

“Yes. That’s what you are; it’s what we expected! This is what we’re trying to get!” He extends every syllable, yet still manages to sound as if he’s talking fast. “This isn’t the seventies anymore; you don’t have crowds and publishers and whatever crowding around you! We take what we can get!”

“Yeah, alright, sorry.” I know he’s right, but I’m not admitting that to myself yet, so I’m certainly not about to tell him.

“And what’s this I hear you just walked out without answering all his questions?” Damn. I should have known this was coming. “What the hell was that about?”

I stare out the window for a while. I wish I could walk out on this meeting.

“I didn’t have an answer.”

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“You didn’t—how the fuck did you not have an answer? ‘What’s your favorite song on the album?’ He practically walked it to the plate! How much softer did you want him to be?”

“I don’t have a favorite. It’s not that easy.”

“Well just pick one of the ones you like! It really is that easy.”

“I don’t like any of my songs, though.”

That shut him up. He looks me over, tense and weary. He gives off a sigh and falls back into his chair.

“You don’t like…” He trails off for a minute. “Well, alright. How about you go home for now?

Get some sleep? You seem tired.”

“You too, Ryan. I think you could use it.”

“I – I’ve got work to do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, William.”

I pull myself out of the chair and hastily walk to the door. Pausing, I turn to look at my agent.

He’s absorbed in paperwork, and I can see I’m right. He’s exhausted. ********************************************************************************** “He was right, you know.” Susan chops onions as she talks. She knows I agree, even though I try my best to hide it. I grumble a halfhearted response and dump garlic into a saucepan. “Even if you don’t like these people, you still have to work with them.”

“I get that, honey, it’s just…” I trail off. I had hoped to find an ending to that sentence on the way, but nothing came to mind. Instead, I root intently through the half-filled sink for a salvageable spatula. Nothing in this kitchen is ever where it belongs.

“Just what? Too stubborn to admit you’re old?”

“Hey now, I’m not– “ “Like hell you’re not.” Susan puts her hand to her hip, all the while clenching the knife. She’s unknowingly intimidating. “You’re not the same guy who went traipsing around studios, flipping off wives of executives and drinking during recording sessions.”

I laugh. Some of the details blurred over the years.

“More importantly, though, these aren’t the same people who shook their heads and let you carry on.” She notices the knife with a start and sets it down on the counter, only to pick it right back up to push the onions into the saucepan. “These kids are in charge now, and you might not like them, but they’re pretty damn set on finding their own way to run things.”

I kiss her on the cheek. “You’re right,” I admit. “You’re absolutely right. I was just a bit testy in that interview, but I know better.” Susan has a way of saying what I try very hard to pretend I don’t already know. I’m not sure if I deserve that, but I definitely need it.

“Good,” she says. She digs around in the fridge for a while, then suddenly pops back out. “Now what’s this about not having a favorite song?”

“Oh, well, I…” “Because I would think it’d have to be ‘Mediterranean Sunrise.’ You know, the one you wrote for me? And sang at our wedding?” She stares me down, but I know her game. After a few seconds, she breaks into a coy smile, following with a gentle peck. “I’m kidding, of course. I understand, you were young, you learned a lot more since then. But come on, you wrote a lot after that.”

“Yeah, but nothing I’d call my ‘favorite song.’” That was matched with a dripping sarcastic tone and a cheesy pair of air quotes. Even I hate me sometimes.

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“How about ‘Well That’s The Problem?’”

“Ugh, that was so derivative. Sounded like everything else on the radio at the time. Hardly inspired.” “‘Forget About Breakfast’?”

“Boring. I’ve done loads better since then.” “‘Dreams of Marseille’?”

“Ryan pushed me into publishing that one. The crowd always loves it, but I can’t figure out why.” “‘Tender Hatred’?”

“You know, I’m pretty sure I stole that from The Who.” Susan sighs. “Come on, you must have a favorite. Don’t make me guess; I’m just going to forget it and embarrass us both.”

“No, really, it’s not like that!” I sound exasperated, but more with myself than her. “Whenever we were on press tours I’d always say my current album was my best work. It was my favorite. I meant it, too. But give it time, you see the flaws, you figure out all the ways you could do better next time. And that’s what I did, so I wrote a new favorite album. But it’s been twenty-eight years and I just don’t have one anymore.”

Susan gives me a look, filled with a sort of agitated respect. She doesn’t need to say anything, but does anyway. “So then why didn’t you write more?”

I pause, taking way too long to respond. She was there when it happened, she heard all the excuses. The throat pains, the creative blocks, the draining studio executives. She wants a real answer.

Finally, I force a shrug, and give out a feigned mumble. Then I quickly busy myself digging for a colander in the dishwasher. She redoubles her look, unsurprisingly dissatisfied, but lets it rest. We finish cooking, and eat together in silence. Or maybe we did talk, but my head wasn’t in it. I was too caught up in thoughts of manicured studio booths. *********************************************************************************** The clock on the nightstand glows softly, reminding me I should have been asleep hours ago.

Susan snores softly. I roll back and forth several times, as if my only problem was that I was in the wrong position. Susan’s snoring gently drifts away, and I slip out of bed. I feel guilty; I don’t want to keep her up, too.

Half-naked, I stumble to the living room. My guitar rests in the corner; I walk across the barren carpet towards it. I feel like playing something, but I can’t put my finger on what. I bring my guitar over to the couch, lean back, and get comfortable. For a few minutes I sit in silence, holding the guitar, lost in thoughtlessness. Absentmindedly, I strum the opening of “Dreams of Marseille.” I stop in an instant. Boring already. I switch to another song, and then another, flipping through songs almost as soon as I start. I toss the guitar across the couch and the strings twang as it falls to the floor.

The vibrations echo throughout the silent house. So much for being considerate of my wife.

Sighing, I lean over to pick up the guitar. There’s a new chip on the base, but it’s far from the worst scratch on it. I lean back on the couch, getting ready to play, but bolt up immediately. The cushions are distracting. Glancing around, I spot an ottoman and pull it to the center of the room. I

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start playing. I don’t recognize the notes, but they feel so familiar. I get lost, soaking in the sounds, eyes closed, feet gently tapping against the carpet. No, this isn’t right.

I run to the kitchen, guitar in hand. Tearing the grocery list off the top, I steal the notepad on the fridge. I race back to the ottoman, bumping into an end table. Magazines scatter. I ignore them.

The music plays, I listen. This is better. The sound swells, I’m absorbed, caught up in the tune. I pause, as briefly as I can, to take notes. I scribble a few lines, and play it back. Hollow. I can do better. I tear off the page, tossing it to the floor. I start again. New notes, a new pattern. Better. Far from finished, but something’s there. As an afterthought, I scrawl a title on the page. “The Best of William Kent: Track 1.”

hanel Stitt

Chanel Stitt

Sky Is the Limit

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ROMA ZIARNKO_________________________________________________________________________ The Perils of Yda DeVries I looked out my Greyhound window, checked my watch, and looked out again, eagerly scanning the thirsty western landscape. Yes, we were finally in Texas. Despite abscesses like Dallas and Houston, most of what I saw through the window on the Texas part of my bus trip struck me as flat, rural, and ugly. There were grassy fields after grassy fields interspersed with scraggly sage, cactuses, and tumbleweed. When I finally deboarded at the Greyhound parking lot in Judgment after a cool, air-conditioned trip, the first thing I noticed was how hot it was outdoors. It felt like I was breathing singed air from an overheated oven. Here was a climate where the devil would feel at home! Fanning my face, I hurried inside the bus station—a small, ramshackle affair. An old timey coffee pot with a glass knob on its lid and a spout like Grandpa's nose busily hissed away next to a minirefrigerator and an old sagging couch. A very pretty, very plump blonde in a turquoise polyester pantsuit presided over a low counter. She wore dangling crucifix earrings and had the tallest beehive hair-do I had ever seen.

"Ma'am, where is your pay phone?" I asked. "I need a cab."

"A cab? There ain't no cabs in Judgment at this hour."

"You can't be serious. Why not?"

"Because there just ain't. Junior—he's the town cab driver—takes afternoons off to go fishing about now. I'm so sorry. You look plumb wore out. Have you come a long way?"

"From Wisconsin. I've rented an apartment in Yucca Flats. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes." "Is it in walking distance?"

"Good Lord, Girl! You can't walk to Yucca Flats. Not with that suitcase in this heat."

"I'll have to. I can't camp here all night. Now, if you can give me directions, I need to get started."

The blonde looked at me for several seconds. "I believe you're serious," she said. "What's your name?"

"Yda DeVries."

"Mine's Earlene Buford. Now, listen Yda. There ain't no need for you to walk. If you don't mind waitin', I'll drive you to Yucca Flats."

"Why, thank you. How very kind."

"Just helping my neighbor. What made you come to Texas?"

“I'm the new Spanish teacher at Judgment High."

"Really? A tiny thing like you? My, you are brave. Oh, Honey, let me pray for you." Earlene reached impulsively over the counter. Before I could stop her, she took both my hands in hers and lifted her face ceilingward. Her crucifix earrings jiggled. "Sweet Jesus," she cried out in a voice bordering on a wail. "Yda and I come before you today to ask your blessing upon her. Oh, Precious Lord, guide and protect her as she leads the students of Judgment along the sacred path of knowledge. In Jesus name, Aman. There now, Yda, don't you worry. Everything's gonna be all right."

Looking back on it, maybe I should have construed what she said as a warning, but I didn't.

When closing time came, Earlene grabbed a small strongbox from under the counter." I never leave cash lying around here overnight," she explained. "Let's go. That's my car over there."

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We headed for a Ford Escort with a black and white bumpersticker that read, "I'd rather be judged by twelve than carried by six." I wondered if that bumpersticker meant what I thought it meant.

"Hop in, Yda!" roared Earlene suddenly. "Yucca Flats here we come. Yee-ha!"

I stiffened and gripped the edge of my seat as our vehicle squealed around a curve on two tires. My heart nearly froze in my throat. The speedometer climbed to ninety miles an hour, but Earlene appeared not to notice. "Sammy's Bar," she said as we flashed by a dot on the landscape. We swerved to avoid an armadillo and flashed by another dot. "Godlilocks Beauty Salon," said Earlene. By the time we reached Yucca Flats my knees were butter. My hands shook so badly that I couldn't open the door.

"Wait, Yda." Earlene placed a hand on my arm. "I gotcha a little present. Lemme get it for you."

She bent forward and pressed a button on the glove compartment, but it didn't open. She tried prying at the door with her fingernails. No luck.

"Damn! The lock's stuck again. Bo promised me faithfully last week that he would fix it. Ain't that just like a man! Oh, well.... As I always say, 'be prepared.'" With this, Earlene pulled a skinny hairpin from her beehive hair- do, stuck the pin in the lock, and twisted gingerly. Ping! A professional safe cracker couldn't have done it better. The little door sprang wide open.

"Your gift is in here somewhere. I promise," said Earlene, scouring the glove compartment.

I watched her transfixed. Credit cards, a stream of wadded kleenex, old postage stamps, and road maps tumbled onto the floor. I counted them to myself—one red Hotlix lollipop with a real worm embedded in it, a half used tube of lipstick, a couple of female unmentionables ... Suddenly, a blur of rosy metal along with several gold and purple sticks rolled out. Then I heard a thud. On the floor in front of my feet lay a pink, pearl-handled revolver.

"Here's your brand new prayer pencil, Yda," Earlene cried with delight, picking up one of the purple and gold pencils. “I'm inviting you to join our Ladies' Prayer Pod. That's their phone number in gold. It says ‘769 P-R-A-Y.’ Are you okay? Don't you like the pencil?"

A pint of blood must have drained from my face. I couldn't answer her. I just kept pointing at the gun lying next to my feet. "Is it real?" I finally managed to squeak.

"Well, of course it's real," said Earlene. "You don't think I'd carry a water pistol around with me, do you?"

She picked up the gun and stroked the mother of pearl handle against her cheek. "Good thing I always keep one chamber empty. Don't tell me you're upset about my revolver, Girl. You're in Texas.

A gun is perfectly legal here. I'll have you know this revolver is my best friend. Her name is Pearlene.

Earlene and Pearlene... Get it?"

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CORINNE M. PAINTER____________________________________________________________________ And Then She Remembered Adrianna woke up suddenly, sweat-covered, disoriented, and sitting fully upright on the used mattress that she’d been sleeping on in her studio apartment for the past few weeks, since she left her boyfriend and her job (on the same day). She looked at the clock: it was 3:38 in the morning. She looked around for Alexis, her 17-year-old cat with whom she had shared her life since she was fourteen years old. But she was nowhere in sight. No wonder she felt unusual: she was used to Alexis waking her in the middle of the night, but tonight’s awakening was not her doing. She lay back down, turned on her miniature aromatherapy device, which was filled with calming lavender oil, closed her eyes and willed sleep to return. She was so tired these days… for weeks, emotional and physical exhaustion seemed to fill Adrianna’s days and nights.

But Adrianna had been wondering why she was so exhausted lately. She’d gotten rid of her cheating, lying, good-for-nothing, sloppy—even if wealthy—boyfriend, the sight of whom had begun to disgust her during their last few months together. So this was good. Right? She should have been feeling exhilarated, like a heavy weight had been lifted off her, but she wasn’t feeling this way at all.

And the same with her job. Although it was a bit dismaying to be without work, Adrianna had absolutely hated her job. At 31 years old, with an MA in Global Urban Studies from Michigan State University, working at Anthropologie, with a 25-year-old party girl for a boss, who didn’t seem to realize that her 10,000 Facebook “friends” were not really friends, was humiliating. And not only that: Adrianna was pretty sure that she was losing brain cells working at Anthropologie, where the most important thing her co-workers ever seemed to talk about was how much weight they were or were not losing on their latest diets. Sure, she liked the clothes at the boutique-like store, at least the ones that were not made in China or Bangladesh or some such place, and as long as they were not made of animal products—Adrianna was a committed vegan—but she couldn’t afford them, being paid barely over minimum wage, even when she worked close to full-time. So, quitting a job she was overqualified for, which she suspected was slowly killing her intellectual capacities and curiosity, should have also been cause for delight, not exhaustion, even if her finances were a bit tight. After all, she’d never cared much about money. As long as she could pay her modest bills, put food on the table for her and Alexis, and go out with friends once in a while, she didn’t lament not having the money or means for securing loftier things.

Of course, Lucas, her ex, was always offering to buy things for Adrianna when they were together, but she rarely allowed him to. Not because she had some kind of misplaced pride that a man shouldn’t buy things for a woman—she was certainly a feminist!—but because she was certain that these offers were motivated by his guilt over his lying and cheating. Adrianna always figured that if she allowed Lucas to buy her things she would have been complicit, somehow, in his deception and his failure to respect her or their relationship, which they had both agreed was not an open one. Even when she finally broke up with him over dinner—they were eating vegan macaroni & cheese Adrianna had baked using delicious vegan cheese that had made it onto the shelves at Whole Foods (or, as many called it, “Whole Paycheck”)—after his half-hearted attempt to change her mind, and aware that she had quit her job earlier that day, Lucas offered to give her two thousand dollars to help her get settled in a new place. However, Adrianna, perhaps imprudently, refused to take it. So, with her pride and fancy Master’s Degree intact, jobless with no prospects, she left Lucas with only a few

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hundred dollars in her bank account, and moved into a very small and inexpensive studio in Ypsilanti that a friend of a friend of a friend agreed to sublet to her for a few months.

It was hopeless. Adrianna was unable to fall asleep again, as too many thoughts and questions were running wildly through her mind. She couldn’t stop them, despite her so-called calming aromatherapy thingamabob, and despite her attempt to imagine each thought and question as if it were a leaf floating silently away, into a place of peace, where no strife or angst exists. Unfortunately, this stress-relieving technique that Adrianna recently learned in the free meditation class she’d been taking for the last four weeks wasn’t helping; in fact, it dawned on her, right then, at four-something in the morning, that this technique had never helped her! The only thing she could ever imagine when she tried to think of her thoughts as leaves floating down a river to a better place was how she was supposed to stop thinking, how she was supposed to let her thoughts just pass by so as not to linger on them too long and get upset. But wasn’t reflection on one’s thoughts and feelings, even if they are not happy, a good thing? Shouldn’t people be asking questions about who they are, about how they feel, about what they stand for, about what others stand for, and about how to live as “rightly” as one can in such a messed up world? Isn’t it somehow more “human” to think about these things, as difficult as they might be to think about, than it is to worry about how many Facebook friends one has? Or how much you weigh? Or why so-and-so said “this-and-that” about you when she doesn’t even know you? Perhaps it isn’t healthy to get hung up thinking about things that are out of one’s control—didn’t the Stoics say this?—but this seems rather obvious. And this sage, even if obvious, advice is different than encouraging people to spend the bulk of their time and energy trying to amass as much material and social wealth (including as many Facebook friends and postings) as they can.

The latter struck Adrianna as small-minded, selfish, and dangerously anti-social. And maybe worse.

So, is this what was keeping Adrianna from her much-needed sleep, she continued to wonder?

Was this “existential angst,” for lack of better terminology, the source of the exhaustion that had taken over her life since she quit her job and her boyfriend? Did she simply have more time on her hands to get caught up in her own critical reflections about the sorry state of the world, including the very small parts of it within which she participated?

As Adrianna lay awake in bed that morning, she pondered whether her intensified reflection about her life and her role in the world was, ultimately, the cause of her discontent and her overwhelming exhaustion, and, worse, what really felt like an utter hopelessness. She knew very well that ever since she could remember, she had routinely thought about what she called the “big picture questions of life,” despite whatever unexciting, dull, meaningless activity might be keeping her busy.

She couldn’t help it. This was just part of who she was. And anyway, didn’t Plato or Socrates or some great Ancient philosopher say that the unexamined life is not worth living? So, even though her thinking about these things may have increased and intensified as her life became less busy, with the unloading of her dead-end job and her insolent boyfriend, Adrianna knew this was not the root of her exhaustion or her inability to sleep, her angst or her hopelessness. Neither was her current financial instability or the uncertainty about her future.

As Alexis jumped on her, Adrianna began to cry. At first, her crying was more like quiet whimpering, barely audible. But within minutes she began to wail uncontrollably, as a very ugly truth of her past hit her like a ton of bricks, as the saying goes. This afternoon, she was having lunch with her brother, Alex, who was five years her senior. He’d been a successful corporate lawyer in New York City ever since he graduated from University of Michigan Law and passed the New York bar exam. He

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was coming to Ann Arbor to work on a case, so they’d made plans to have lunch once he arrived. She hadn’t seen or talked to Alex in quite some time, so when he called to let her know that he would be in town and they made plans to see each other, she was thrilled. She missed him. She thought frequently and fondly of their growing up together as children, often remembering times when Alex would protect her from their overbearing parents, or, as she started puberty, from the attention of boys who were deemed inappropriate for her. And she knew that Alex would give her money, without her even asking. He certainly had plenty to spare, and she could certainly use it.

But, but, but, but, but, Adrianna couldn’t stop her sobbing or the nausea that had overtaken her with an undeniably fierce violence. Suddenly, she remembered what must have been hidden in the dark recesses of her mind since Alex had left for school almost eighteen years ago: Alex was the reason she couldn’t have children. When her gynecologist told her this news at a routine check-up about a year or so ago, Adrianna hadn’t understood the explanation. The doctor referred to a miscarriage that must have damaged her uterus irreparably as the reason for her inability to get pregnant (though she wasn’t trying to get pregnant at the time and wasn’t sure she ever wanted to).

What must have still been buried deep in her subconscious at that time had finally found its way to the surface of her consciousness, breaking through the wall she must have built to keep this dark truth a secret from everyone, including herself. But this morning Adrianna remembered. Alex had sexually abused her for nearly five years of her life, impregnating her at the age of thirteen, just a few months after she had gotten her “little monthly friend.” When she had the miscarriage alone in a bathroom stall at her junior high school (when Alex was already away at college), it was probably shock that allowed her to make it home that day, where she didn’t breathe a word of what happened.

Not to her parents. Not to anyone. Not ever. Not even to herself, until now.

Adrianna wouldn’t be having that lunch with Alex this afternoon. As she closed her wet, tearstained eyes, she lay back down on her used mattress and covered herself with her many blankets.

Holding Alexis close, Adrianna felt that she was covering a self she no longer knew and one, frankly, she really didn’t want to know. She wasn’t sure she would ever have lunch again.

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HALLEY BASS____________________________________________________________________________ Precipice I open my eyes.

Sleep endeavors to drag them closed again, and I do not want to fight it. My alarm blares.

As I sit up, I take stock of my state of mind. A haze has settled, misting over my eyes and clogging my ears. Everything is duller, less important.

I decide that I am sick today.

Actually, I am sick. But I don’t know it yet.

--I open my eyes.

They feel itchy. Bloodshot. Raw. I haven’t really slept, just stared up at my ceiling in the darkness of the night.

My responsibilities loom. My chest aches.

I decide that I am sick today.

--I open my eyes.

My body is too heavy to lift from my mattress, so I don’t try.

Someone asks, someone whose opinion was important to me, before. I tell them I am sick today, and feel my stomach twist in knots.

--I open my eyes… no.

I never closed them. The knots have tightened, and the tension in my body grips my mind and my heart. I rise from my bed and tug on my shoes. I open a closed door and allow the winter air to drag across my skin like shards of glass. The cold wind whipping against my face should bring clarity.

Alertness.

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It doesn’t.

--I close my eyes.

I am surrounded by the suffocating fog, guided only by the light of a solitary streetlamp. My steps are silent as I walk towards it.

The light dims.

--I open my eyes.

I can’t breathe.

My alarm blares.

I hide until the air moves easily through my lungs. Until the accusing sun has set again, and I can emerge without facing its glare.

I walk among poorly-lit streets, and think about the things I’ve been told. About what happens to those who wander alone at night. I can’t bring myself to fear those things anymore.

I continue to wander, because I want to be lost.

--I open my eyes.

The world has questions for me that I can’t answer. So I ignore the world.

--I wander during days now, too. I take note of traffic hurtling down busy streets, and the sluggish movement through residential neighborhoods.

I make a list of street names, where cars whiz by without pause. Where drivers watch everything but what’s in front of them.

Where I could slip by, unnoticed.

---

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I open my eyes.

My heart still beats, but I am not alive.

--I open my eyes.

Seven cars have passed. Eight. I’ll go after the next one.

Nine.

I get a text from a friend, and turn away from the road.

--I realize I am sick when I begin to list what things will be given to my sister. And to my friends. My parents. But no one has time for me to not be fine.

So I am.

--I open my eyes.

I’ve missed something… a get-together with a friend. I look down at my phone, read their messages.

“Where are you?”

“You coming?”

“Are you okay?”

And for the first time in a long, long while, something hurts.

--I wake up.

“I’m sick,” I say. “I need help.”

But this time, I say it loud enough for someone to hear.

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AMY POLING____________________________________________________________________________ Transience He hears the scuffle of shoes behind him.

Think fast, he tells himself. It’s probably not a serial killer. It’s definitely not his family—they all made their opinions very clear when he left. It's probably another hitchhiker, but he would’ve heard them before. Hell, he would’ve smelled the distinct, tangy human scent he’d learned to avoid. It wasn’t like every human on the planet was a bottom-feeding hunter, but the ones that did know about creatures weren’t exactly friendly. He’d learned not to give any of them the benefit of the doubt. The way they ripped apart his sister was proof of that.

If he has to admit one good thing about his family, it was the way the pack had lived. Alone.

Keeping to themselves. But this dry, empty wasteland—well, it’s not the fantastical escape he had envisioned.

He turns around, deciding that whoever (or whatever) it is isn’t just going to magically disappear. His hand goes to the heavy pendant hanging around his throat, praying that it’s doing its job, cloaking the yellow tint to his eyes and putting an illusion in front of his canines, turning his claws to flat, trimmed nails.

He’s met with another kid. A scrap of a guy, scrawny. He’s shorter and thinner than Sylvester, like a waif or spirit but definitely flesh-and-bone. His skin is a darker, smoother color than his own—it reminds Sylvester of the mountains he’d passed in Colorado, tall with caps of snow.

“Um,” he says. The other kid is staring at him amusedly, leaning back on his heels. His eyes are shiny-sharp in the moonlight, reading Sylvester easily. A breeze blows through and ruffles the guy’s dark, shoulder-length curls, pushing his bangs away from his face, giving Sylvester a clearer look at him, including the thin scar creeping down his jaw. He gives Sylvester an uneasy feeling in his gut.

“Hey,” the Mysterious Dude responds, quirking a grin at Sylvester. Sylvester waits for him to say something else, anything, but the silence stretches on. Sylvester doesn't know what the hell's happening. The kid’s still looking at him, and he feels too open, like the guy’s eyes are digging into him. Sylvester looks away, eyes cast downward. He’s met with the sight of the guy’s fingers tucked in his pockets, thumbs peeking out, bruised and callused.

And clawed.

Sylvester’s hackles raise. He takes a step back, jutting out his jaw and glaring at the thing.

“What are you?” he spits, eyes narrowed.

“My name’s Coyote,” he says, dimples showing as he smiles.

Sylvester stifles down a feral growl. “You know what I meant,” he tries again, his eyes flicking over every inch of Coyote, trying to read him. The guy’s like a poker player with no tells. Sylvester tries not to see red. He’s not his father, he’s not a violent, bloodthirsty animal.

Then again, if he needs to be, it’s not much of a stretch.

“Okay, okay,” Coyote concedes, holding his hands up palms-out. “So maybe I am something.

What are you gonna do? Hunt me? Eat me?” He glares back at Sylvester, but finally Sylvester sees a hint of emotion in his eyes, and it’s one he tries not to enjoy the sweet scent of: fear.

“No,” he finally bites out. He evens out his breathing, tries to get his heart rate back to normal.

“But I’m not planning on getting torn to shreds by some monster, either.”

Coyote laughs, short and bitter. “You’ve got such a high opinion of us creatures, don’t you?”

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Sylvester bristles. “I’ve learned my lesson,” he replies without bothering to elaborate. He keeps his head tall and his shoulders straight and meets Coyote’s eyes. The air's thick with strain.

Coyote breaks first. “I’m a werecoyote,” he frowns. “Not a vampire, not bloodthirsty, not prone to violent outbursts under the full moon, which it isn’t, by the way. Promise not to skin me?”

Sylvester’s eyebrows bunch together. “Seriously?”

Coyote scoffs. He spreads his arms wide, his lips pulling up in something that isn’t a smile. “In the flesh.”

“I thought you guys were killed off.”

He tries not to feel satisfaction when Coyote flinches. “Well, I’m still alive.”

He sighs, letting his muscles go loose. “I’m not a hunter,” he tells Coyote. “And I won’t hurt you.”

Coyote looks him up and down. He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?” he asks flatly.

Sylvester thinks that it would so easy to just tell him that he’s a werewolf. One sentence, and Coyote would trust him, would probably see him as a half-brother of a sort and swing an arm around him or something. That’s all it would take.

But he just can’t get himself to do it. He’s always fantasized about being a normal, human kid, and maybe if the gold pendant is as potent as his mom said it was, this could be his chance. He could start here and live a full life. Be an author, an artist.

“I’m sure,” says, jerkily extending a hand, grimance-smiling in a way he hopes looks apologetic.

A few beats later, Coyote reaches out and shakes his hand. He wipes his hands on the seat of his jeans, starts walking. Sylvester matches his pace, their legs moving in tandem. “Where’re you headed?” he asks, fishing gum out of his bag and popping a piece. He offers another to Coyote, who stares at him before accepting it.

“Sedona,” he replies, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Sylvester waits for more, but he hasn’t really extended an olive branch to Coyote. The kid's most likely going to answer him with one word replies for the rest of their walk.

Which, it turns out, is going to be a long one. “Me too,” Sylvester says. “Nearest place with food and a motel.”

“So I’m stuck with you,” Coyote states.

Sylvester winces. “Sorry about that.”

Coyote shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Whatever. As long as I’m still alive by the end of this, I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”

Sylvester quickly nods his head. Maybe if he were more like his father, he wouldn’t have threatened Coyote. Maybe his gut feelings would’ve been better. “We won’t have a problem,” he agrees, and feels better when Coyote’s shoulders relax.

----Sylvester doesn’t know how long they walk in silence. It’s not a heavy silence or a downright murderous one like earlier. It’s not quite comfortable, but it’s getting there. He’s sure that Coyote trusts him more now, considering Sylvester hasn’t tried to slice him to bits or shoot him full of silver.

He guesses it’s sometime in the A.M. now, which means Sedona is less than a day away. Hell, maybe closer if they make good time. He shoves his fists into his jacket pocket, causing the change there to jingle. He has enough left for one more meal. He ran out of money faster than he thought he

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would. His mom had said it was enough to last a month. Well, obviously she'd misjudged the hunger of a teenage boy. Only two weeks later and he was going to need to find a way to earn more, fast.

Shit, he doesn’t want to think about that. He starts whistling instead, something that sounds like the mutilated corpse of Jailhouse Rock. He catches Coyote shooting him an inscrutable look. He doesn’t falter in his song, grinning like a man who has no worries. When he finishes the song, he lets the silence return, lets the bugs be their soundtrack. The whistling doesn’t push away any of his problems like he thought it would. The bad thoughts creep right back in, and he thinks about his father’s claws raised, sharp and ready to strike. A sick feeling roils in his stomach and he shivers, willing away the image.

“You never told me your name,” Coyote blurts, startling Sylvester.

Sylvester stumbles once but rights himself. “Huh?” he sputters.

“What’s your name?”

“Sylvester,” he replies, “like the cat. Or the gangster. Nice to meet you.”

Coyote squints, staring ahead and frowning. Sylvester watches him, trying to puzzle him out.

Coyote doesn’t look angry or offended. He can’t imagine what he could’ve said in two sentences to set the guy off. “You constipated or something?” he asks, his tone drier than the landscape around them. “You know, my mother always said that if you frown too long, your face is gonna get stuck that way.”

Coyote turns to him, cocking his head. “I just, I don’t… a cat gangster? You’re a cat gangster?”

It clicks. Sylvester laughs, raising an eyebrow at Coyote, who still looks troubled. “Wait, you’re telling me you’ve never heard of Looney Tunes? Or Sylvester Stallone?”

Coyote looks ruffled, glaring at Sylvester, his slanted eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Coyotes keep to themselves. I never bothered much with… human things.”

“The first one’s a kid’s cartoon. Sylvester the cat, you know? Second one’s an actor, plays gangsters a lot. You know what gangsters are, right?”

Alright, now Coyote looks offended. “Of course,” he nods stiffly, cheeks red.

Sylvester holds his hands up. “Just making sure,” he says. “Anyway, Stallone’s in like, the coolest films ever. Rocky, you’ve never heard of those movies? Kojack? Capone?” Sylvester pauses, and lowers his voice until it’s jagged and gravelly. “‘Who loves ya, baby?’” he quotes, waggling his eyebrows.

Coyote stares.

“They’re just… they’re really badass movies,” Sylvester babbles. “What kind of movies do you watch, huh? Please don’t tell me you literally live under a rock.”

“I’ve seen movies!” Coyote defends, his voice rising childishly, and Sylvester can detect a hint of a smile on his face. “I know what pop culture is. I even have a favorite.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sylvester punts a pebble across the road. “And that is?”

“It’s a musical. About high schoolers.” Coyote beams. “Very popular when it came out.”

Sylvester’s lips dance in a weak attempt to hide a smile. “High School Musical?”

Coyote’s face lights up. “That’s the one!”

Sylvester loses it then, throwing his head back as he cracks up. “Oh my god!” he cries, trying to catch his breath but he fails, dissolving into a fit of giggles. “That’s rich.”

Coyote huffs, speeding up until he’s ahead of Sylvester. “I don’t get what’s so funny,” he calls over his shoulder, voice hot, his back stiff and ramrod-straight.

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“Hey, whoa!” Sylvester jogs to catch up with him. “It’s a kid’s movie, dude. That’s all. Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m a jackass. To each his own, I guess.”

Coyote slows down and lets Sylvester meet his pace, but his face tells Sylvester he’s not happy about it. “Troy Bolton has a very complex emotional journey,” he says, his face pinched.

“I bet he does,” Sylvester says, nodding. “I’m sure it’s a great movie.”

Coyote’s pallor has returned from fever red to the lands of normal. He nods back and there’s not as a big a gap between them as there used to be. Sylvester stifles the urge to tell Coyote his life story, to tell him what he is and what he left behind. He doesn’t even know Coyote, for christ’s sake.

One interaction after weeks of solitude and he’s already desperate to be this kid’s friend. It’s stupid.

“Can I ask you another question?” he says, mostly to distract himself.

“Sure.”

“Not that it’s uncool or anything, but why is your name Coyote? I just mean with you being a werecoyote ‘n’ all. It’s kind of redundant.”

“I grew up moving around a lot, being raised by a bunch of different people,” Coyote tells him, tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. His eyes reflect moonlight and flash to molten pools of gold. “They didn’t know my name. I was just the werecoyote. Shortened to Coyote. Easy to remember, I guess. Convenient.”

The fact doesn’t sit well with Sylvester. He can’t imagine a life like that, never having a real family to fall back on, never being in one place for that long. Just being called by species name. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out, “that must’ve been hard.”

“I survived, didn’t I?” Coyote shoots back.

Sylvester ducks his head, groaning. “That was pretty low of me, sorry.”

Coyote waves him off. “I do like the name, you know. I would’ve chosen something else if it didn’t fit. It… feels right, you know? If I’m the only one left, then I should be carrying the name.

Heritage, and all that.”

Sylvester takes a chance and reaches out to pat Coyote on the back. “If you had a pack, they would’ve been proud,” he says.

Coyote rolls his shoulders away from Sylvester’s touch but his face reveals nothing. “Coyotes don’t have packs. They travel alone,” he says in a monotone voice, but there’s a slight waver in it that tugs at Sylvester’s heartstrings.

“Any family, then. Hell, any werecoyotes.”

Coyote shoots him a look and almost smiles. “Yeah, well.” he grumbles. “Thanks. For a human, you’re not that bad.”

Sylvester hopes Coyote can’t see the burn of shame on his face. “Any time.”

----The sky has gone from black to deep-ocean blue by the time Coyote stops. Sylvester wants to go on, to hit Sedona, but he knows they’d have to walk for hours more and he’s dead on his feet.

Coyote tells him to stay put, veering off the road, disappearing behind a scraggly bush. A few moments later, a coyote hops out, sprinting across the land, following his nose. Sylvester watches the furry animal for awhile, but loses him. He turns his head back to the sky, noting how few of the stars are left, and the horizon is burned with deep oranges and reds.

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A rustle to his right grabs his attention, and he sees the bony scruff of Coyote’s neck for a second, his brown and russet fur displaying his ribs before he slips lithely back behind the bush.

There’s more rustling and Coyote stands up, slipping his arm back through his hoodie. He’s grinning, hair all messed up, ruffled and sticking up all over the place.

“There’s a rock formation a little ways that way, down a valley,” he tells Sylvester, panting. “It makes a lean-to kinda thing. We can sleep in there.”

Sylvester steps off the beaten path and follows Coyote. “I can’t believe I’m becoming nocturnal,” he mumbles, and Coyote’s laugh lifts his mood a bit.

The little cave-like thing isn’t exactly a million-dollar home, but it’s bigger than he thought it would be, and there’s enough room for both of them to comfortably stretch out. He bunches up his hoodie beneath his head and curls up, closing his eyes. He thought it would take him ages to fall asleep, his thoughts loud and jittery, but he drifts off easily enough, listening to the first bird call of the day as he begins to dream.

----They’re off again less than six hours later and Coyote is clearer to him in the daylight. He looks younger than he did at night, the cut of his jaw not as profound. He has an embarrassing peach-fuzz mustache, and his eyes remind Sylvester of redwoods. Coyote’s clothes are as dirty as his own.

They're both more relaxed than they were last night, and light conversation's easy to slip into. After a few hours pass, they begin to rib each other like brothers, teasing each other like they’ve been friends for years. Sylvester learns a lot of little things about Coyote: his favorite food's lemon cake, he reads whenever he gets the chance and his favorite book is Twilight, he’s never been outside of Arizona, one of his foster parent’s name was Laura and she taught him how to cook. He doesn’t talk about the other people who raised him, rubbing at the scar on his face and changing the subject. Sylvester lets it slide—he’s hiding a few things from Coyote, too, only sharing things he deems safe. His lie feels stupid now, but he’s too wrapped up in it to give it a rest. Plus, if Coyote gets angry, he might leave, and Sylvester would be alone again.

It’s dark when they hit the outskirts of Sedona. Lights appear so gradually as pinpricks on the horizon that Sylvester mistakes them for stars at first. It’s Coyote who realizes the truth behind them.

“Hey,” he says, elbowing him, “city lights.”

Sylvester squints, peering at one of the spots. It moves, makes a turn. As they mount a small crest, the city rises up before them, becomes clearer and sharper as it unfolds. They can pick out buildings now, pointing out a red-and-yellow movie theatre marquee, flashing in an indiscernible pattern, looking like it came straight out of the fifties.

They make their way toward it, the packed dirt beneath them turning to cracked pavement.

After a few minutes it’s clear to them that this is no city. Besides a few brightly-lit signs and the stray cars moving along at these odd hours, it lacks the glamor Sylvester had been fantasizing about, like the Vegas Strip or a downtown Los Angeles. This place can barely call itself a town, considering it only has one road that can boast buildings over three stories high. They amble their way down it, passing under the theatre, looking for a place to eat. Half the buildings have boarded up windows, the siding bleached white by the sun and peeling off, looking like pieces of cheese on a grater. Swoopy, bubbly pieces of graffiti turn alleys into art museums as they pass. Sylvester watches everything, an off feeling giving him a chill.

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Sylvester feels the hairs rise up on the back of his neck, and he lets his eyes pick out every person they pass. He knows they’re the source of the feeling in his gut, but he can’t tell why. Is it just because they’re humans? Or is it something deeper? Part of him chants hunters hunters hunters, and he tries to ignore that voice, his hand reflexively reaching up and grabbing his pendant until it warms in his palm.

It takes awhile, but he finally notices something strange about all of them—they all wear the same ring. Some wear it on different fingers, even the other hand, but the ring remains the same, silver and broad, fattening to encompass a fat, round, black jewel. Someone else walks by and he sneaks a closer look, seeing it has inscriptions circling the gem.

He wants to pretend that maybe they all graduated from the same high school or something, but he knows it’s something darker than that. He murmurs under his breath so that just Coyote will hear, pointing out the rings. Coyote grows rigid and wary when he finally spots one on an old woman crossing the street ahead of them. Coyote’s head turns left and right as he starts scanning the streets.

He mutters something about finding a place to eat, but everything is either closed for the night or just plain closed. When he spots a chrome-covered 24-hour diner on the corner, he grabs Sylvester’s hand and tugs him into it. The door jingles as they pass under it and the first thing they hear is the deep murmur of overlapping voices; the next thing they hear is silence.

Everyone has turned to look at them, the plug on their conversation pulled. The diner is full of patrons, but all of the booths are empty—every person is at a cluster of tables shoved together near the back, sitting in a large circle. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvester sees Coyote shove his hands into his pockets.

Good call, he thinks, and is backing up to get the hell out of this place when they hear the screech of a chair coming from the group in the back. A woman has stood up, and she flattens down her white apron before making her way over to them, the heels of her flats clicking against the blackand-white tiles.

She gives them a wordless once-over and turns. “Follow me, please,” she chirps, walking away without bothering to see if they’ll follow.

Sylvester looks at Coyote. Coyote looks back. He tries to purvey how royally screwed they are.

Coyote just shrugs in return, loping after the waitress and sliding into the booth she stops at. Sylvester sighs, running a hand through his hair. He follows Coyote’s lead and sits down across from him, the cheap red vinyl seats squeaking underneath him. The waitress walks away, and Coyote grabs menus from where they sit behind the napkin holder, passing one to Sylvester. When Sylvester takes one, Coyote immediately presses his hands back into his lap, hiding his claws from view.

The scene would be normal if it weren’t for the silence. It feels like a physical blanket lying over the diner, stifling everything. It itches underneath Sylvester’s skin and makes him want to do something, anything, whether it’s running out of the diner with his tail between his legs or ripping his pendant off and just tearing them all apart.

Instead of doing either, he stays. He doesn’t want to be so chickenshit that he leaves Coyote here alone, and he’s just so damn hungry.

When the other patrons start talking again in a low murmur and someone goes over to turn the jukebox on—Sinatra--Sylvester relaxes fractionally, actually bothering to give the menu a onceover.

Coyote’s foot jostles Sylvester’s ankle. “The cheeseburgers look good,” he says in a mild tone, “do you know what you’re going to eat yet? Have you decided?”

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“I’ve decided you’re fucking insane,” Sylvester mutters, closing the menu and setting it down on the cracked formica tabletop. “I’ll just get a burger. And a pie.”

“Ooh, pie!” Coyote purrs. “Me too, I could kill for a pie.”

Sylvester can’t agree more.

He’s about to ask Coyote what the fuck their plan is when the waitress comes back to take their order. Coyote tells her, batting his eyelashes and calling her “sugar,” his arm draped across the back of the seat with his hoodie sleeve tugged low over his hands, but she pays no notice, not even giving them a smile before turning around and walking over to the group.

Sylvester watches them, pretending to busy himself with putting the menus back where they belong. The volume rises with the people in corner, but drains away. Soon after the little debacle the waitress departs again, heading to the back of the restaurant and disappearing behind the counter.

Sylvester turns back to Coyote. “Dude,” he hisses, leaning forward, “please tell you have some kind of a plan.”

Coyote shrugs. “Eat food.”

Sylvester resists the urge to reach over and shake Coyote by the shoulders. “You know something’s off though, right? That these people might be dangerous?”

“Only to me,” Coyote points out evenly, causing a twinge of guilt to spike through Sylvester, “I’m the creature. And besides, not everyone’s a hunter, right? You’re not. None of the people I grew up with were.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Sylvester replies, his hands twisting and fidgeting in his lap. “I just think there’s something wrong here.”

Coyote glances over at the group, and Sylvester notices that a lot of them stare right back.

Coyote turns away, and Sylvester can finally read some uncertainty in his eyes.

“We can just leave,” Sylvester begs. Coyote opens his mouth to respond, but the waitress walks up, carrying trays of food in her hands. She hands Sylvester a burger on a plate and their hands brush. A shot of burning pain races through Sylvester’s hand and he hisses, pulling back. His fingers turn a dark red, like they’ve been burnt. It’s then he notices the ring on her finger.

Silver.

The waitress drops the plate down onto the table with a loud clatter and backs away.

“Oh, fuck,” he mumbles at the same time the crowd stands up, blocking the exit.

“Werewolf bastard!” one of the younger ones crows, and then Sylvester notices the kid’s wielding a pistol.

Coyote looks at him with eyes so wide Sylvester can see white all around his pupils. His mouth is hanging open and Sylvester wants to apologize, but he hears the sound of a gun cocking and he really doesn’t want to die.

Coyote gets up from the table and yanks Sylvester by the wrist, tugging him along as he runs through the back of the restaurant, a deafening bang making him move faster, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Sylvester feels a sharp, twisting pain in his side, and he stumbles once, just barely getting upright before he’s shoved into a bathroom and the door is locked behind them.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvester pants, his pupils dilated under the fluorescent glow. He slides numbly to the ground, leaning against the door. His entire arm shudders as he yanks his pendant off and lets the illusion fade away. He lets Coyote see him, claws and dark eyes and all. He looks up at Coyote with wide eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I was an idiot, I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, you have to believe me.”

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“Shut up, I know a pendant like that when I see it,” Coyote hisses, pressing himself against the door beside Sylvester and straining to listen. A rapping on the door startles him backward and Coyote swears, his hands trembling as he wrings them. It’s then Sylvester notices the sweat dousing Coyote, staining his shirt, and there are wrinkles marring his forehead. His lips are stuck in a thin frown, and he looks lost, like a little kid in the supermarket.

“My family kicked me out,” Sylvester blurts. “A really strong pack of wolves, and I just didn’t fit in.”

Coyote doesn’t look at him. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you.” There’s the slightest of trembles in his tone.

Sylvester takes a shuddering breath. “When I—when I told my dad I wasn’t a girl, that I was a boy and I wasn’t Sybil Keep anymore, he got so mad. His brother just barely stopped him from killing me. That’s when I ran. I could hear him shouting that if I ever came back, he’d finish the job.”

Coyote falls to the ground beside him. “You’re Sylvester,” he assures him in a rush, a smile flickering on and off his face. “I never saw you as anyone else.” His face moves down to Sylvester’s torso, and his grin's wiped off his face. He pales. “You got shot,” Coyote whispers, and for a second, Sylvester doesn’t believe him.

Coyote tugs his jacket off and presses it into Sylvester’s abdomen, and he hisses, the electric jolt of a silver bullet striking through him. “God,” he grunts, slamming his head back against the door and squeezing his eyes shut. “feels like my skin is melting.”

“Might be,” Coyote says. They’re both panting now, and the lack of voices outside the bathroom isn’t helping. They listen hard, but there's nothing.

For a brief moment, Sylvester’s blood feels like it’s going to boil and his claws twitch. He feels like the entire universe has crapped on him, that his new start was screwed before he’d even tried opening up to his dad. He just wishes he’d been given a chance. The feeling's replaced with exhaustion, his eyelids drooping as his heart slows.

“I never spoke more than a couple words to people until I met you, always kept my distance,” Coyote says, and Sylvester feels lightheaded and staticy, but he forces himself to listen. “Never met many people outside the ones who took me in at all, actually.”

“Weren’t you lonely?” Sylvester coughs, feeling a drop of blood drip down his lip onto his chin.

Coyote presses the jacket closer against his wound and another dull throb of pain leaves Sylvester breathless.

“Yes,” Coyote whispers, and Sylvester can’t stop the goofy, lopsided grin that takes over his face. He looks up at his friend, whose eyes are glassy and red.

“Not anymore though, right?”

Coyote’s entire face seems to tremble but he manages another soft smile, nodding. Sylvester lets his body go slack.

“Syl?!” Coyote barks, voice breaking. “No, c’mon, open your eyes. Just keep ‘em open, huh?

That’s all I’m asking.” “‘S no point,” Sylvester slurs, licking his lips. “Rather go like this then let ‘em finish the job.”

“They might not,” Coyote rushes. “The kid shot you, remember? The loud one. Maybe the rest of them are getting a doctor. Not everyone’s a hunter.”

Sylvester’s lip twitches in a smile. “Bullshit.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Coyote whispers, at the same time the lock in the door makes a scratching sound and the knob jiggles. It slowly rotates and clicks. He gathers up Sylvester in his arms, getting to

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his feet and dragging him away from the door, placing him against the opposite wall. He falls to the floor next to him, the cement wall cool at his back, their bodies touching in a line from toe to shoulder. He keeps his eyes on the knob, turning like a second hand creeping around a clock.

When the door opens, he meets the eyes of a man, who is empty handed and ringless.

“Please,” Coyote croaks, and to Sylvester, his voice sounds like it’s coming from a radio far away.

“We’re just kids. Don’t kill us.”

Sylvester leans against Coyote, drinking in his warmth. He feels Coyote wrap an arm around him, his chest moving as he speaks again, but he can’t hear him, can’t think, and then he feels nothing at all.

Nate Laurant

Enclosed Demons

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MICHELE SWEENEY___________________________________________________________________ Where the Briar Gnomes Grow Far to the north, where the woods are deep, in a valley dark and void of ho-ho-ho, and good cheer to all . . . well men; there dwells a hollow embraced by thicket thorn and bramble, where even the most fearsome dare not fell, or tend. Where even at the height of day—and sun most bright—the light of life can neither pierce, nor cause a branch nor stem to grow, straight or strong . . . within the bitter, bracing cold.

Not that things survive its twisted depths, at least for long; but every year—around the soft renew of holly, snow, and mistletoe--the locals ward their homes; and warn the young and wayward to stay their step, and pray the season pass—without a soul to lose their way—down where . . . the legend of the Briar Gnomes grow.

Now, don’t let it be held that all who heed this tale, listen to the wisdom of this underlying, good and honest moral. For would it be a story worth its price, if not for the foolish-brave—or faint-of-heart— who question, or are dared or tricked to venture forth . . . and divine what chills our clacking bones.

Yet not for fools who dare to step, where winged angels fear; lessons learned, would never be, nor grow the stuff of legend lore. No less the leery, who has no thought—nor respect for the wiser elder— who takes the darker path, for lack of trust, were such a place revealed. Grant they be the ones in search of fame and glory . . . but whose fear, becomes our own, in story.

Where folklore speaks of many past, who never saw the dawn again, this tale bold regales the fate of two such hapless souls, who ignored the signs and wiser words. They sought to delve the nadirs of myth, and dance on the rim of perilous chance. So reckless bold that in the dead of endless night, they prodded one another—to take the dare—and threw away that common sense . . . which keeps mortals long, from Nether’s lair.

On they marched and edged and pushed, their will to move nearer still, a depth so dark it spent the light of nature true. Armed with little but the crushing force of racing blood and pounding hearts, they pushed their bodies through the bramble briar to seek—with eyes—belief in that which can’t be found, in bygone fables lost. With fire brand held aloft, they sought to kill the blackest dark, and found a sickly clearing filled . . . with deep yet narrow grave-like plots.

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Late the angst and reservations flashed, within their panicked, fear-filled minds. Too late to run— or find their way—through clutching, tearing, snaking vines; which drew as close as a lover’s brace, to palette paint in crimson blood . . . bodies liken to canvas art.

Yet held it did, the thorny briar branch, and did not slay the youth of men, whose fears now filled their every waking breath. Closer drawn toward the darkened lack of light—within the ground—as clawed fingers tore and raked the pitch black soil, knowing life . . . was full-well spent, upon the line they found.

The screams that fled from wind-seared throats, did much to underpin the olden tales—heard by distant ears—of farther, safer realms. Yet none would race to rescue those, who sought so hard to seal fate, and shuttered, quick to turn their heads in shame . . . in order to live to another dawn.

The doomed pair were quickly dragged within what thought their final grave, where ground—a life of own--rose up and filled the space between, and left their breast and head exposed . . . yet pinned their arms and legs in vain.

Like quick of sand, it held them fast, to work its wicked charms upon their frames, and twist baser inherent cells to shape and birth a newer form. Writhe they did, with deafened shrieks—of repent for their lack of sense—as tendrils barbed and sharp as blade, coiled and cut their mortal cloth, and probed deep within taut, now silent throats . . . to gain their downward thrust.

Deeper still, within that bramble briar, in a hollow, within the valley deep, there grows an evil harvest that the darkness soon shall reap. Goblin, pixie, troll, or fay; they clamber now from earthen womb: distorted, compact, horrid shades . . . of once what passed, as human form.

For now they are content to live within their wooded realm; yet long as twisted trust is set, upon the weak who venture there—forever will their numbers grow—to seek us out, from deep within their forest tomb . . . deep down where the Briar Gnomes grow.

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JESSICA SHAPIRO_________________________________________________________________________ Nymph The feeling—or lack, thereof—started in her fingertips. It spiraled up to her shoulders and integrated itself into the back of her neck and scalp. Her tail, glistening and shining like an emerald in the light of the drowsy sun, gave a small twitch before falling limp like her thin, pale arms. Her heavy eyelids began to close.

Her brain was dying more slowly than her body, and a multitude of thoughts flew about: Panic, despair, and maybe even a fleeting thought of hope, but only because the gnarled hand that ran through her hair did so gently. It was a great lie in the form of an almost benevolent action.

The nymph was too young, too naive. Swimming through an underwater cavern, deep within the heart of the ocean, she came by a great rift at the end which swallowed her up. The strong current of the water carried her for miles through a dark tunnel before spitting her out into a shallow blue pool. For some time, she felt disoriented and simply drifted on the surface.

She eventually gathered herself enough to notice the bottom of the little pool sparkled with a million diamonds. Beautiful, twinkling diamonds—a nymph’s fantasy. She began to pick them up, piece by piece, admiring each one as she did. So distracted was she, that she neglected to notice the pool’s only exit was the tunnel that had deposited her there.

Only when she could carry no more diamonds did she look around. The back of the pool was pressed against a rocky cliff that sprayed water from the mouth of the tunnel ten feet up. She was trapped. Her immediate terror made a few of the diamonds in her arms tumble back into the water.

She began to swim the perimeter of the pool in a frenzy, searching for an escape. When she found none, she let all the diamonds fall back to the bottom of the pool with a wet plunk.

Her ears—which were more like fins than ears—gave a sorrowful flutter before drooping. She threw her head back and let out a high, forlorn trill from the back of her throat. The shrill sound rang across the dead meadow surrounding the pool, bouncing off the valley walls. Thousands upon thousands of flowers, stiff in death, swayed and crackled as a frigid breeze carried the nymph’s voice to the ears of a blind old man.

He sat beneath a barely thriving willow tree and straightened up upon hearing the nymph’s cry. His sunken milky eyes shifted in their sockets wildly. What a stroke of luck. What a rare treat. His face, craggy and etched with the lines of solemn solitude lifted at his jowls in a smile. He stood and hobbled to the pool with practiced care, and only when he reached the edge did the nymph’s cries fade to breathy whimpers.

She peered up at the man hopefully, swimming to the edge at his feet. The man crouched before her and held out a knobby hand. For a moment, she examined the spotted old hand curiously, her head tilting from side to side. She looked back up at his face and he smiled still—a kind smile.

Cautiously, the nymph placed one of her small hands in his.

The man’s grin widened and he placed his second hand atop hers, gingerly tracing the contours of her webbed fingers. He ran his hand up to her wrist and grabbed hold of it with surprising strength, causing the nymph’s earfins to puff out in surprise, then flatten against the sides of her head.

Immediately, she pushed against the edge of the pool, frantically trying to pull away.

The blind man yanked the nymph out of the water and dragged her, writhing and trilling, over

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the crunching dead flowers. He settled down in his spot under the willow and forced her into his lap, hooking a strong arm around her midsection under her bare breasts. He felt the flaring of her gills, like long rows of lacerations lined up with the openings between each of her ribs. He held her there as she struggled against him and shrieked, her inhuman voice echoing. He knew from experience that it would not take long for her to become still in his grasp. A nymph could only attain so much energy outside of water. He began to sift his hand through her shimmering hair.

With each stroke of his hand, he combed bright, colorless dust from her locks—flecks of sun.

And as the sun dust settled into the earth, the meadow started to take on life. The wilted flowers slowly lifted their mournful heads—a colorful audience perking up to watch the life drain from the delicate nymph.

Before her eyes closed, she gathered the strength to lift her chin and look up at the tender assailant. His once frosted blue eyes were now a piercing green, rivaled only by the green of the nymph’s tail. His face no longer sagged with age. The only lines now were the nasolabial folds, creasing his face with a youthful, triumphant smile.

The nymph couldn’t bring herself to wonder what had happened to the old man. Her heart slowed, and the gills on her sides expanded once more before the skin around them began to crack. A numbing bliss drowned out everything within her.

Finally, like a piece of dry, unbaked pottery, struck with a mighty blow, the nymph crumbled and the meadow began life anew.

Michael McNally

The Crow

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OLIVIA SEDLACEK________________________________________________________________________ A Beautiful Face I was six years old when I tried to kill my sister. She had just been born, and I had just discovered what it meant to be ignored. Once the court ladies and lords had met Adelaide, it was like I was a ghost.

I crept down the darkened castle hallway, leaving my chamber door open so I could return to it without the door creaking. I carefully pushed open my sister’s door, and walked into the room.

I leaned over her cradle. Adelaide’s eyes popped open. She started to whine and squirm.

“Be quiet, stupid baby!” I whispered.

Adelaide didn’t listen. Even my baby sister ignored me.

I squeezed her under her arms and heaved her out of the cradle. I lugged her out of her chamber, tip-toeing on the rich red carpets overlapping on the floor. We went down the hall to the nearest staircase, close to our father’s rooms. I set her down on the top stair. For once, she sat still.

Now I’ll be loved the most again! I thought.

I pulled my foot back, and then swung it forward to kick her in the back.

“Emeline!”

My head snapped away from the staircase to see my father step out of his room. My face froze, mouth open, but my leg still hit Adelaide, and sent her headfirst onto the second step.

Looking at my father (for once without his crown) and my stepmother, who were staring at me, horrified, I realized just how horribly this was going to turn out for me. They rushed for Adelaide first, knocking me out of the way, giving me time to frantically think.

What do I do? Oh no! They’re going to put me in the dungeon. Think of something, think of something . . .

When they had Adelaide securely in their arms, they turned back to me, arms crossed.

“Emeline –“ I smiled in the sweetest way possible. “I was only playing with her,” I said. I batted my eyelashes a few times for effect.

“Oh, look how beautiful she is,” my stepmother crooned. “She didn’t mean to hurt her sister.”

My smile vanished in shock. What? Then my smile returned, sweeter than ever.

“Of course not!” I said.

“Emeline, you cannot conceal that –" my father began.

“Malcolm, she didn’t mean it,” my stepmother said. “Look at her. Something so lovely cannot be wicked.”

My father sighed. “All right,” he said.

My stepmother smiled at him, and left carrying Adelaide to put her back to sleep.

As soon as she was gone, my father’s expression changed to a glare.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful on the outside. On the inside, you’re worthless.”

He turned abruptly and followed my stepmother into Adelaide’s bedroom. Even after both of them had left her room and gone back to bed, I sat on the top step, thinking about what he had said.

-----

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“Sophia, I bet you can’t catch this!” I shouted, picking up a glass sculpture of who-knew-what from the display table of heirlooms.

I hurled it at my cousin. She reached out her hands to catch it, but she missed and it burst into pieces on the floor by her side.

My stepmother came storming in, carrying a heated rice sack for my father’s head over her arm. His crown had been giving him bruises lately.

“What has been going on in here?”

Sophia’s sky-blue eyes welled up with tears. “Emeline threw your lovely statue at me, and it smashed. I should have caught it.” Her face turned rose-pink.

My stepmother whirled around to face me.

“Sophia wanted to play catch, and we didn’t have a ball. I’m sorry, I should have known better and told Sophia no.” I had perfected my puppy eyes at ten years old.

“Emeline, this is preposterous. I shall expect you to tell your father what you’ve done. Dear Sophia . . .”

I didn’t hear what she said next, and barely saw her lead Sophia away from the broken glass.

My “sweetheart” face hadn’t worked. In fact, I realized, it hadn’t worked because Sophia was even prettier than I was, so I looked less sweet and innocent in comparison. She had golden hair that shimmered, the brightest blue eyes, and not a freckle anywhere on her face. I suddenly discovered that I hated Sophia. When she was around I wasn’t the loveliest anymore. I had to be careful when she was around.

I glared at Sophia.

----“. . . and we will always remember him as a king who was strong and noble . . .”

Adelaide’s soothing voice and commanding presence, even at age seventeen, kept everyone’s attention except mine. She was Father’s heir, since my stepmother had been sent away overseas to help her with her grief. On her head was the heavy crown that had given Father so much trouble in the past years, when he started slipping away from us. Father had left her the crown, the throne, the castle, and everything in it. I looked down at the mahogany jewelry box in my hands—my inheritance—and my thumbs rubbing over the lid. It had been painted on the outside with the words: “Beauty is skin deep” and on the inside: “a beautiful face cannot hide an ugly heart forever.” A deliberate dig. My father’s disapproval of me would be apparent for eternity.

Adelaide wasn’t beautiful. She never had been, but the court told her often that she had a heart of gold. It must have been her heart of gold that caused that stupid, airhead noble from across the ocean to fall for her. He was sitting in the closest seat to the podium where she was speaking, looking at her with moon eyes and not even a lone thought drifting around in his head.

I held the open jewelry box up to my face, letting me see myself in its tiny mirror. Perfect skin, perfect eyes, perfect mouth, perfect nose. I was still more beautiful than her. Her fiancé’s loss.

----“Look, Emeline, isn’t she perfect?”

I was bending over a newborn baby with enormous green eyes and a head of coal-black hair.

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“Yes,” I said stiffly. What else could I say?

“Her name is Snow White. Look at how perfectly white her skin is.”

Snow White? Who names a baby after a color?

“Yes, it’s very white.”

“Think, Emeline, you have this sweetheart as your niece,” she said, setting Snow White gently into her cradle.

I clenched my fists. The stupid baby was already a “sweetheart” at seven hours old. I could practically see Adelaide’s cradle where Snow White’s was standing, rocking an infant Adelaide to sleep. Faintly, I could hear the soft cooing of the court ladies, and even the swishing of their skirts. I saw one of my favorite members of the court, Lady Isabella, swishing towards me in her emerald silk skirt. She was the youngest of the ladies, and she had often given me chocolate.

“Lady Isabella!” I remembered myself calling out.

I could feel the kick to the ribs she gave me as if the bruise had never healed.

“Get out of my way, you little terror!” she scowled. “The sun doesn’t revolve around you alone!”

I saw her leather shoes march towards Adelaide’s cradle. And then I saw Snow White’s cradle again, not Adelaide’s, although I still had a strong urge to shove it over, Snow White and all.

“All right, sister. I’ve seen Snow White,” I said, holding my arms close to keep myself in check.

“Oh, but you’ve only been here a minute!” Adelaide gushed.

“You exaggerate. I’ve wasted enough of your time.” I turned on my heel and left. As soon as I was out of the horridly pastel nursery, I stepped up to the wall where my favorite mirror hung. The wall was blank. My full-length mirror was gone, taken down so Adelaide wouldn’t have to see herself after gaining so much weight from carrying a baby.

I stormed down the hallway to find it. It was hanging in another corridor. I turned to face myself, but today my perfect reflection gave me no comfort. I kicked the mirror. It shattered.

----This funeral was on a perfectly sunny day in May. I twisted the bouquet of poppies, white carnations, and white tulips in my hands. They were for Adelaide’s grave. I now wore the crown on my head, and I now had to give the speech.

“Adelaide was kind and thoughtful from the moment she was born,” I said, reciting the words that had been written for me. I gripped the flower stems. “She indeed had a heart of gold. At first, I felt neglected after she was born, but she soon won me over with her sweetness.”

The funeral attendees murmured amongst each other. I could feel the thick dislike wafting towards me from their seats. They knew my speech was a lie. Little Snow White, who was now my charge, stood next to me, not understanding any of it. I inched away from her. “. . . We will all sorely miss her and her wonderful husband, who were lost at sea. The world has lost two of its best inhabitants.”

The attendees clapped politely. I looked down at my hands. The flowers’ blooms had been ripped away from their stems. Lone petals drifted gravely down to the ground.

-----

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“She’s more beautiful than I am!” I shouted at my mirror, throwing a chair across the room.

“How dare she be fairer than me?”

I stomped back to my window. Down in the garden below, a young man dressed in clothes fine enough for a prince took Snow White’s hand and kissed it. She blushed in a perfectly lovely way.

Adelaide used to blush like that. Her husband used to look at her like that. No young man had ever looked at me like that.

“That horrid creature!” I shrieked, whipping away from the window.

I looked at myself in my mirror. All I could see was the wrinkle beside my eye, wriggling as if to make sure it was noticed.

“Stephen!” I called, and within a few seconds there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The heavy door creaked open. A short middle-aged man with already-gray hair stepped in.

He looked afraid. Why was he afraid? Was my wrinkle that revolting?

“I want you to take that awful girl into the forest.” I stepped towards him. “I want you to kill her.”

I hardly knew what I was saying, but I refused to take back my words. Stephen looked very afraid now. He shuffled his feet.

“But Your Majesty, don’t you think you should wait until you aren’t so angry before –“ “No! That stupid, lazy, evil child! How dare she? My decision is final!”

Stephen left in a hurry.

----“I didn’t do it.”

“What?” I said, raising my eyebrows slowly.

“I didn’t kill her. I refuse to murder anyone. If you want her dead, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

He sounded brave, but his knees were trembling.

“Where is she?” I said calmly, although I felt like I was going to bubble over in rage.

“I won’t tell you.”

“Tell me where she is,” I said, clenching my jaw.

“I won’t.”

“Tell me, or you go the same way as my sister.”

“You killed your sister?” he said, backing away from me. “I knew it!”

I erupted.

“I didn’t kill her! How dare you? I would never kill her! Snow White told you that, didn’t she? I did not kill my sister!”

I lunged at him with my blood-red polished nails.

“All right!” he conceded, fumbling to open the door as I tripped over my hem. “Snow White’s in a cottage in the woods where seven dwarves live.”

He managed to jerk the door open and slip through. I slammed it behind him.

-----

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I left the castle through the servants’ entrance. No one recognized me with a large wart on my nose, a moth-eaten black cloak, and a limp. I carried a basket of the rosiest apples I could find in the kitchen pantry.

The walk to the cottage was long. I had to stop and ask for directions from others living in the forest more than once, but eventually the thatched roof came into sight. I could hear a voice singing.

Snow White.

I hobbled toward the cottage, following the voice around to a window. Snow White was standing at it inside the cottage, pumping water over a handful of blueberries.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” I said, making my voice crackly.

“Baking pies, ma’am,” Snow White answered. She looked prettier than ever, black hair curling around her face, eyes clear as glass.

“How would you like to bake apple pies?”

“Oh, I love apples, ma’am, but I don’t have any.”

Dumb half-wit. I was clearly holding a basket of them.

“I have a basket of them here, dearie. Would you like one? In fact, since you’ve been so kind, I’ll give you one for free.”

“Thank you very much, ma’am.”

I handed her the prettiest apple of the bunch. It was as red as a cardinal.

“Try it now, see if you like it. I can give you a different apple if that one isn’t good.”

Snow White suddenly met my eyes with a stare. Could she see through my disguise?

“I suppose I will,” she said. She held the apple up to her mouth and bit down.

Please let the poison work, I thought.

“This apple doesn’t taste right,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How about you try it?”

“Oh no, darling! I’m so sorry. Have another?” I thrust it out to her.

“No . . . no thank you, ma’am.” She swayed on the spot.

“Are you all right?” I said, mock-concerned.

“No I’m . . . not. That apple . . . .” She collapsed.

I laughed aloud, my voice echoing through the trees. I was again the fairest. The horrible, wicked, evil girl was dead! No one would ever be loved more than me again ever!

I turned to find the path back to the castle. Seven very short men faced me, pick-axes in hand.

My face froze for a split second. Then, out of habit, I tried to look innocent, but my face refused to twist into a smile.

One of the dwarves sprinted over to Snow White in the cottage. He came back to the other dwarfs slowly, nodding. All seven of them advanced towards me, pick axes swinging.

I only had one last thought before everything was over.

Maybe it would have been better had I been born ugly.

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Tom Zimmerman

Halifax Figurehead

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HANA FINDER___________________________________________________________________________ Sempiternal He was born in a black hole with the light of a thousand suns to warm his flesh as he grew. And when he was large enough? He pulled himself over the event horizon with fingers that absorbed all light and looked to be not there at all.

They watched from the observation deck with wide eyes and bated breath. With clenched fingers and hearts that thundered in their chests. This was something new. No one said a word.

Nature, it seemed, had produced something terrifyingly beautiful and new and mysterious. And how were they supposed to react to watching from so very far away, a creature that looked like personified shadow pull itself from certain death? They were watching nature give birth.

There was something sacred about it, this birthing.

They clasped hands, each one gripping the hand beside them tightly, with anticipation; black silhouettes against the display screen. This was so extremely unexpected.

“Anything is possible…” It was breathed softly, barely discernible from the quiet humming of the ship’s engines. They were all thinking it. No one made a move. Their eyes were trained instead on the events transpiring outside their ship, so far away. And yet… Horrifically near.

They watched the creature inhale, its chest expand, its being grow larger. It was barely discernible from the blackness of the space it occupied. What could it breathe in, in the vacuum of space? They were not concerned so much about the physics of it, rather what it would do to them when it turned its blank face in their direction.

They did not have to wait long. It paused on the edge, lingering for a moment as if sniffing the air. Sniffing them out. There was no air. There was nothing to smell. Not them. Not air. Not in the vacuum. But it turned. Despite the lack of eyes, any discernible features, they knew it had seen them.

Or felt them at least.

It didn’t take long. When it left the light of the accretion disk, it disappeared almost completely. Just a wisp of smoke against the cosmic dark.

The destruction was elegant. One moment the ship was there. The next, not even its debris littered the area it had once stood. The only indication that it had been there at all was the small orb of light it had been reduced to. The size of a penny. And it lay in the palm of the creature. It took a matter of seconds. His mouth had opened so wide that it engulfed the sloping hull. Everything, everyone, was compressed into a single ball of light. And it hovered in the space the ship had once been. Not small enough to be a singularity, but maybe with a little work it could be.

He placed it there, where it hung, unmoving now, and turned back to his place of birth. He was learning. A part of her. A mobile part of her. And he could eat and pay tribute and he would grow.

And he would give her those… Sparks.

That’s what they were.

His head turned from his mother, taking in the expanse of space that stretched out before him.

He could feel it all. The warmth of the stars, the rotations of the planets in galaxies billions of light years away. And he could feel the edge. He could see the beginning. He could feel the end. Perhaps he was the end. Everything was so very unsure.

And then again, it wasn’t. He had a purpose. A goal. Was he alive? Like those he had consumed? He did not know. He did not have the room to wonder. Gingerly, his fingers, the black

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swirling tendrils, wound around the light, and he set it on the edge of the event horizon, nudging it along to be devoured by his mother.

And then he turned.

And he gazed out again at the space that surrounded him.

And he knew.

He had worlds to devour.

Jack White

Winter Fog, Bell Rd.

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PHILIP GIBSON__________________________________________________________________________ Deadlines After Tom Clancy They were right behind him. Constantly. Even if the simpletons believed that they were safe he knew the truth; and he needed to end it. Falling into a brisk pace he crept closer and closer to his objective.

“Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“Might as well…” he said with a sigh. Holstering his AK-47 and clipping endless rounds to his jacket. This was going to be a bloody one that was one thing he knew for certain. Perhaps, he should have listened to Linda. Not much he could do now. This was his eighth mission this month on this company; they seemed to be fans of taking hostages. So this was the life of Delta Squad? Lovely.

One clip gone. Six lay dead. Fourteen hostages safe, and one empty barrel of a smoking gun. He smirked, this was so repetitive. When the President had ordered this mission to be carried out the CIA had reacted immediately. His grandfather was the man who led Argo, and he was merely a first class captain to those in the Pentagon.

A dark room, no smell. No…? “Masks on!” he ordered as poisonous gases began to fill the room.

“Shit!” came over the radio from Serrinso, his sniper.

“Report!”

“Mask…not functioning…” he stammered struggling for breath.

Perhaps this had been too easy. A red dot. Appeared on his chest. A silenced shot. A gasp of painful breath. Blood dripping from the wound, now infected with the poison. It was black and was melting away.

“Sir, I’m sorry...”

“Save it, Corporal. Erickson, Rogers, med team now!” The two ran out of the room carrying the limp body of what hope remained. The hope that remained now faltering to that of a wisp. The room filling with gas, oxygen running lower than advised. He checked his kolto levels, enough to possibly close the wound. “I’m not going to lie, this…is going to hurt...a lot.” He unsheathed his combat knife and opened the wound, layering the metal with a darker red than he had seen before. Pus. Not good.

The wound began bubbling with infection and poison rising to meet the new wound. The hole was just large enough now. Reaching into his belt he pulled out a kolto syringe and slammed it into the wound. A sharp cry of pain from what remained of the man below him. The bubbling subsided, but the wound continued to seep with infection.

“You three, take care of him!” This left him with four men and a room with at least twenty gunmen and twelve hostages. Up the next stairway the doors were wired and armed. Without a word the demolitionist got to work.

“Got it.” The team continued to move through the dark halls of Lanceworth Incorporated. The room overlooked the hostage situation down below. This mission marked the first for one of his men, Willis, and he always hated inexperienced members in a hostile situation.

“We don’t move until alpha gives us the go,” he said with his back to the wall.

“Of course.”

“Understood.”

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A grunt then, “Got it.”

Willis. He sighed awaiting the boy to question his orders. “Why don’t we just take them out now?”

He knew it. He wanted to get in the kid’s face but that wouldn’t do anything for the hostages.

“Orders,” came his reply.

A sigh.

The next room revealed a deserted office space, and a perfect view of the situation. Twenty heavily armed gunmen filled the area below them with two guns pointed at each hostage.

“Remember, nothing until we hear from alpha, vera [vera is a term used in tactical missions for words such as newb or rookie].” “Yes...sir,” came the delayed reply.

Five minutes passed as the negotiator attempted to reason with Mr. Lanceworth. Ten minutes.

Thirty.

“Fuck it!” Gun fire. Willis. He sighed and was thrown into action. Hostages ran for the stairs to the left. A large boiler rested in the middle of the room. The last hostage ran past. A hand reaching for the leg. He stepped on it. A foreign cry of pain. A silenced round. “I need a charge on that boiler!” A swift reply as Delgato knelt loading a RPG. He fired.

Chaos engulfed the room. Fire and debris everywhere. All hostages safe. “Secure the perimeter,” he said gruffly clutching his side. “Sir..I..” That was Willis. “Save it. We’ll talk later.” A spray of shells to his left. He rolled to his left onto the stairway, and answered with a shower of his own. Silence. No doubt the credit would go to the Canadians again. “Sir?” That did it. “You want to talk now?! Okay, Petty Officer Willis. You are relieved of duty.” Maybe if the kid kept his mouth shut he would have offered understanding. His squad was not one with trigger happy vera. And this kid was not going to start with him.

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DARA NAFIU_____________________________________________________________________________ 1001: A Modern Retelling of The Arabian Nights :1: Shahrayar His mind refused to believe. He was numb.

He spent the first few seconds struggling to penetrate the pounding whiteness in his head—to reach out to any sensation other than confusion and anger. Slowly, deliberately, perception returned: a bead of sweat trickled down his neck and into his shirt; a mosquito whined in his ear. The heat was a tight chloroform rag, suffocating and wet.

Shahrayar Arjun stared out of the 54th-story balcony onto the vast surrounding cityscape, speckled with countless flickering lights. Even here, hundreds of feet above the common populace, the wind provided little refuge from San Francisco’s constant humidity. He contemplated jumping into the night, picturing his pressed Oxford leather jacket hitting the pavement below. Instead, his throat clenched and face pale, he backed away from the ledge and quickly found himself in the living room inside.

His brother stared up at him blankly, eyes just as bloodshot, his hands wrapped around a bottle of Hennessy. “So I was right, then? You believe me about what hap—” “How?” Shahrayar interrupted, “Why? I—I mean I guess I just don’t understand why she would do something like this . . . to me, of all people! Like, how is that wise? Me, head of the most powerful legal firm in the whole damn world? I am the richest man on earth, Shahzaman, and I find her with another man!” He stopped to grab up a half-empty cup of the liquor and drained it, wincing.

“Have her killed.” Shahzaman leaned back onto the plush cream sofa.

“What?” The words stopped even Shahrayar.

“I said, have her killed. That’s what I did when I found mine with one of my clients, I killed her!

Killed them both!” The tears finally fell down his brother’s face as he continued, “You just said you’re the most powerful man in the world, then do something—you could have her gone and the scandal over in weeks, days!”

There was silence, and Shahrayar glared thoughtfully at the glistening liquid in the bottle.

Shahzaman continued suddenly, “If you can’t bring yourself to do it, have your mafia buddy— what’s his name?—Jafar, do it.”

Shahrayar slowly lowered himself onto the chair next to his brother, nodding. “Yeah, Jafar cleared space in the business world for our firms: poisonings, assassinations, bombings. I could get him to stage a . . . a car crash, or something.”

There and then, as he ran his fingers in circles on his forehead, eyes glazed and unseeing, is when they say Shahrayar Arjun went mad. Something in his mind snapped and left him, leaving but an unfeeling shell behind. The numbness that had begun out on the balcony now seemed to take over his entire body.

Without warning, he rammed his foot into the coffee table, smashing the glasses across the cold marble floor and watching the brownish liquid run along the cracks.

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:1I: SHEHEREZADE several months later Some everlasting paintbrush had swept almost every shade of purple, blue, and red onto the evening sky. Even through the billowing clouds of steam and automobile exhaust, the twilight masterpiece emanated beauty. Sheherazade puffed smoke up at it as she leaned forward on the windowsill. The repetitive, maddening bass music roared into the room from the club behind her. She closed her eyes. For an instant, the music got louder, but a door slammed behind her, again muffling the noise slightly. She was caught. Sheherazade flicked her black curls onto her ear and turned.

Her father sauntered over to the sink and ran the cold water over his fingers. He didn’t say a word. Neither did she, but she did study her father, as she pulled the smoke into her lungs. His hands shook under the water, even as he unhooked a nine-millimeter from his belt and laid it on the tabletop. The handgun was soon replaced by another one with a silencer, and as he turned, he slipped his jacket off, revealing a stained undershirt. Still silent, he closed the door behind him as he left.

Sheherazade spat one more long chain of smoke into the night air before flicking the cigarette onto the pavement outside. Jafar, she chuckled to herself, the great rising mobster king. Cocaine and weed dealer, whatever else. Runs this stupid strip club as a “legitimate business.” What has he found that actually has him jacked?

Groaning, Sheherazade stood up and reached for her black army boots, slipping them onto her bare feet. Pulling open the door, she moved into the stuffy, sticky atmosphere of the club. The bodies and voices blurred around her as she headed toward the back corridors on the other side of the building. Pretty soon, the noise drowned out behind her as she approached her father’s private office, only to be replaced by a faint moan.

Occasionally, the sound grew to a shout of pain, but remained mostly a weak, powerless groan.

Now cautious, Sheherazade stopped in front of the office door, opting instead to peak through a hole in the drywall. Her body instantly froze. What she saw threw her into a paradox of wanting to move, to run, but not being able to flex a single muscle.

On the other side of the wall, a thin, shivering woman knelt, silhouetted by the light of a bright table lamp. However, shifting her line of sight slightly, Sheherazade caught sight of Jafar’s unmistakable tall figure. A lanky but muscular arm held a firearm to the young lady’s skull. “I’m sorry . . . ” the woman moaned, “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry. Please, just—please just—!” Her father cocked the gun and fired.

In the back of her mind, somewhere buried in her subconscious where she wouldn’t have to confront it, the girl knew what Jafar did. He had always taught her that some people had to fall in order to make space for better things, but this woman had seemed so innocent, so incredibly defenseless in her father’s death grip.

And nothing had prepared her for all the blood.

So Sheherazade screamed. She screamed her father’s name, she screamed her mother’s name.

She screamed. She watched her father leave the body to crumple, running toward the door, towards her. “What the hell?! What the hell, dad! No-no-no, don’t touch me, don’t—go away, you’re a monster—how could you just?—you’re a monster!” Jafar let her back across the hallway, attempting to drown the scene replaying in her head out with tears. He knew his Scheherazade was a strong girl, and this was unusual. He waited. Eventually, she would calm down. Then, she would ask:

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“Why, dad? Why here? I didn’t want to see it, dad, I didn’t want to see it . . . ” Jafar was silent for a long time. He slipped his weapon into the back of his belt and crouched beside his daughter, tentatively stroking her long, black hair. “You know the Arjun brothers?” She nodded. The news reports were so scattered that it was almost impossible to make out a linear story, but it was generally understood that the two had gone crazy ever since their wives left them months ago. People had been trying to pin criminal activity on them to get them out of business since. They also funded this club and a majority of her father’s deals.

In a moment of audacity, she followed Jafar’s gaze to the corpse, keeled over in a pool of blood. Squinting, Sheherazade caught sight of a badge pinned to the woman’s chest. “Emily Donner, Arjun Head Policy Administrator.” She was an employee. Sheherazade turned back to her father in confusion.

He rubbed his eyes slowly with the back of his hand. “He’s lost his mind, Sher. They both have.

Nuts. Shahrayar’s started sleeping with his female assistants at his office. He’s ordering me to kill them the next day.” He paused and looked away, down the long hall to the club. “It’s been going on for what, two months now? Every day. I don’t know . . . even me . . . I can’t cope with the bodies— innocent bodies. ” Sheherazade stared at her father silently, twisting her locks around her index finger. “You say they’ve been ‘ordering’ you, you’re not a slave to anybod—” “But I am. I say ‘order’ because those two fund this business, and it’s deeper than the drug ring, it’s deeper than this club; it’s about you and me. Unfortunately, we survive off of their money.”

He paused, then continued, his voice slightly stronger, “I haven’t been killing all of them: some go to this club. But honestly, I don’t know which is worse."

Sheherazade scratched at the floor tiles with her finger, turning countless thoughts over in her mind. “So . . . you just kill them? Personally?”

“What can I do? What can I do, Sher?” He let out a breath of frustration and threw up his arms.

She nodded slowly. “I can’t trust any of my right-hand men or guards or any of that because everybody in the game is looking for a way to topple this money-vacuum Arjun, and this would be it. I have to do it myself.”

“Does anyone talk to them? The Arjun brothers?”

“Talk to them? How?” “Talk to them, like personally. As people. Maybe attempt to connect to them, to reach out, I don’t know. But they sound so lonely. Doesn’t it hurt to think about?” Sheherazade stood tentatively, wiping tears away with the sleeve of her jacket.

Jafar took a step back and leaned on the opposite wall, looking down intently on his daughter.

He didn’t like the opportunistic look on her face; didn’t like the gleam of possibility that shone in her eyes.

All he had to do was connect the dots to realize his world was about to be flipped upsidedown. :1I1: SHEHEREZADE AND SHAHRAYAR present day All she could smell was laundry detergent.

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Occasionally, when the air shifted in the room, she could almost pick up some expensive cologne, but the powerful scent of newly-washed sheets seemed to permeate the atmosphere. The room was cool, probably because it was so expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, and exotic paintings on the others. Sheherazade could almost call the place comfortable, if she knew she was alone.

“A person was killed here last night.” The figure seemed to have drifted in on the wind, completely silent but purposeful. “That’s why everything smells of bleach,” he continued matter-offactly. When Sheherazade reacted with sharp intake of breath and wide eyes, she was only partly acting.

“Why—who did you kill?! Who else knows?”

“Someone just like you. Young, pretty, but inherently a liar. A cheat.” He spat the last word out as if he was eager to get it out of his mouth. “No one else knows, because as Shahrayar, the most powerful individual on the planet, the people only know as much as I let them know. Now get onto the bed.”

She obeyed. “Yes,” she continued, attempting to keep the wobble out of her voice. “One of the things I was allowed to hear was about your wife. I’m sorry—” “Don’t mention her!”

“I just . . . wanted to empathize. I’ve known . . . I’ve known loss too. I understand—” “You think I need a damn shrink now too?!” Shahrayar turned and stalked to the end of the bed, hair wild and eyes ablaze.

“I think you need someone to talk to. And . . . that’s who I want to . . . to be.” She surreptitiously wiped the sweat from her palms onto the bedsheets as she continued cautiously, “My dad used to tell me stories, actually, all the time, about loss. But he taught me that the main character always comes out on top eventually.

“And you are the main character, Mr. Arjun.”

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JOE BRADLEY____________________________________________________________________________ Fadeout I am James. I exist in the fade-out. You know, like at the end of a song. They fade out the music to transition into the next song. When there’s nothing more to sing, no more feeling left to render into lyrics and notes. That’s me. I walk amongst the concrete slabs of the stomping-grounds that used to define my life. Along the stone pathways and gated entrances, I am not noticed.

Talk about inspirational. Everything I see is tinted with grey, especially around this time of year. It’s a cliché. I’m pretty sure someone famous once said “I think, therefore I am.”

Personally, I think, but I’m not.

I used to have friends and make small-talk in corridors. I was decent at sports. It didn’t make sense, because I’m not very built or pumped like Don. I’m skinny, in fact you might consider me lanky, so I didn’t really fit in with the guys anyway. Don called me Slenderman, which caught on amongst the boys. Everyone loves Don. He’s the kind of dude that everyone knows he’s the man just by the way he walks. When he enters the room, heads turn in his direction. Captain of the wrestling team, Don’s left ear is permanently and revoltingly enflamed. It’s called cauliflower ear or something. But he embraces it; in fact, he even shows it off to the chicks when he’s chatting it up after class.

I don’t get it. It’s an ear.

He used to give me the time of day. We were friends, or at least childhood friends for sure. I played tennis which didn’t make me popular, but because I hung out with Donny everyone seemed to put up with me, I guess. I always knew it wasn’t real though. If he’d have turned around one day and said “hey slenderman, fuck off” everyone would’ve ditched me without hesitation. Maybe I’m just being pessimistic.

He was alright, good ole Don. He was never obligated to hang out with me, but he did anyway because our moms became friends when we were in Sunday school together. They used to see each other a lot, switch off carpooling and getting coffee, shit like that. We’d hang around outside. He had a massive garden, much better than our grimy square of yellow grass. We used to play detectives in it when we were younger; we had sticks for guns. I got a magnifying glass free in a lab kit once, and we used it to burn holes in things. Then he burnt a spider to death, and I stomped on the glass and didn’t talk to him for two weeks. Eventually he said he was sorry and gave me his Snickers bar to make up for it. When we went into highschool, he looked out for me. I started getting harassed by some older degenerate burnouts because I wouldn’t buy their low quality pot, so he beat their asses for me.

I still follow Don around, even though I feel like his sidekick. I always thought his life was so great, but it’s actually pretty dull. He gets up late most mornings, with a headache. We’re in our final year, so he can get away with missing lectures most of the time. He used to go out 3-4 times a week and bring home a different girl each time. Not recently though. Lately, he has had a girlfriend. Her name’s Lexi, and she’s got brown hair that she flips when she laughs. Things got a lot more interesting when she came into the picture. They’re inseparable, always rubbing their noses together and stuff like that.

They even have sex in front of me sometimes. Weird I know, but Don doesn’t mind.

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I guess you could say I’m apathetic.

Working up enthusiasm is hard when you’re dead. I just don’t see the point.

It’s got its perks, though. I can hear people’s thoughts, kind of. Not all of them, but glimpses. Like the occasional rush of white noise, you get between the static when tuning into the radio. I just... hear them. Sometimes they’re images, and I see them. Some people are easier to pick up on than others.

It’s the little things. There’s so much that I think about now, that I never cared about when I was alive.

The glossy texture of grass on the tips of my fingers. The way that you have to peel off your clothes from your skin when you’ve been caught outside in rain. The way the skin on your arms itches if you’ve been sitting in the sun for too long.

I like sitting by my little sister Rosie the most. Everything is new to her, exciting. Life is a challenge, and a one-year-old isn’t satisfied until they have poked, scratched, stroked and grabbed every part of it. I see her delight in the flickering of her thoughts; images only at the moment, she can’t talk yet.

She keeps me from forgetting myself. What it’s like. Where I came from.

That’s how I found out how I died. Through people’s thoughts, I mean. Donny’s mainly. He discovered my body, so his thoughts are the clearest.

A body, mine, squashed up under the ice.

“Oh my god.. Oh shit, oh shit. James! JAMES! what do I do I don’t know, oh god oh god” An ambulance.

Police buzzing like flies, looking grave and important.

The stiffness of the limbs when they finally broke through and pulled the body out. The eyes, mine, vacantly green and still ajar.

Hearing Donny and seeing what he saw awoke a few shadowy memories of my own. The pounding in my temples from my accelerated heartbeat. My eyes stinging from the salt in the water. How smooth the ice was as my hands pushed upon it, slippery and frozen. It was the cold that I remember most.

The way it encroached upon my skin. The way it possessed me. I could feel it in my head, gripping me, in my lungs, shutting them down. It weighed me down so that my thrashing arms became weak, numb and lifeless. I drifted.

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MAX ROMERO___________________________________________________________________________ Transmute The sky hung unusually low, and mud, damp from a mid afternoon rain, now rose to engulf my boot, and slowed my pace through the dusk of forest. I searched with a barren sense of direction, and the fog made my uncertainty feel all the more disorienting. No birds were there to give their song, no planes roared above the clouds. All was silent except autumn leaves breaking under the feet of critters gathering their winter supply. I moved softly between branches of dark trees that hung low with the heavens and shared their dew. Every inch of my skin not clothed was wet with the thickening mist and spattered with fallen pine. My body felt a damp discomfort, a heightened sense of things, but my mind was too lost to know of it. I was too lost then to know of many things. So spun and scared of the unseen, and unexplainable. I suppose that’s what the beast inside wants, for it comes to us so innate and effortless, like breathing, or the gripping need to kill all things that crawl.

Somehow my mind felt at home in the cool mist, as though the canopy of pine and silence would shelter me. My thoughts had wandered so far in the forest that my body had only to follow, and when I salvaged my attention I hadn’t a clue where I was or how far I had traveled. I found myself casually searching for a way back to a familiar trail or creek. Searching for a way amongst trees that looked as brothers born of a single seed, and the ground in which they stayed was flat and covered in dead pine in all directions. Above was the gloom of a darkening sky, and the ground at my feet was barely visible through the fog, which was leaving a thin gray for a thick white. It seemed my interest in the eerie landscape was foolish to pursue. For now I was lost in the world of trees, and I could feel the forest begging my bones to stay forever.

I was little more than a boy then and the existence of true ghosts and other monstrous creatures had not yet been purged from my imagination. I remember thinking, if they did exist, this is the place you would find them, or they would find you. Here, this place, where the constantly darker and darker clouds hid the sun and the stars, and any hope for guidance. I chose to turn and move quickly in the direction I thought I had come from, but with every branch, and tree I passed, looking just as dark and scabbed as the one before, I began to second guess every step. I pushed through the mist, ducking under hanging pine branches and leaping over decaying logs that had sunk into the wet mud.

The autumn night was descending fast as it does, and the sparse light now barely showed the fog, but I could still feel the thick moisture clinging to my neck. My hair began to stand as I contemplated the very real possibility of having to endure the coming night in this place, alone and in constant fear. In the darkness, squirrels became monsters, trees became spider nests, and the wind was surely the breath of someone. The night air met with the lingering mist on my neck and forearms and added an icy chill to the forest’s eerie lure. I was sure that this cold and anxious fear was the worst of states to die in. I had to find my way back before the darkness cloaked the ground before me and my way was lost until dawn.

Somewhere in my desperate search the crisp smell of the creek bed found me, with the beautiful sound of the river swimming through rocks and fallen branches. A brash excitement took hold, as I ran towards the sound, giving no regard to the shadowy obstacles that littered the forest floor. It didn’t matter now; I wasn’t lost anymore. I knew the river flowed south into the county reservoir. From there I would be home before mother had the mind to fuss. I ran further and

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further, faster and faster towards the symphony of water. The beautiful sound was growing louder, and louder… thud! My joy was interrupted by a bang that shook my skull, which was soon replaced by ringing and a constellation of stars more vast than I had ever seen. My body went numb, my senses all replaced by the same deafening pressure.

The deep mist returned out of darkness, and a beaming light that shone through the clouds, danced in the forest. I spun, searching for something. I couldn’t hear the river; I couldn’t hear anything. Anxiety pervaded me and tied my chest in a thousand knots. Everywhere I looked the forest was growing thicker, and the bellowing mist closed around me like a pack of white wolves. The ring of fog drew closer to me, and closer and closer to where I could almost reach it. It began to circle, and I could feel it drawing the very air from my chest. It was harder and harder to breathe with every passing moment; every prowling rotation. When there was no air left in my lungs I could feel it being drawn from my hands, and my face, and every part of me. My entire body screamed from the sensation; I was drowning. My eyes shut tight from the pain, and I waited for the stars and the blackness, but just as hope had left me, my skin stopped screaming. The knots in my chest unraveled, and I breathed air as deep in me as it would go. It was the sweetest breath my lungs had ever felt, and was laced with the smell of cherry blossoms. Every part of me bathed in a sweet and calming relief, and so I loosened my face, relaxed my body, and opened my eyes.

Through a still mist I could see a dark shadow moving slowly towards me. It had the figure of a very tall, thin man, and the settled fog dissipated as he moved through it gently. I noticed now that the forest was beginning to retreat back to a thinner growth behind him. As he came to me through the fog, and stood directly before me, I still couldn’t make out a single detail of him. He was but a vague figure to my eyes. Perhaps this would have frightened me, but somehow his presence was warm and calming. He stretched out his arm, as if asking me to take it, and I did. I half expected my hand to fall through him like a phantom, but it didn’t. His hand flowed through my fingers like water and tightened gently around them. I was startled at first, but the warmth of our hands together let me know it would be ok.

He began to lead me through the woods, and as we moved further and further I noticed that the fog had now entirely lifted. It was replaced in the air by what sounded like music. With every step we took, it grew louder and louder. It was Music! But I couldn’t make out where it was coming from. I began to realize it wasn’t the kind of music that comes from any one place; it came from everywhere.

It was surrounding us like the forest, and I looked up at the figure as if to ask why; he didn’t seem to notice. But the forest did. It was blossoming right before my eyes. Trees shook death and grew a new coat of green and yellow leaves. The dead ground gave way to sprouting flowers of red, pink and violet. With a chime, and a hum they danced and swayed with the wondrous sound. Above me, chirping birds added a verse, and swooped down onto my shoulders. It seemed everywhere the black shadow led me was more beautiful and alive than where we had come. We crossed a river with green emeralds at its bed, and water so clear that it looked as if time had stopped it. We floated over hills so green and soft they nearly put my feet to sleep. The forest’s beauty seemed to leave just a space for the shadow and I to move among it.

Eventually he led me to a long yellow orchard. The tree’s lowest branches were still high above me, and for the first time since I had entered the music, leaves were falling. Thousands fell like a golden snow, but were replaced soon after by new leaves where the old ones had been. The fallen covered the ground completely, and like the leaves and flowers had sprouted before me, they turned browned and furled around my feet. At the end of the orchard was a wall of green, pined giants that

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stretched so far into the sky my eyes were strained to see the heads of them. As I approached in such awe of their size and fullness, I hadn’t noticed the shadow had stopped moving until I felt my arm tug and nearly pull me off my feet. I gathered myself and turned to look at him. He stood still, facing me, and then I felt his hand dissolve through my fingers. I looked down to where our hands had been together and then back up at him. I noticed for the first time that the soothing melody wasn’t around us anymore. It was coming from the pines. He then turned from me to face them. Slowly, I did the same, taking one last glance towards the golden orchard. Looking into the wall I could faintly see a light shining through the green mesh. I reached my hand out to touch it; gently brushing my fingers against its pines. Its softness surprised me, as its needles seemed to welcome my hand just as the shadow had. I turned to look back at him once more as he stood there stoic, watching me, and then back towards the music and the trees that were holding my hand, caressing it. I closed my eyes, took one final breath of the forest, and pushed forward into the pines.

Adam Lowis

Au Sable River

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Nonfiction

Jack White

Morning Fog Near Bell Rd.

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CHRISTINA SHANNON____________________________________________________________________ Not Just Another Boy All through Cub Scouts, Allen Fleary and I were like two peas in a pod. That’s how Dad always described us, which was kind of ironic, I suppose, considering my big brother’s nickname for me. I don’t know why, but Bean was a term of endearment that he’d used for me from as far back as I could remember. We were so close growing up, one might say that Stephen and I were like two beans on the same stalk, despite the six-year difference in our ages. He’d always treated me less like his pesky little brother than a cherished sister who he tried to shelter and protect from life’s less pleasant vagaries—like what inevitably happened between Allen and me. He just didn’t know that I really was his sister.

That’s why I never blamed Stephen for inadvertently decimating my hopes and dreams and naive assumptions the way he did.

----I had seen Dad shave many times. This was so routine I never gave it a second thought whenever I happened to catch a glimpse of him at the bathroom mirror any given morning. Then, one ordinary morning, I glimpsed my brother standing in front of the bathroom mirror, instead, lathering his face in preparation to shave. I had never seen him do this before. I hadn’t known that he shaved, too. It just never occurred to me, and the sight of my brother doing such a manly thing, just like Dad, stopped me cold.

I stared at Stephen for the longest time as he began to scrape the foamy soap from under his nose first and then from his cheeks and chin with a safety razor—again, just like Dad. “What’s cookin’, Bean?” Stephen abruptly said, startling me.

I looked a bit higher in the mirror and met his eyes as he stopped in mid-stroke, razor still poised at his Adam’s Apple.

“Uh, nothing, I guess.” I paused a moment, then I asked him, “Why you doing that?” not yet able to accept that he really needed to, that he wasn’t just fooling around.

Stephen chuckled. His gaze left mine and returned to the middle of his neck. He finished the stroke then rinsed the soap from his razor in the sink. He looked up again, and before he took another stroke, Stephen chortled, “Don’t worry, Bean, someday you’ll be able to shave, too, just like Dad and me.”

It was one of the most unsettling things anyone had ever said to me. I felt myself flinch as the unacceptable meaning of Stephen’s, otherwise innocuous, words slammed into me. My pulse began to pummel the inside of my skull, and I could hardly catch my breath as I realized I’d never outgrow my boyish body in the way that I’d always just assumed. I’d never become a woman with breasts. Nor would the damned penis stuck between my legs slough off, once I matured, to reveal my hidden vagina; the horrid thing would remain vexingly attached. I would never escape being a boy by becoming a woman the way I had naively and unconsciously hoped my entire, remembered life. I was doomed, instead, to become a man.

“What’s the matter, Bean? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

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I felt faint. My life, at least the one I had always hoped for, was over. Now an intolerable life, even worse than what I had already endured, loomed before me with no hope of escaping the awful, contrary ways that puberty would transmogrify my body. I could no longer deny the truth. Ignoring reality and going on flights of fancy into my imaginary worlds would not spare me from that despicable, yet inevitable fate.

“You okay?” Stephen asked.

Stunned, all I could do was nod my head in a haze of preoccupation. And I heard Stephen say, “Okay then, if you’re sure,” my brother’s voice resonating with uncertainty and concern as I blindly turned and walked away. I felt betrayed, all over again, by my very nature—even though I should have expected such treachery from God. After all, He’d created a contrary body for me to occupy— whether by accident or design – hadn’t He? Nothing, I thought, could be worse than what Stephen’s innocent comment had inadvertently revealed as inescapably true. Of course, I did not realize yet that, in a few short weeks, I’d experience an entirely different kind of transformative revelation, this one concerning my relationship with Allen Fleary, my best friend.

----Similar to the way I related to Stephen, I felt like Allen’s sister, too, though more like his twin sister, intuitively tuned-in to his every thought, mood, and desire almost before he had a chance to experience them. We were soul mates as far as I was concerned, even though I knew Allen saw me more as a playmate to compete with in order to demonstrate his boyish moxie. To Allen, we competed with each other, all through Cub Scouts, to see who could earn the most silver arrows for our uniforms. But it was Mom, never me, who cared about this competition and its outcomes at our monthly Courts of Honor, where they recognized us for our newest achievements. I went along with it because I thought it would please Mom, and Allen seemed to like this rivalry. Our friendship as soul mates, in fact, was never jeopardized by my trying to impress my mother. Even though Allen tended to become jealous whenever I earned one more arrow than he did, he always forgave and congratulated me. He never let anything come between us—that is, until a couple of weeks after my twelfth birthday.

----Through most of that year’s summer vacation, Allen and I played together every day.

Sometimes we would play two-man football in his terraced side yard like we did when we were little.

It still amounted to us basically chasing each other around, back and forth, until we were too exhausted to keep playing I particularly liked this game. Wrestling, too—which amounted to tackling each other, absent the ball and preliminary chasing. I never quite understood why I liked those games so much. Such intimate, physical contact with Allen simply felt good, even though it sometimes got a bit too rough for my liking. Our roughhousing rarely became serious though, much less assaultive, and we usually giggled far more than we groaned after a tackle or takedown.

On rainy days we’d often go in and either wrestle or, when his mom got tired of us roughhousing, we’d play board games. On sunny days, besides two-man football, we’d ride our bikes, shoot

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baskets, play Frozen Tag, Kick-the-can, or Hide-and-seek with other neighborhood kids, or else find a sandlot baseball game somewhere. But it wasn’t what we did as much as doing it with Allen that I truly liked. I was not into all the sports and group activities like Allen, but I pretended I was, just to be near my best friend. And I never played those games without him.

My favorite game to play with Allen, however, never involved any kind of roughhousing, competitiveness, or group activity. We’d invented Submarine, one rainy day, when we were both bored silly. Allen’s father’s pool table stood in their basement’s rec-room and we draped blankets over its sides so that they brushed the floor. Then we crawled underneath and laid atop the several blankets that we layered on the tile floor. From there we went on many imaginary adventures, with mostly me supplying the verbalized imagination.

Allen seemed to enjoy this game, which evolved into Spaceship as well. We would lie on our bellies next to each other, so close our hips often touched, while I spun fantastic yarns that he and I acted out, there, under the pool table. I believe that it was during these intimate games that I began to feel closer than ever to Allen, as if I would simply die if he was no longer in my life, and desperately hoped he felt the same way about me. Something had changed in my feelings. More than just fondness, I found I adored him in a way I’d never felt for anyone else. Certainly not the ambiguous way I felt about my mother, but not like I felt about Dad, either, nor like my beloved big brother, Stephen. Allen was special to me in a way I had no words to describe. Even my fertile imagination, for the first time ever, proved unequal to the task of defining my feelings. I just knew my heart ached whenever we weren’t together. I became clingy and needy and quite fixated on being with him, always.

Not long after this I noticed that Allen was becoming less and less available to play as he sought out other playmates. This culminated with Allen inviting Donald Gotland, from our Cub Scout den, to play horse with us in Allen’s driveway. He and I had always shot hoops with each other, alone, and now this interloper was turning our cozy twosome into an awkward threesome, which made me increasingly anxious as this arrangement continued. The two of them were far better shots than I was.

They seemed to have more interests in common, too. They incessantly yammered on about hot cars, guns, football, and their fathers’ girly magazines as if these peculiar interests were hallowed to them.

They were also obsessed with lifting weights, which baffled me most of all.

Soon, Allen and Donald began doing things together, without me. Even when Allen and I were messing around together, as soon as Donald showed up they’d usually go off and leave me behind— neglecting to invite me along. My jealousy grew until I despised Donald for stealing my Allen away from me. Then the inopportune nature of our three-way relationship changed again—one final time.

----For about two hours, one sun-washed morning in mid-August, Allen and I had been playing horse without my nemesis there to spoil it for me. It felt like I’d found heaven on earth to have Allen all to myself again, just like in the old days. Although Allen warned me that Donald would be coming by any minute, when I asked him what he wanted to play next.

“Can I come along, too?” I asked Allen, anticipating that, as usual, they probably had some sort of activity planned that excluded me.

“Not this time,” Allen said as he took a jump shot from the top of the key. “There—make that or it’s another S for you.”

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I wanted to ask him why. I wanted Allen to tell me I could come too. Better yet, I wanted him to tell me that he had cancelled his plans with Donald just to spend the day with me. But what I really yearned to tell Allen, was how I felt about him. How much it hurt every time he excluded me the way he did—especially to spend time with Donald, my hated rival for Allen’s attention and affection. I desperately wanted him to hear me, to tell me he was sorry and would never hurt me like that again.

It was no use, though. I already knew I could never tell Allen any of those things any more than I could tell him that I wanted to be his one-and-only the way Carrie Connolly was my brother’s.

I retrieved the ball and carefully positioned myself on the spot that Allen’s toe pointed to.

Distracted, I tried to take aim, but I didn’t care about making the shot. My bent arms pushed up and out, my feet barely leaving the driveway’s concrete. The ball that I launched in the general direction of the hoop, like a sack of potatoes, elevated with almost no spin. It hit the front of the rim with a dull thud, then fell almost straight down to the pavement like some stone-struck squirrel from the side of a tree, where it pathetically bounced and then dribble-rolled back toward us like a kicked dog to its abusive master.

Snickering, Allen said, “Nice shot. Next miss is game.”

Allen spanked the ball at his feet, forcing it bounce to his knees, where he scooped it up and took another shot in one, continuous motion. “Swish,” he announced as the ball plunged its way to the bottom of the net.

“Your turn,” he said as I retrieved the ball and Donald pulled into the drive-way on his brand new, stingray bike. I’d saved up to buy a banana seat and butterfly handlebars for my old, balloon-tire bike, but it still wasn’t cool like Donald’s.

“So, where you guys going?” I asked Allen, already knowing that I’d miss my next shot, which would end my time with him once again.

“None of your bee’s wax, Braaaaadley,” Donald brayed at me.

“Take your shot,” Allen said. “Me and Don’s gotta get going. You understand.”

“No. I don’t. I don’t understand this at all.”

“Ha!” Donald guffawed. “That’s rich.”

“Look,” Allen said, “you can’t expect me to do everything with you, Brad. I have other friends, too, not just you.”

“Don’t you like me anymore?” I said, my cheeks warming as tears began to dangerously well up.

“It’s not that. I mean . . .”

“Why you wasting your breath trying to soften the blow?” Donald piped in. “Just tell him and get it over with.”

“Tell me what?” I demanded, irritated with Donald but even more dreadfully anxious to hear whatever it was that Allen wasn’t saying.

“It’s like this; Don and I are not joining 25 with you.”

“But you said you were going . . .”

“You heard him,” Donald scolded me. “We’re joining 76, and so is Halperin.”

I couldn’t care less about Donald, and Geoff Halperin joining the rival Boy Scout troop in town wasn’t that much of a surprise, but Allen going back on his promise to me felt almost like a kick to the groin. It virtually took my breath away. Tears threatened to spill over and flow down my flushed cheeks as I shook my head in disbelief, trying to pretend I’d only imagined this betrayal. There was no

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escaping the truth, though. Allen stared at his sneakers now and repeatedly turned his hunched shoulders, clockwise then counter-clockwise, which told me that Donald’s horrendous claim was true.

“But why?” I managed to squeak out of my throttled throat.

Allen’s shoulders stopped, in mid-turn, and his head slowly rose. The expression on his face stunned me. He didn’t look contrite like I expected. He looked angry, instead.

“Don’t you get it?” Allen growled. “You’re smothering me. You never leave me alone. I turn around and there you are, expecting me to drop everything for you because crybaby Braaadley has to pester me every damn minute of the day or you’re not happy.”

I swallowed—hard. My body trembled, and I felt dizzy with dread as the dam broke and released my scalding hot tears in rivulets of embarrassment and shame. I tried to say something, anything at all, to make a desperate plea for him to tell me he was just joking, but I couldn’t force my throat to open enough to get it out. My entire world, everything I cared about, was coming to an end, and I couldn’t manage to say anything to prevent it. I stood there, defenseless as a new-born in the hands of a spiteful mother.

Allen despised me, and my life was over.

“You need to leave me the-hell-alone,” Allen yelled at me as he grabbed his bike from the side of the driveway and mounted it. Donald’s laughter ripped into me like a buzzsaw. “Is that clear enough for you?” Allen snarled as he and Donald started pedaling toward the street without me.

From over his shoulder, as they left me behind, for good, Allen shouted, “Go bug someone else, for once!”

It was the last time he spoke to me for several years.

Fadwa Ashur

Outreaching

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JULIA HENSHAW_________________________________________________________________________ Upheavals I can imagine my father saying in his soft Virginia accent, “Oh sugar, I’m sorry. I guess it just runs in the family. At least you made it to seventy-four.” He referred to his various heart attacks as “upheavals.” After a coronary at age forty-five in 1953, he passed out in a store with heart block in the early ‘70s, necessitating a pacemaker. He died at age eighty-two in 1990 with congestive heart failure.

My mother had her troubles also: angina, and then open-heart surgery for two bypasses at age sixtyeight in 1979. She too died of congestive heart failure, but she made it to ninety-one.

On July 14th, 2015, our Swedish friend Peter arrived. Peter is forty-two and a tall, rugged, good-natured guy. We’d promised to take him to see Niagara Falls. Never mind that Judy had broken her ankle in late June, Peter said; he could push a wheelchair. He and I shared the driving for five or six hours from Michigan to the Canadian side of the falls. The hotel gave us a handicapped room and arranged for a rented wheelchair. Late in the afternoon we saw the falls, looking dramatic, complete with a rainbow; lost some money in the casino playing video poker the next day while it rained; and had a pleasant drive over to the pretty flower-bedecked town of Niagara on the Lake, stopping at a farm stand for some excellent sweet cherries.

For Saturday morning, we planned to take the famous ride up to the falls on the Maid of the Mist, or its Canadian equivalent, and leave for home in the afternoon, with stops at some of the vineyards that are now a compelling feature on the Niagara Escarpment.

At about 5 a.m. that morning, I woke coughing hard and struggling to catch my breath. I didn’t want to disturb Judy, so I went into the bathroom. After about ten minutes I began to feel hot and cold and nauseous and still desperately out of breath. I felt very sick in a way I had never before experienced, but I had no chest pain. I knew that heart attacks manifest differently in women. Judy called reception and the paramedics, two efficient young women, arrived very quickly. They strapped me into a gurney, gave me oxygen, and nitroglycerin under my tongue, and hustled me off to the Niagara Medical Center in Ontario. I don’t remember anything about the ambulance ride or entering the emergency room, but an array of nurses and techs came and went, monitoring all my vital signs, checking the fluids in the several hanging IV bags, and making sure the oxygen was adjusted correctly.

A Filipino nurse named Red was very attentive and comforting. He explained that I had been given a large dose of a diuretic to clear my lungs of fluid and that I would soon feel much better. He was right.

Eventually a heavy-set Indian doctor came by and told me that I had been admitted with Arterial Fibrillation (A-Fib) and Congestive Heart Failure (CHF). As both my parents had died of this condition, I understood about fluid building up in my lungs. I’d heard of A-Fib but had no real idea what it meant. The doctor asked a few questions and scribbled words on a form. Later I asked Red if this was a life-threatening condition, and he said, hesitantly, “Well, potentially, yes.” Then I learned that I had been admitted with an elevated irregular heart rate of 140, an oxygen level at a low 80 percent, and high blood pressure of 168 over 90. By noon Red seemed genuinely happy to say that I had “self-stabilized” into a regular heart rate. He turned the monitor around so I could see the small bumps and spikes marching steadily along at a normal 65 beats a minute.

Meanwhile, Judy and Peter came with Judy in a wheelchair borrowed from the hospital; her crutches on her lap. They spent several hours in the waiting room, checking on me occasionally,

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visiting the Tim Horton’s stand in the hospital for some sustenance. I couldn’t communicate with them: my cell phone was in my purse at the bottom of the bed, but it didn’t work in Canada.

I was moved to a less intense part of the ER and a nurse told me that I would be transferred in an ambulance to a hospital in Buffalo, New York, just across the river, out of the Canadian National Health system and into an American hospital where Medicare and BlueCross/BlueShield insurance would kick in. To be discharged from Niagara Health, however, I had to pay my bill of CD $1,300. Peter wheeled Judy over with my credit card. What happens to anyone without a credit card or cash, they were too distraught to ask.

Around five o’clock, a nurse told me that the ambulance from Buffalo was coming soon. She checked my heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen level: all were normal. Peter brought some stale inedible snacks from a gas station in the slightly tawdry neighborhood, which he said consisted largely of auto repair and pawn shops, their windows full of electric guitars and other musical instruments, enormous tvs, and diamond rings. I insisted they go back to the hotel, as the Buffalo EMS would soon arrive. Sleep was impossible: behind a curtain on one side of me there was a very old lady loudly complaining in a language I couldn’t identify (perhaps French Canadian); on the other was a regular customer known to the ER nurse, who said, “Let’s clean all that blood off your face now.” Ten p.m. No ambulance. No patience. Heart rate and blood pressure normal. I threatened to just walk out of the hospital and find a taxi. The nurse said, “No. Absolutely not. A bad idea. Do you realize how sick you were when you came in this morning? “ Finally at three a.m. on Sunday, the Buffalo ambulance arrived. The paramedics apologized, saying that it had been a very busy Saturday night and the dispatcher had to wait until a crew with passports was available to cross the bridge into Canada. You would think that all such workers would have passports or at least the official identity cards for crossing the border.

Emily, the plump young blondish woman in charge, told me that they often work 24 hour shifts, sometimes with only 8 hours off to sleep in between: “We get by with a lot of energy drinks.”

Then she told me that they earn only $15 an hour. She was thinking of applying for a job as a Detroit cop. I encouraged her, talking up the city’s revival. Matt, the young man at the wheel, said he was used to driving much larger vehicles: he was an engineer operating CSX freight trains who’d been laid off. He showed me his official railroad license with photo i.d. to prove it.

At the Erie County Medical Center in Buffalo, into another ER, past three or four men sleeping it off on gurneys in the hallway. Soon they moved me up to a room. I hadn’t eaten anything for more than a day but the breakfast of cold scrambled eggs and dry toast made me gag. A very pleasant doctor, Sarosh Vaqar from Pakistan, explained that my rapid and irregular pulse (A-Fib) indicated that my heart was stressed and wasn’t functioning properly, and fluid in my lungs reduced their capacity to oxygenate the blood. Serious conditions, she said. The hospital couldn’t discharge me until I had an echocardiogram and a stress test; she promised to get me in for the tests first thing Monday morning.

Peter and Judy, in another borrowed hospital wheelchair, came. Peter was impressed that the security guards in Buffalo wore bullet-proof vests and holsters with pistols on their hips and that visitors were required to register and present a photo i.d. The nurse told me to give my wallet and cell phone to my family; it wasn’t safe to keep them in the room. Peter went off to find a motel for the night, after being advised to look for one near the airport, as nothing in the neighborhood was safe. I felt bad that I was tying up Judy and Peter, who hadn’t planned on spending three days of his vacation in hospitals and in Buffalo. I made it clear to everyone on staff that I really wanted to get home on Monday.

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Now I had time to think. I had no previous idea that there were problems with my heart, but on reflection I remembered that lately I had been feeling quite tired. I’d been doing more than usual since Judy had broken her ankle: grocery shopping, gardening, cutting the grass, laundry, cooking, cleaning, walking Stella three or four times a day. I thought this was just about getting older, but was it an early sign of CHF? I’d been so healthy all my life. I am active in general and exercise at the gym.

Judy and I eat a sensible diet, though we both have a weakness for butter and ice cream. My cholesterol levels were okay if not great. I hadn’t been overnight in a hospital since Jeremy was born in 1968. Why was this happening? How bad could my heart be? And does this signal the beginning of the end?

And, incidentally, what had happened to my blue Moroccan caftan that I was wearing as a nightgown in the hotel? Someone must have cut if off in the ER. I walked up and down the hospital corridor, with a heart monitor in the pocket of an ugly hospital gown. All my vital signs were normal. The nurses said to help myself to water and ice and there were juice, cokes, and ginger ale in the pantry refrigerator. Peter found a motel near the airport and they kept me company until they left for dinner at Denny’s, the best option Peter could find. I was finally able to get a little sleep that night.

On Monday morning I was wheeled down to the testing area in my hospital bed by a jolly African-American orderly who said he had recently gone to a family reunion in Detroit and had a fine time; he liked the city, so much bigger and with a more impressive downtown than Buffalo. I was indeed first in a line for an echocardiogram, and then a stress test, but a lot of waiting was involved.

Eric, the young echo technician, had a B.A. from the Art Institute of Chicago and was saving money to move to L.A. He would prefer to be doing animation. He turned the monitor so I could see the red, blue, and green pixilated colors of blood pulsing inside my heart. He mentioned something about taking a closer look at my left ventricle and mitral valve and explained that one color indicated areas with the blood running down and others with blood moving up. Later I understood that none of the blood should have been moving up.

For the stress test, I was immediately put on the treadmill, with the belt running fast. After two minutes I was gasping for breath and drifting backwards, slipping in those ugly little hospital socks. I thought this was a very poor showing; I could have done better if they’d let me warm up, walk even a little. I was supposed to be in good shape, wasn’t I? Yes, they said, actually your heart rate is good for your age.

By one o’clock Dr. Vaqar discharged me. Judy found that Sharon Smith, my primary care doctor in Ann Arbor, had an opening the next morning at eight. Dr. Vaqar gave me my files, including the results of the stress test; they would fax the analysis of the echocardiogram to Dr. Smith. “Take it easy at home,” Dr. Vaqar advised, “I’m very glad you can see your doctor tomorrow.”

When Peter returned the extra-wide wheelchair to hospital reception, the security guard thanked him, saying they’d had two stolen that week. Peter commented that he’d never seen so many down and out looking people loitering around outside the hospital and in the lobby. Several of them wore neither shoes nor socks. More details to amaze his friends in Sweden.

I felt okay but I had to admit that I was really tired.

Tuesday morning, over Judy’s objections, I drove myself to Sharon Smith’s office; she took me right away. Usually I am there for something routine and we have a relaxed time, chatting about the many horses in her stable. Now she was all business; her demeanor was serious and urgent as she looked over the paper work I’d brought along. My heart rate and blood pressure were still normal,

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but she was clearly worried. In minutes I had an appointment on Friday at the Michigan Heart group at St. Joseph Mercy Hospital in Ann Arbor. She told me to take it easy at home.

Nobody had said I couldn’t drive, so on Thursday afternoon I took Peter to the airport and he left to visit a friend in Virginia. We thanked him profusely. He had been very helpful and so goodnatured and patient, taking care of us both and making us laugh with his jokes and stories of the oddities of life in Sweden. He is one of those good-natured people who finds just about everything interesting, and insisted that he hadn’t minded seeing something more of the Real America in Buffalo.

As had been planned for some time, on that same Thursday my California family, Jeremy, Aekyong, Tamara, and Bennie, arrived at our house from the airport around midnight. I hadn’t seen the grandchildren, now ten and six, since January, when my older son Andrew and I went to Singapore for a visit and on to Cambodia.

Our friend Ellen drove me to Michigan Heart on Friday morning, saying that she was interested as she had a mitral valve replacement in 1999. With the family arriving so late, Judy agreed to stay home to help with breakfast. I gave Dr. Bindin Ravindrian my file, but when his nurse checked with Dr. Smith’s office, they had not received the echocardiogram report. All my “vitals” were normal. Dr. Ravindrian arranged an appointment for me to wear a heart monitor the next week and prescribed a couple of drugs to keep my heart stable. He told me to take it easy the next few days. I had some fun playing Uno with the children.

Around four a.m. on Monday, I woke up once again coughing and short of breath. This episode was not quite as scary as the first but it persisted, so Judy called 911 and off I went in a Huron Valley Ambulance to St. Joe’s. Here was the familiar, much spiffier ER that we had visited in June with Judy’s broken ankle. I recognized one of the nurses, who gave me a puzzled, worried look. The ER doctor told me right away that I would be admitted to the hospital. Again after being given oxygen and whatever else, again I “self-corrected.”

Now there would be close monitoring, observation, and more tests: a new echo cardiogram on Tuesday, followed by a trans-esophageal echo cardiogram, in which they put a tube down your throat and look at your heart up close and personal through the esophagus. The anesthesia for this is the same as that for a colonoscopy and I woke up floating with a pleasant buzz. Next, a cardiac catheterization on Wednesday, when a camera is dispatched through an artery from your groin up to your heart. I didn’t feel a thing but had no druggy relaxation afterwards. Then a series of elaborate breathing tests measured my lung capacity.

Nothing was said about my condition. I walked the halls and helped myself to ice and water in the pantry. No cokes or ginger ale here. There were muffins under a sign: “the muffins are for hospital guests only.” Was I a hospital guest? St. Joe’s spacious single rooms do feel just a bit like a hotel.

There is a large, comfortable reclining chair and a window seat long enough so a family member could sleep in the room.

Sleep was hard to achieve as nurses and techs came every hour even though all my vitals were normal. Finally one daring renegade nurse said that since everything was in order at 2 a.m., she’d skip the 3 a.m. check and see me at 4.

On Thursday afternoon the cardiac surgeon Dr. Bobby Kong appeared. His name suits him; he has a boyish look with floppy dark hair combined with a powerful surname. There was no time to waste: he’d already scheduled me for open-heart surgery at seven on Monday morning. My mitral valve’s malfunction meant that oxygenated blood was backing up into the ventricle, rather than moving out into the vascular system. My aortic valve was narrowed. I had one 60 percent

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blocked artery. He would repair the mitral valve if possible, or replace it if necessary, and replace the aortic valve with one made of bovine pericardium, the lining of a cow’s heart. The blocked artery could be treated with a stent, but since he was performing open-heart anyway, a vein would be taken out of my leg for a bypass. I told him that my mother had open-heart surgery, so I was somewhat familiar with the operation: sawing through the sternum to open up the chest, moving the ribs aside, letting the heart-lung machine take care of business while the heart is stilled for repair. “We’ve refined it since then,” he said, “but that’s the basic idea.” I was so flummoxed by all this that I hardly asked any questions. He prescribed some new meds and said to go home and take it easy over the weekend.

I wasn’t consciously very worried about the surgery itself, but my mind was elsewhere. Too much had been happening, too fast, and I’d seen too many medical people, heard too much about anatomy. I didn’t want to have another episode of A-Fib or another upheaval of any kind. I wanted to get this over with. We played more Uno. Aekyong efficiently took over the household, doing the laundry, cooking, shopping, and gardening. Jeremy cut the grass; took Tamara and Bennie to a Tigers game in Detroit with Uncle Andrew. Tamara helped around the house, walking Stella, and pulling the green slimy invasive weeds from the pond. She was not willing to do the laundry.

Judy, Jeremy, and Tamara accompanied me to St. Joe’s to arrive at 5 a.m. I was hustled off with just a minute to say goodbye to them all. The surgery took almost five hours. Bobby Kong explained in a friendly, unpretentious demeanor what he had done. He had put in a new 21 mm aortic valve and was able to repair the mitral valve, suturing up the flaps and repairing the slender threads that hold it in place, and reinforcing it with a “ring,” and bypassing the artery.

I remember nothing about being in the ICU for a day but Andrew took a photo of me pale, intubated, and with multiple IV drips and flashing monitors. The nurses had told him not to do this.

A heart-shaped plump red pillow printed with a diagram of the heart was at the bedside of the post-surgery room on Saturday morning. The pillow was to be pressed against my chest with both arms when I sat up to protect the long incision and wired-together sternum below it.

I don’t remember much about that day either. I felt weak and unsteady but I wasn’t in any great pain. The nurses ask to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, but relative to what? I suppose childbirth is a nine or a ten. I usually said six or seven, all of it in my chest. I didn’t need the painkillers often.

The nurses got me up, clutching the red pillow, to sit in the big reclining chair several times a day. Also I was to walk a circuit in the corridors. I felt rather dazed, weak, and uncomfortable. The long incision in my chest was covered by a dressing; fine, I didn’t want to see it. They said the wound was glued together, not stapled or stitched. More alarming were two clear plastic tubes about the size of a pencil sticking out just above my waist to drain my chest. I couldn’t take a shower until these were removed after three days. I had no appetite. The painkillers were effective enough but not a relaxing trip to la-la land. My experienced friend Donna suggested that I should have complained of pain at a level of eight or nine to get something stronger.

Sleep is impossible in the hospital. Every hour someone comes to put a thermometer under your tongue, blood pressure cuff on, heart rate and oxygen level measured on the finger. Do you have chest pain? No, I never had any chest pain. Describe your level of pain. Others came for a blood draw, or to give a shot of heparin in the abdomen, or a breathing treatment, or take a new EKG. The young nurses and techs were all very attentive, kind, and friendly. To alleviate the boredom, I often asked

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where they lived (all over), or where they went to college (predominately Eastern Michigan or Washtenaw Community College), or why they went into the field. Their answers were varied but all said they enjoyed their work.

I had several engaging conversations in the middle of the night, when there was time to talk in the intimacy of the darkened room. Jennifer, an earnest nurse from Saline, told me about her two sons, eight and six, and how different they were. The older one wanted only to run track; the younger to play football and baseball. The older was more quiet and thoughtful; the younger more outgoing and raucous. This sounded very familiar to me. She seemed to be worried about this. I assured her that both my two very different sons had grown into fine, if different, men.

Briana was a tall, slim, calm, African-American whose specialty was inserting IV lines where others had failed. She liked working nights when the hospital was quiet. During the day, while her roommates were out, she spent her time reading. Her university major had been public health and she was trying to decide whether she wanted to try med school or be a physician’s assistant. Where a regular tech had three times painfully “poked” me (the annoying euphemism) and failed to find a vein, Briana gently slipped in the big IV needle as we continued to talk, about her life and mine. She recommended the Top Five Regrets of the Dying by Bronnie Ware. It’s about living fully, honestly, being yourself, following your dreams.

A skinny red-haired tech named Dallas projected a boyish, brash energy that provided an interesting counterpoint to the earnest caring concern of the women. He was named for his Scottish grandfather, he said, nothing to do with Texas. Even though his grades weren’t great, he was applying to seventeen medical schools to be a physician’s assistant. He said he just loves medicine and has scored a cute ER nurse for his partner.

On Wednesday, the sixth day after surgery, Bobby Kong stopped by and discharged me. As he left, I tried to thank him for saving my life, but he rushed out the door and didn’t look back. Our friend Nan drove Judy in to review all the instructions and schedules for taking the six new medications involved. No lifting of anything more than five pounds. No driving for a month. We were required to watch a video on the particulars of home care and a very stern one about Warfarin, the blood thinner.

This emphasized the danger of cutting yourself, as clotting would be slow. Avoid sharp knives and other tools. Don’t fall and bruise yourself. Internal bleeding was a possibility.

“Your number one priority is your sternum,” the discharging nurse said, “and next your weight, to make sure no fluid is collecting in your lungs.” I was quite happy to leave the miasma of hospital routine but apprehensive about losing all that support. Judy said she could hardly sleep the first night, she was so worried about being responsible for me.

The next morning a Home Health Care Nurse (thank you, Medicare) came to take my vitals.

Chris, a peppy self-confessed former party girl and ski racer, would continue to check on me for the next three weeks. The blood thinner Warfarin level has to be monitored with a drop of blood from a pinprick. My appetite gradually returned and my weight went down, all to the good. I noticed that the fluid on my arthritic right knee had disappeared, the result of the diuretic? If only it would pull the fluid out of the bags under my eyes.

Now that I was home, feeling well enough but generally tired, with little stamina and fairly useless. Judy hovered over me, setting up my daily pills, and, being a graphic designer, she created some elegant sheets to record which ones I was to take, as they varied a little day to day.

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Friends and neighbors, some who I hardly knew, were immensely helpful in so many ways. All sorts of good food arrived, from Moroccan chicken to sushi, and flowers, and plenty of books. The dog was walked, the grass cut, tomatoes, carrots, and beets harvested.

I gradually increased my walking, from a quarter mile in the first week to a half and then a whole mile. My appetite returned. Our Ida Red apple tree was full of fruit. I began making applesauce, though Judy insisted I couldn’t use a sharp knife to peel the apples. I cheated on this while she was away. The warm September weather was welcome, as I’d missed a great deal of the summer one way or another.

In the sixth week I had a final appointment with Dr. Kong and, all systems being good, he said I could do anything I felt like, except lift more than ten pounds. But be careful, remember that it takes six to eight months for the sternum to heal completely.

Then the charges to Blue Cross/Blue Shield Medicare supplementary insurance arrived on 28 of those ominous sheets that say This Is Not A Bill. The total through September was $208, 000. Is this then the cost of living? How much I will ultimately be responsible for is unclear. There was the $1,300 on my credit card from Niagara Health and $600 in charges for two ambulance rides. Why weren’t these covered?

Friends tell me I look good and I certainly feel good, and I do have more energy than before my upheaval. My new heart valves join my cataract-free plastic lenses and the many fillings in my teeth as artificial body parts. And several prescription drugs keep me going. My usual entirely good health has been compromised and I do feel more vulnerable now.

The gaudy autumn leaves have fallen and the nearby countryside is quietly attractive with its muted golds, browns, and grays. The skies at sunset have been mauve and pink and gray and turquoise and the softest blue. I see more hilly cornfields and bean fields and pastures with horses grazing than I had noticed before. I’ve been far luckier than most. And fortunately the party’s not quite over yet.

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Index of Authors and Artists______________________________________________ Abdo, Hadeel, 95, 96, back cover Allen, Martika, 52 Anderson, Robin, 36 Ashur, Fadwa, 102, 160

Lyles, Arnold, 44 Lynch, Sofia, front cover, 108 McCarthy, Miranda, 52 McMillin, Calvin, 66 McNally, Michael, 135 Muhammad, Ahmed, 41

Barrett, Malcolm, 67, 97, 98, 99 Bass, Halley, 120 Beechler, Kathryn, 38 Bemis, Judy, 81, 82, 83, 84 Blain, Adella, 62 Bradley, Joe, 150 Brakel, Arthur, 25 Brakel, Linda A.W., 29, 30

Nafiu, Dara, 146 Oakes, Olivia, 39

Castro, John, 54 Croake, Edith Morris, 64

Painter, Corinne M., 117 Plummer, Ember, 10, 12 Poling, Amy, 123 Pomorski, Jessica, 70

Dussault, Ben, 110

Qader, Laela, 105

Eubanks, Cassidy, 46

Raby, Sarah, 71 Romero, Max, 152

Finder, Hana, 142 Fischer, Harrison, 58, 104 Frieseman, Mike, 77, 78, 79, 80 Fulcher, Jamie, 15, 91, 92, 93

Scherz, Ryan, 47 Schuer, Scott, 76 Sedlacek, Olivia, 136 Shannon, Christina, 100, 101, 156 Shapiro, Jessica, 134 Slane, Nicholas T., 103 Stitt, Chanel, 114 Strauss, Tyler, 50 Strnad, Kathleen, 21, 65, 85, 86, 87 Sweeney, Michele, 132

Gabriel, Emma, 68 Gibson, Max, 60 Gibson, Philip, 144 Guenther, Annalee, 104 Henkel, Alison, 106, 107 Henshaw, Julia, 161 Hoekstra, Steven, 24, 25

Talbot, Audrey, 59 Tanguay, Julie, Inside bk cover

Kaigapen, 42 Kavanagh, Janet, 74 Kennedy, Ralph, 19, 73 Khazaei, Ahmad, 20, 22 Klein, Denise G., 33 Kulig, Miranda, 49

Velasco, Alicia, 48 Wealch, Kali, 17, 94 Wettig, Tyler R., 14 White, Jack, 9, 13, 35, 59, 69, 109, 143, 155 Winn, Jessica, 105 Work, Wroxanna, 16, 18

Laboda, Diane M., 72 Laurant, Nate, 88, 89, 90, 91, 131 Le Chant Du Cygne, 43 Lowis, Adam, 154

Ziarnko, Roma, 115 Zimmerman, Tom, Ins fr cover, 23, 32, 63,141

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Julie Tanguay

Because Gourds

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Abdo Allen Anderson Ashur Barrett Bass Beechler Bemis Blain Bradley Brakel Brakel Castro Croake Dussault Eubanks Finder Fischer Frieseman Fulcher Gabriel Gibson Gibson Guenther Henkel Henshaw Hoekstra Kaigapen Kavanagh Kennedy Khazaei Klein Kulig Laboda Laurant Le Chant Du Cygne Lowis Lyles Lynch McCarthy McMillin McNally Muhammad Nafiu Oakes Painter Plummer Poling Pomorski Qader Raby Romero Scherz Schuer Sedlacek Shannon Shapiro Slane Stitt Strauss Strnad Sweeney Talbot Velasco Wealch Wettig White Winn Work Ziarnko Zimmerman Front cover photograph: Sofia Lynch, 4 SOFS. Back cover photograph, Hadeel Abdo, Catching Waves.

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