The Huron River Review, Issue 20 (June 2021)

The Huron River Review Issue 20

Anthologies produced by the WCC Poetry Club in partnership with the Bailey Library, the English/College Readiness Department, and the Sustainability Literacy Task Force during the 2020-2021 academic year. wccpoetryclub.wordpress.com

The Huron River Review Issue 20 June 2021 The award-winning journal of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, and art by students, faculty, staff, and alumni of Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editor Tom Zimmerman Copyright © 2021 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.

Magazine design by Tom Zimmerman. Uncredited digital images, all of which appeared first in the five anthologies noted on the inside cover, are by Tom Zimmerman.

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

From the Editor ________________________________________ This 20th issue of The Huron River Review is packed with poetry, prose, and images created by WCC students, faculty, staff, and alumni. It also features several works reprinted from anthologies produced by the WCC Poetry Club in partnership with the Bailey Library, the English/College Readiness Department, and the Sustainability Literacy Task Force during the 2020-2021 academic year. Enjoy!

My thanks also Scott Britten, Dean of Humanities and Social/Behavioral Sciences; Kimberly Hurns, Vice President for Instruction; Rose Bellanca, President; and the WCC Board of Trustees.

Finally, thanks to the following colleagues and friends: Zach Baker, Joyce Hommel, Jill Jepsen, Molly Ledermann, Meera Martin, IB Remsen, Aimee Smith, the WCC Copy Center, the WCC English/College Readiness Department, WCC Public Relations and Marketing, the WCC Writing Center, WCC’s Bailey Library, Katie Williams, and Ann Zimmerman.

--TZ

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, staff, and alumni. 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. Postal 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 _4

The Huron River Review, Issue 20, June 2021 ________________ Contents Italics indicate visual art.

Doug Stein Sarah Aardahl Faizan Akheel Alex Arzooyan Maryam Barrie Heather Barthell Ethan Berman Adella Blain Wesley Bostwick Olivia Bottum William Bullard Mae Bumpus Quareese Calhoun Hannah Carapellotti Lily Chan Monica Cialek Edith Morris Croake Rosalie Denenfeld E.S. Noah Englehart Diana Fead Cornelius Fortune Charlie Fuller Sofie Gelderloos Lirit Gilmore Adrianna Green Drake Grey

Sebastian Cove [detail] Front cover I Am Home 9 When will we see the light?

12 Am I My Own Muse?

13 Corona Virus Zoom Family Chat 14 Father’s Day: A Poem for Ben and Randy Hassan 16 Taking Flight 17 Boom Boom and the Rocket 18 Nocturne 21 My Jackie 24 Being at Home at Home (Fragmentum) 25 When I am Older . . .

27 Admiration 28 NYC 29 The Bachelor 30 It’s a Pandemic 34 Looking at the World from Behind the Glass 37 Illusions 38 Tender Hearted Women 39 Tides 40 When the Night Returns 41 Fish 43 Schooling the Shoal 2020 43 Kissed by the Polar Vortex 44 Boughs of Memory 46 Luna 47 Breonna 48 True Beauty 49 Daily Drive 50 _5

Alona Henig Amy Higgins Susan Houston Rose Hutcheson jiggityjag Megan Johnson K.I.M. Jones Tommy Kaminski

Aaron Kaufman Marybeth King Diane M. Laboda Hannah Lain SA Levin Susan Lintott Draganel Magda Julie Mariouw Ella Markel Sabrina Martell Jean Kearns Miller Sonja Mittlestat Mariam Mohamed Mary Lou Nagy Anastasiia Noguier Ayowole Oladeji Virginia E. Ordonez Liam Peoples Barbara Perles

Saltwater Biding Time What’s your story?

Fool’s Gold Time Sifting Coming Home Disillusioned by Little House If They Could Talk, You Probably Wouldn’t Eat Them Lost in Thought The Greatest Country: An American Poem A Trio of Whispers Things I Didn’t Put on My Resume Locked In How to Survive a Feeling A Shitty Row Burn It Down The Angel & the Paper Doll Broken Record Picture This 15 Bishop Street Sky Angry, Not Crazy I am From The Gem of My Childhood The Selfless Youth History Making Papito A Moment of Clarity Abstract no. 1 Chickens for Sale—Tuscany Flowers Gourds Iowa Cornfields at Sunset Iris (watercolor) Peeking

52 56 57 58 59 60 62 64 66 67 72 77 79 80 81 84 86 88 89 90 92 94 96 98 100 101 102 104 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 _6

Poppy Sky Above Tomato Del Pritts World falls around me— Daniel Raubolt Arlington Memorial Bridge Eagle 3 Big House Memorial Eagle Black Lives Matter Movement, Polaroid So Began Wampler’s Bridge and Canal, Polaroid Nur Muhammad Renollet Alone For the Rebellion Natalie Rinehardt Anger on Call Morgan Rogowski Barn Savan Saiya-Cork Seeing Red Wanda Kay Sanders Behind Closed Doors Jordan Scenna Game Theory The Perilous Lives of Animals Apryl Scheffler-Martin Brilliant Icicles Majestic Puffy Clouds before a Morning Storm Puffy Clouds on a Sky Canvas Resilience She Is a Storm Scott Schuer Covidnotes 11: Supplemental S.L. Schultz The Open Sophia Sims I Wait in Silence Thaliana Smith-Ponce Masked Pieces Spicemaster Flex My Life Doug Stein Alone Arcane Whispers Awakening Poetry Sebastians Cove Vector Conformity Time

113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 122 123 124 126 127 128 130 131 135 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 153 154 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 _7

Benjamin Stensen Ayesha Syeda Michael Thompson Sarah Trudeau Kesley Walter Tyler Wettig KD Williams Alex Winks

Why are we fighting right now?

The Story of Us The Obvious Insect Maternal Conversation World Wide Web, Trapped in My Tiny Little Bed For All Times The Wind Carries Sapling Street

Contributors Doug Stein

165 166 168 169 171 173 174 175 180

Sebastian Cove [detail]

Back cover

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Sarah Aardal __________________________________________ I Am Home I found a small stone cottage in the woods. Red roses adorned the sun side, climbing up like veins or a bolt of lightning. If I possessed this house, I would light a fire on cool evenings and toast apples in my hearth. I would knit a sweater I had started countless times while rocking rhythmically in my chair. I would wake to a rising sun peeking through the tree, reflecting through the dew on the windows.

The embers of my fire will have faded but the warming smell would linger. Copper and cast-iron pans would hang from the ceiling of my kitchen while ceramic jars and bundles of herbs cluttered the counters. I would go to my humble garden and gather my ripe vegetables until the kettle whistled for me inside. I would sip tea like a love potion, allowing the dreamy aura to engulf me and warm me with romantic sensations. I would dance across the room, keeping tempo with the song in my heart. I would look around and laugh to myself.

I am home. *** I found a Victorian house on the outskirts of town. The charred orange bricks with white trim rose two stories high with a round gable window, giving the attic a single eye. If I possessed this house, I would watch beads of rain trail down my tall windows, listening to the patter as the drops collide with the concrete of the walkway. In a flowing gown, I would roam the halls at late hours of the night, illuminated by a single candle. I would haunt the house, wailing about an unfaithful lover or the cruelty of fate. I would write letters in the attic, assuming the role of a tormented author who writes their ghosts into existence. These letters would recount my days, confess my love, and illustrate my tragedies, all to be shipped to recipients that may or may not exist. I would paint dark portraits of the people I saw in my dreams to look into the whites of their eyes again, just to comprehend who they are to me. I would look around and cry into the void.

I am home. *** I found a mansion sitting on a grand estate. The ivory pillars protruded from the walls, mirroring the temples of Greece and Rome that invited pilgrims to worship their god. If I possessed this house, I would host grand events and _9

exquisite parties. Only the finest caterers and musicians would be hired, and my guests would come to know and respect my impeccable standards. I would descend my marble staircase as a gracious host into a sea of elegant attendants.

The chatter of a lively party would deafen the ear and the party itself would rival those of Gatsby. I would dance into the night with a masked suitor, never to exchange identities other than what was conveyed through our masquerade.

Uniformed staff would make rounds across the mosaic floor, distributing champagne and hors d’oeuvres to ensure everyone was satisfied. I would raise a glass and toast to the glitter and gold while listening for the echo of agreement.

The music would stop playing only once the sun came up and my guests retired to their estates, tipping their hats to me as they departed. I would look around and release a sigh.

I am home. *** I found a quaint townhouse in the middle of everything. A tall and narrow building fitted against the neighbors like books on a shelf. If I possessed this house, I would litter my desk with the scribbled notes of a mad man that I had made in a fit of genius. Looming bookshelves with a sliding ladder would be crowded with old novels, bound tomes, and curious oddities, leaving not a crevice unfilled. I would have pickled specimens and complex diagrams lined along the walls, company to several degrees inscribed with my name. The clutter of the house would have mirrored the clutter of my mind, where half-formed ideas and skills would reside in both worlds. I would debate moral relativism with the devil, abscond with the wisdom of scholars, and discover the nature of fate, just to defy it. After a long day, I would settle into my worn armchair to read a pompous title to scratch an itch in my brain. My eyes would ache with strain, but I would press on because the story would be too captivating. I would look around and contemplate.

I am home. *** I’ve found countless wonders across the globe. Natural wonders to engineering marvels, all beckon to me with adventure and awe. How can someone see all there is to see and do all the things that can be done? Perhaps I will pay them each a visit, like a distant relative or a long-term friend. I will trek great lengths until my shoes are worn and my feet throb with blisters. I will set sail on the stormy seas and in the tempest skies to pay homage. I will live out of a bag _10

slumped over my shoulder or on the end of a stick like from the Depression, claiming only essential items under my name. Seeking refuge under bridges and on merciful strangers' couches, I will find rest on my travels. I will become like that of the breeze or of a wayfaring stranger, belonging nowhere but being everywhere. I will look around and be fulfilled, I believe.

For I am my home.

_11

Faizan Akheel ____________________________________________________ When will we see the light?

From getting up at 8am in the morning To sleeping at 8am in the morning From spending the day talking to friends To getting through the day laying on beds.

How the times have changed.

When will we see the light?

From wanting the day to not end To waiting for the day to end From spending the day enjoying To getting irritated and screaming Look what the pandemic has done When will we see the light?

But though there is bad in the good, There is always good in the bad.

We got to test our abilities And now are prepared for obstacles Look what the pandemic has done When will we see the light?

To answer this question, A simple and sweet answer exists The World isn’t dark as people think Look around, you will find beauty and light everywhere!

_12

Alex Arzooyan _________________________________________ Am I My Own Muse?

I wake up everyday humbled that I am just a person.

I don’t want to be just a person; I want to be a woman with life’s answers. I want to contain Galaxies.

I was born when the Moon was New; hidden from Her glory—a cosmic irony.

Only the Ocean shows no difference in Her absence, spring tides roar through the night, defiant and unruly as ever. I lie awake at night, wondering: who does the Ocean love more? The Moon whose loyalty is unwavering, or the shore they try so hard to kiss?

I have so many questions for someone who has lived so much and so little.

New Moon’s bring new beginnings with a vengeance and can only be harnessed by the most wild witches of old.

I was born when the Moon was New, but I don’t want to stay hidden. I want to shine so brightly that I’m mistaken for the Sun. I’ve died many times in this life, fallen to chaos once or twice.

I still have so many questions for someone who’s survived it all.

Is it our hearts or our brains that make it so that we can love people so deeply?

Why can I fall in love with a gentle touch, but never be inspired by it?

Why can I love someone until the end of the Earth, but hate them even more if they betray me?

Always trustworthy, why do I never trust anyone as much as my own shadow?

Why do lonely people try the hardest to keep others away?

Why do I feel like older isn’t wiser, and the minds of children truly do have all of life’s answers?

Where do we go when we fall asleep? Where do we go when the Moon is Full?

I was born when the Moon was New, and I still don’t understand if the tides are in mourning when she’s hidden, or don’t notice, but still roar their loyalty to Her anyway.

I was born on a New Moon; and no, the irony doesn’t escape me. I am humbled daily that I am only a person, but I am trying to be more hopeful.

I am becoming a woman who contains galaxies. _13

Maryam Barrie _________________________________________ Corona Virus Zoom Family Chat Zoom family chat replaces having people over for pancakes, means we are all in different locations.

I am not even in the same room with my husband, because of sound backwash and echo. My daughter Morgan and son-in-law, Evan, are in Menomonie, Wisconsin. My sister Sophia and her husband Dave are in their Arts and Crafts Sears house on Hawks.

My brother Khalid and his wife Lisa, are on Gott Street.

Jasper, my nephew, Amanda, his fiancé, and Lucie, my niece, are on the road, in an SUV, coming back from Wilderness State Park. My mother is downstairs at the dining room table. I see starkly on screen that she is fading. She is less than she was.

She is getting ready to leave her complicated children.

Morgan makes her background Aurora Borealis, then palm trees on a beach. Sophia smiles even though her Corona escape drive to see water was a trip past four landfills, with the twin chimneys of the Monroe nuclear power plant on the horizon.

Lake Erie is just east of there, but when she and Dave approach a lakeside parking lot, a dozen men in camouflage are eating Little Caesar’s pizza with their beer. They are celebrating, which seems the opposite of shelter in place.

My daughter, Rowan, is on the phone in the hall.

She is not asleep to subtext. This is a family of outsiders – tricky blood ties and memories of a fractured chaos.

A need to have space from each other.

How are you coping with the pandemic? _14

Lisa wins—she knows people who have had loved ones die.

I am in my little bubble, reading. I sit at the computer, then read with my feet above my heart to ease their swelling.

Long ago, I was drastic with baby fever.

I won—I got to have two babies, watch them grow and change. They are now women.

They said and did delightful things that I rewind and play regularly. I miss being essential, though I am glad to have my hands free.

My memories have filtered the past. I don’t think of the nights without sleep, the girls who would not pick up their toys, the perpetually messy house.

I don’t think about being the one who did the bills, who created whatever sort of order was on offer.

I filter out crumbling under that weight, finding refuge in multiple pneumonias and surgeries.

I hardly remember driving home to them from late night graduate school after a full day of teaching thinking, it would be so easy to swerve and drive into those trees.

Everyone on this Zoom has faced the darkness, though we slide and skitter on the surface today.

Most of us are well medicated.

Moments of the past bleed through each shared reference.

Even on Zoom, much of our communication is silent.

I catch my brother’s eye the one time our mother speaks. She looks small and worn, hunched over the computer, happy to watch us and listen to the chat.

Attentive and silent, she watches the conversational ball bounce back and forth, between her children, their children and assorted partners. She observes from a distance, the same distance she always has.

Her absence will be the absence we will miss.

_15

Heather Barthell _______________________________________ Father’s Day: A Poem for Ben and Randy Hassan How many fathers have waited through dark times holding their children close Uncertain the better days promised will actually be delivered Their steely nerve packed into steamer trunks, duffle bags and DNA Borne to an unknown land and an uncertain future Our son is both mirror and window as ancestors’ images flicker across his form A nod here, a gesture there upsetting time and space Great Grandpa Alick’s hands Grandpa Buzzy’s hairline Grandma Dorothy’s jowls Dad’s half-wink What traces will you pass on to your children -Your kind eyes?

Fabulous curls?

High arches?

Wit?

_16

Ethan Berman _________________________________________

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Adella Blain ___________________________________________ Boom Boom and The Rocket When it came to hockey, my brother Jimmy had an independent streak.

Even though he lived in Sault Ste. Marie in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where the Detroit Red Wings trained in the summer months, he was a fan of the Montreal Canadiens. The fact that our mother came from Montreal and was a fierce fan of the Canadiens may have influenced Jimmy, but it made no impression on his classmates and friends; he was mercilessly teased and sometimes cuffed up because of his team preference. Jimmy especially suffered rough treatment after a game when Rocket Richard, Jimmy’s hero, outskated the Red Wings to a lopsided Canadiens victory. On those days, he must have wished that Sister Thecla, the school principal, had stayed outside during recess, ready to whack misbehaving boys with her leather strap. But no luck for Jimmy. Pummeling proceeded, as expected, every time.

The year after our father died, when Jimmy was ten, our mother decided to give him a special treat: We would drive “down below” to Detroit and attend a Red Wings vs. Montreal Canadiens game. It was her plan to somehow find Maurice “Rocket” Richard at the arena so that Jimmy could get his autograph. The night before the game, we stayed in Ann Arbor at my sister’s home. There was much strategizing over the dinner table about how to find the Rocket at Olympia Stadium. Then, on the TV news it was stated that the Canadiens were staying at the Book Cadillac Hotel. This set Mom’s plan in motion—we would have lunch at the hotel and track down the Rocket before the game.

Game day found Mom, Jimmy, and me sitting in the elegant dining room of the Book Cadillac at a table covered in white linen that had two fancy-dressed waiters in attendance. “Speak up! Why are you whispering?” Mom asked Jimmy and me. Intimidated by the formality and opulence, we were unable to utter a sound. Mom chatted with the waiters while they circled with covered silver dishes, eventually obtaining the information she wanted—the team would exit the building from the back alley, forty minutes before game time. We finished our _18

elaborate lunch (Mom’s plan had become more expensive than anticipated.) and lingered in the lobby until time to proceed to target.

Arriving in the alley, we found a few other autograph hounds shivering near the door. Our competition was fearsome—four husky teenagers wearing jackets with amateur hockey insignias. How two skinny kids and a woman in high heeled boots and a heavy fur coat (This was 1951.) could compete was a question without a good answer. They smiled at us, though, more amused than friendly, it seemed.

Mom removed her pen and a pad of paper from her purse and gave them to Jimmy.

Suddenly, the door banged open, and a stream of large men in suits and wool overcoats strode out, walking quickly to the waiting bus. Chatting in French, these famous challengers seemed oblivious to the admiring stares as they hurried along the snowy tire ruts. Where was the Rocket? The last player was passing us when Mom told Jimmy, “Now! Get his autograph before he boards the bus!” Jimmy stood still as a statue, unable to move or speak, his awe of these superstars rendering him immobile, so Mom grabbed the pen and paper and charged down the alley.

“Boom Boom,” she called, “Yoo Hoo! Boom Boom!” Bernard “Boom Boom” Geoffrion, so named for his thundering slap shot, turned around to face this unlikely rink rat, our very plump, white-haired, fifty-year old mother. Smiling in his known good-natured way, Boom Boom signed his name, waved to Jimmy and me, bowed deeply to Mom and said, “Pour vous, Madam.”

“Merci!” she replied, and then shouted, “Jimmy, say ‘thank you’!”

We never learned how Rocket Richard escaped our view that day. Maybe he took a cab from the hotel’s front door? Perhaps he left before our lunch was consumed? In any case, Jimmy thawed sufficiently from his frozen state to send cheers to the rafters, while the Canadiens, once again, shut out the Red Wings, 5-0, that afternoon.

When back home, Jimmy showed no interest in provoking his classmates with Bernard Geoffrion’s autograph, and he didn’t add it to his Canadiens’ memorabilia. But Boom Boom’s looping signature was not discarded. Framed, it _19

found a permanent resting place for many years on our mother’s dresser, right beside Jimmy’s 5th grade school photo.

_20

Wesley Bostwick _______________________________________ Nocturne Overture Night. A great dome of obsidian and its dancing refuse of stars—millions of tiny bonfires burning within the vacuous, cold black.

A realm of silences. Silences where things dwell, hiding within the shadows and spaces in between. Silences, chasmous in depth and oppressive in the weight of their portents—the hands of the past clutch tightly to the present, watering the seeds of regret. Silences where the voices cry out, like a symphony of discordant strings—each dissonant note screaming of fell deeds and ruin.

The dark curvature above voices no objection, sees no need for intervention, it instead sits watching—bearing witness to the events as they unfold. The Old man that lies withering, lost in a fog of forgotten memories. The Suzerain of night who sits upon a throne of hate. Twin flames doomed to fade—the kiln grows cold and the fires die a slow death. The darkness is resolute in its role in the grand rusting machine of time. It will observe. It will witness.

Movement I: Winter through Stained Glass Motes of dust dance in the turgid silence.

Caught suspended in beams of light, bent and broken through panes of scarlet and jade.

Soft pastel reflections play off of the deep blacks of the parishioners and the pale gray of the withered corpse.

The saviour looks down with a reapers grin.

From clay man was molded, and flung back into the mud he shall return.

Like a thief in the night did this illness come—slaying the mind with poison and knife.

Living through fragments of the past while the present suffered and the future died.

We watched as a fog of amnesia stole our names and faces from him.

We watched as he faded into the mists of purgatory, left to wander a darkened forest. _21

Now we watch as he lies within an oaken box—awaiting the embrace of the cold earth.

The coins placed upon his eyes, the boatman's tax.

A frost covered tomb. Snow falls silently as they weep.

The cold never spares the crop when the winter falls.

Movement II: Bringer of the Night The most cursed of hands are those that toil beneath the pale moon.

Blistered and sick are the hands that hold that blackened flame.

Shadows dance skeletally, and voices whisper songs venomously.

Enticing the hand to grasp the blade, as the blade itself incites deeds of violence.

The cold steel bites and tears as it carves a map of scars.

Apparitions fill cups with the night colored liquid and cry “May the spoils of this night rot our teeth to the gums!”

With mouths stained crimson they laugh so repulsively.

“Come, dance with us.” they whisper seductively.

The soul longs for sleep eternally.

They take my hands and sing “Oh Night bringer, oh great deceiver; join us and outshine the wicked light!”

But as always the phantoms recede as their thirst is sated, drunk on ruby wine.

They dance back into that blackened flame, their names writ upon the flesh.

With decaying mind and foul eyes the nightbringer stares into the flames.

Longing for the apparition's sweet song, the song of oblivion.

The crown of suffering sits heavy upon the head.

Oh Suzerain, yours is an empire of dirt.

Movement III: The Kiln, The First Flame, and the Darkness thereafter It was in the darkness that the first spark did alight.

A glance, a smile, hushed words exchanged.

The kiln tended smouldering embers.

Beneath the pale moon they took communion in a lovers embrace.

The embers flared into tongues of flame whose shadows danced upon the kiln’s walls.

Nights spent, memories shared, futures promised. _22

A blazing inferno alighted within the darkened kiln, not even shadows dared step.

So fated a meeting, so vampiric the lust, so wild the flame.

“There is another, and for me neither is enough.” The flame did whisper.

Vacuous and cold the kiln lies dark, the flames now long dead.

So long and dark this night that descends so swiftly.

The coals grow cold, yet beneath the ash something still burns.

A warmth that refuses to die despite such loss.

A flame that ever seeks life.

That flame may be gone, but the fire remains.

Reprise Night. The eldritch canopy studded with stars—blazing spheres of flame beating back the endless dark.

In the primordial beginning there was naught but endless black. Neither spark nor ember would alight. Yet, see now how the battle between light and dark must ever flow—night must always retreat from the dawn. The vacuum of oblivion now is blanketed in seas of roiling flame.

Dawn will always herald the slaying of night, and twilight the slaying of day— a perpetual struggle, a conflict unending. The vault of radiant light voices no objection, sees no need for intervention, it instead sits watching—bearing witness to the events as they unfold. The old man interred into the embrace of the earth, no longer suffering. The Suzerain of night who now slumbers in beneath the sun.

The death of one flame, which heralds the growth of another. The dawn is resolute in its role in the grand unending machine of time. It will observe. It will witness.

_23

Olivia Bottom __________________________________________ My Jackie I was eight years old, playing Backwoods in the basement. In my cabin-withoutwalls, I worked in the kitchen chopping wood, and taking care of the animals in the barn. Just then, Mom came running down the stairs. “The president has been shot!” she said. She was so upset. I couldn’t relate to her words, couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. Her distress is what I remember. I went back to playing Backwoods.

Later we watched the funeral on TV. John-John saluted his father’s casket. My little sister looked up from her playing and said, “Horsie!” as the riderless horse went by. When the funeral procession came to the Capitol, the band played “Hail to the Chief” as the casket was unloaded. Jackie dipped her head. She was veiled but I knew she was crying. I felt so bad for her. I wished I could take her hand, say something that would make her feel better. After that, I thought about her all the time. I even cut pictures of Jackie out of magazines and put them in my toy safe.

But I didn’t want anyone to know anything about Jackie and me. One day I was lying on my stomach looking at the pictures of her in Life magazine. When my Dad came into the room, I shoved the magazine under me.

“I know you’ve been thinking about Jackie,” he said. “You don’t have to cover up.”

But somehow I did. I didn’t want to share Jackie. I wanted her to be just mine.

_24

William Bullard ________________________________________ Being at Home at Home (Fragmentum) Since the Governor has rescinded her executive order, we no longer are required to stay at home – although not everything is opening up. However, for several long weeks, many of us have been forced to stay home, and almost everything has been shut down or operating online. Many people have been able to continue working or go to school remotely, yet many people have not been able to work at all because their workplaces have closed. Conversely, many people have been forced to work and work longer, such as doctors, nurses, and essential health care and hospital staff. For myself, since I am in the high-risk category, I have been very careful about staying home. I have gone primarily to one place (except for one necessary trip to one other place) – the grocery store that is almost next door to my house. What else I couldn’t get shipped or delivered, one of my brothers brought to me. Furthermore, I finished my semester online (doing a master’s in Linguistics, as well as finishing a master’s in Literature). Those of us that have been forced to stay at home have been faced with two aspects for handling “sheltering in place” with much of the usual society suspended.

The first aspect has been the practical reality of being at home and figuring out how to do it. People who have been able to work at home, have had to learn to use things like Zoom (remembering to mute when going to the bathroom and choosing proper backgrounds). I have had a fairly easy time. The professors teaching the two courses I took this winter were able, for the most part, to figure out how to switch to an online process. And, I have learned my way around Zoom, etc. Many people have had their children at home and have had to supervise their continued education. Some people have pursued new interests. Of course, many people have had to endure crushing economic hardship.

The second is perhaps a more profound and more difficult aspect – being at home with and within ourselves. Many have found it has worked, finding more things to do and even pursuing more creativity. For many this has been almost impossible.

They have gone out to demonstrate in front of Michigan’s State House holding guns. Perhaps, forcing us to stay at home and confront ourselves, is part of the _25

reason for the existence of the virus. The Jungian author John Beebe says that Americans are dangerously, even pathologically extroverted. “Most Americans are afraid of being alone for five minutes,” he says. I understand from more than one source that people have predicted this virus. For example, Susan Rowland, who teaches at Pacifica Graduate Institute, indicates that both science and astrology predicted the virus (or something monumental) for this time. Something necessary is going on. This time has given people the opportunity – at least – to deepen their relationship with their inner world. This is vitally needed if this planet is going to continue to exist.

_26

Mae Bumpus __________________________________________ When I am Older…

I will not remember the symptoms.

I will not remember the dates.

I will not remember where or how or when.

I will remember calling my friends when I went for walks every day.

I will remember counting out all fourteen days after I left my house.

I will remember having to reassure frantic people that “it’s just allergies” whenever I sneezed.

I will remember my mom telling her bosses what needed to be done weeks before they listened.

I will remember how the Home Depot was closed and all of the construction companies were closed when wooden two-by-fours stood without drywall in the center of my bedroom for months on end.

I will remember teaching my nine-year-old brother everything his absent teachers couldn’t.

I will remember the three-in-the-morning rations raids that helped my siblings and I connect.

I will remember the stress I felt trying to juggle my academics, my job, my family, my friends, and myself from the little desk in the corner of my bedroom.

But above all else, I will remember that “there was no evidence of spread between humans” at the start of 2020.

_27

Quareese Calhoun ______________________________________ Admiration Invisible ceilings Hard Glass Meant to keep out And yet you strive Undeterred Ambitious Extinguishing all doubt I’m in awe almost daily As you make history in this nation So I give you this poem Signed with feverish admiration.

_28

Quareese Calhoun

NYC Artist’s Statement

“This was a photo I took during the height of covid of the empty streets of the usually bustling NYC, which I think does wonders to show the contrast between normal and the ‘new normal.’”

_29

Hannah Carapellotti ____________________________________ The Bachelor There’s a new bachelor in town.

You’ve seen all the commercials, heard all the interviews, read the biographies of all the contestants.

And after all that buildup, the night has finally come.

You sit in front of your television for hours on end, watching as girl after girl steps out of the sleek black limousines.

Silently, perhaps unconsciously, you’re judging them all.

Judging them by their dresses, their hair, their first impressions.

Are they pretty enough for him?

Memorable enough?

Are they here for the right reasons?

You watch deep conversations as they unfold and too many first kisses to count.

Then comes the most important part of the night: you watch as he picks his first round.

You know he’s judging each of the girls in front of him the same way that you did when they first arrived.

Each of the girls look so nervous, so hopeful – and you realize you are, too– that their names will be called _30

and asked the fated question: “Will you accept this rose?”

Time goes by and relationships progress, some faster than others.

You watch the girls hang out in the mansion, or perhaps they’ll go gallivanting across Europe.

No matter where they are or what they’re doing, you can’t help but feel jealous.

A card is delivered to the house.

Whose name is on it?

Do you like her?

You watch as the bachelor takes one of his potential matches on a magnificent first date, one far more elaborate than you’ve ever planned or could imagine being on.

An amusement park closed down for just the pair, a skydiving trip, a hot air balloon ride, or a shopping spree–all expenses paid.

The possibilities are endless.

And of course, no night is complete without fireworks or perhaps a private concert.

If she’s lucky, she’ll get a kiss, too but what you both are waiting for most is the fated question: “Will you accept this rose?”

But with all of the magic and fireworks, an evil force is at work behind the cameras.

The producers. _31

They control everything.

What happens, and where, who stays– and who goes.

The devil works hard, but the producers work harder.

You watch as girls make friendships in the house, but are they really friends?

There’s always a villain each season, but is she as bad as she seems on camera?

The bachelor picks who he sees a future with – or does he?

Who is it that really asks the fated question?

Before long, you’ve finally reached the end of the journey.

You’ve sat through hours of dates and drama, of meeting families, too many cliffhangers and far too much heartbreak– and the fated question is asked, time and time again.

Two girls remain.

One will win.

Who will it be?

You hope it’s your favorite, and sure enough, it is.

Is she still there for the right reasons, after all this time?

Is she there because she was chosen?

Or because she was forced to stay? _32

You don’t want to ask yourself these questions.

You want to believe that these fairy tale romances are really happening.

Next comes a sweeping proposal, usually atop a mountain, or some other fabulous view.

The bachelor and his future bride, looking perfectly photogenic as always.

You listen to heartfelt words, and fighting back happy tears.

“Will you marry me?”

Then, one last time, the fated question: “Will you accept this rose?”

And just like that, it’s all over.

You have to wait a couple of months, and then it starts all over again.

You wonder how long the couple will last, even though they seem perfect on screen.

“I want a love just like theirs,” you say.

But is it even real?

_33

Lily Chan ______________________________________________ It’s a Pandemic At first, a few whistleblowers here and there Warned the world that continued on Who did not want a big scare And then from China it went beyond Silently this foe has creeped on us all As the world watches anxiously, To see who is next to fall A fearsome virus, so small but deadly It’s an infectious disease, That’s consider a respiratory illness Droplets can spread through a cough or sneeze The CDC warned, hoping to spread awareness COVID-19 starts with fever, And a cough, threatening lung function In serious cases, patients need a ventilator Many patients had past complications And then cases began to rise On the opposite side of the world, it was discovered It’s worse than the flu, surprise But here it is, we observed This is now a pandemic, the CDC announced Forcing people to stay at home Left and right, patients have been pronounced Dead on hospital beds, alone This is why we must take precaution And heed the warnings _34

Rather than continue on with vacations, Because some families are still mourning Some states have made a stance, Announcing that the people Must practice a thing called social distance Hoping for this curve to cripple Normal living is put to a stop only essential places are open hospitals, gas stations and shops Are accessible but workers feel burdened Medical staff begged for proper gear Through social media, the communities and friends Still short-supplied, overworked, and in fear Anything really, masks, PPE, gloves, food, please send Workers show up every day, Hoping that they’re not exposed Trying to stay safe in any way Possible, so they can protect their household The order may be hard to follow And easy to ignore our pleas Until it’s you that’s petrified, “I can’t breathe,” And it brings you down to your knees Everyone is advised To stand 6 feet apart Not to touch their face or rub their eyes Now would be a good time to start At home please wash your hands Disinfect high touch places And cancel your social plans To lower the number of cases

_35

We must keep hope that we will overcome, Don’t be distraught of the infected numbers and Forget those who have won, A total of three hundred thousand If anything, this quarantine Has taught us the value of the little things COVID-19 You cannot take from us, everything

_36

Monica Cialek __________________________________________ Looking at the World from Behind the Glass An office in the guestroom A desk in the corner Where morning light joins me In the blue glow of a screen My new window to the world Time, voices, faces, feelings All now one-dimensional and flat Reading and re-reading a sentence Typing and re-typing a word Time stops On the other side of the glass Not the computer screen -- the window A redwing blackbird, his red epaulets puffed Struts around a seemingly indifferent mate A sharp trill And the second hand of the clock begins to move again

_37

Edith Morris Croake _____________________________________ Illusions A terrifying virus rides on the back of Death.

In this pandemic, both are everywhere, one the handmaiden to the other.

The Covid-19 virus is invisible, as flexible as water, random, without mercy.

Globally, it has swathed millions of people.

Death often strikes soon after.

In Chicago: Parents take their sons Charlie and Henry on a bike ride.

All must wear helmets strapped under their chin.

Nanny and Papa, masked, bring presents for Henry’s 5th birthday, push them 6’ to him with gloved hands.

In Ann Arbor: Parents hasten to the bedside of Vivi, 4, crying because of the thunderstorm’s booms and flashes.

“Everything will be all right, Honey. The storm will pass soon.”

"Stay with me Daddy!”

In Indianapolis: Vivi’s Grandmother makes cloth masks for her Michigan family.

Vivi’s other Grandmother brings Nitrile gloves, hand sanitizer, and more masks.

Covid-19 sabotages these efforts to protect.

Death waits beneath these illusions, like a cat switching its tail.

We watch in horror as the world we knew is upended, and the life-consuming, soul-snatching world which comes after arrives.

_38

Rosalie Denenfeld ______________________________________ Tender Hearted Women confined by Pandemic are we come together each in her own lair we Zoom into the secret depths of deprivation, longing, revelation, joy and celebration offer quotes, quips that help us “get a grip” grateful are we that at least we can see into the souls of sister faces during this phase devoid of physical embraces

_39

E.S. __________________________________________________ Tides Waves, do you get tired Sloshing new in, old out Ripple, disperse, futile.

Tides, do you get dejected Ripped from settle by Moon High, low, restless.

Sand, do you get weary Subjected to wrath of storm Weathered, whisked, repose.

Shells, do you get lonely Discarded by your creator Hardened, used, tossed.

_40

Noah Englehart ________________________________________ When the Night Returns On a cold winter night so dark and dim.

The sun sets leaving the world lost and grim.

We fear the ones who fly above us in the sky.

But they are the ones who keep our time passing by.

They roar their roar of might and fury, and they send the ground people running in a hurry.

They sing in the night their sacred songs.

They’ll sing every one of them, all night long.

But late one night you’ll see in a dream, These foul beasts are not what they seem.

They created our sun with their burning fires.

They grabbed the ground, to rise the mountains higher.

They planted the trees of the world's oldest groves.

They filled the beaches with water and sand across every cove.

They planted the meadows with every single flower.

And brought upon the world its very first hour.

They gave us our world, that we lose every day.

All because we had to chase them away.

And when our age of freedom had finally begun.

It was only then we realised what we had done.

We had no purpose left in sight.

So we all began to fight.

And when new creatures had come to save us.

We pushed them all away in fear that they were dangerous.

We built our walls to keep out intruders.

While we gave fools our power and called them rulers.

We drove away the white wolves of the north.

And broke our oaths of peace that we had put forth.

The summer sun has hid away. _41

And the magic we once had didn’t want to stay.

The trees, the flowers, the grass had begun to die.

And the sky turned grey as it began to cry.

We pulled the snow off the mountain peaks.

And soon our world began to look very bleak.

So when the night returns and we keep our heads held high.

We will not run, we will not fight, when they return to rule the sky And when they finally return with all their might.

The dragons we once feared will once again protect us, when they return in the night.

_42

Diana Fead ____________________________________________ Fish Plunge through rapids, flow in currents, twist and turn, Sleek, fluid, fleeting, caught by light, darting, Graceful, elegant, effortless.

Bend and fold, shoot to infinity, directionless, Agile muscles arch, defying gravity, dancer, Invisible alignment, weightless.

Energy alive, liquid element, electricity, Silvery space, enveloping all, watery womb, Forever immersed, form embraced.

Transient joy, freedom follower, submerged goddess, Sublime swimmer, lover of levitation, shape shifter, My fantasy.

_43

Cornelius Fortune _______________________________________ Kissed by the Polar Vortex the furnace clicks to life which marks the prelude of your coming and the house groans with an arthritic sigh you’re not destructive like a tornado, an earthquake, or a tsunami, but you destroy things in tiny moments stretched out and culminating – in some extreme cases you have even stopped hearts, disturbing the complex rhythm of life you snarl traffic and French kiss the roads, engaging in an erotic dance that leaves slippery slopes frozen for a time objects get jackknifed especially for you like a highway sacrifice; the altar crackles below degrees (always the charmer) within minutes you make people blush without really trying, leaving hands deathly cold, and the cars in driveways immobile from your touch _44

everything tastes different when you touch it, even the air you’re just too damn cold for words, so you kiss everything else to stay warm you’re unexpected, uninvited, underappreciated, positively negative and irrevocably, chill

_45

Charlie Fuller __________________________________________ Boughs of Memory Upon bent boughs I stride.

Abrasive branches bowing low as I ascend, exhaling heavily, a breath too long withheld.

The thrum of thoughts and birdsongs ruffle out an unruly cantus.

Above, the gold-trimmed leaves brush upon the cloudy canvas.

My mother, not far off, calls from my memory.

Never did she rest for my cause. Even now, when I dare to climb too high, I see her furrowed brow; I hear the timber in her voice.

But, I had already made my choice; and I climb higher still.

_46

Sofie Gelderloos ________________________________________ Luna Our love is secret I only see her lying in the grass under the stars in the cloak of night.

Those bright eyes, long black hair sprawled out around her pale, rounded face.

Freckles sprinkled across her face like stars in the night sky.

I lie as she dances around me, her body flows gracefully like it was made for just this.

She hums, eyes closed, content.

As the night slips away, she dances gracefully vanishing into the horizon I sigh, aching for night to return.

So I can once more bask in her radiant beauty as she glides across the clear night sky.

_47

Lirit Gilmore ___________________________________________ Breonna daughter, sister, lover, woman you should be here. at night i can taste my defenselessness today it will be one year she was sleeping for my sisters i would burn it all down every striped car every piece of plastic gear every bad apple you should be here my mother she would burn it all down she would scream my name the taste in my sheets will be permanent, and we will burn it all down for you.

_48

Adrianna Green ________________________________________ True Beauty Society has put this burden on me of who I should be They have turned beauty into a tangible thing Height weight, age these numbers do not define me they are not me, nor will they ever be Short Daughter Fat I call myself these because I am But I also call myself beautiful Because despite of what society thinks Beauty is not a number. It is not a thing I didn’t always think that, but now I know Society’s the beast?

You and me were the beauty.

_49

Drake Grey ____________________________________________ Daily Drive “Love Trumps Hate” she said, and they did so not “Forward Together”: she lost that bid.

And amid culled division arose a pandemic hate nourished with greed, flourished, endemic.

Donald preened, tweeted, held rallies, pardoned cronies, and lied, while communities, and families, were cleaved, and people died.

He called insurgents to the capitol, but police kept them at bay an officer was clubbed and then died, and we couldn’t look away.

Holding our breath, the whole world tensed as the seat of democracy, the US, was surrounded, and fenced.

And guards, and police, were brought, to protect Biden and Harris.

We were saved, by the voters, by democracy, those who care for US. Citizens: we care, that we, the people, are a community.

We elected leaders for these times, who give us hope, and preach unity.

We are proud. We are strong. And, though divided on issues we know the difference between discourse and misuse of power of liberty of freedom and speech… of words that incite of words to impeach. _50

And though lives were lost, on the sixth, and Trump stole his toll The troll is now gone, and we’ll regain our soul.

So: raise a glass to the truth, love, and competence to “Forward Together”, and leaders who balance might and morals, compassion, humanity the environment, our people, science, and sanity.

To the selfish desire I have to have not to have lost the person I was, it was 4 years he cost.

So I raise a glass too, to my husband and daughters, to books, and TV, to farmers and harvests, to musicians, to artists, my brother, my parents, to the sun, to my dogs, to my home and friends, to those simple pleasures, the treasures, retained: blessings, day-to-day, appreciated, reclaimed.

For in those dark hours sick with hatred and pain I listened to music and found joy again.

Caramel sugar pop notes twinkling lilting bass fantasy trickling sweet blossom waterfalls you helped me hold on to my sanity.

_51

Alona Henig ___________________________________________ Saltwater I’m always trying to see the bright side.

To stay positive.

To accept the situation, And trust that I will be okay.

That WE will be okay.

People have told me I’m Bubbly, A big yellow sun Sharing a bright light with the world And inspiring others to do the same.

When I was in Laos I kept saying “My cheeks hurt from smiling so big!”

And it was true.

I felt overwhelming joy And my cheeks carried the weight of it And I never wanted it to end.

The first month I was home I surprised myself.

I was at peace.

I reminded myself Over and over That this is bigger than me That this is out of my control And all I can do is accept the situation.

I took long walks I called friends I read books I smoked weed I watched movies I wrote words _52

I practiced yoga I tried puzzles I did what I could to pass the time And stay calm.

I didn’t realize how exhausting it is To stay calm.

But yesterday my body reminded me.

Yesterday, I couldn’t hold back.

Tears spilled from my eyes and I was unable to restore the dam in time To slow them down.

My nose ran I went through so many tissues My eyes got puffy My throat felt tight My body needed to feel all of the feelings I had been rationalizing.

My body needed space to feel The frustration The disappointment The anger The injustice The stress The sadness Of this global pandemic Every day I am reminded of how lucky I am.

Every day I have a roof over my head I have food on my plate I have a dog who makes me smile And a web of people who make me feel loved I am one of the lucky ones And this is still Really. Fucking. Hard.

Yesterday I hit my limit _53

My body asked my brain, Please.

Can I have some time to feel this?

Can I have some time to let it out?

Can I have some time to not be okay?

Please?

My brain didn’t have a chance to answer.

The dam had already been destroyed And the saltwater flowing from my eyes could not be slowed.

Yesterday my body took space to feel.

Today I feel numb.

Today I feel tears building in my eyes, but they haven’t spilled.

If they do spill, I will not be stopping them.

I am giving my body time And space To feel.

And once it is ready, I will give it whatever it needs, To heal.

This shit is hard.

But I am not alone.

You are not alone.

We are in this together, No matter how far apart we feel.

It is okay to feel pain.

It is okay to honor your body and let yourself spill.

This too shall pass.

The sun will shine again.

The tears will slow, And I will find my light.

I will smile big And my cheeks will hurt. _54

I’ll laugh with friends And I’ll see the world.

These things take time.

So I’ll give myself time This too shall pass.

_55

Amy Higgins ___________________________________________ Biding Time Our abandoned hives rest and wait for us— our lofty auditoriums, our heavenly scented coffee shops, our churches, temples, mosques, skate parks, ice rinks, swimming pools.

We hereby forsake them all so that we, not our children only, but we ourselves might gather again and dance in the places we made for that purpose.

Sneakers will squeak again on floors soft now with dust. We will polish them again, grow high on waxy fumes.

We will fall to our knees and kiss industrial office carpets, so glad to feel their synthetic fibers and work again in cubicles, sipping mediocre coffee in quasi-productive, child-free peace.

Does it surprise you how capably we sit still watch out our windows and wait, so that we with our elders, not our children only, might skip again on public grass, kayak on rivers, dance— three, four generations of flickering, happy shadows at postponed weddings.

We bide our time, too, so we can mourn together our too-soon-gone, our loves. _56

Susan Houston _________________________________________ What’s your story?

It’s not over, but sometimes it seems like it hasn’t begun. I’m always waiting.

Waiting for kids to be older, more self-sufficient, less demanding. Waiting for the semester to start, end, for students to finish an assignment or start their proofreading. Waiting for the day to end, waiting for bedtime. Waiting to go outside again when the endless winter is over. Waiting to have something on my calendar besides work.

Now with COVID in the air, I’m waiting for information, more details, waiting to feel safe again, waiting for “normal” to reappear. Waiting for the feeling of being safe to return. Waiting for things to begin again. I’m waiting for my college freshman to come back home and waiting for my Junior to finish his school day.

In all the waiting, am I living or am I just anxiously anticipating more bad news?

On the other hand, my husband is done waiting for life to begin. He retired and now he has nothing on his calendar, nothing that must be done, nothing to stress over too often. He gets to have fun, go to the gym, sleep in, drink coffee with bourbon, waiting for me to have time to spend with him.

So, my story is ongoing, a work in progress, an unfinished work of redemption, suffering, hope and survival in this world.

_57

Rose Hutcheson ________________________________________ Fool’s Gold Shrouded in gold As much as a fool she was She kept you warm in the cold Shrouded in gold She thinks of you, The moon and french marigolds While her wallet is taken in her disarray, She was a fool in ever sense of the way If you asked her for a hand You’d get that plus an arm and a leg Always off in dreamland But her heart was glass And never handled with care But even shattered She never stopped loving She’d look at you like you were gold And treasure you like so And everyone knew because she told But you were just you, fools gold But in a way you were special Because you were the fool’s gold

_58

jiggityjag _____________________________________________ Time Sifting In this world we are all gold diggers. Sifting through our selfish fun while we are young, setting aside others for ourselves. Greed then begins to enwrap into our minds. Maturity strengthens those wraps and squeezes our mind into an inhumane trail of trained programmable thoughts. Running over innocence for the chance of success.

Sifting for a second time, hoping to luckily run across chips of gold, counting on finding that chunk of life-that one big happy f-ing life. Watching browned water strain through, bubble and then disappear. A few minute chips are discovered here and there, we say disappointedly “take what you can find, work with what you have.” Lying to ourselves we say “okay this for now.” How can there be a “now” if we never notice it? At least not long enough to appreciate it. We think we have an idea of what we want so we throw the chips aside.

A third sifting we start looking for the gold of our youth. You know the kind, it doesn’t exist. Maybe even the ones we tossed aside. Always searching for the treasure of happiness. Sure, some find fool’s gold (appropriately named i might add), think they got lucky. Life seemed to have grinned down on them they realize (if they aren’t so illusional to think happily ever after truly exists) they were wrong, this isn’t what they were looking for after all. Once again chips are thrown aside.

The fourth and final sifting, we sift franticly. So much so that we tend to not appreciate where we have been, what we have learned, where we are at now.

Total focus is on what we have thrown away, what we passed up and the misery of common living. Sifting for time, youth, and happiness all long lost.

All that shines, all that beauty, is long lost.

_59

Megan Johnson

Coming Home _60

Artist’s Statement “This piece was inspired by a favorite Broadway musical of mine about World War II veterans, called Bandstand. One of the main themes of the musical is about the different kinds of unseen weight that each character carries because of the war, including the loss of friends in combat.

“My artwork is a visual depiction of this. A soldier standing in a train station, finally free to return home to a world made brighter by his service. But the shadow of a lost friend lingers at his shoulder— holding him back and tying him to a traumatic past, or standing at his side as a comforting presence and memory, or perhaps somehow both at once.

“People often make massive sacrifices with the most precious parts of their lives, and yet the shadows of those sacrifices are seen only by themselves.

Veterans, and heroes of all kinds, deserve our deepest respect and thanks.”

_61

K.I.M. Jones ___________________________________________ Disillusioned by Little House As a child, I traveled the prairie through Laura’s adventures.

I imagined myself a long-lost Ingalls.

In my mind, my father would have the warmth and wisdom of Pa, But reality did not compare with the fictional prairies in my mind.

My parents attended the Too Young To Be Great Parents School of Parenting.

They used me as a pawn in their relationship games.

Unlike Rudolph, I longed to be rejected from participation, But I was forced to play.

As I grew older, my mother’s inner pain turned outward.

Because my mere existence caused her once bright future to unravel, I was the type of seed that made Roe v. Wade necessary.

Her anger taught me that perfect performance predicated procurement of love.

My mother’s bitterness, created by unfulfilled dreams, realigned my genes.

As a result, I carry the wounds of her mental scars in my DNA. Unfortunately, I passed them down to my children.

Their minds complete feats of mental gymnastics that eradicate the pureness of my love for them.

Alone, I travel the desolate desert of unwanted parental intrusion.

I watch, horrified, as the fruits of my womb make decisions that decimate their lives.

I live in a classic tale of the Twilight Zone where nothing feels real.

My children are aliens with the goal of overtaking the planet that is my sanity.

Where is the balancing presence of Ma Ingalls when I need her?

Why are my children more like Nellie and less like Mary? _62

How can I get the stench of my mother’s Mrs. Olsen-like disapproval off of me?

Can Reverend Alden say a prayer that will save us all?

_63

Tommy Kaminski _______________________________________ If They Could Talk, You Probably Wouldn’t Eat Them I thought talking to animals would be cool.

Let me rephrase that: I thought understanding animals would be cool.

Anyone can talk to them; horse whisperers do it all the time. But that can’t really be called a conversation, can it? That’s just you talking at an animal, not an animal talking back. And if it is talking back, it’s probably a therapy cat, and you’re probably in the psych ward.

No, what I mean is genuine reciprocity: one language shared by animal and human. Sounds awesome, right? Every child’s dream? More like my personal fucking nightmare.

Let me paint the scene.

The clock strikes eleven and you settle snuggly into bed. You’re warm, you’re cozy, ready for sleep’s sweet release. But suddenly you feel a chill: an unsettling sensation running the length of your spine. Another presence is among you.

Against your better judgement, you pry one eye open and peer into the darkness. There, upon the windowsill, sits the silhouette of a cat. It’s Peaches, your tabby. He watches you, tail flicking ever so slightly.

You seal your eyes tight, hoping to simply ignore him. After all, he’s a nice kitty; you have nothing to worry about…right? But just as you begin to drift off, you hear a voice whisper softly. “One of these days…” it purrs, only just loud enough for you to hear. “One of days you shall perish, and by my claw shall it be.”

I haven’t slept a day since. And it only got worse from there.

I tried to reason with myself, to find some good in my incredible new power.

But no matter where I looked, only disappointment could I find. Dogs just made me feel dirty with their constant hounding for physical gratification. Cows just made me feel sad, as they wandered aimlessly, mooing, “Please kill me.” And squirrels—nutty little bastards—they made me fear just to step outside.

Apparently they’re plotting revolution against the humans. I would avoid them if I were you.

Even when I tried the altruistic approach—tried to be a bridge between our two kinds—that backfired on me, too. The whole world laughed me to scorn; even PETA said I was crazy. _64

Now I just lie here in a padded room, alone but for a therapy cat of my own.

He doesn’t like me much, just sits on my lap like he owns the place. Every now and then I try and pet him, but he always glares me down. “Touch me, asshole, I fucking dare you,” he says.

Oh, how I miss the time when that just meant “meow.”

_65

Tommy Kaminski _______________________________________ Lost in Thought Blue water flows Through a stream of consciousness— Not clear, but beautiful

_66

Aaron Kaufman ________________________________________

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_71

Marybeth King ___________________________________________________ A Trio of Whispers Mesmerizing On her back, Legs kicked up the wall, Vereena’s eyes Narrow to slits.

Watching Gramma’s necklace Wrapped around her toes, Swing Swing Swing No one knew Slipped from Granny’s neck As sodden eyes of mourners Wept at the love of a girl for her Nan. But as the lid slipped closed Deft fingers found purchase On a cold neck Vereena knew this was an object of importance, Like her grandfather’s gold watch, And the ring off her sister’s finger, After that frightful fall.

Such a tragedy.

Watching the broach sway Vereena felt a hypnotic pull It wouldn’t be long, She reckoned. _72

Having Mama’s antique comb, The one with etched gold tines That dug into your scalp Leaving Deep Red Lines.

She’d help Mama, Too Swinging her legs down Vereena unwound the chain, Felt for the treasure box Under the bed.

Jagged shells cut her knuckles Leaving trails of scarlet On the lid.

Others may have been Horrified By the contents of the box, But Vereena was Positively Euphoric

Dead of Winter Seren liked the cold -Fingers stiff, Tips cracking, Blood not warm enough to ooze. _73

It had been weeks since the sun dipped down Below the horizon Seren was in her element.

Darkness feeding her imagination, Sharpening her resolve.

There were six on her list.

The ones who took themselves So seriously.

They let her know with every eye roll And turned shoulder How unwelcome she was.

Seren knew just how she’d get each one, Dreamt about it Since they pushed her into the frigid water.

She’d been shocked at the cold Tugging the breath out of her body.

Seeing her victims heading to school, Breath frosting the air between them Seren shivered with excitement.

They’d all be several feet under soon – It almost warmed her heart.

Not Like Those at All Lightning raced across the skyline As thunder rattled the panes, Excited, Annabelle grabbed an armful of stuffed animals Ran to the attic, _74

Anxious to lay on the bare wood floors.

Listen to the rain tap tap tap On the rafters Like a company of soldiers during morning revelry.

Annabelle placed each animal around her Strategically.

Bear stood guard at the top of the stairs With Buddy and Bruce, Her favorite lions.

They could gnarl up the leg of anyone attempting To drag her back down to bed.

Two raggedy rabbits Limbs missing Or poorly resewn Sat in her lap.

The silkiest of the bunch.

Fluffers hated lightning Squirt, the thunder So, Annabelle kept them close Told them it was going to be Ok. This was the way a storm should sound She cooed to them With a crash And boom And splat All part of Natures plan.

So different from the tinkling of china On the wall over Dad’s head When Mom sent one of Grandma’s treasured teacups Flying _75

Or lamp Or ash tray Or whiskey bottle.

Yes, this was a good noise, One that didn’t come into your bedroom Late at night Asking if you were still awake.

Yes, Annabelle liked the dark stormy nights in the attic, The real kind.

Not like the other nights downstairs.

Not like those at all.

_76

Diane M. Laboda _______________________________________ Things I Didn’t Put on My Resume How often I wake up in the middle of the night, when I hear the sound of newspaper pages crinkling from the kitchen, where the light is on and shining in my eyes.

So I tune my ears in to hear the refrigerator open and close, open and close, the sound of weeping and nose blowing and water running over dishes in the sink.

And how I can stay still and pretend I heard nothing.

And I didn’t mention how often I sit in his chair at the kitchen table reciting the litany of medications as I count them into his weekly pill container, while double-checking labels for dosages and how many, how often and what for.

And it is, now that I think of it, rather impressive that I know ten recipes by heart for high protein, high carb, highly nutritious, spur-of-the-moment shakes that take the place of food he “just can’t eat.”

And I didn’t mention how I’m so patient even when it rocks my day to have to throw food away.

And I didn’t mention how all those little accidents are both unnerving and challenging, and how I just dive in and clean everything up and settle back into reading to him or writing poems he’ll never read, or just close my eyes and gather. _77

Or how often I avoid tripping on the yards and yards of oxygen tubing running from the concentrator in the living room that looks like R2D2. And how I can quick-pack water, snacks, meds, an extra portable oxygen battery, extra clothes, doctor’s notes and spirometry readings, and books to distract, and a pound of patience when it’s time to head to the ER again.

And I didn’t mention I do all the driving and wheelchair pushing and note taking and keep my mouth shut because his autonomy and dignity comes first, and it’s his story and his relationship with the doctor, and his right to say what he wants, even though I know there’s so much more to tell.

And I didn’t mention how I got over my fright every time I accompanied him to the bone clinic, every time he was scheduled in the cancer clinic or acute care pulmonary suite or pulmonary testing area.

And I didn’t mention in my resume how rubbing his back could be so satisfying when he couldn’t catch his breath, or how I’d accept his hand reaching out in the night as the highest form of gratitude, even though it broke my heart.

_78

Hannah Lain

Locked In _79

SA Levin ___________________________________________ How to Survive a Feeling Rob died in his sleep, The obituary said.

Rob called me one day He was high He wanted to start a marijuana farm in Canada.

On the way to rehab, Rob asked the taxi driver to stop So he could smoke crack Before being admitted.

He was in love with me But he is gay.

Rob’s father told him that he would only inherit 50 million if Rob got Married.

Well, that was quite a dilemma.

So he used every drug–some I’ve never heard of.

His psychiatrist said to him, and Rob repeated this to me several times, “Do you have the guts to be a real person.”

50 million.

It killed him.

_80

Susan Lintott __________________________________________ A Shitty Row My feet slipped in the mud, rain streamed into my eyes, and cool, crisp air hit me like a wall as I stepped out of the car onto the grass near the Grand River, ready to race the Head of the Grand. Regatta mornings always hold an excitement in the air, especially on this chilly October morning.

My feet were soaked by the time I made it to our trailer, thanks to the Crocs I wore on my feet. “Trailer Monkeys” scrambled through the racks of boats on the trailer. We raised our hands to catch the next boat being handed down off the trailer. About thirty minutes later, all the racing shells were off the trailer, and the boats were arranged strategically across the indicated “Huron Crew” staging area.

Dripping wet yellow and green figures clustered around each boat, our cold fingers struggling to attach the rigging equipment to the shells.

Barb, the novice girls’ head coach, called a meeting. She told us to “Go get food from the support tent and stay warm. First race is in thirty minutes.”

I was excited about my first race, a four. We were the fastest novice girls combination, and ours was the best novice coxswain. The coxswain is the person who steers and is in charge of the boat. Rain bucketed down on us, but the show went on. We warmed up our muscles, then launched off the not-so-sturdy dock.

Down the river we went, gliding through sheeting rain toward the starting line. By the time we pulled near the start, the boat was riding low, full of water. We were no longer gliding; we were wallowing. We grudgingly bailed out the boat with our shoes.

We raced. We won. We made it back to the dock. Picking the boat up out of the water took 6 people instead of the normal four due to the buckets of rain in the foot wells. Icy water dumped on our heads and ran down inside our clothes as we hefted the boat up above our shoulders.

Walking back up the muddy hill, every step we took was a struggle. Carrying a 200lb boat on a steep muddy hill is never a good idea; as we walked it felt as though we would take two steps forward and slide one step back. After what felt like forever we made it up the treacherous mud slide to the gravel path that led to the trailers.

Barb met us. “Great row, ladies!” Then she instructed, “Eat, drink, we launch again in twenty minutes.” _81

We raced our eights, fast and smooth, but didn’t know what place we finished.

Now, on to my last race, my janky four. This four was made up of four rowers who had never rowed together and a first time coxswain, Ann, who was normally a rower.

We were hotseating The Frank, one of the varsity boats that had just raced.

We ran down to the dock just as The Frank pulled in. The varsity rowers got out and we climbed in. We pushed away from the dock.

Our coxswain, Ann, had no idea how to steer or how to instruct her crew on what to do. So I took over, calling rates, shifts, and warm up pieces. We finally got up the 5k course, rowing with the current but against the driving wind and freezing rain. Before lining up to start the race we checked riggers, nuts, bolts, and screws.

My heart sank as I realized that my whole rigger, the frame that holds my oar to the hull, had only one of the four hardware pieces that it needed. I asked Ann if she had any extras, which a regular experienced coxswain should have in their fanny pack. Ann had no cox bag; no supplies. I asked the race marshal, nothing.

We were told, if we couldn’t fix the rigger, we couldn’t race and would be disqualified. We looked one more time. Then, wearily, we informed the marshal that we would forfeit.

Now, the hard journey began of rowing a 5k upriver with an inexperienced crew, trying to stay out of the way of racing boats going in the same direction we were, and dozens of other boats rowing in the opposite direction to get up to the starting line. Wind and rain thrashed at our faces as we rowed.

With a good crew it would take close to thirty minutes to RACE the course.

We, on the other hand, were not experienced. We were limping, not racing; and we couldn’t use all our rowers’ power to move the boat against the current.

Because my rigger was broken, I couldn’t row. We were cold, wet, tired, and still rowing. We rowed in pairs: one starboard and one port at a time.

I stayed hunched and shivering in the same position. With my hands half submerged in freezing cold river water, one hand held my rigger to the side of the boat while the other hand supported my 16 foot oar that must help balance the boat for the other rowers. If I let go of the rigger and oar they would both fall off the boat and float away or even worse, sink. We passed boats going up the race course, rowers with puzzled looks on their faces. We were not in the race course, and we were going the wrong way on a one way street! _82

By the time we were 3k down the race course, thirty minutes in, my hands were blue and purple, my legs turning colors I had never seen legs turn, and we were still only about halfway back to the dock. We rowed and rowed and rowed, the only starboard rower nearing exhaustion from having to row double the amount of the two port rowers who were taking turns.

Finally, we reached the end of the race course, but ran into a boat jam with teams that had just ended their race and were waiting to dock and get onto land.

We were only half strength, and our first-time coxswain was in over her head.

After ten minutes of waiting, it was finally our turn. We overshot the dock as the current picked us up and pushed us too far downriver. We circled around. But we had to wait again because our place in line was quickly filled. We were SUPER cold, shivering, wet and struggling to row to keep our spot in line. We final docked.

Barb was waiting for us; she’d heard what happened. Our coxswain gave the command to get out of the boat. I tried, but just fell over on the dock from being so cold. We got the boat out of the water as quickly as possible, and slowly made our way up that muddy, slippy hill. I was shivering so much the boat bounced on my shoulder. Barb and my friend Haley were walking next to me, ready to help if I wouldn’t be able to take another step. Barb saw that step come before I even did; so did Haley. Haley caught the boat just as my legs gave out from under me.

In minutes, I was wrapped in coats and blankets, surrounded by my team that I love and who loves me. In that moment I learned that the best relationships are built in those shitty moments when you just want to quit. When those people are right next to you as you urge them on and they do the same for you, it’s the shit that brings you together.

_83

Draganel Magda _______________________________________ Burn It Down Swarming, climbing, tearing The angered masses flowed The halls of freedom hardly bearing Their audacity, firm and bold Burn it down, burn it down, collectively they cried Burn it down, burn it down, their intention to divide Despite sacrifice of men before them The horde conspires their subjugation Trampling souls meant to defend them The Capitol succumbs to desecration Tear it down, tear it down, the angered horde did think Tear it down, tear it down, bringing justice to its brink Men and women of integrity Defend the Capitol on the hill To protect our hope of unity With Their purpose and their will Hold them back, hold them back, they screamed for all to hear Hold them back, hold them back, they cried amidst the fear And in their wake, there lay The broken pieces left in fury That marked the actions of the day Leaving righteous minds to worry Why did they come, why did they come, to justify their cause?

Why did they come, why did they come, in contradiction to our laws? _84

One brave man, now lies in state Leaving family, friends and all to grieve The result of man’s undying hate Never to forget what happened on that eve Heal the wounds, heal the wounds, the rest of us do pray Heal the wounds, heal the wounds, we must act, without delay

_85

Julie Mariouw _________________________________________ The Angel & the Paper Doll It felt like breathing in the deep ocean. Her hands iridescent jellyfish, swirling, caressing, holding, breathing. She did it. It wasn’t me. Reached down to the center of my body and pulled herself out. “You can move this time,” she said. Not with words—but with her silver breath. “You can move.”

I wanted to cover my face with my hands but I found I had no hands.

“It’s all right,” she said, “I’m here.”

My body melted into hers and we became one—blues and greens of the ocean filled the operating room. Bright light shone down like the throne of God. And then I remembered my mother’s red lips. Large open mouth, set of words designed to wound. Hands on hips, chest protruding. There but not there. Like a paper doll.

“You can make it this time,” the angel said, hands on her hips in the very same way. My breath flowed in and out of me like a wave—green, blue flooding my veins.

“All the world’s a stage,” she said, red lips protruding.

“You can move this time, you must move,” she said, red lips pressed against the styrofoam cup.

It’s why I need the iridescent hand. I’m an ancient form of life in the cold, cold ocean, dark and divisive.

“Your mother’s killing you,” she said, “like poison.”

I felt it trickle into my veins. A mother’s hand, so soft, so warm—not soft, not warm—hard, cold—bottom of the ocean crushing my bones. _86

“What will it look like?” she asked.

A baby’s hands, fingers curled in on themselves.

“I have been sent,” she said, “to assist you.” I tried to nod. My head was strapped to the table. But somehow she knew I heard.

They stood side by side—iridescent angel next to paper doll. Not holding hands exactly, but not fighting either. I tried to tell them I saw them both, but my tongue would not move. I had had no water for many hours.

The surgeon’s hands moved deftly, grabbed the slippery baby and pulled him to safety. My body groaned to let go of such a prize. The light of heaven shone above me—or was it the light of the operating table? She brushed it with her hand and the color turned to green and blue. It shone over my mother’s face—painting her in iridescence. And the two became one for the tiniest of moments.

_87

Ella Markel ____________________________________________ Broken Record My life is a song that is stuck on repeat.

Repeat is the only button I can press.

Press through the days that seem to move so slow.

Slow but the years go by so fast.

Fast and I can’t seem to catch up, I’m stuck.

Stuck like a broken record that won’t stop spinning.

Spinning and spiraling out of control.

Control what I can, but life just goes on.

On and on playing the same tune.

Tune out the same things everyday.

Everyday like the day from before.

Before I was happy, but now I am lost.

Lost in this ride, this ride we call life.

Life that repeats, day in and day out.

Out of time, I’m running out of time.

Time that doesn’t exist.

_88

Sabrina Martell ________________________________________ Picture This Pale tears and a postal code in California All caught off guard when the tide comes.

The dark, unobserved ocean waving its way shore— A view that demands response.

_89

Jean Kearns Miller ______________________________________ 15 Bishop Street Miss Hamriding, the midwife who attended my birth, demanded a warm house, so that Sunday morning, Mum, heavy in labor, and Auntie Vera hauled in coal from the shed directly behind the house into the kitchen and stoked the fire we used for any heat and also trash disposal. The kitchen was where we lived.

After his return from combat, Dad took a short course in chiropody (podiatry here) through the RAF and when he could afford to set up a practice, quit his bus driver job and started seeing clients in the small living room, which was abuzz with clients. Workers from the cotton mills with bad feet from all that standing, farmers, town bourgeoisie all came to have their feet done.

So we lived in the kitchen, an 11’ x 11’ room with the fireplace, a table and chairs, a cooker, a sink with a small hot water heater on the wall above, Mum’s treadle sewing machine, the wireless, and eventually a ringer washer, and my blackboard and easel where I would spend my days drawing, erasing, drawing, erasing, drawing, mostly wedding groups, bride and groom center, girls on one side, boys— I had difficulty drawing the boys—on the other. No fridge. The climate and frequent shopping made them an extravagance.

Upstairs were three bedrooms. The largest was the one where I was born. The other two resulted from the partition of a single room into two tiny rooms. The entire house was very small, perhaps a little over 600 square feet.

You’ll notice I’m leaving out the bathroom. That’s because there wasn’t one, because there wasn’t a bath. No toilet either, in the house, that is. The toilet was in the back yard next to the coal shed. It was a clay drum with a toilet seat that led directly to the town sewer system. Well sort of. The toilets were called tipplers because there was a hinged basket down below, which, when full of waste, tippled over into the sewer. Most of our neighbors used scraps of the Daily Express rather than spending precious money on toilet paper, but Mum splurged, mandating two squares per go. No one wanted to go out to the yard during the night, so we had chamber pots under our beds, which Mum emptied each morning. _90

We had no bathtub so on Saturdays, Mum managed to produce enough hot water to fill what was really a tinny trough feeder in the middle of the kitchen. We took turns bathing ourselves so we’d be clean for Sunday Mass the next day.

The house was what’s called a terraced house, one unit in a row among rows after rows after crowded rows of mostly identical houses. Back then they were all black, from years of industrial soot. Nelson was a town planned during the industrial revolution, a service to the textile industry at a location chosen for its optimal climate. I was born at 15 Bishop Street.

_91

Sonja Mittlestat ________________________________________ Sky Looking up At this starless sky The glowing moon An everwatching eye Castles made by man That reach up so high Suddenly pale in comparison To the still and infinite Midnight sea above our heads Drowning me in it’s depths How can silence be so intimate?

I stand and stare Waiting to hear the whisper of it’s secrets On the winter wind running through my hair Uniform monoliths Made of brick A giants play set That with one misstep Could be sent toppling down down down This eternal void Far as the eye can see Only seeks To further smother me A bird is content in it’s gilded cage Until it a catches a glimpse of the open blue sky Oh how I wish that I too could fly Watch this life of mine Shrink below as I rise and rise Looking to touch _92

The end of the abyss Or to find the place Where all the stars have gone amiss To cradle the pinprick of light Against my breast Sink into it’s warmth and soar like a kite Caress the rocky surface of the moon With the palm of my hand Tightly I hold on For when the sun rises It will be gone Wrap myself in The soft and soundless Dark velvet of the night sky

_93

Mariam Mohamed ______________________________________ Angry, Not Crazy The most Neglected, Disrespected & Unprotected, yeah that's me. You know it to be true since Malcolm X said it.

I’m angry, not crazy, angry, because being a black woman is like being black twice.

To be both is to be ashamed to be ashamed is to be forsaken to be forsaken is to be forgotten.

We used to pick cotton & they expect that to be forgotten as if the last 50 years legal acknowledgment cancels out the last 200 years of well, a different kind of legal acknowledgement.

I’m angry not crazy, angry cause it used to be the blacker the berry the sweeter the juice Now it's the blacker the baby the tighter the noose, the blacker the women the more abuse, the blacker the man the longer the chain, not the one he wears around his neck oh no, the ones around his hands.

I'm angry, not crazy angry, that each time a black man takes a step, White America shakes.

Although he walks with his head held high, he’s screaming don’t hurt me like Philando, George & Tamir He's begging don’t kill me and make it the new premiere.

Each time a black man dies a revolution becomes an enterprise, but don't be mistaken cause the revolution will now be televised.

I’m angry not crazy, angry at black on black crime cause each time white people kill each other, it's just a regular old crime I’m angry not crazy angry at the black boys who were colorist at my high school What an emotional whirlpool, a constant chase of equality?

If only you knew, dating a girl who can pass the brown paper bag test doesn't elude racism nor your hypocrisy I'm angry not crazy, angry that I gotta say I'm not crazy each time I say I'm angry because I'm black and a woman so when they see me angry they think “oh she's crazy”.

See Black Women, we know our worth _94

But others asking for equality can seem like oppression when you carried such privilege since birth.

_95

Mary Lou Nagy _________________________________________ I am From I am from Louella and Frances Who I knew And John and Burnett who I did not.

From pasties and currant cookies smells that linger on with the fragrance of memory From a rambling house with a staircase built for a bride and a basement that could hide anything.

From tall oaks with falling leaves Lengthy sidewalks and curving drives From bikes that flew over curbs and leaf piles that housed our forts.

From slogans like, “The nuts are off the cart” and “Keep the Faith”.

From Frank Sinatra singing, Fly Me to the Moon And Tony Bennett’s heart always in San Francisco.

I am from midnight shouts and dinnertime rants to cold silences at the heart of holiday celebrations.

I am from Sheldon and Irwin, Dalrymple and Gale.

From the far reaches of Cornwall and the mysteries of Ireland.

From Silver Creek and Champion, Duck Lake and Michigan State.

From Uncle Ed who stopped the train and Aunt Ella who hid her shame.

From William’s voyage on the Mayflower and another William who died in the mine. _96

From Mary Jane and Bob who brought me in and then I saw them out.

From strong, strong women and courageous, humble men, I see where I am from and keep close watch to where I am going.

_97

Anastasiia Noguier _____________________________________ The Gem of My Childhood I was born into a very young family in the small industrial city of Russia. My parents were barely 19 years old, still working on their education and career paths.

Most of my childhood I had spent with my grandparents. My grandmother was a single mom to my dad and my uncle. She has raised two amazing young men by herself while working on her degree in construction engineering. She was an incredibly strong woman with a lot of life experience and an enormous heart. She passed away in August 2018. For the first time in her life, she lost a fight. She lost it to one of the cruelest villains – cancer.

She was always in great physical and mental shape. She worked all her life, she was able to save money to buy herself a two-bedroom apartment, still taking me and my sister on vacations almost every year. Ever since I was able to talk, she told me not to call her grandma and call her by her name. So, I called her “Tanechka” (an endearing form of her name Tatiana) for the rest of her life. That was fair because she never looked for her age, all of my friends were so surprised to find out she was my grandma and they all called her “Tanechka” as well. All the people around me knew about her, as I presented her as my role model and the person who is always there for me no matter what. She was strict but fair. She always reminded me to focus on myself and my own goals. She supported every decision I made and was a part of every significant event in my life. She raised me; without her, I wouldn’t be who I am right now.

The last time I saw her was Christmas 2017. At my uncle’s house in Atlanta, Georgia. She was already diagnosed with cancer, but it looked like she was getting better, and the doctors gave her permission to fly. Usually, she would always come for summer, to stay with her grandkids and take a family vacation to Florida, or just to relax by the pool. She loved the sun, but cancer took that passion away. She was advised to stop exercising, stay off the sun, and avoid any active chores. It was an incredible change for her, as she was always on the run, to be the best and to do her best. It was so good to see her, but I knew she was in pain. She just never mentioned it.

On the way back to Russia, she got worse. Cancer was active again. My father who was so close to her, and who still confess to me that he sees her almost every day in his dreams, took all the required measures to get her the best health care _98

there is in my hometown. She was getting weaker but still stayed positive. She once mentioned to me that you have to stay strong and positive during this illness.

She told me that once you become desperate and depressed cancer almost always wins. There is also a theory that cancer is a very psychosomatic illness that tends to appear after very big stress or loss. After these words, I always remember that every problem is solvable as long as you and the ones you love are healthy.

For about two months before she was gone, she wouldn’t turn on the Facetime camera, she was too ashamed of showing what cancer did to her. My father, uncle, and my sister were always there to take care of her. They have mentioned to me that it is for the best that I haven’t seen her like that. I will forever have an image of her looking 10-20 years younger than she is, tan and in a great shape. I couldn’t go to be next to her. If I left the United States, I wouldn’t be back. I didn’t have papers. I knew she wouldn’t want me to risk the American Dream for that.

I was at work when my dad told me she is gone. My heart dropped, I couldn’t speak, I was trying to stop the tears, but I couldn’t. I went home, gladly my roommate wasn’t there. I busted the Russian music that she loved as loud as I could and cried my eyes out. I felt a growing hole in my heart. I reread the last messages she sent me. She called me “Lastochka,” which stands for Swallow in Russian. My boyfriend made me come out to the bar, so I wouldn’t be alone. I married that man. His birthday is October 3rd, my grandmother’s birthday is October 4th. She has left someone to look after me.

I still don’t comprehend that she is not here anymore. I was supposed to go to Russia in March 2020 to visit her grave, but the pandemic had a different plan for me. Maybe I am not ready yet, but she hasn’t left my heart and she never will.

My guardian angel has a name, and her name is “Tanechka.”

_99

Anastasiia Noguier _____________________________________ The Selfless Youth The world we live in was at first, A source of knowledge to calm the thirst.

But now it is an evil place, That brings the worst of most in grace.

When people are exposed to hate, They tend to fall in it with fate.

However, there is still some hope, The selfless youth will cut the rope.

The rope of hate and lies Will fall from truth and smiles.

They sing along with those alike, To save the world with warmth.

The heroes that embrace the soul Of broken dreams and injustice of the world As I believe, there is still hope, To build the future for the mob.

_100

Ayowole Oladeji ________________________________________ History Making History making of passion and love, we celebrate our power of history in the making.

Feeling the courage and tenacity of powerful women standing up to adversity and challenges beyond our imaginations.

The sun rises above the bright skies colorful with stars, voices of generations of powerful women have spoken.

The world hears their message loud and clear: positive perseverance and super-active.

Fierce and loyal to generations to women all over the globe.

Love of passion brings women to be leaders of the free world, helping other women in need: generous, caring, and humble.

That’s the history making of powerful women.

_101

Virginia E. Ordonez _____________________________________ Papito I can hear my dad's car pull up the driveway again. He’s here to pick us up for his weekend but my stomach is in knots. I love my dad, but I don’t like him. He’s never put his hands on me, he never called me names or did anything wrong. He loves my siblings and I unconditionally, but I can’t stand him. I haven’t seen him in weeks because I beg my mom to let me stay with her. Maybe I'll see in him what my siblings see if I just go with him for a few days. I pack a bag and go outside, it's a warm Michigan day but not so warm where you can’t breathe. I’m happy to see my dad, I love him.

As he drives I can see my house get smaller in the distance and I have a pit in my stomach. On our way to his house he’s telling us about the odd jobs he’s taken up to be able to afford food. It’s been hard since he and my mom got divorced, he doesn’t have an American citizenship and barely speaks English. It makes me sad, the world is against my dad, I should be supporting him.

He loves me so much, at his house he got me a TV and my own room, he even bought furniture to make me feel more comfortable. He can’t afford any of that but he did it for me, I should be happy. He made macaroni and cheese for dinner. I hate mac and cheese. We went to the park and then came home and watched movies all night. I had an amazing time but I still feel resentment towards my dad, I’m mad at myself that I can’t connect with someone who literally gave me life. He’s sacrificed so much for me and I can’t talk to him without wishing I was anywhere else.

I love my mom, she and I have always been close and I feel like I can tell her everything but not my dad. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t look like him, I have pale skin and brunette hair, he has dark skin and black hair. Maybe it’s just because I'm the first child, an accident that wasn’t supposed to happen. Either way I spent years hiding and avoiding him.

I haven’t seen him in 5 years. He moved back to home to Quito, Ecuador. I miss him. I miss the dad hugs and the late night adventures that mom would disapprove of. I miss how even when he had nothing, he gave me everything. I love him, but I don’t like him. Now I'm 17 and I can form my own thoughts and opinions, we disagree all the time about big things. We carry different opinions about reproductive care, immigration rights, LGBTQ+ rights, proper COVID _102

procedures, and even who is fit to run the country. I'm appalled, I grew up with this man but how did I never see him?

He’s very emotionally sick now, with a history of depression and suicidal thoughts, it’s hard. Every now and then I can hear his voice while he’s on skype with my siblings. I want so badly to see his face again. But I can’t, all I feel is sadness and anger towards him, towards myself, and towards the world. He was never ready for kids, he was never ready to get married, he was still living with his parents when he met my mom. I wish I didn’t blame him for not being prepared, I wish that I spent time with him while I had the chance.

Although my dad is alive and as healthy as he can be, he’s dying in my mind.

The memories are blurry and it’s easier to pretend I don’t have a dad. I don’t know how i’d approach him if I ever saw him again. I’m numb to him, It’s like he never existed. I hate myself for thinking like that, but I can’t help it. Now I look for people in my life to fill the empty hole that my dad once was. I blame other people for not loving me as much as my dad used to. I get angry because no one in the world can ever replace what he left behind.

If only I could have one more dad hug without hatred or resentment. I could smell his cologne one more time and maybe he could cook for me again. Then I wouldn’t feel so disappointed in myself for never appreciating what I had until he was gone.

_103

Liam Peoples __________________________________________ A Moment of Clarity At sixteen I was filled with hubris. One Halloween night, my crew and I were going to a bonfire; the venue was Kings Lane, an estate in my village. The four of us – Jack, Tommy, Rory, and I – were bold-faced and loud-mouthed in-spite of our slight builds. The fifth member of our group, Cameron, was different from us; he was humble, tall, at least 6’ 4”, broad shoulders, walked with an upright posture.

We used to refer to him as the ‘Big Friendly Giant,’ or BFG. I had persuaded him to come along with the words, “You will remember tonight for the rest of your life.”

With our arms swinging from our sides, confidence radiating from our every step, we passed a house on our way to the bonfire that caught our attention.

Jack turned, pointing at it, said, “Is that his house there?”

Cameron, with a confused look on his face, turned and asked me, “Wait, whose?”

“The scarred man, remember the one from a few weeks ago? He threatened us, said he was going to hit us for burning a sofa,” I explained.

“Oh! That’s his house?!” replied Cameron.

“Yeah” pausing for a moment. Without a second thought, I muttered the night’s defining words “We should egg it, show him who’s boss.”

“You know what? Why not?” replied Cameron – his willingness surprised me.

Cameron and I had our arms cocked, chests puffed out, ready to unleash towards a red brick, black terraced, bungalow. ‘SLAP!’ The satisfying smack of egg breaking on window.

Turning to our group we were greeted by Rory laughing, but then his eyes shifted focus to behind me. A ghostly look came over him, like he had seen a demon. He bolted.

My head shifted to follow his line of sight, and no less than 10-feet behind me was the scarred man sprinting at me, a metal bar in hand. My body reacted on primal instincts. There was no plan. No formulated escape. Pumped with adrenaline, we ran the direct course away from our self-inflicted misfortune.

The scarred man followed our route along with two other unknown men. We ran through alleyways. Took shortcuts through gardens. They hounded us at every corner, their footsteps getting louder. Tommy jumped a fence, followed by four other bangs. The five of us sat in darkness. Our pursuers stopped, their eyes piercing through the fence with malice. Scared breathless, we hoped silence would _104

save us; they scoffed at our hope. The tall man placed his hands on the top rail, sending us into a frenzy like headless chickens.

Separated, Tommy and I shot up the street back towards the bonfire. A man turned the corner, stopping Tommy dead in his tracks. The man’s fists were clenched, nostrils flaring, like a bull.

“I found you, rats” he barked at Tommy, “you made the mistake of picking us.”

“It wasn’t us; we didn’t do nothing, I promise,” Tommy shuddered.

Unbeknownst to the bull, the real culprit was standing within his reach – me.

The bull did not even look at me, refused to even acknowledge my existence.

He paced back and forth in front of Tommy, with every step closer, Tommy retreated. His hands were restless, wiping his eyes, trying to hide his uncertainty, whether he should beat up Tommy or continue on his way.

The bull closed the distance between him and Tommy, placing his fist on his cheek, exclaimed, “you boys aren’t going to live long, acting like children.”

Almost by divine intervention, he relented. The bull gave no reason for his sudden change of heart. Tommy and I took a breath of relief. No words were ever exchanged between Tommy and I about what just happened. The sudden buzzing of my phone indicated an incoming call, ‘Jack’.

“Liam, it’s bad, they got Cameron. We’re by the front of the estate, get over here now!”

Tommy and I sprinted to the entrance of Kings Lane, where our night had begun. There they were – Jack and Rory standing around a sitting Cameron.

Cameron raised his head towards me; only then could I see the gash under his eye.

Thick claret oozed down the right side of his cheek, staining his white T-shirt. We tried to console him, dry the tears from his eyes to no avail. He could not raise his head until his mother arrived.

For weeks after Halloween, I would lie awake at night, wishing that the scarred man had hit me instead – to wipe away this guilt I have now. Questions like, “How could the scarred man do that to Cameron?” and the repetitive, “How are we going to get him back?” rang from my friends for weeks. Their questions were empty words to me. We were powerless against the scarred man and his accomplices then, and we still were. I stopped hanging around with Rory, Jack, and Tommy after that. It was my own choice. I was ashamed of who I was – a cardboard gangster. _105

Barbara Perles

Abstract no. 1

_106

Barbara Perles

Chickens for Sale—Tuscany

_107

Barbara Perles

Flowers

_108

Barbara Perles

Gourds _109

Barbara Perles

Iowa Cornfields at Sunset

_110

Barbara Perles

Iris (watercolor) _111

Barbara Perles

Peeking _112

Barbara Perles

Poppy

_113

Barbara Perles

Sky Above

_114

Barbara Perles

Tomato

_115

Del Pritts ______________________________________________ World falls around me— Didn't it already fall?

No answers appear

_116

Daniel Raubolt

Arlington Memorial Bridge Eagle 3

_117

Daniel Raubolt

Big House Memorial Eagle _118

Daniel Raubolt

Black Lives Matter Movement, Polaroid

_119

Daniel Raubolt _________________________________________ So Began Let the family history appointments commence. Uncle Mark, 57, just had a liver transplant down in Panama, where he currently resides. Before the procedure, he was canary yellow, with his demise due to arrive in less than a week. Fortunately, he was #1 on the list, the diagnosis: hemochromatosis.

Someone else had to perish for him to thrive. The donor was a braindead 30-yearold from an auto wreck. Mark thankfully rebounded from his surgery, back to his normal, light strawberry yogurt skin tone, infinitely relieved from his struggle. My mother was found to be a possible benign carrier, yet she is two years older, currently ailing from facial and back rashes. I was soon to discover if I possessed this infection, so began my clinical care.

The fibroscan revealed my liver was abnormally enlarged, as my lower abdomen was brimming with fat, protruding forward over my belt and groin. I had seven hematuria episodes, two quite severe, over the past four months, perhaps a side effect of my meds, or worse. It was recommended I undergo multiple hepatology blood draws and an MRI scan, which induced apprehension and curiosity simultaneously. So began the samplings of my Type A Positive, pinprick after pinprick; I forget the exact amount, presumably five or six. The day of my MRI was perhaps the most peculiar, as my folks and I descended the stairs of the U of M Medical Center to the B2 level, two stories underground. I knew the morgue was present down there, hidden from public and patient view like classified CIA files. Upon entering, I was attired in a spotted gown in the changing room, bringing back memories of my surgery while in the 2nd grade. For approximately forty minutes I waited; perhaps the staff were overbooked, yet finally my name was summoned, and was soon escorted to MRI #2. Greeting me was a behemoth, upgraded, white Phillips MRI scanner, resembling a steam engine boiler and a doughnut combined. I lay down face up on the retracting slab, in which I was given headphones for instruction and a cord with a button to abort the procedure, should anything go amiss. A flat device was placed over my lower abdomen. I was slid into the magnetic tube, quite cozy in there from my vantage point, no sedatives needed. Directives were repeatedly relayed: Breathe in……...Breathe out……..Hold your breath. I pretty much felt like an astronaut in a hurtling lunar capsule, as magnets whirred, as the abdomen device aggressively bombinated and _120

quivered, causing instant, yet manageable warmth. Somewhat thankful was I of not getting doses of Chernobyl from a CT scan alternative. Quite a surreal, dreamlike setting it was, yet of course, the future began long ago. After just slightly half an hour, the procedure concluded.

I anticipated the results weren’t too dramatic. Unfortunately, it was discovered I had accumulated 40% fat in my liver (although 40% is failing in arithmetic). The enzyme levels were abnormally high, presumably from me consuming three 20-ounce Pepsis before and during each shift at the supermarket, along with processed meat sandwiches, giant-sized Hershey bars, the occasional mini apple pie. Occasionally do I drink beer and whiskey, though not enough to emulate Huckleberry Finn’s buzzed father. Thankfully, no scarring was present, but was likely soon to be. It was also noted that I had a compression fracture in the lumbar region of my spine, L1 to be precise, causing a bulge along with my slight scoliosis, probably from plunging off that three-story railroad bridge into the river three summers ago. I weighed slightly over 200 pounds, way unusual of a typical 23-year-old man without much muscular build. Time to ditch the carbs, if I could possibly manage to resist the crack-cocaine effect of sugar and corn syrup.

Somehow my viewings of YouTube obesity autopsies were enough to convince me being six feet under wasn’t too distant if I continued the habit most Americans refuse to stray from. So began my workouts, yet I had plenty of physical labor at my employer.

Three months later proved positive, however. I dropped to 183, my levels reached almost normal. I noticed my jeans slightly fell away from, rather than constricted, my waist. My blood work revealed that I had no traces of that damned disease……..yet. Viewing my ghostly MRI image, my inner workings appeared in proper situ, yet abnormalities manifested. My liver’s grayness was lighter than normal, due to fatty buildup, the bile ducts resembling ant caverns.

The L1 lumbar vertebra indeed was ruptured, improperly healed, the upper intervertebral disk cockeyed at a near 45 degree angle, barely avoiding contact of the downstairs disk, dropping me from 5’ 9’’ to 5’ 8’’. Yet by a stroke of luck I wasn’t paralyzed. I have yet to undergo a second fibroscan and MRI, yet I anticipate a slightly deflated liver, hopefully to regenerate, as transplants are pricey, with fatality the ultimate price.

_121

Daniel Raubolt

Wampler’s Bridge and Canal, Polaroid

_122

Nur Muhammad Renollet ________________________________ Alone I look through the doorway – face riddled with the uncertain face hardened into a dam to hold back the flow Eyes oh so filled with fear stare into the unknown searching for an answer with a silent cry for help Hands clench into fists white knuckled – they tremble arms like scaffolding they hold up an imminent collapse From the weight I hold inside – my knees buckle in a pitifully slow collapse I crumple into prostration A tear now begs to be released chin trembles holding back unveiled anguish Eyes stare at the earth where feet once stood firm There I reside in anguish and fear Too scared to let go of what has passed Too scared to rise … to step forward

_123

Nur Muhammad Renollet ________________________________ For the Rebellion “I’m going to ask you again.... Captain Volto Zaran is it? Tell me... where is that Rebel scum friend of yours heading with that information?!” Spit sprays my face as the Imperial Security Bureau Officer stresses the final syllables with a voice so riddled in a core world accent it's disgusting.

I hide a grin with what is left of my lips. That bastard Jak is probably halfway across the galaxy you Imp! is all I can think to myself. I try to stare down that white-clad Imperial officer but fail miserably. My head sags under its own weight and I’m forced to look at the mutilations that riddle my half-naked body with my only remaining eye. Blood, sweat, and grime plaster the remaining parts of my legs and torso; my arms held overhead out of sight. Ribs protrude at awkward angles and burning lash marks oozing with pus line my stomach. Whatever white clothing they placed around my genitals, only for the decency of the Imperial ISB Officers, is now soiled and bloodstained. Drill marks penetrate my flesh and slowly drip like broken moisture vaporators. I almost lose whatever drugs they’ve forced down my throat as I see the form that was my right knee cap. Never did I know that even in a suspended grav field a human leg could bend like that.

“Gah!” I yelp as a hand too cold and fingers too long snatch my jaw and jerk it upward.

“I said... where is your counterpart Jak Br’sik heading?”

“J-Jak i-issss going… to t-the...” The drugs. The damn drugs! What am I saying?!

“Good. Good. Keep going,” goads the ISB Officer.

“No… No....” My eye starts to bug in terror for what I might say.

“No?” she mocks.

“G-go to hell you Imp!” “If that’s the case, you’ll see it first!”

“Ahhhh!... AHHHH!....” Ungodly sounds come from my lips as atrocities on my body come at the cruel, deranged laughter of the Imperial officer hellbent on finding information she’ll never get.

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive, scum,” I hear through drug-filled dazes.

“You’ve held out longer than all I’ve faced before… impressive, but futile nonetheless. You’ll break, of course, one way or another.” _124

My eye flutters open. Again I’m in that sagging position, but this time just alone in this hot, humid, disgusting cell. If my body looked different than it had earlier, I honestly couldn’t say for the life of me as I slipped out of consciousness shortly after torture resumed. I’ve been slipping faster and more often, blast! After I helped Jak escape the Imperial Comms post on Fornok-7 with the coded transmission detailing prisoner transfers, I knew I’d need a miracle of the Force to get me outta this alive. Guess the Force wasn’t with you this time, huh? Even on the edge, I can still make myself chuckle. Though what comes out instead is a series of guttural spurts of blood and phlegm.

My breaths are now coming long and short. I can hear all too familiar heavy boots getting louder outside the slanted door. Just let me die already. For the Force’s sake, let me die! I pray to myself in desperation, I don’t know how much more I can take. Like that Imp said, it’s a miracle I’m still here.

Whoosh No. She’s almost here. Drumming heart slows. Remaining feeling fades. Only images slog through my mind's eye. A blazing village. My parents burning alive as I’m dragged away by my sister. Rebel refugee camp. You took us in when the galaxy forced us out. My lifeless sister in my arms. My first squad. You gave me a family when I had none. You gave the galaxy hope when there was none.

“Have you decided to comply, Captain?”

I steal one last breath and mutter one last time.

“F-for the Rebellion….”

_125

Natalie Rinehardt ______________________________________ Anger on Call I have anger on call That is, I am calling on anger But the line is busy, been waiting for hours What should I do with this frivolous time waiting Play with the imaginary lines I am drawing in the wall Find a new small corner or space to crawl into and wait Read a book, sing a song, water a plant, think about cleaning Before I know it!

I have forgotten why I have called- I wish

_126

Morgan Rogowski ______________________________________ Barn The weathered barn sits Devoid of life Junk-filled milking stalls beg for purpose Where cows once roamed Overgrown weeds make up the landscape A superficial farm Framed by cookie-cutter houses Mocks what once was

_127

Savan Saiya-Cork _______________________________________ Seeing Red Megan, Maggie, Kate, and I had one last day together before we went away to college. So, determined to have the perfect summer day, we went to the Adrian public pool. It was an exotic treat for us as our town had no public outdoor pools.

My friends were excited to suntan; while I, on the other hand, was worried that their fragile European skin would burn under the hot sun. I enforced a mandatory sunblock policy despite their protests. Their ignorance for their own safety should have made me more cautious; but I paid it no mind as they applied sunscreen to prevent their porcelain complexions from erupting into wildfires. Later I would learn that sunburns would be the least of our concerns.

Upon our arrival we noticed something strange. There were only four of us, but we had six shadows. Somehow, we had caught the attention of a middle aged couple who began to stalk us. As girls, our entire lives were comprised of countless lessons about spotting predators and avoiding their advances. I was the first to notice their approach. Anytime we moved our towels and belongings, they would discreetly move their own items a few feet away from our new spot. Every step we took was mirrored by two strange adults who were always right behind us. Once I understood what was happening, I turned almost as pale as my friends.

The woman stayed on land, not tanning, just sitting, watching us and her male partner in the pool. The man drifted around the pool circling us like a shark who smelled blood in the water. I was not worried that these two would physically hurt us; but I was bothered that the wife was near our unprotected belongings as we played in the pool. I joked that instead of kidnapping us they were just going to jump us in the parking lot. We laughed, but my joke slowly became more of a theory rather than an absurd thought. They progressively moved closer and closer, growing bolder as time went by. We tested their reactions to our decisions. Kate and I volunteered to go down the waterslide, where the man quickly caught up with us, managing to steal a spot in line right behind us. It hit the breaking point when I accidentally crashed into the man while playing Marco Polo. Later on, my friends told me that he slowly moved right behind me, waiting for me to fall into his open arms.

We were just trying to enjoy our last day together before we had to leave _128

each other for months; instead, we spent a majority of our time paranoid of two sinister adults who wanted something from us. All we could do was pray our swimsuits would remain on our bodies and that our red blood wouldn’t be splattered on the pool deck.

We tanned most of the time we were there; because the couple couldn’t steal our stuff if we were guarding it. I saw red as the sun burned through my eyelids while I laid on the ground painfully aware of the couple’s gaze, scanning our bodies. I was too afraid of the couple enjoying the view to make my friends reapply the sunscreen after we resurfaced from the pool. Vulnerable to the sun’s rays and the couple’s fantasies. Luckily, we managed to escape with our belongings and our lives. But I didn’t feel the same relief my friends felt. All I could think about were the millions of people whose stories didn’t have such happy endings.

When we returned to Megan’s house, Maggie complained that she didn’t tan (of course she didn’t; she’s of English and German descent). I tried to reassure her by telling her that a person’s tan won’t appear until they sleep. Her rebuttal lacked words; she simply pointed to the fresh tan line on my shoulder. So, I quickly turned a different shade of red than my friends’ freshly burned skin.

_129

Wanda Kay Sanders _____________________________________ Behind Closed Doors Behind closed doors our neighbors are more a mystery than ever.

Before we had a glimpse of them as they came and went carrying briefcases and back packs. Same time everyday in scrubs with cups of coffee and lunch bags; others in jeans and hardhats.

Did we ever take the time to learn more about them or just their schedule?

But now we only see then behind the window glass or in masks if they venture to the mailbox or to gather up the newspaper.

Behind closed doors what fills their days? What kind of schedule do they keep if any? Somehow we wonder about their lives in ways we never did before.

And we wish them good health both selflessly and selfishly.

And we question if they think the same about us.

_130

Jordan Scenna _________________________________________ Game Theory I’m sitting in my new chair, desperately trying to synthesize the light from my new Verilux sun lamp. I’m begging it. Have you ever pleaded with an inanimate lamp to give you its power? Well, it sounds something like this.

“Listen lamp, I don’t know you, or like you, but we have to work together on this one, O.K. If you can just help me get through this I promise to unplug you once in a while. Dust you off. Come on, let’s make a deal.”

What I’m avoiding; what I don’t want to admit; is that I need the lamp. I need it to help me sit my butt down and scribble something, anything. I’m trying to write a children’s story, but I can’t focus. I have an idea of an idea. There’s something behind the fog. Something brilliant, insightful, and hilariously relatable.

But memories are thick. The payoff is somewhere at the other side of the ball pits this young chubster could never navigate. I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, panicked and desperate. So, in this time of uncertainty and distress I did the only thing a reasonable adult man could do; I called my mother.

“Everything you write is so dark,” she says. “Funny...but dark.” She thinks this is a criticism. I think it’s the greatest of compliments.

“Why don’t you write a story about a happy childhood memory.” This casual suggestion made by my caring yet crafty mammy had two goals. One, to get me to focus on a happy memory, but more to the point, to remind me of what a great mother I have and how I should be so lucky. Now I need this lamp to do its job, this sun lamp, that my mother so thoughtfully bought for me, to work. Oh lamp, imbue me with copious amounts of Vitamin D so I can write something with happy dripping like sweat from a marathon runner. Maybe it’s working, if I sit still, I think I can see it. Baseball in the summertime. If this damn lamp would just do its job then I could write a story about baseball and the frosty and refreshing cherry snow cones at Oak Park Park. There you have it; a sweet memory; zippity do da.

Nothing makes you feel less like a ball player than wearing pastels. When Darrell Evans took first base for the Detroit Tigers, he wasn’t wearing a bright pink uniform, he was wearing the dark grays and rusty oranges of the 1980’s ball club.

But when your little league sponsor is a local ice cream parlor, they trot you out on the field looking like a big scoop of blue sorbet. To contrast, the most feared team _131

in the league donned the black and gray of Mel’s Auto Parts. They appeared strong and confident like the roaring Ford Mustangs Mel help fix into the fiery monstrosities that raced across our roadways. I’m not saying there’s a correlation between jersey hue and sweet, nourishing victory, but they did split our banana more than once, devouring us like a double scoop of mint chocolate chip.

I didn’t want to play baseball at first. When I was confronted with something new, something unfamiliar, a little voice inside (a sublet in my subconscious) would bubble up and calmly suggest that we “get the hell out of here.” But, lucky for me, my mom encouraged me to play. And I did. I managed past the sweat and the trembling and the fear; and I loved it. This was to happen more throughout my childhood. My mom recommended baseball and I loved it. My mom told me to read Ender’s Game and I loved it. My mom told me to take Karate and…well…two out of three ain’t bad. She’s batting over six hundred which more than qualifies her for the hall of fame. From tee-ball to little league I loved playing baseball. And, for at least one season, we were pretty good. We managed to make it into the playoffs, battling it out against the feared Mel’s Auto Parts. It was a close game. A hard-fought game. And in the top of the ninth we were down three; two on; two outs; and carrying my aluminum Easton (which, looking back, was also light blue) I walked up to home plate.

Christmas that year was one of my most memorable. I was an enthusiastic video gamer as a child (my first addiction; ah memories) and that year Sega Genesis was being released. An upgrade in technology that boasted a sixteen-bit experience which to this day I haven’t a clue what it means. I just knew that I wanted to play its inaugural release which featured a fleet-footed hedgehog named Sonic. Sonic was also blue (a pattern is emerging here that I was not aware of until now). I knew I was getting the new gaming system that year and I was as giddy as a schoolboy. Games: I love games.

Uncle Cary was with us for Christmas. He was visiting from Minnesota, and I remember always being happy when he would stay with us. An indiscretion, later as an adult I would feel a kinship with my uncle thinking we were cut from similar cloth, even though I never got to know him intimately. We both would struggle with despair. Some people suffer a daily demise that pokes from prickly nit-picks.

Others, their depression is more vague. Born of an omnipresent sense of loneliness and alienation. An inability to fit in. A square peg in a round hole, as it were.

Anyway, that year he also came bearing wondrous gifts. The piece de _132

resistance was a large telescope. Unfortunately for Uncle Cary, his timing couldn’t have been worse. Now, a telescope for another kid would have been teeming with mystery and the potentiality of grand adventure. A closer look at the stars could spark a child’s burgeoning imagination and open their mind to all types of possibilities. What a great gift for a young boy. Buuuuuut…I was getting a Genesis.

And I have this thing about games. So, when my Dad began unpacking and installing my new mechanical marvel upstairs, Uncle Cary began construction on the telescope downstairs. I was torn. I remember running upstairs to check on Dad’s progress, and then hurrying downstairs to check on Uncle Cary’s. I tried to split my time equally, like a foreman trying to oversee multiple projects at once. I remember thinking that I didn’t want to spend too much time in one place, lest I hurt someone’s feelings. I wanted both of them to know I was excited and grateful for their gifts. This is where my memory of that night muddies. What I do know is that I have many memories of sitting in my room spinning my way through Sonic’s colorful universe, bouncing atop homicidal crabs, doing loop de loops, and collecting gold rings for some unknown reason. I have no memories of ever using that telescope. I probably couldn’t figure out how to use the thing and gave up.

Maybe I’ve always had a problem with looking in, rather than looking out (me, me, me). But, it was a great gift, and helped provide one of my more memorable childhood holidays. Uncle Cary didn’t know it at the time, but that telescope never stood a chance. Space is filled with mystery and beauty. Bright stars, red planets, and endless galaxies. But for me, heaven was never up above. I found it in the game.

With two strikes and two balls I stepped outside the batter’s box and called time. If you’re ever wondering whether what you are doing can be considered a game, look to see if you can pause. I gazed out at the pitcher and I could swear he was a ringer. The afternoon sun, exploding with light, gave me an idyllic view of the fast-baller. He looked ten feet tall and had to be at least fifteen years old. I could swear that he had a mustache. As I stepped back into the batter’s box I had one thing on my mind. DO NOT STRIKE OUT! I had made my mind up before the pitch that I was swinging at whatever came next. The ball could have been thrown behind me and I would have swung. The pitcher wound up and I dug in. The pitch.

All I heard was the unmistakable dink of a baseball connecting with an aluminum bat. I took off running not knowing if it was fair or foul or if someone had simply dropped a wrench in the bleachers. As I rounded the bases I could hear cries of _133

RUN! RUN! I listened, and ran as fast as I could; which I wasn’t; fast that is. But I didn’t stop. Not until I crossed home plate did I look up. The ball didn’t even make it to the infield. Through the beauty and reliability of little league fielding errors, I made it all the way home. I had tied the game. I ripped off my helmet and whipped around to look at the field. It was beautiful. My teammates were cheering, filled with the joy a child feels when they succeed. Its intensity only matched by the devastation we felt when we lost the game in the bottom of the ninth. We couldn’t play defense to save our lives.

Baseball, Uncle Cary, and Sega Genesis. These are three memories that I have as a child that I look back on with tenderness. That make me smile. Weekend practices. Uncle Cary teaching me Chess. Blue hedgehogs. Thanks mom, thanks for reminding me.

I am fortunate.

_134

Jordan Scenna _________________________________________ The Perilous Lives of Animals The blood that is currently working its way into the fabric of my sweater isn’t all mine. It’s an ancient blood. An adversarial blood. And as I stumble down the sidewalk, nursing my injuries and trying to shelter from an unsympathetic winter frost, this blood is the only thing on my mind. Copious amounts of adrenaline encircles my nervous system and passes through the archaic claret. My head is buzzing. My chest is tight. This is the calm before the storm. The onslaught of panic. What the hell just happened? Was it supernatural? Was it fate? Was it a proclamation of a life lived in the perpetuity of solitude. At the moment, I’m only sure of one thing and one thing only; I despise monkeys.

My dear friend Thornbury and I had rented a suburban, two-bedroom house in a part of town we’ll politely refer to as modest. The rooms were pornographic, that is, barely legal in terms of square-footage, and certainly not suitable for any acceptable way of living. There was a musty bathroom, where moisture gathered along the ever-widening cracks in the ceiling. The drips that dive-bombed the back of our necks were subtle reminders of a life lived in error. Nevertheless, being young and uninitiated into the world of comfort and luxury, we joyfully called the place home; or more accurately, we called it “The Monkey House,” due to the fact that the current tenants were two-foot-tall monkeys with multicolored hair and silent dispositions. These stuffed animals were still there when we moved in, and we decided to let them stay, it being winter, and because the neighborhood shelter had a strict policy against fostering plush, inanimate primates. We hung them on our living room walls between the windows. This was their territory, their trees to climb, their branches to swing from. They gripped the dust-stained blinds with their soft paws and refused to let go. They encompassed the vast colors of a rainbow. One was orangutan orange with bright green whiskers. Another one was blanketed in black, except for the eyes, a mythical blue of a blood that has never tasted air. Often, Thornbury and I would sit with them in our living room.

“Wouldn’t it be great to have a real monkey,” Thornbury often said. Not to reveal my contentment I would resort to humoring his tendency for whimsy.

“Of course it would, but just think of the shedding.”

“Do monkey’s shed?” he asked. _135

“Probably.” We sank into ourselves, silent, and made warm by the company of the other. Outside it was snowing.

On the day I turned twenty-six I celebrated with Thornbury. He congratulated me with thick smiles and slaps on the back. Being homebodies, we decided to stay home. We enjoyed music, devouring every hidden measure found inside the hollows of a pair of old conga drums. We made collages out of old newspapers and magazines that were lying around the house. We did entertain the thought of going out, but we were engaged in a lively debate over the virtues of music; Radiohead’s sojourn into electronica versus their earlier, more rock-oriented offerings. And soon we were again cutting and pasting, tearing and taping. We dedicated our work to each other. After a long and comforting silence, Thornbury spoke.

“I got a monkey.”

“What was that?” I asked, not even lifting my head from an issue of Vice Magazine.

“I bought a monkey yesterday, a real one.” I looked up at my friend and swatted a fly that had landed stealthily on top of his head.

“Sure you did.”

Thornbury sprang to his feet with an energy I seldom witnessed from him, almost turning the small card table we were using as our work space on its back.

“Come with me,” he said.

The pint-sized primate didn’t notice us as Thornbury slid open my bedroom door. He didn’t notice us tip-toe past piles of clean laundry and unread books. He didn’t even notice when we crept up and stood, glaring at him from behind. He didn’t notice because he was shitting on my bed.

“Don’t worry I’ll clean that crap up later,” Thornbury said. My best friend had bought a monkey. A real one. A real living monkey is what my friend had bought, and now that monkey was throwing its own feces at the stuffed monkeys that hung in our home. The shit splashed against the walls, defiling the stuffed monkey’s unpretentious yet proud community.

“I think he’s displaying his dominance over the herd,” Thornbury said.

“Herd?” I queried.

“Or maybe he’s marking his territory.”

“They were here first!” I replied. “It’s actually their territory.” The foundation _136

of safety cracked and shifted with the sudden transfer of power.

“I don’t think that matters much to him,” Thornbury said. “He must be the alpha monkey.”

During the next year we lived as happy as a family. We grew to love Monkey as we would any pet, son, or daughter. He did the things we did. We watched shows together, played games, and shared meals. I tried to feed him bananas, but Monkey would simply wave them away with a flick of his paw, a whiff of disgust on his monkey face.

“He won’t eat bananas because it’s a stereotype placed on him and perpetuated by his human oppressors,” Thornbury chimed in.

“We don’t oppress him. Besides, I thought he didn’t approve of me eating the bananas because it’s cultural appropriation.”

“It’s a complex issue and he’s very sensitive about it. I wish you’d take it more seriously,” Thornbury said. “Another thing, he’s getting lonely. He needs a girlfriend. I’m getting him one.”

One evening I returned home from work, as I always did. It had been a typical day of endless repetition and controlled nausea. A few weeks had passed since Thornbury procured a mate for our little furry friend. I thought I was alone in the house. The air was still and silence tightened its grip over my temperament. I moved through the rooms, somewhat sluggish and in anticipation of a crippling and dangerous boredom. But as soon as I parked myself in front of the television, loud exotic sounds leaked out from Thornbury’s bedroom. I listened to the highpitched ooing and ahhing as it grew louder and louder. The noises invaded my eardrums, encouraging me to claw at my ears, the sound made bearable only by a buffer of curiosity. I opened the bedroom door, and the potent, overpowering smell of copulating monkey funk rushed up my nostrils, alerting the contents of my stomach of an impending emergency and advising an evacuation. Out of nowhere Thornbury ran in exclaiming, “They’re trying to have a baby! Isn’t it great?”

Thornbury had not set out to be a monkey farmer, a purveyor of primates, an administrator of apes. As the years passed Monkey produced many offspring.

Thornbury would keep most of them, others he would sell to people as “man’s new best friend.” He cornered the market. If you wanted a monkey, and of course you do, you couldn’t simply go to the pet store and pick one up like a goldfish or guinea pig. It was an incredibly lucrative endeavor, and I was happy for him. But _137

now, when I came home from work, I had to fight for everything. There were too many damn monkeys in the house. I had to fight my way to my room, wading through enormous assemblies of apes. I had to fight for the food in the refrigerator. I had to fight for my friend’s attention. I even had to wait in line to use the bathroom. Thornbury had taught the monkeys to shower because he was tired of bathing them himself. It was quite astounding, really. They would enter the shower four or five at a time and clean themselves with various body soaps and shampoo. The vainer monkeys applied conditioners and exfoliating facial scrubs. They would dry off with my towels.

“No more picking lice off each other’s backs like a bunch of prehistoric baboons,” Thornbury would yell.

It was all getting to be too much for me. I fought with my friend over the fate of them all. I wanted them gone. I wanted my friend back. Our little house. Our simple life. These monkeys were taking over everything. They were everywhere, in every room, every nook; even the crannies were occupied with bipeds. They were eviscerating our friendship. I had to put a stop to it. Little did I know that Thornbury and Monkey were already making plans of their own.

That evening when I returned home from work, I found Thornbury lying on the couch while Monkey sat at an adjacent desk listening to him spill his guts about our dissolving friendship.

“We just don’t see eye to eye anymore, you know. It’s like we’re not even the same species.” Monkey stretched his slender monkey arms up over his head and let out a profound yawn, as if to say he was well aware of what was going on.

I was furious. Why didn’t he come to me first? Why didn’t he tell me how he felt?

Beating my fists against my chest I burst in on their session.

“That’s it, you’ve finally lost it haven’t you. I can’t take this circus anymore.

Either the monkeys go or I do.” Thornbury rose to his feet, planting them firmly on the Berber.

“We’ve already decided,” he said. “We think you should leave.”

My entire body was burning like a gasoline fire. I lunged at Monkey, growling and screaming unintelligible obscenity. I tried to grab him around his neck, but he was too quick. He was a monkey after all. He jumped on my back and started biting my ears. Blood ran down my cheeks. I managed to reach back and poke him in the eyes, and he went blind. Knowing he was facing defeat, his entire troop ganged up on me. I was in the middle of a full-blown monkey melee. I had three on _138

my back and shoulders pummeling my head. They used their sharp teeth to bite my ankles, defending their tribe against the challenger. There was too many of them. I succumbed to their weight, their number, their strength. I was beaten.

Battered and bloody they tossed me out of house with nothing, not even my coat.

Looking up, I could see icicles like stalactites fabricating off rusty gutters. What happened? I had just lost my best friend. A man without a tribe is a meandering animal. A dangerous animal. Discarded and betrayed, I had nowhere to go. There was so much to unpack and nowhere to put it. Alone, the world is unmarked wilderness. And what do you do when monsters prowl your surrounding? You fight. You fight everything. Everyone. And as I walked down the road, cold and humming with rage, I readied myself for the oncoming conflict. I was alone. I raised my head to the sky and howled. A primal scream.

Maybe I’ll get a dog, I thought.

_139

Apryl Scheffler-Martin

Brilliant Icicles

_140

Apryl Scheffler-Martin

Majestic _141

Apryl Scheffler-Martin

Puffy Clouds before a Morning Storm

_142

Apryl Scheffler-Martin

Puffy Clouds on a Sky Canvas _143

Apryl Scheffler-Martin

Resilience

_144

Apryl Scheffler-Martin ___________________________________ She is a Storm She is a storm She booms confidence She radiates energy She pours power She does not hold back She unleashes everything she has She is calm and peaceful She collects her power She draws herself up She swells with exhilaration She bursts forth for all to see She is glorious She cannot be contained She rests, though she does not tire She repeats, though she is never the same She is a storm

_145

Scott Schuer ___________________________________________ Dec. 21, 2020 Covidnotes 11: Supplemental Our sphere of succession continues through the elliptic vacuum, round a blazing ball of life—182 days since springtime uploaded a naive hope.

Historians will recall the time of anti-vaccer reconning, when the sick and healthy chose sides at the expense of all—what we secretly knew came to pass in gory technicolor.

There will be a comin’ round to a time when everything changed and normality refused to reign.

_146

S.L. Schultz ____________________________________________ The Open What begins as a thought moves insistently towards a deep, blue cove.

At the edge of coarse sand stands a forest of swaying pines.

Two eagles sail, one lighting onto a perched nest where open beaks beckon.

Without effort, the other circles with keen eye in the high calm wind.

The awaiting red canoe sweeps the thought out into the open, where a black and white orca hunting may break the surface with a fin.

But, no, there’s three, two large, one small, reeling through the water, returned, exhausted from their long journey north.

Passing ships above torpedoed sounds down under, leaving them dazed but through mercy not thrown off.

They, like the thought, know where the current of time takes them, out into the open like the awaiting red canoe.

In tandem they glide on a thread into a bead.

_147

Sophia Sims ___________________________________________ I Wait in Silence A candle burns as darkness engulfs the room Desperation silences my words But the feelings rage Winter is haunted by clouds and a kiss of loneliness.

Thoughts waltz around me Sitting, I hold one It will be the one that sets me free.

The words forgotten, the lines never written Feelings I don’t say And a photo of the one I love Reminds me of the fire that burns alone Keeping me warm until the day is right.

_148

Thaliana Smith-Ponce ___________________________________ Masked 03/28/2030 “Dear Journal, I begin to lose myself in my own thoughts as if the walls are crumbling in and I have nowhere to go. The world is heavy like I’m carrying boulders on my shoulders. It continues to beat down on me like I’m a boxer fighting in the ring, trying to find enough strength to keep going. And through all that, somehow I am lost at a loss of words to describe what is happening to this planet and even my own life…

Around the world, yet another deadly disease has come upon the human race.

One that is hard to battle and find a cure for. Families are directed to stay in their homes at all times unless it’s necessary to leave. The law also prohibits you from going to family gatherings and parties, that way if someone does have the deadly disease, they won’t infect others. Some stores, amusement parks, and movie theaters are required to shut down until further notice of opening back up. The economy begins to diminish over time. Reports of the disease begin to increase at high rates and so does fear that fills the air. Over hundreds of years, no scientist has seen any disease like this one. They call it Aparalistic.

The cause of the disease was simply eating the new species of berries and it is very contagious in the same way Covid-19 was. If you catch the virus, you will start by coughing. Next, you will be short of breath. Then you will experience nausea and vomiting. Not only that, but you will suffer from bumps and rashes. Under this time, you are under the influence to wear a mask and stay 6 feet away from people.

Quarantining isn’t the only negative effect on my life, but being with my parents is so much worse. A true nightmare. As an only child, my life from other people’s perspective is it’s tremendous and they would love the lifestyle I have. We’re talking 4 Audis all RS7’s (sports cars), a mansion, and pretty much anything you _149

have ever dreamed of. Even if that dream includes a private chef, maid, and butler, but in reality, sometimes it’s overbearing. My parents are successful and rich, and that’s how I want to be, but when they put money over their own child then that’s where it begins to become a problem for me. My mother and father aren’t totally horrible parents. They push me to do well in school, but when I do perform well, they don’t praise me for it or even acknowledge it the slightest bit. I feel like a book collecting dust on the shelf, all alone and forgotten.

As much as I would love to tell them that, the chances of them caring are zero to none. When I walk into a room to try and talk with them, they don’t ask how I am because they are always on their phones, and they don’t suspect anything is wrong because I plaster a smile on my face. I remember telling them I won a scholarship of $400,000 because I didn’t want my parents paying for my schooling. I even donated $200,000 to charity and the only thing they said was, ‘That’s great son, but I have to take this call.’ As I told them this, they didn’t even glance at me, they were too busy glued to their phones. As a result of my parents, money and work are their priorities.

What really keeps me going these past few years is my best friend Harper, who I have a tiny crush on. She’s helped me through everything, thick and thin. She threw me a birthday party last year because my parents forgot my own birthday and by birthday party, I mean the 2 of us. We are all we need…”

“Eric, are you done writing in your diary?” Harper asked.

I closed my journal so fast, the papers on my desk flew off. “A. it’s not a diary, it’s a journal. And B. I am now since you interrupted,” I said.

“Fantastic because I have a couple of questions on why guys—no offense—are idiots? This guy Trenton I am talking to doesn’t even the time of day,” she said.

I said, “None taken because I am not one of them. Anywho, go on.”

After her rant, she asked how I was, I told her some of the things I wrote in my journal, and then she came up with the idea for me to write a letter to my parents about how I feel. She left me to do so, and as I wrote the whole encyclopedia of _150

things, I felt a little weight lifted from my shoulders.

As I headed downstairs, my face began to sweat. I felt as if I was going to puke, I really hope it’s not Aparalistic or Covid. When I stood in front of my parents, I grabbed each of their phones. They looked at me as if I was some sort of alien.

Then, I handed each of them a copy of my letter. It was a stressful waiting game to hear what they had to say after reading it. The results were surprising, they both got up and hugged me.

Then my father said, “Son, I am so sorry I made you feel this way. I love you so much.” Something I haven’t heard from them in a long time.

My mom said, “We do love you so much and we want you to know that. I will make room in my schedule to have a family night and Bob you clear your schedule too. Friday nights are family nights.”

I walked upstairs happy for once, knowing that things were going to change. This time I didn’t have to put my “mask” on, it was a genuine smile. Once I got upstairs, I continued to write in my journal.

“Sometimes I think to myself, am I the only one who puts on a ‘mask’ all the time, or are there other people out there that do the same thing. What does it take for people to realize that sometimes a person is not actually okay? How do you know people aren’t hiding behind a mask all the time—not the ones you actually wear at the store? Coming forward to my parents wasn’t easy. The thought that rushed through my mind is will I lose my parents after this or have I already lost them? I felt like all my emotions broke through and became flustered the moment they started reading my letter. Almost like molecules trying to break free from being trapped in a tight squeeze in order to find room to breathe. Finally, the aching moments were over when my parents looked up at me, hugged me, and began apologizing to me. I felt free and glad that I could catch my breath knowing things will begin to change. I was no longer suffocating in the dark. Everything at that moment felt like they were grabbing my hand from the shallow deeps of me drowning. As if those boulders were finally lifted off my shoulders. My whole life I felt like I have been wearing a mask. So, I will no longer be wearing it because when you wear a mask, sometimes it’s hard to breathe. _151

Until next time Journal, Eric”

_152

Thaliana Smith-Ponce ___________________________________ Pieces Life is one big puzzle, All the pieces begin to shuffle, It’s like a dark tunnel, Where seeing begins to be a struggle, Will I step in a big puddle?

Or will I run into trouble?

Will someone help me through this small stumble?

Life can either throw trouble or things humble, All you have to do is hustle, And life with a little chuckle, You can live life in a bubble, Or find love so you can be a couple, Even friends can help you tussle through things, But in the end, Know life can either sting, Or help you spread your wings.

_153

Spicemaster Flex _______________________________________ My Life The household in which I grew up was not one of peace, harmony, or unity. It more resembled what I have come to learn as chaos, destruction, and calamity.

Both my parents are drug addicts suffering from mental illness. My father was physically and emotionally abusive. I recall a time when he put a rifle to the side of my mother’s head, and threatened to kill her while intoxicated. These are not normal occurrences in a sane household to the best of my understanding. The road ahead of me was painful, full of mistakes, but I did not succumb to it.

As a child I was shy, goofy, athletic, and outgoing. Over the years of living in my household, I began to change, and not for the better. I tried marijuana and alcohol for the first time at the age of 14. The pleasant, overwhelming sense of wholeness that came from ingesting these substances was something I had been lacking for the better part of my childhood. I started to care less about school. By the time I was 15, I had ingested nearly every drug I could get my hands on. This included oxycontin, heroin, cocaine, ecstasy, mushrooms, hash, and every prescription drug that would get me high. The black hole that dwells inside me to this day, commonly referred to as addiction, was beginning to consume my life. Today things are different.

My career as a drug dealer/addict began at the age of 16. I emphasize career because this is the path I followed for the next 14 years of my life. I have been arrested on at least half a dozen occasions. If you were to run a background check on me, it includes distribution of drugs, possession of drugs, assault, fraud, child endangerment, and petty theft. I lived a very reckless, nonchalant lifestyle. I did whatever, whenever I wanted, and never took other people or society into consideration. If I could make a $1 off something illegal, I was absolutely thrilled to do so. When I reflect back, I had no idea of the damage I was doing to myself.

In the winter of 2010, my lifestyle accelerated to a level that I only imagined the years prior. There was a new wave of synthetic drugs hitting the streets of Michigan called “spice” or “bath salts.” Upon learning of these new drugs, I was sincerely fascinated. Not only was it a new way for me to get high, these new _154

drugs skirted normal laws, meaning one could buy and sell them without getting in trouble. The universe had aligned for me. I could apply the skill set I had learned over the years without legal consequences. If my current self met my old self, I am not sure I would recognize him.

I spent the remainder of 2010 and the entirety of 2011 manufacturing and distributing synthetic drugs. I began making more money in a day than some people make in a year. My product was in over 400 stores in the state of Michigan.

It was literally in every corner store and gas station from here to the U.P. It began showing up in news reports. It had been linked to a murder suicide in the Farmington Hills area. I grew increasingly paranoid and was sure I was under investigation by the police. I wanted to stop, but the money just kept coming in. I would make $20,000 - $30,000 a week sometimes. If only I knew then what I do now....

In the spring of 2012, the state started to take a more aggressive stance towards these drugs. New legislation was soon to pass making these drugs illegal. One of my main distributors out of Detroit was arrested on drug and gun charges. I had made close to $1,000,000. I had a house that was paid for, several brand new cars, and a large amount of cash stashed away. I was ready to step out of that life and try something new. Not out of moral obligation, I just didn’t want to get in trouble.

Looking back, I am not sure if I even thought what I was doing was wrong.

It was July 26th, 2012. The time I am not too sure of but if I had to guess, it was around 6am. My wife at the time and I were tucked away cozily in our brand new $4,000 bed. I remember Jenna saying, “David...Somebody is at the door.”

Consciousness began slowly returning to me. Seconds later I hear several loud knocks on my door. This startled me, and I began to get out of my very comfortable bed. I slowly took a right turn out of my bedroom and walked to my living room, which contained a large bay window. Approaching the window, the knocks happened again, but this time, accompanied by the words, “ POLICE, SEARCH WARRANT!!!”

My heart sank. Instant panic and anxiety encumbered my body. Still standing at my bay window, I slid the curtain back to see at least 10 brutes, or heavily armed police officers. At least 3 carrying heavy assault weapons and wearing full riot _155

gear. In that instance, my world as I knew it, collapsed. With battering ram in hand, a police officer yells, “ OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!!!” As I walked to the door, so many questions and thoughts swirled my mind. Who snitched on me? Was it the last guy I dealt with? Wasn’t all this legal? Is there something I don’t know about going on here?

I walked to my door, unlocked it, put my hands behind my head, laced my fingers, and dropped to my knees. Within seconds my house was swarming with police.

Michigan State Police, Washtenaw County Sherrifs, Ypsilanti Police, and 2 D.E.A officers out of the Detroit field office. They dragged me to my back bedroom for interrogation, while they snatched my wife out of bed and threw her into the living room.

They were at my house for about 3 hours. They tore my house apart. Broke furniture. Harassed me about “guns” and “money.” All of which I knew nothing about, or at least that’s what I told them. They knew some of what I had done through the course of my drug business. They told me of times they followed me, purchased my product from stores for lab analysis, and how much money I had in the bank. They relentlessly asked me, “ Where are the drugs and money?”

By the time they left, they had seized a few laptops, a money counter, and roughly $5,000 in cash. They miraculously did not find the other $200,000 in cash that I had stashed around my house. To this day I still think of that as an act of providence. I was never charged. Nothing ever came of this incident, legally anyway. It wasn’t even until years later, that I began to reflect on my actions in this period of my life. Today I still hold onto the burden of my actions.

I often reflect back on this time. Sometimes I glamorize it in my mind. I fantasize about holding large sums of cash. In my mind I smell it, feel it, hold it, and it excites me in some sick way. Other times I am consumed with an enormous amount of guilt and shame. How many lives did I affect negatively? How many people were consumed by the same internal void that I have, while taking my product?

Sadly, even after all these things happened, it still took years for me to gather the courage to change. I would constantly take one step forward, and two steps back. I can say with a whole heart that some time has passed since I have sold or _156

consumed a drug. I have been sober for over a year now, and just beginning to live my life.

I have been extremely lucky to be granted the gift of insight. In my experience with human beings, not everyone has this ability. Most people go about their lives, not thinking about how they affect other people. They do what they want, when they want. Most would scoff at the idea. There is little time for self reflection in today's society. Luckily, I was forced into it. Today, it is one of my biggest assets. I’m in school. I have a job. I am able to provide for myself and put my past behind me. I am not the person I used to be. I did not succumb to my circumstances.

_157

Doug Stein

Alone _158

Doug Stein

Arcane Whispers _159

Doug Stein

Awakening _160

Doug Stein

Poetry

_161

Doug Stein

Sebastian Cove

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Doug Stein

Time

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Doug Stein

Vector Conformity

_164

Benjamin Stensen ______________________________________ Why are we fighting right now?

Why are we fighting right now? Thought experiment: create the universe, introduce one indifferent god. Doesn’t matter who, any old god will do. Give the fledgling god some matter and antimatter to play with. Like a toddler mixing ice cream and Play-Doh, it indiscriminately tosses the two together. Us humans know better than anything else that polar opposites tend to either bond until the universe dissociates, or enslave their entire existence to destroy their demonic counterpart. Matter and antimatter choose the latter. Cumulative nothing bores the god, and it gives the edge to matter. I won’t be too judgmental if you fast forward through the next hundred million years, but don’t miss the first stars to form from the god’s chosen winner.

Fast forward again, this time 13.8 billion years. Some of the stars decided to blow up and gain consciousness, making their home on a rock known to them as “Earth”. Though recycled ad nauseum since the god first introduced them to its cosmic mixing pot, they never truly forget their roots: the matter that sought only to destroy, to disagree, to contradict. They don’t have a perfect antithesis to wage war against anymore, so they find new ways to divide themselves. They fight amongst themselves, internally and externally. This is why we fight: it is in our nature. Our nature tears us apart, inclines us to destroy, tempts us with the prospect of eternal chaos. But here’s a thought: give these husks of red giants and white dwarves a bit of self-awareness, a dash of introspection, and they’ll start to put their infernal contrarianism to good use. They’ll have a crisis about their violent nature. They’ll use that fiery passion they were cursed with to make amends, to love themselves and their neighbors, to seek joy in creation rather than destruction. It’ll take a lot of work, but they think they’ve got what it takes.

We hope they’re not wrong.

_165

Ayesha Syeda __________________________________________ The Story of Us The story of us gets told over and over. What are we? We're just people wrapped up in identities so twisted that we forget who we are.

Our origins, we flush them down in the part of us that we don't want people to see.

We care deeply about those scrolling, wishing our names were on top of that screen.

We blind ourselves to the possibilities we come across. We get tempted by lust; we want what we can't have; we never appreciate what we have.

We crave the sense of feeling like we belong, yet the demeaning words of other cause us to deny our very existence.

We measure our worth by likes and retweets, but we don't care who we are.

We paint ourselves new personas and act as if we live in a dream.

We hate the demons of reality as we hate the person we choose to be.

We hurt, and we cry behind shut blinds.

Bring light to the dark and the pain goes away.

No, You need to understand!

Pain – _166

Forever inevitable, It’s where I am!

We feel social media is our way of life, Our pride, Our world

_167

Michael Thompson _____________________________________ The Obvious Insect We delicate vessels churning the foaming bug food through the internal city Drumbeats in chambers alive in wonderous noise Granule sends the clockwork spinning grinding, screaming to cessation Longing for those bakery mornings lake breeze maskless infinite sky The dance and dodge of ceaseless days Conquering the glorious pestilent growth of echoing humanity Then the peasant earth rises pitchfork and laser bathing away the obvious insect

_168

Sarah Trudeau _________________________________________ Maternal Conversation My knee bounces anxiously as I stare down at my plate of pumpkin pie. I can feel her eyes on me as I drag my fork across the slice towards the dollop of whipped cream and I suck in my breath. From the kitchen, instrumental music lulls on the stereo and the booming voices of the men in the family break against the silence here in the dining room.

My mother’s incessant stare raises my heartbeat, but I don’t dare meet her eyes. Her words hang heavy in the air, where I let them grow stale. Luckily, my aunt excused herself from the table to tend to my young cousins in the living room and my grandma—who’s hard of hearing—is seated peacefully at the head of the table, scooping bites of pie into her mouth, completely unaware of any tension.

“Sydney, I thought you said James would be here,” Mother repeats herself, although I know that she knows I heard her the first time.

“We broke up. He’s not coming,” I say with a shrug.

Mother ticks her tongue, and I roll my eyes.

“Your grandparents were really looking forward to meeting this one, you know,” she says. “Maybe the next one, I guess.”

My fork clangs against my plate. I avert my gaze towards the candlestick in front of me and watch as a single drop of wax glides down it and plops against the white tablecloth. Instantly, it solidifies.

To my right, mother taps her nails against the table—a sound that’s worse than nails on a chalkboard to me. She sits upright with perfect posture and takes a sip of red wine. I watch as she swirls the glass, smells it, then puckers her mouth on the rim to sip as if she’s at a wine tasting. Having seen enough, I turn back towards the candle.

“It’s no wonder why he broke up with you when you refuse to answer people talking to you,” she says.

“You didn’t ask me a question!” I retort. “Besides, I never said he was the one to end things.”

I turn to face her, and she narrows her eyes at me.

“Did he?”

I frown and shove a piece of pie in my mouth. Her lips purse in way I’ve grown to recognize as satisfaction. _169

“School is going good, thanks for asking.” I say. The feeling of pins and needles spreads through my leg. I readjust on the dining chair.

“That’s great, sweetie.” Mother replies. “Want another slice, mom?” She has to yell in order for my grandma to hear her, but grandma nods her head and Mother cuts her another thin slice and slides it onto her plate.

I watch and rest my chin against my palm as I imagine what it’ll be like when I’m the one having to feed my mother another slice. I doubt she’ll thank me.

“I heard your friend, Mary, from high school is engaged,” Mother says while she cuts herself a slice. She doesn’t put any whipped cream on it, just eats it plain.

“I wasn’t friends with Mary Willmberg.”

Mary Willmberg invited me to her birthday party once in the fourth grade, and ever since, Mother’s assumed we’ve been best friends. I didn’t even end up going to her party.

“You’re being negative, Sydney. Stop it. I’m just trying to have a conversation with you.’

“A conversation?” My eyes widen and I raise my voice. “Can this conversation not be about my break up or how I’m not engaged, unlike Mary Willberg!”

Grandma looks up from her plate, startled, but Mother and I smile in her direction to ease any suspicion. It works. She returns to her dessert.

Mother glares warningly at me. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she says. “I only wanted to know if James was coming.”

“Well, he’s not.” I lower my voice for Grandma’s sake, and lean back in my chair. My next words balance on my tongue; I disregard the weight of their impact as I pull the trigger. “Why isn’t Dad here?”

The power shift is tangible and, for once, in my favor. Mother leans back in her chair, she tucks a long strand of hair behind her ears.

Her mouth opens, she’s about to speak when she’s interrupted by the men, my aunt, and cousins returning to the dining room. Simultaneously, we relax our faces into pleasant expressions and join in on other conversations in the room. Our eyes don’t meet for the rest of the night.

_170

Kesley Walter __________________________________________ World Wide Web, Trapped in My Tiny Little Bed Any glare I fix the blank page Gets thrown back at me Even harder Even colder I sit at the table, Hours ticking by Just as fast as the minutes do My mind wanders against my permission Thinking about a TV show About a story About plans with friends I yell at it to focus Focus, focus But I focused so hard on focusing That I’m not paying attention at all In times of old, School was my prison, Home was freedom But now all of my time is spent in one place Bed to desk Desk to bed Go to sleep Repeat again Again And Again Even my choices of escape come from screens Binge watching a tv show Scrolling TikTok _170

Snapchatting friends E-books because the libraries are closed I try to write everything down On paper and pen Looking for some relief from the blue light That I see more than my family But going back and forth Takes extra time That I don’t have because I’ve procrastinated until the last second I have too much time on my hands But not enough on my feet My legs bouncing with an unreleased energy My lips raw from the biting My fingers itching to type something The knowledge that due dates are quickly approaching But still no energy, no drive to get me to do it I used to be able to spend the whole day at school Then go straight to rehearsals And them sometimes to work Now too many notifications send me into a sensory overload Where I have to lay down for 3 hours On my twin sized bed In my small bedroom With a bookshelf And a desk I can access the world at my fingertips But I’m so burnt out I sleep instead

_171

Tyler Wettig ___________________________________________ For All Times Reader—my reader—the answer shall not come in the vagueities of this poem nor the mire of this very oeuvre.

It shall come jejune in the etchings of the fugue of our days—and these days, alone.

It shall come cri de coeur by the night—just as it is written—and it is good.

It shall come with patience, patience— the after of all times is only just forever.

_173

KD Williams ___________________________________________ The Wind Carries The mourning dove plays that song I like in exchange for seeds I will be in the present moment feeling too much and then I will be gone— loosed like a balloon in a parking lot I will be your friend always I will be someone you meet years back I will be myself for so long and sometimes so myself it hurts Then I will recede I will be borne ceaselessly into a night with green light outside my window When I can’t sleep, I will perch on the windowsill and be so small again feeling, again breathing in another dimension, I must learn a new language that can only be spoken to a screen All this time and technology and yet your voice on the phone is a crackling shadow of itself I will be okay with the birds building a nest outside my window, even when they wake me before dawn, even when they steal my hair I will be gliding through time like a bullet train and also somehow stagger into its stony edges, dashed to pieces This month cocooning, I will be wrapped and unraveled I will be talking to myself like I am you and you are safely gathering wings around yourself I will be skeptical of concepts like hope and the wind I will be taken by them anyway _174

Alex Winks ____________________________________________ Sapling Street I sat across from 1090 Sapling Street in my rusted 1993 Honda. Sapling is a three-block jog tucked away in a grid of suburban streets. One-story houses line the sidewalks, their exteriors sloped down a gentle gradient of greens, browns, and whites. Maples sprang up every fifty feet or so. Their leaves were awash in the fiery oranges and reds of Autumn.

I’d grown up just down the street. It was a Polish neighborhood with big Catholic families crammed into three-bedroom houses. Now all the children have moved away, leaving behind an enclave of geriatric parents. They refused to sell their homes, rising property values be damned. To them, the allure of money was nothing compared to the abstract honor of dying in the houses where they’d raised their families. A blanket of silence hung over the street. The occasional dog bark or rumble from a passing car elicited a flurry of cracked window shades.

I stubbed out my fourth cigarette of the afternoon into the mountain of butts within my pullout ashtray. My eyes darted along the street, making sure nobody had noticed me. I caught my reflection in the rear-view mirror. With the bustle of the past week, I’d hardly had a good look at myself. Bloodshot tendrils snaked throughout the whites of my eyes and the skin below them sagged like melting wax. Hours had crawled by and Mrs. Jaborski still hadn’t left for her doctor’s appointment. I felt every minute of my four decades as stiffness gripped my spine.

What am I doing here? I thought, reaching to start the car for the sixth time since I’d parked. No! Can’t leave. Might not be pleasant, but it’s got to be done. I’d had a bad run at the tables a few weeks ago and I was into Alphonse for nearly five-grand. If I didn’t come up with the money by the next week, I’d have to start pricing wheelchairs.

My pal Henry had heard about my predicament and approached me at Senger’s a couple nights before. He snapped his fingers in my face to drag my eyes from my warped reflection in the pale amber of my beer. “Looking a bit preoccupied there, Velvet,” he said.

His breath told me he’d been on a bender and his appearance only added to this assumption. Light reflected off the oil of his unwashed jet-black hair. Red splotches marred his already pock-marked face. “I’m on borrowed time,” I said. _175

“I’ve got a proposition that might help,” Henry said, sliding onto the stool next to me. A month before, Henry’s grandfather had died and left everything to his grandmother. Henry’s parents died in a car wreck when he was a baby, so his grandparents had raised him. One day he’d been wailing in that horrible fullthroated way only kids can manage, so his grandfather cheered him up by bringing him to their bedroom, putting his liver-spotted finger to his lips, and cracking open a little safe to show little Henry the neat piles of cash that it held.

Apparently, they had grown up during the Depression and didn’t trust banks. The sight had burned itself into Henry’s memory. Anyone could just walk in there and take it, he said, and they could split it 50/50 with him. Ordinarily I’d be skeptical, but even as a kid I’d heard whispers about this stash.

The crash of a closing screen door shook me from my anxious stupor.

Looking toward the house, I saw white-haired Mrs. Jaborski shuffling toward her car. After what seemed an eternity, she hunched into her little sedan and inched out of the driveway. Beads of sweat pooled at the top of my forehead. My heart thumped in my ears. I ran my hand up and down the sleeve of my blazer. The static sensation of the velvet against my skin slowed my breathing. After this, I’ll never gamble another dime. As I made this bargain, I felt like I was back in my tight-collared Catholic school uniform, kneeling in the confessional as I lied to the priest about my sins.

I lumbered out of the car with a crowbar tucked between my arm and torso.

After swiveling my head in every direction, I skulked into the backyard. I jammed the crowbar between the back door and the frame. There was a sickening crackle as the tool bit into the wood and popped the door open.

The door opened to a kitchen of white laminate cabinets and checkered vinyl flooring that made my sneakers squeak. I went through the living room and turned down the hallway. Second door on the left, Henry had told me. In the bedroom, I found a crisply made bed covered with a pink floral comforter. A crucifix loomed above it. The mahogany of the cross and the dull grey of the Jesus figurine were the only hints of color on the white walls.

My knees creaked as I knelt to look under the bed. Sure enough, I found the rectangular silhouette of the safe. I pulled a crumpled sticky note from my pocket.

Henry had written on it a list of possible combinations. Birthdays, anniversaries, and the like. As I tried them, the clicking of the spinning dial reminded me of the chattering of my bike spokes as they flicked across the Jack of Spades I had taped to the frame. God, how many times did I ride past this house. I tried combo after _176

combo and yanked the handle after each attempt. The door held strong. My fear, guilt, and adrenaline coalesced into a burning sensation on my forehead that sent sweat pouring down my face. I was on the final combination when I heard a distant jingle of keys and the metallic slide of the dead bolt. I froze. My mind raced with options. Hide. Jump out the window. Knock her out. I settled on running out the way I had come in.

I shot up from the floor and entered the hallway, only to come face to face with Mrs. Jaborski. She didn’t so much as flinch. Her dark beady eyes stared out from their caverns of sagging skin, scanning my face for a few moments. “Is that little Virgil Nowak?” she asked.

Amazing, I thought. We hadn’t spoken in at least 20 years, but her 90-yearold mind still recognized me almost instantly. “That’s me, Mrs. Jaborski,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. She raised her eyebrows as if to urge me on and explain my presence. “I spoke with Henry the other day and it made me nostalgic to visit some people from the old neighborhood. I knocked, but I was worried you couldn’t hear me. I hope it’s okay I let myself in” I said.

“Hah!” she laughed, the force of it startling me anew. “Henry, Henry. For 20 years, I only see him once or twice a year then suddenly he comes around every day telling me to go to the doctor for a check-up! What’s a doctor going to tell me anyway? At my age death will come when he pleases. Anyway, I decided to go just to shut him up. Then, wouldn’t you know, I pull into the parking lot and realize I forgot my Medicare card.”

“Oh, well if you have an appointment I can get out of –” “Bah!” she said. “I’m not going to turn away a visitor just to make some appointment. Come into the living room and sit down so we can chat.” She shuffled down the hallway and I followed, my knees trembling with each step. In the living room, she lowered herself into a plush recliner that faced the kitchen.

Her blue-veined legs barely reached the floor. I sat opposite her and looked around the room. Family pictures covered nearly every available surface. A young Henry appeared in Many of them, his lips curled into a mischievous smirk. A portrait of Pope John Paul II hung above the red bricks of the fireplace.

“Look at you,” she said. “Still wearing your father’s old blazer. God! I remember when your mother caught him teaching you boys blackjack. I could hear her screaming from here.”

“I was just glad she was yelling at him instead of me for once,” I said.

A raspy chuckle escaped her before her eyes widened as her gaze wandered _177

toward the broken backdoor. For a few moments, a silence hung between us that stifled my breath. “How are you, Virgil?” she asked, straightening her posture.

“You don’t look well.”

My body quaked with the physical sadness of a child caught in a transgression. Tears ran down my cheeks, leaving glimmering streaks. “Things aren’t going great if I’m being honest.”

“That’s a shame. You were such a happy child. When I think of all the trouble you and Henry got into… well back then it was a headache, but now it makes me smile.”

I sniffled as my lips arch into a smile. “We never stopped getting into trouble, I guess.”

She considered this for a moment. “Now look at me,” she said. I rubbed tears from my eyes and met her gaze. She clasped her hands together in her lap, as her arthritic thumbs caressed the golden beads of a rosary. “It’s not too late to get on the right path. But that has be your choice, so I’ll leave it up to you. You can go back to the bedroom, take what you want, leave the way you came, and I’ll call the police; or, leave through the front and I’ll call a repair man.”

I looked back down the hallway and felt an icicle of shame jab into the back of my neck. I rose from my chair. “Thank you,” I said.

“My pleasure,” she said. “Come back any time.”

I hurried across the threshold and jogged to my car. As I settled into the driver’s seat, a lightness settled over me that I hadn’t felt in years. A burden had fallen from my shoulders. Sure, my problems were the same as they had been an hour earlier, but now I knew I could stop myself from making them worse. That might not be much, but it’s a comfort. Speaking of which, have you seen Henry?

I’m heading to Chicago for a while and I better break the news to him first.

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Contributors ____________________________________________________ Sarah Aardal is a student at Washtenaw Community College. Her hobbies include stepping on crunchy leaves and devouring nachos.

Faizan Akheel is an aspiring Computer Science student who has travelled all the way to the US to achieve his dreams. He is a Senior at Eastern Michigan University. Along with his major, he also loves perfecting his English skills and wants to set a bar for other students like him! [Faizan’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Alex Arzooyan’s poem first appeared in Origins.

Maryam Barrie: Married with two daughters, lives in the woods. [Maryam’s poem first appeared in Origins.]

Heather Barthell is pursuing a Journalism associate degree at WCC after completing her Technical Communication associate degree in 2020. Her poem is dedicated to all fathers who have faced uncertain times. [Heather’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Ethan Berman writes, "I strive to make people laugh or evoke emotions with my writing. I have a dry sense of humor, and I enjoy the simple things in life. In my free time, I always contemplate life and its intricacies. A voice echoes in the confines of my mind, “Why are we here?” It says, “Are we alone? I wonder."

[Ethan’s poem first appeared in Poetry Sustains: Heroes.]

Adella Blain spent several years as a librarian and a dean at WCC. She is a frequent contributor to The Huron River Review.

Wesley Bostwick writes, “I am a student in my last semester at WCC. I have a deep love for Fiction and am pursuing a career as a writer."

Olivia Bottum has been taking classes at Washtenaw Community College since 1992. She worked for thirty years at the University of Michigan on two humanities research projects, the Middle English Dictionary and Early English Books Online. _180

And she is still taking classes at WCC! She loves reading and writing and has a cat Bette. Her slogan is "Write on!" [Olivia’s piece first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Referencing his Twitter bio, William Bullard is a psychotherapist (currently retired), a Transpersonal/Jungian theorist, finishing a masters in literature, working on a masters in linguistics. He embraces and operates under the fact that, as the Jungian author James Hollis indicates, “it is not about what it is about.”

[William’s piece first appeared in Going Viral.]

Mae Bumpus is a recent Washtenaw Community College and Washtenaw Technical Middle College graduate, with Associate degrees in both Technical Communication and Liberal Arts. She is transferring to Eastern Michigan University in the fall, where she will double major in Political Science and Communications and minor in Astronomy. She is an avid artist, always seeking new ways to expand her creative skillset. [Mae’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Quareese Calhoun writes, “Born and raised in Flint, Michigan, I am a current student at Washtenaw Community College and the will be attending the University of Michigan college of LS&A in the fall. I would like to thank both Mr. Zimmerman and Mrs. Schultz for providing me with the opportunity and encouragement.

Special thanks to my fiancé Maranda, my children, my father & my late mother.

[Quareese’s pieces first appeared in Making Herstory and COVID Winter.]

Hannah Carapellotti has loved to write ever since she was little and hopes to make a career of it someday. She is a college student and will be transferring to the University of Michigan this fall to study English. She is also working in a school library, where she gets to read all the time! When not around books, Hannah likes to be with her friends and watch certain reality TV dating shows. [Hannah’s poem first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Lily Chan’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.

Monica Cialek is a high school math teacher in the third half of her life. She often finds herself happily lost in the details of the bigger picture. She hikes, kayaks, mushrooms, and along with her husband watches her adult children's lives unfold.

[Monica’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.] _181

Edith Morris Croake was a charter member of the English Department when Washtenaw Community College opened in 1966. Her poetry and stories have appeared in earlier issues of The Huron River Review and in WCC’s previous literary journal, Northern Spies. She is grateful for her current connections to WCC colleagues and writing opportunities. [Edith’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Rosalie Denenfeld has been writing poetry for over 60 years. She offers poetic messages of empathic insight, wrapped in sharp toothed humor. Even today she views the world as wonderfully hopeful, holding an enduring vision of peace for all life on the planet. Her vision is also expressed through artwork, photography, energy healing and the creation of healthy families. Rosalie thanks Jas Obrecht and Tom Zimmerman for their encouragement and keen appreciation of poetry.

[Rosalie’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

E.S.’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.

Noah Englehart’s poem first appeared in Origins.

Diana Fead writes, “As a student in WCC’s Creative Writing class this semester, I am new to poetry. Previously, I wrote and illustrated a humorous book of creative nonfiction short stories entitled Pink Collar—Hospital She-roes. I was inspired to write about fish while watching a nature documentary. I love to swim, but my pool is closed now. Fantasizing about fish is a healthy substitute.”

Cornelius Fortune’s work has appeared in Yahoo News, CinemaBlend, The Advocate, The Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market, Midwest Living, and others. He holds an MA in English Literature and has taught composition, technical writing, as well as poetry and drama. He is a part-time faculty member of WCC. [Cornelius’s poem first appeared in Origins.]

Charlie Fuller is public health professional, with a personal passion for expressive, illustrative, and written arts. A fervent believer that art is a re-creation of nature, her work relates to the intrinsic value of life and landscapes. If inspired to do so, find her @rhizome_artandtravel on Instagram. [Charlie’s poem first appeared in Making Herstory.] _182

Sofie Gelderloos writes, I am a sophomore at Washtenaw. “Luna” is a piece I wrote for my creative writing class but it was the beginning of my love for poetry.”

Lirit Gilmore is a black student who lives in East Lansing, Michigan, with her family and single cat. She is originally from Washington, DC, and has been living in East Lansing for 9 years. She enjoys baking, abolition, practicing yoga, and writing creatively. She hopes to continue her creative writing throughout her undergraduate career, and use it to propel her activism and inventiveness. [Lirit’s poem first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Adrianna Green’s poem first appeared in Poetry Sustains: Heroes.

Drake Grey is a student at WCC, taking English 270 (Creative Writing) from Amy Higgins in the Winter Term 2021.

Alona Henig’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.

Amy Higgins reads poetry for delight, writes poetry in a futile effort to stop time, and teaches writing so students can speak their truth. She's had the privilege at WCC for 20 years. [Amy’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Susan Houston is a part-time faculty member for WCC and OCC. She has been teaching English for 23 years, while raising two boys with her husband. In addition to writing, she likes to read a lot, enjoy nature and visit with friends. [Susan’s piece first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Rose Hutcheson is a part time writer and a full time fool. jiggityjag: Married, student, and dabbles in a little bit of everything. [jiggityjag’s piece first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Megan Johnson is a WCC student who loves all forms of storytelling, from writing to acting to singing to art. She is currently pursuing a degree in American Sign Language interpreting, but also does freelance portrait work on Instagram (@the_redhead_lefty) and seeks out any opportunity she can find to share her _183

creativity with others! [Megan’s piece first appeared in Poetry Sustains: Heroes.]

K.I.M. Jones has been a full-time faculty member at WCC since 2002. She has a law degree from Cooley; a Ph.D. in Educational Leadership and an M.A.T. in Reading and Language Arts from Oakland University; as well as a B.A. in English, with a minor in Theater, from Michigan State University. [K.I.M.’s poem first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Tommy Kaminski writes, “Writing has been a passion of mine since I started in high school and every day it grows only stronger.” [Tommy’s poem first appeared in COVID Winter.]

Aaron Kaufman is an interdisciplinary artist, student, and part time cog. Utilizing abstraction, contextualization, and barriers as central elements in my art. Filtering views on life, and of life, through an existential lens I can satisfy my urges for the absurd through surrealistic works. Nothing is stranger than truth, or more base than fiction. While hindsight is not 2020, if you practice ambivalence it may be!

Marybeth King is an aspiring writer currently working towards an MFA in Creative Writing. She is a retired pastry chef who lives in Ann Arbor with her husband. Her work has been published in the 2019 and 2020 Huron River Review and New Beginnings Magazine.

Diane M. Laboda lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She is a former teacher-librarian and retired Washtenaw Community College executive assistant. She enjoys exploring life’s mysteries and sharing with others in her writing and artwork. She’s published poetry, short stories, articles and photos in literary journals and anthologies both online and in print. The Huron River Review issues 1-19.

Contributor to Grief Becomes You: A Narrative of Loss, edited by Maya Stein. https://griefbecomesyou.com/ She has published two chapbooks, Facing the Mirror and This Poet’s Journey, and is working on her first book-length collection of poetry on care giving and grief.

Hannah Lain writes, “I'm a 20 year old student enrolled in the Photography program. Besides that, I volunteer for a rescue in Tecumseh called Little Mews. If I'm not photographing or holding kittens though, you can probably find me _184

playing video games.” [Hannah’s piece first appeared in COVID Winter.]

SA Levin is a local writer of memoir, fiction, and poetry. At present, she is writing about joy and grief. [SA’s poem first appeared in Poetry Sustains: Heroes.]

Susan Lintott is a student at Washtenaw Technical Middle College. She loves the support and inspiration of the writers in her classes. Amy Higgins has been her main English professor and she has truly helped Susan find her voice as a writer.

Draganel Magda is currently enjoying retired life after working as an automotive designer for over thirty years with both General Motors and Ford. [Draganel’s poem first appeared in COVID Winter.]

Julie Mariouw is a former English teacher who now teaches online writing workshops through Wellspring Writing Workshops, which she created in 2016. She is an Amherst Writers & Artists affiliate and is certified to lead workshops in the AWA method, as described in Writing Alone & With Others by Pat Schneider. Julie focuses on helping writers connect with their subconscious minds so that they can locate and develop their authentic voices, and enlarge their imaginations. Julie is fascinated by the healing power of creative writing and the role of the physical body in writing, and uses metaphor, polarity and the senses in her creation of writing prompts. She has published poetry and many articles on the writing process in The Brick Magazine, The Crazy Wisdom Journal, Natural Awakenings Magazine, Verdad Magazine, and The Huron River Review. [Julie’s piece first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Ella Markel wrote “Broken Record” in her Creative Writing class at WCC this past winter semester. Ella currently plans to major in Secondary Teaching in English and Theatre Arts at EMU this upcoming fall. Ella finds joy in writing and hopes to continue to write for her whole life! [Ella’s poem first appeared in COVID Winter.]

Sabrina Martell’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.

Jean Kearns Miller’s piece first appeared in Origins.

Sonja Mittlestat writes, “I currently attend Washtenaw Community College, and _185

have recently decided to pursue an education in English/Writing. I’m currently focusing on encouraging my creative side and growing as a writer to survive the pandemic.”

Mariam Mohamed writes, “I am a Somali immigrant who came here with my mother at 2. I wish to study Political Science & Philosophy. I have a strong passion for prison & education reform to stunt drug related crimes initially. I want to be an attorney & this would be my focus. During my freetime I’m either reading, writing poetry or watching after my younger sister during the night as my mom works which I found to be incredibly rewarding. I am deeply extroverted & enjoy being out as well as meeting new people. I take great pride in being the daughter of a refugee, it certainly is where I've established many of my ideas for what I want out of my life.”

Mary Lou Nagy teaches composition and journalism at WCC. She received her master's degree in Journalism from Michigan State University and has participated in National Writing Project summer workshops. This is her first published poem.

Anastasiia Noguier is a nontraditional student and an immigrant, who discovered a passion for writing and learning at the age of 26. Creative writing helps me enjoy life to its fullest and spread ideas. [Anastasiia’s poem first appeared in Poetry Sustains: Heroes.]

Ayowole Oladeji writes, “I’m from Nigeria. I came to the United states to pursue my degree. I am an associate in liberal Arts planning to major in Dance Major. I've also volunteered in various organizations like Mardi Gras, Free College Day, and I was part of the PTK honor society. I've also been one of the lucky students to have lunch with the president of the College, Dr. Rose Bellanca, with other students.

I’m also part of the poetry club at WCC, and most of my poems have been published. I’m also part of the ISA, the international student association.”

[Ayowole’s poem first appeared in Making Herstory.]

Virginia Ordonez writes, “Currently I’m a high school senior working to graduate WCC with an associate’s degree in General Studies. I like writing in my free time; I find it therapeutic. This particular piece I wrote about my feelings towards my dad _186

that I wasn’t able to put into words.”

Liam Peoples writes, “Born in Ireland in 2001, the fourth of twelve children. I lived there until 2018 when I moved to Ypsilanti at 17. Studying business at WCC currently with plans to transfer to EMU to complete my major. I am seeking a future career in operations. I enjoy movies and Gaelic football.”

Barbara Perles is a student in the Visual Arts Enrichment Program at WCC who writes, “I take primarily water colors, but other classes as well. I love the translucency of this medium on paper. As a hobby I do photography with a mirrorless camera.”

Del Pritts is currently finishing their fifth semester at WCC, working on a degree in Mathematics. They mainly write flash fiction, but have written some longer works and poetry. They like reading, particularly science-fiction. [Del’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Daniel Raubolt is currently into his sixth year at WCC, but has put learning on hold due to the COVID-19 pandemic until next year. He is currently working as a stocker and leveler at Busch’s, a local chain of southeastern Michigan supermarkets, since 2018. In his spare time he goes about doing photography with his vintage cameras, illustrating, and is in the process of writing a short story on how the pandemic has affected him at his employer and college. He is soon to eventually attain an Associate’s Degree in Liberal Arts as soon as WCC reopens for in-person learning.

Nur Muhammad Renollet: This is Nur’s third appearance in The Huron River Review.

Natalie Rinehardt’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.

Morgan Rogowski is pursuing a criminal justice degree at WCC. Her poem “Barn” is her first publication. In addition to writing poetry, she creates visual art using a variety of mediums such as acrylic paint, alcohol markers, and digital programs.

Wanda Kay Sanders’s poem first appeared in Going Viral. _187

Savan Saiya-Cork: This is Savan’s first appearance in The Huron River Review.

Jordan Scenna grew up in Oak Park, Michigan, which, according to the Michigan Traveller's Guidebook is a can't miss destination and is, without a doubt, the finest suburb of Detroit. probably the greatest suburb of Detroit. He is in his fourth semester at Washtenaw and just decided that sorbet is not as good as ice cream, but is nowhere near as bad as he originally imagined.

Apryl Scheffler-Martin has written her own personal poetry since grade school whenever inspirational moments come to her. She loves the beauty of nature and enjoys trying to capture it with photography. Apryl is a full-time WCC Staff member. This is her second time submitting her work to a publication.

Scott Schuer lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his partner, Maeve, and teaches English Comp. at WCC. He is also looking forward to breaking out of his house this Summer. [Scott’s poem first appeared in COVID Winter.]

S. L. Schultz, a graduate of California State University-Long Beach, teaches English Comp and Creative Writing for WCC and works as a faculty tutor at Jackson College. She writes in various genres, including poetry, short prose, and novel.

Nature is her cathedral, culture her muse, and travel her passion.

Sophia Sims writes, "I’m a student at WTMC who spends my free time making music, writing, watching movies, and spending time with my family. I find a lot of inspiration through personal and other people’s life experiences. And one way I express that is through poetry." [Sophia’s poem first appeared in COVID Winter.]

Thaliana Smith-Ponce writes, “I am a WCC student whose passions include writing. I started at a young age, just writing my silly stories to the present day writing about anything that comes to mind. Besides writing, I love music which includes songwriting, singing, and playing any instrument I can get my hands on.”

[Thaliana’s prose piece first appeared in COVID Winter.]

Spicemaster Flex prefers to stay anonymous.

Doug Stein is a photographer and artist whose works resonate with themes of _188

nature, silence, quietness, and solitude. Growing up in Virginia, Doug’s parents instilled within him the tenets of respect and love for the natural world at an early age. As he matured, his father introduced him to photography as a means to capture and preserve memories of their travels. In time, Doug began to utilize the tools of the medium to not only capture imagery, but to transform that imagery into statements, stories, visions, and interactions of life and the world in which we live and survive. Currently Doug’s works are featured in various exbibits, fairs, and collections, nationally and internationally.

Benjamin Stensen is a Computer Science major and mathematics enthusiast at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. An Illinois native, Ben moved with his mothers and brother to Ann Arbor in 2014 and has been in love with the area since then. If one were to break into Ben’s room, one may find him playing the clarinet and recorder, speedsolving Rubik’s Cubes, learning math, talking with friends and playing video games, or pondering philosophical concepts. Ben transferred to the University of Michigan after three wonderful semesters at Washtenaw Community College. [Benjamin’s piece first appeared in Origins.]

Ayesha Syeda’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.

Michael Thompson lives in Manchester, Michigan. He is a husband, father of three, and a part-time English instructor at Washtenaw Community College, Oakland Community College, and Jackson College. [Michael’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Sarah Trudeau has been writing for as long as she can remember. In high school, she wrote a fashion blog called, “Sarah Grapes” and is currently pursuing a bachelors degree in journalism, although she believes her true calling is in fiction writing. In her spare time, Sarah can be found making coffee as a barista at the independent coffee shop in her small town.

Kesley Walter’s poem first appeared in COVID Winter.

Tyler Wettig is a WCC alum who resides in Michigan. His latest chapbook is Babylon Burning. Tyler's website: https://www.tylerwettig.wordpress.com.

[Tyler’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.] _189

KD Williams is a writer in multiple genres from Southeast Michigan. They teach English and Humanities classes at local colleges and received their undergraduate degree from the University of Michigan where they won an Undergraduate Hopwood Short Fiction Award. They earned an MFA from Stony Brook Southampton where they received the Stony Brook Short Fiction Award and were published in The Southampton Review. Currently, they reside in Taylor, Michigan with their partner. [KD’s poem first appeared in Going Viral.]

Alex Winks is a legal writer who lives in Ann Arbor. He is working on a book of connected short stories and is currently applying to MFA programs around the country.

Tom Zimmerman teaches English and directs the Writing Center at WCC, where he also serves as editor of The Huron River Review and The Big Windows Review as well as faculty advisor of the WCC Poetry Club.

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