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The Reflector
2020
/or
The Reflector
Shippensburg University’s
Journal of the Arts
2020
The Reflector
The Reflector, founded in 1957, is the annual Undergraduate Arts Journal
financed by the Student Government Association of Shippensburg
University. We accept works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, interviews, and
artwork year-round. Works are considered for publication based on blind
submission policy. Submissions are accepted electronically at
reflect@ship.edu. All writers/artists retain rights to their work.
For questions regarding our submission policy, contact: reflect@ship.edu.
Visit The Reflector on our Facebook or Instagram, The Reflector.
The Reflector office is located in the old section of Shippensburg
University, in the Creative Writing Wing of Horton Hall, Room 301.
The Reflector. Issue 2020.
Cover Design: Noelle Zeigler, “Cat with the Purrr-l Earring”
Book Layout and Design: Anna D’Orazio, Angela Piper & Luke Hershey
Cover Stock: Silk Cover 100# with Soft Feel
Paper Stock: Finch Bright White Smooth Vellum, 80 lb.
Foil Stamp: Luxor #356
Text set in Superclarendon, Gill Sans, Seravek, and Optima
Printed by Mercersburg Printing. Mercersburg, PA.
Staff
Executive Board
Editor-In-Chief
Associate Editor
Public Relations Chair
Anna D’Orazio
Angela Piper
Luke Hershey
Genre Editors
Prose
Trent Betham
Matthew Hathaway
Poetry
Emily Fitzgerald
Veronica Ponti
Kaitlyn Johnson
Art
Megan Gardenhour
Noelle Zeigler
Committee Members
Prose
Aria Jewel Barnett
Ash Chapman
Andrea Kitner
Cameron Crouse
Nicole Potts
Em Bush
Eylie Johnson
Taryn Good
Dale Crowley
Poetry April Petesch
Ashleigh Kennedy
Autumn Jones
Haley Bennett
Rachelle Renninger
Bailey Milnik
Emily Hummell
Ernest Frazier
Art
Cheinne Herman
Maddie Farin
Sarah Herlia
Faculty
Advisor
Dr. Nicole Santalucia
Contents
Ariana Tomb
Prose
.My Grandmother’s Garden........................................................16
Paige Vant Hoogt
.Obscurity..................................................................................23
Chelsea Ealey
.Deadly Friendship.....................................................................32
April Petesch
. A Letter to my Brain..................................................................47
.Scientific Method......................................................................85
Ash Chapman
.Top 5 Things to do While the Lobster is Screaming in the Pot.....54
Kaitlyn Johnson
.All’s Well That Ends Well............................................................58
Sam Goss
C
. hristmas Star ...........................................................................69
Adolfo Alvarez
.Family Reunion .........................................................................77
Cameron Crouse
S. umere: The Painting God..........................................................94
Kathryn Milliren
.A Letter to My Daughter..........................................................103
Nell Behta
. Love Her Enough....................................................................111
Trent Betham
.Needless Trinkets.............................................................................148
Kimberly Braet
Dale Crowley
Andrea Kling
Ayva Lacoco
Poetry
.Dying Garden...........................................................................15
.Emptied.....................................................................................91
.Maps.......................................................................................147
.For Carol...................................................................................19
.The Ladder Builder....................................................................22
.Love Mountains.......................................................................133
.Ocean Lovers............................................................................25
Veronica Ponti
.Not Wanted...............................................................................26
Anonymous
.Torn Tonight...............................................................................29
Matthew Hathaway
.Pink Clouds...............................................................................30
Anonymous
B
. utts 4.......................................................................................39
Haley Bennett
.A Big Bounce............................................................................40
.Skin and Rain..........................................................................104
Quincy Loss
.Musings of a Modern Woman...................................................42
.Worth......................................................................................107
Nicolas Kemmerer
.Blue Lampshades......................................................................44
Falling Saturn
. onsters...................................................................................48
M
.Silence....................................................................................130
Robert Greenberg
.Mariah, of Wind and Sea...........................................................50
.Borrowed Lip Balm..................................................................157
Bailey Milnik
.Spring Cleaning.........................................................................52
.Love........................................................................................160
Kim Johnson
.Smorgasbord.............................................................................53
.Big Square Gold Buttons.........................................................145
Ariana Tomb
J.ust Desserts..............................................................................56
.Boiling Point............................................................................128
.To My 11th Grade History Teacher Who Said: “Racism isn’t a thing
anymore.”...............................................................................134
Katie Spengler
F. lawed Fruit..............................................................................57
Kady Keck
.Grinding...................................................................................60
Debbie Bates
.I Dream a World Pt 2.: Dr King Would be Disappointed............61
. xymoron of War....................................................................127
O
.We Are More Than What We Are Labeled................................143
Carly Ritz
D
. aydream.................................................................................65
Tiara Chescattie
.Life on Earth: A Cautionary Tale.................................................66
Nicole Potts
.Slow Dance in the Forest...................................................................71
. hank You For Not Letting Me Die....................................................102
T
.America Unseen..............................................................................141
Rachelle Renninger
.Be with Someone......................................................................72
.I’m Afraid.................................................................................153
Em Bush
Cole Cox
S. ociety......................................................................................74
.How the U.S. Forgot its History...............................................140
S. olitary......................................................................................75
Cameron Crouse
.Two Gods Playing Chess...........................................................79
. nother...................................................................................109
A
.Go to War...............................................................................155
Jordan Seig
Ernest Frazier
.Survivor....................................................................................80
.Two-Faced Poem......................................................................82
.Push On.................................................................................162
Cooper Shirey
Trent Betham
.Durmlavores.............................................................................83
. ilt.........................................................................................131
W
.I’ve Been Having Trouble Sleeping............................................92
. erontophobia: The Fear of Growing Old...............................158
G
Abigail Kauffman
.5 Minutes and 23 Seconds................................................................98
.Icarus’ Flight....................................................................................151
Tori Helfrick
.What Happened to the Earth?...........................................................99
.Bereavement....................................................................................152
Whitney Bender
.Dreams of a Homecoming Queen...................................................101
Anonymous
.I am Emotionally Unavailable...........................................................105
Emily Hummel
.Like a Ghost............................................................................136
Julianna Vaughan
.Missing Light...........................................................................137
Art
Kelley Moriarty
.Time.........................................................................................14
.Girl Playing Cello.....................................................................106
Cameron Conroy
. roovy Voyage..........................................................................18
G
Ryan Krueger
.Shrouded Truth.........................................................................21
.New Beginnings.......................................................................70
.Introspective...........................................................................129
Megan Stambaugh
.Dusk........................................................................................28
.Forgotten Friend......................................................................135
Kimberly Braet
.Self Portrait................................................................................31
.Maps.......................................................................................146
Whitney Morris
.Hungry.....................................................................................41
.Finding & Flourishing................................................................76
Alyssa Green
.Ocean Terror...........................................................................150
.An Unusual Infestation...............................................................46
Noelle Ziegler
.Lavender...................................................................................51
Anna Jedrejczyk
.cerEYEbellum...........................................................................64
.See Me...................................................................................161
Bailey Milnik
.. Toe Beans................................................................................73
Kaitlyn Durf
.Arizona....................................................................................81
Abigail Lee
..Bright Feathers.........................................................................84
Taryn Good
.Untitled..................................................................................100
Calvin Ng
.Running Water........................................................................132
Whitney Bender
.. Railroad Bridge......................................................................142
Kathryn Milliren
. A Walk on the Beach.............................................................154
Madalyn Wolfinger
.. Jubilee..................................................................................159
A Letter From the Editor
Dear Reader,
I was always told to never start a piece of writing with a
cliché, but I can’t seem to help it here: it seems just like yesterday I
was walking into Horton to attend my first Reflector meeting. I was
a Sophomore, and way more nervous than I’d like to admit. That’s
always been one of my flaws: I get overly anxious about the tiniest
things sometimes. For whatever reason, the idea of going to a club
meeting by myself and being surrounded by all of these people who I
didn’t know terrified me. I had almost talked myself out of not going,
but at the last second, I asked myself “What’s the worst that can
happen?” and I went.
There have been many times throughout my undergraduate
career that I’ve reflected on that moment, and wondered what would
have happened if I had chosen to leave—if I had let my anxiety win
over and stayed to what was comfortable. The consensus that I have
often come to is that my experience at Shippensburg would have
been incredibly different. By choosing to go to that meeting, and all
the other ones thereafter, I have met people who I can indefinitely
say are my best friends and have had the pleasure to work with the
most creative and hard-working students and faculty this university
can offer. If you had told me three years ago that a publication would
grow to mean so much to me and that the thought of ever leaving
it feels like I’m losing a part of myself, I don’t think I would have
believed you.
On this note of encouragement, I think it is also necessary
to address how this journal wouldn’t even exist if not for those who
overcame their anxiety in submitting work to be published. It’s a
scary thing to put yourself out there and try new things (believe me,
I know) and to push aside that overwhelming fear of the unknown to
experience all the possibilities that life has to offer takes courage. The
fear of rejection is always an obstacle that hinders our actions, and so
my hope is that this journal is a representative artifact of what
happens when we take risks. I’m extraordinarily proud of the work
that is showcased here, and therefore, beyond proud of the creators
we have published within it. To date, this is our largest publication
and I hope that our club continues to encourage the student body in
taking artistic risks such as the ones showcased within these pages.
Of course, none of this would have been possible if not for
our staff. They have, perhaps, the most difficult job one could ever
ask of them: to judge the work that has been submitted and decide
what gets to be published. Someone asked me once how this process
works, or more specifically, how is a club able to find students who
can commit to such a time-consuming job? The best answer I can
provide is that this organization has always been filled with devoted
students who have a passion for the arts and who strive to make this
campus a more artistic one. It’s not a normal group, that’s for certain,
but I know that without a doubt I could not have been given a better
group of people to work with. Although my time with The Reflector is
coming to a close, I know that I am leaving it in capable hands.
Additionally, with the support of our Associate Editor, Angela
Piper, and our PR Chair, Luke Hershey, this book would not be sitting
before you. They have gone above and beyond to reach expectations
to make this organization run as smoothly as it does. Our advisor,
Dr. Nicole Santalucia, is also equally amazing with her constant
guidance and advice. All of these people are dedicated and have
made The Reflector’s success a reality. They, honestly, are what have
made my last year here at Shippensburg the most incredible it could
have been.
I have many hopes for this book, but I ultimately hope this
book speaks to you in more ways than one and that a desire to
continue creating has been sparked. Art is what keeps us grounded
and what continues to ignite joy and inspire change to whoever may
see it. The biggest roadblock that we come across, however, is this
component of the unknown. Fear is often what halts us in our steps,
and that pesky question of “What If?” sometimes guides us more than
we’d like it to.
So, if you won’t hear it from anyone else today, you’ll hear it
from me: the best thing you can do for yourself is to take risks, and if
you’re scared to do it, then you know you’re on the right path.
It may just change your life forever.
Yours truly,
Anna D’Orazio
/or
14
Time
First Place | Carragher-Pound Prize of Excellence
Kelley Moriarty
15
Dying Garden
Second Place | Carragher-Pound Prize of Excellence
I
am
a
garden
of
dying
My
grass
a
brittle
You
rip
my
flowers off
their
And
smash them
on
the
Watch
my
oozing
crimson
Bleed
into a
colorful
mural
of
My
dull
thorns
crumble
into
I
have
wasted
roses
brown
branches
ground
petals
pain
dust
away
I
am
a
garden
of
dying
Wilting
in
a
rainless
My
quivering skeletal branches fall to the earth in
Blossoms
collapse
in
a
bloody
The
emptiness
consumes
I
am
Petal
by
rotting
I have faded out of existence into the abysmal void of nothing
roses
box
heaps
chaos
me
dying
petal
Kimberly Braet
16
My Grandmother’s Garden
Third Place | Carragher-Pound Prize of Excellence
Grandma always told me the air tasted different before the earth
died, before the invention of artificial oxygen. That it was alive with an
energy that “the fake stuff” didn’t have and it always made me wonder
what that energy could be. Maybe Grandma could feel the lives of other
creatures breathing the way she did. Maybe those creatures put out an
energy on their exhale that can’t be replicated. Or maybe Grandma just
remembers it romantically and nothing was ever really different. But
then she reminded me of plants.
Her stories always started in the backyard of her parents’ house.
She grew up on one of the last farms in the world and she never let me
forget it. “The hills sang, Esperanza,” she’d say. “The apple trees whistled
with the wind in a tune unheard.”
I’d always ask what they were like. How they smelled and felt and
tasted.
And she’d always reply, “Alive” with a look in her eyes resembling
love. That look always reminded me that she grew up in the Plant
Protests nearly a century ago now. When world governments were still
trying to convince people that plants were no longer necessary for the
survival of human beings. That they were simply wasted space.
Seeing those pictures of people tying themselves to trees and
lying flat on patches of grass makes me laugh. It was like they thought
they were trees themselves or that they were one with the ground.
How anyone could ever believe that is beyond me.
When she answered this way, I would demand to know what
she meant. Looking back I’m sure that no matter how she explained it, I
would never understand. In the same way, I’ll never understand the poets
who praise nature, because I’ve never witnessed it. I’ve never stood, like
the protesters, with my back to a tree. I’ve never even seen one in real
life.
My favorite stories were the ones she told of flowers. “They
bloomed,” she said. “Flowers colored the field outside my window in
17
reds and yellows and blues and greens and when the sun hit them just
so… a kaleidoscope would paint my bedroom walls.”
We tried one summer, when she was too hampered by age to
leave the bed, to recreate the effect. Her bay windows took days to paint,
but by the time we’d finished she’d already passed.
The paint was beautiful, and I sat for hours in the early light of
morning just to see the effect. But I’m positive it wasn’t the same as her
flower colored, kaleidoscope walls.
Grandma always said the plants died when she was young, but, to
me, they died with her because there was more beauty in the color of her
stories than there would ever be in the color of this artificial world.
Ariana Tomb
18
Groovy Voyage
Cameron Conroy
19
For Carol
She came into my life when the bad guys were winning.
She said I’ve been there and I’ll try to help.
Her heart was a reflection of compassionate love.
In her eyes, the soul of a warrior.
A soul that said, together we can get through this.
Three times in the next year I asked for her hand.
Three times that year she said no.
Finally, I didn’t need her anymore and told her.
Not in the sense of needing her help.
Now I just needed her so I could breath.
Being without her was like having air taken away.
So, one more time, I said “Be my wife.”
She said yes and “I thought you’d never ask!”
A quarter of a century has passed.
I still lean on her.
But sometimes she leans on me too.
I still look in her eyes.
I still see the soul that says: Together.
That quarter of a century hasn’t reduced her beauty.
She’s still the best-looking lady in any room.
Now and then in the evening when we’re home alone,
She won’t see me just looking at her.
I never get tired of just looking at her.
My world could end with one more look at her.
I often wonder in those moments
If my tomorrow never comes,
Will she know how I loved her today?
A love so real that it scares me.
A love so real that when I touch her skin
My fingertips actually tingle.
The passion of our humanity too intense to contain.
How do I tell her without useless clichés?
20
Do I talk of her smile or of her infectious laugh?
Do I tell her I never want to get into a battle of wits with her?
I know she could bury me with her brain in that conflict.
Do I say “Please let me grow old with you by my side?”
No, none of those will work.
Words are futile.
I simply say thank you.
Thank you for loving me as much as I love you.
Dale Crowley
21
Shrouded Truth
Ryan Krueger
22
The Ladder Builder
Inspired by Robert Frost’s “After Apple-Picking”
I build my long, two-pointed ladder higher
always reaching towards the top.
There are piles of leaves below me,
the kind you would dive into as a kid—
I know they will not catch me soft,
so I climb down,
I am done with ladder building now.
I am going to find company
that will help me forget my aching shoulders
and the roughness built into my hands.
The evening will fall early,
but I know that this shared laughter will not,
love flying around in all directions
over empty apple-cider mugs.
The weight of the thought
of the next day’s work
pushes me to bed.
There are ten thousand rungs to be built,
so many that repetition repeats itself.
I go to sleep knowing the next day
will bring the same feeling of never being able
to reach the top, reach the end,
but also the same crisp air,
the same love flying around evening tables,
the same beautiful leaves
falling beside me as I climb
my endless ladder towards the skies.
Andrea Kling
23
Obscurity
Rays of sunshine layered themselves between the tangled branches,
skewering the sky into a mosaic of blue and white hues. A breeze wisped
itself between the tree trunks before teetering off into the clearing below
and disappearing in the loose tendrils of Zahra’s hair. She sat amongst
the tall, paling grass, with her fingertips buried in the dried earth and the
apples of her cheeks angled to the treetops. The ghost of a smile rested
between her parted lips.
Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths as she slowly molded
herself against the earth to peer upward. The sun flickered through the
bobbing leaves, catching in her eyes and accentuating the green specks
floating in her irises. She was radiant lying there, cradled by the earth.
Serene, she thought. Not a care in the world to be had here, Zahra.
Here in this patch, this personal haven she had stumbled across
so many months ago, she was free. The forest had opened up before her,
bowing and buzzing with joy as she glided through the threshold of the
clearing. Eleven towering oak’s formed a barrier around the patch like
guards, long branches crossing in the treetops to make a grand canopy.
Safe, she thought. Reassured.
A stronger gust of wind broke into the clearing and urged the
wispy grass against her, the blades abruptly kissing at her skin. The
greenery above rustled warningly and she curled her fingers as she
used her forearm to lift herself back up. Some rebellious baby hairs–
unbothered by her earlier attempt to restrain them–drummed against her
forehead as the breeze circled around her, taunting her in faux tornadoes.
Not here, she chanted to herself. Never here.
The trees swayed in the sky, bending and twisting their branches
together tighter, tighter, tighter. Soon the sky was shielded from view and
the air grew cold as a malevolent cloud crawled over the blue canvas and
began rapidly eating away at the sun. Her skin was taught, goosebumps
24
running down her exposed legs in a manner akin to an alarm.
Go. The word had never existed in this space before but it was
suddenly plastered in her vision, spelled out in the mangled brush beyond
the barrier oaks. Run, Zahra.
The ground moved from beneath her as she stood, freckled knees
locked and tentative arms crossed over her chest. Loose hairs at the back
of her neck were slicked to her skin from the gleam of sweat sprouting
from her pores.
It’ll find you, this voice was different. Run, run, run…
A figure never clear, always a blur anchoring itself at the edge of
her vision, playing the part of a trick of the eyes. The trees were deserter’s in this ongoing game, playing the part of guardians but allowing it to
cloister just beyond the clearing. Jeering at her, prodding with temptation
and empty promises meant to leave her void.
It found you. Frozen, petrified amidst the traitorous trees, she
crumbled. I’ve found you, Zahra.
Paige Vant Hoogt
25
Ocean Lovers
The sunbeams dance across the sand
and my heart fills with the glow in your eyes
I long for the feeling of your hands in mine
Our souls tumble under the waves like broken sea glass
Our laughter was meant to wash away the fear that all will be shattered
and we will be two broken promises
drifting away in the foam of the sea
Ayva Lacoco
26
Not Wanted
I pretty much knew this would happen the whole time,
but I didn’t want to admit it.
I should’ve known when you didn’t invite me
to parties, when only a few of you wanted to hang out
With me and actually get to know me as a person.
when two of you cared when I ended up in the hospital,
When I cried for days around Christmas and New Year’s,
when you told me that I wasn’t welcome anymore.
When you believed the rumors that were spread,
didn’t have the guts to tell me that I’m apparently
A bitch to my face.
We’re all told to be sisters, but is it sisterhood
when all of you talk about what I did wrong
While I’m not even in the room?
I still share my secrets with a few of you,
the ones who actually dare to make eye contact.
I am The One Who Shall Not Be Named
even though I was around for almost two years.
I’m not allowed to be your friend if I don’t
have letters across my chest.
I drove you home at 2 am,
lent you my shoulder to cry on,
And spent countless hours that I will never
get back.You told me that I’m selfish,
That I’m aggressive for speaking up against rules
that serve a few while making everyone else feel like shit.
You discouraged me for writing essays instead of showing up
at 10 o’clock on a school night, for reading novels and
Creating lesson plans instead of wasting hours of my time
On a random Wednesday night when I had an 8 am
the next morning.
I never thought I would say goodbye,
27
hand away all of the shirts that were passed down,
the artwork, and the Greek label that was attached
To my name.
I never thought I would have the courage to speak
up against the favoritism, the system that places some
Women on a pedestal and makes other women bow down
to them as if their fellow college students are queens.
Go where you feel wanted, not where you are being
ordered around by those who can skirt the rules.
Veronica Ponti
28
Dusk
Megan Stambaugh
29
Torn Tonight
All people are capable of good
We hold doors open, we call each other beautiful, we even share our
drinks.
All people are good.
But you’re different.
Yeah, you hold the door for me and tell me I’m beautiful.
You even bring me coffee every morning, even when I don’t ask.
But your heart is different.
It’s broken.
You do all this for me
Because no one has done it for you.
You smile wide enough for me to see
You laugh loud enough for me to hear
That you’re broken.
So here we are on a Friday night, living under the strobing lights.
We laugh and stumble about
You carry me home and tuck me in
And I know that you are so much more
Than that big tear on your heart.
Anonymous
30
Pink Clouds
We chased the highs—
they offered the best views.
But the highs mean the furthest falls
when the lows come for you.
And they will come.
The highest high is in
the pink clouds.
When life lines up and hope
rises from the horizon.
But the clouds are passersby—
waving from the shoreline
offering best wishes and smooth sailing.
So set off alone
into the fog
Matthew Hathaway
31
Self Portrait
Kimberly Braet
32
Deadly Friendship
Someone once said that a person dies twice. The first time is
when they stop breathing, and the second time is the last time someone
says their name. If that’s the case, we were almost positive that if Mallory
had anything to do with it, Nayeli would live on forever. She probably
preferred it that way, seeing as she always loved as much attention as she
could muster from the townspeople of Newport. It was a small town,
but we’d all grown up here, which was enough time to watch everything
become old and unused together. It’s funny how that happens in places
where everyone knows each other.
Nayeli and her family moved to town when we were in fifth grade.
They lived across the street from Mallory and her parents, right near the
end of our cul-de-sac. And for as long as anyone could remember, the two
had been inseparable. Except for the three months when Nayeli had tried
to put moves on Mallory’s brother, but that was beside the point. Nayeli
had long, brown hair that was straight as a board with caramel colored
skin, while Mallory had blonde curls, almost always pulled back in a tight
ponytail that framed her porcelain skin. One was sweet and composed,
while the other was outspoken and high strung. Complete counterparts,
but so complimentary of one another. From girl scouts to cheerleaders,
we watched the girls grow up together alongside the rest of our group,
climbing out Mallory’s window to sit on top of the rooftop every day,
gossiping until late hours of the night.
Today, we walk the halls of Newport High School as
upperclassman. Juniors and seniors on the brink of graduation, devastated
by the loss of one beautiful girl. Day by day, playing out the mystery
that is her death as the local authorities attempt to unmask what really
happened on that Halloween night. We worried that if they didn’t uncover
the truth soon, Nayeli’s death would be ruled as an accident, or worse, a
suicide. But those of us who knew her couldn’t bear the thought of either
of these outcomes. No one could’ve possibly laid a hand on her. Not even
herself.
It was the Saturday before Halloween, and everyone in Newport
33
knew that Mallory would be hosting one of her biggest parties of the year.
The blonde was very well known for her parties, so much so that the
residents of Newport – the parents and the authorities – would turn a
blind eye for a select few nights of the year in hopes that knowing their
kids would be confined to the McIntyre property rather than roaming
around the outskirts of town would put them at ease. Until this year.
Everything started out as usual. Nearly all of Newport High’s
student body compiled into Mallory’s backyard, playing beer pong and
conversing over the bonfire while dressed in various costumes. The
two hostesses floated around the party gregariously, flashing smiles
at everyone as they flaunted their perfect attire. They’d spent months
planning for this and we all knew it.
Sometime around midnight, Izzy Cooper wondered around the
front of the house to find Mallory, standing over Nayeli’s lifeless body,
paralyzed in what she deemed to be fear. Izzy’s scream brought forth the
crowd from behind the house, as we all looked on in horror as the blood
pooled around the brunette’s long locks and onto the sidewalk.
“Mallory, did you see anything? Did you call 911?” Someone finally
spoke, breaking the silence that even the cool, autumnal breeze had left us
in those moments.
By the time she finally looked up, as if Mallory were about to end
her wordlessness, the blaring of the ambulance broke into the air as the
lights flashed, and it turned onto the street. From what we’ve heard, it
took the police hours to get Mallory to talk, and even then, they couldn’t
get much out of her. The next morning, there were only two things the
Newport Sheriff’s department knew: Nayeli Bagent was dead and Mallory
McIntyre was the primary suspect.
It wasn’t until two days later, on that Tuesday, that we would see
Mallory again. None of us expected it, so when she showed up to first
period no one knew what to say. She looked like she hadn’t slept since
34
the party, eyes caked with eyeliner that had obviously been there for
days. She didn’t go out of her way to speak to anyone, and everyone else
reciprocated. After all, what does someone say to a girl who’s just lost her
best friend without seeming terribly cliché?
On Thursday afternoon, we all started to worry. Mallory was sort
of the ring leader. She kept us all in sync with one another. Now everyone
just shared side glances and hushed voices. Newport High had never
felt so tranquil than in these hours. At lunch, Mallory and her boyfriend,
Jeremy, sat together and shared very few words. This was the most status
quo moment we’d seen thus far. That was until Jeremy asked to copy his
girlfriend’s biology notes, flipping open her notebook to the most recently
used page.
“I don’t have them!” Mallory shouted at him, ripping her notebook
from his grip. Her anger startled all of us.
“I just saw them right there! What do you mean you don’t have
them?” Both of their voices were elevated at this point.
A few more unintelligible words were exchanged before Mallory
stormed out of the cafeteria. Later, we found out that what Jeremy really
saw inside her notebook was not biology notes at all. Scribbled inside the
pages of Mallory’s notes, she’d written something that changed her entire
story: I think I know who killed Nayeli.
It seemed like since Nayeli, all the leaves had fallen in the entire
town of Newport. It was fitting; the way that the lifelessness of the nature
surrounding the town matched the lifelessness that we’d succumbed
to with such a major disruption to our tiny town. Much like any other
gossip, it didn’t take long for whispers to start about what Jeremy had
seen. It was like a game of telephone, and with time the story morphed
into a monster of lies created by the mind of high schoolers. Our favorite
version was that in which Nayeli was actually abducted by aliens who had
killed her that Halloween.
35
But small-town gossip doesn’t last long. On Monday morning,
Newport’s Deputy sheriff stood in the doorway of Mrs. McCoy’s
American History class, ushering Mallory out of the school and down
to the station. This time, they were able to get a little more information
out of her. She confessed that she thought that Nayeli had fallen from the
rooftop of her house, a spot that had been sacred for the two of them,
which was information that police had managed to gather themselves.
For the most part, Mallory stuck to her original statement, blaming
alcohol for her lack of memory. Who could blame her? Underage drinking
is a minuscule crime when compared to potential murder. With no new
information, the local authorities began to expand their questioning. One
by one, they interrogated all of Mallory’s closest friends. A few of them
came out to say that they hadn’t seen Mallory with Nayeli for hours by
the time everything was said and done that evening. A few even said that
they’d seen Nayeli with Jeremy, looking for Mallory that night. Somehow
no one could piece the night together quite yet.
For the next two weeks, things went back to normal. Days would
go by, and it was like nothing ever happened, until Mallory would excuse
herself from the room sniffling, leaving the room somber until her return,
as if everyone was holding their breath while she was gone. Over this
time, Mallory and Jeremy had decided to call their relationship quits. And
for some who’d just lost their boyfriend and best friend, she seemed to
be getting on well.
Her curls that had turned into matted nests and strands began to
soften and returned to the perfect ponytail we all knew so well while her
sweatpants turned back into jeans and skirts. She started talking more.
Just small talk at first, mostly hi’s and hello’s, until finally she was back to
the bubbly girl we’d all known and loved.
There were moments when we could all tell she felt a little bare
without her sidekick, but she smiled and pushed through it. She even got
back together with Jeremy, eventually. She began organizing a vigil for
Nayeli to take place on her birthday, about a week from the day, and
36
about a month since the accident. The whole school was behind it as we
came to Mallory’s aid, helping with whatever she needed.
On the night of the memorial, we celebrated Nayeli’s life in what
was the best we could. We lit candles and shared our favorite stories of
growing up together. Towards the end of the night, speeches were given,
starting with Nayeli’s mom, then the principal, and then Jeremy.
Mallory’s was saved for last, of course, and we all expected it.
While Jeremy finished up his words, Mallory’s demeanor seemed to
change from peaceful to nervous. She listened as her boyfriend talked
about how beautiful and amazing her best friend was, and the memories
of that night flooded back into her mind.
She took the stage, looking out into the crowd of people,
obviously overwhelmed with emotions. She opened her mouth to speak,
but stopped, looking down for an uncomfortably long pause before she
finally spoke.
“Tonight, I intended to get up in front of you all, and tell you about
how much I loved Nayeli and how much I miss her,” she began, her eyes
looking up from the podium. “I think instead I’ll shed a little light onto
what really happened that night at my party.”
The crowd became restless in anticipation as she paused. We
expected her to be more emotional. For someone who’d just lost their
best friend, it seemed that she was oddly detached at this point. Much
unlike the Mallory we’d seen for the past few weeks, constantly excusing
herself in tears.
“That night, I had broken off from Nayeli for a bit to chat with
someone about the upcoming bake sale, and when I was finished, no one
had seen her. I didn’t think anything of it, so I looked for Jeremy instead.
Come to find out, no one had seen him either. Now, me being the lovely
friend I am, didn’t think anything of this, and decided to go up to my room
37
to freshen up. I opened the door to my room, and through the window I
saw Nayeli and Jeremy. Together. On the roof. Next thing I know, maybe
twenty minutes later, I find Nayeli was on the sidewalk.”
At this point, we were all looking at Jeremy, and his face was as
white as a ghost. He had no clue what to say or do, so he just shook his
head as if to tell us all that Mallory’s wrong. Mumbles began amongst the
townspeople, and no sooner than we could make sense of everything
Mallory said, Deputy Sheriff Martin was putting Jeremy in handcuffs before
throwing him in the back of his police car.
And with that, we all felt a sense of peace. Nayeli’s death was no
longer a mystery to us. Something had happened between the two of
them that night that caused Jeremy to push Nayeli over the edge of the
roof, even if we weren’t sure what that reason was. We went back to talk
about Mallory in hushed tones, wondering if she felt silly for taking Jeremy
back now that she’d realized that he must’ve killed her best friend. She
didn’t seem to mind. That we talked about her, that is.
The next day, Jeremy showed back up at school, angrier than any
of us had ever seen him. It turns out that the sheriff’s department didn’t
have enough evidence to keep him in custody, so they just kept him as
long as they could and turned him away in the morning. None of us were
really sure if he’d done it or not. It didn’t seem like Jeremy had any real
reason to push Nayeli of the roof, anger issues or otherwise.
He cornered Mallory in the hallway later that day before Izzy
stepped in and pulled Mallory off to biology. Before she went, she
apologized to him for telling everyone what sounded like him being the
one who pushed Nayeli off the roof.
That day after school, word came from the sheriff that they’d
finally caught the person who’d murdered Nayeli. Hopefully, this would be
the end of it, we all though. For Mallory’s sake, at least. Then, we found out
that Mallory had gone to the station during sixth period and confessed.
38
Apparently, that night, when she saw Jeremy and Nayeli through
her window, she overheard them talking about how they needed to stop
sneaking around in secret. Mallory, upset at what she’d heard, backed
out of the room and went to head downstairs. A few minutes later, she
decided to go back up and confront them, when she passed Jeremy on the
stairs, who claimed he’d been looking for both her and Nayeli for some
time now. Mallory climbed the stairs to her room, and out the window
onto the roof.
“Are you sleeping with Jeremy?” she accused Nayeli, her words
slurred with her drunkenness and eyes burning with tears.
“Mal, it’s much more complicated than that,” she replied, not able
to meet the eyes of her friend.
In a fit of range, Mallory pushed her friend. Nayeli lost her balance
on the rooftop, and Mallory watched as she fell to the ground beneath
her. It’s said that when she went down to see if she was okay, she’d been
in so much shock, she barely remembered what happened, and then Izzy
was screaming. She never meant to hurt her.
This story was groundbreaking. The sheriff was so stunned that he
even let Mallory go home for the evening so the town could collaborate
on what to do next. The next morning, Newport’s sheriff travel to the
McIntyre residence to take her way. He found Mallory atop the roof. The
same spot she and Nayeli had been on the night of the party
“Why don’t you go ahead and come down now, Mallory?” the
sheriff beckoned, never really a stern man to begin with.
Mallory stood up.
And jumped.
Chelsea Ealey
39
Butts 4
Damn, girl that’s a nice ass.
That’s a nice ass for a white girl.
Damn, white girl got ass.
Look at that perfect peach.
Damn, that girl got cake.
There’s no way that ass belongs to a white girl.
Do these jeans make my butt look fat?
Yeah totally Phat, like the Phattest.
Damn, white girl got a Phat ass.
Anonymous
40
A Big Bounce
Like the universe,
I’m expanding, thinning
myself, reaching out into nothing.
If I disperse wide enough
I’ll collapse back into the point,
infinitely small and dense and hot,
I came from
when some swaying whim broke
and will break again.
I’ll fly out, explode back into myself,
search for the edge of anything,
and everything everywhere
scatters, and at once
it’s me, here.
Haley Bennett
41
Hungry
Whitney Morris
42
Musings of a Modern Woman
Am I a bad bitch?
Alexa, play that song again.
I wonder,
If I could peel the Earth
Like the skin of an orange
Into a delicate swirl,
then drink the Milky Way
And swallow the stars whole,
would I be enough?
Ask me again when
I’m not feeling
the sting of the hot pharmacist pining
after the mail order bride; too
Distracted to notice the acid somebody
Hid in my underwear drawer
turn into a goldfish,
then a teacup,
then back again.
If I were a stronger woman,
I would pluck the sun from the sky
And crack it in half with my fingers,
Letting the molten rock
rain down and baptize me.
Instead, I’m content to balance each half in my hands,
snapping its contents like bubble gum in my mouth
and tapping my feet to a hymn
only I can hear.
As I come down from my estrogen high,
I am crowned with a planet’s rings.
If I set fire to a rosebush,
maybe then I would speak to God
And She would remind me
43
that I needed to orgasm regularly.
And as the deep red petals fall
into my mouth and turn to ash,
I would be able to rest,
knowing that I am, in fact,
A bad bitch.
Qunicy Loss
44
Blue Lampshades
I’m going to town to meet someone special. I don’t know who
they are, but I’ve known them before. Longing for the day I reach out and
the switch flips. I’ve got a lampshade of blue and it sings me some songs
sweeter than the brisk fall sun. I’ve got a craving for a calling to drive
me right off the road of intoxication, driving with two hands tied behind
my back with a smile full of fangs, bloody with ambition. The ship keeps
righting itself as I float on bye, nothing by smooth sailing when the waters
grow wild, rolling along with each burst of waves crashing and dipping.
Got a box full of fun things, it’s always a lock pick away from yours. Missing
a leg to shake, missing the beat to which they all dance. I’m going to town
to meet someone special, we might not see eye to eye, but there’s always
recognition. A twinkle in the night’s skyline, shooting like the speed of
a hand that learned the piano as a child, rekindling the fire they once
circled around. Like a bullet passes through the skull I hope it takes one
stare to find the words in which to speak, and the manner meant to say
them. Carving my impression with the touch of a hand, the rattle of an
empty skeletal structure, my stomach churns, and the buttons on my
dash seem to swing limply. I hope the dizzy feeling of another time rushes
on by, like the first time you hear your baby cry all the way until the can
walk without your hand and then when you must hold theirs to keep up.
I’ve got a blue lampshade that sings rain from the sky, and the clouds it
sputters from follows those less fortunate than we. Just spin, spin, spin.
The cycles of a washing machine crashing down a flight of stairs by a tree
with initials that have been intimate for far longer than my memory can
reckon. I’m going to town to meet someone special. Our faces might
have changed, but the colors around ain’t, a hue of violet will encircle her
face like it did so many moons ago, I hope mine still shines a memorable
picture-perfect purple in the streetlights of my old kitchen. A cold snowy
night, in a field of sunflowers and roses that grow toe to toe, at a stoplight
that always holds traffic to a stop, a single car with two passengers, at
red. Their destination always unknown, but always where they may rest.
I’m going to town to meet someone special, where bloodshot eyes are
happy times and vulnerability is alluring, where tears are kept on an index
finger of someone who cares, and where a memory is never too far from
another. I’ve got a blue lampshade that sings pale melancholies to
45
sleep. I’m going to town to meet someone special, by a tree with initials
that have been intimate for longer than my mind can remember.
Nicolas Kemmerer
46
An Unusual Infestation
Alyssa Green
47
A Letter to my Brain
Dear Brain,
I know I haven’t been the greatest to you. I’ve neglected you. I don’t
eat the right foods or drink water enough. My sleeping habits are poor at
best and unpredictable at worst. I swing wildly between under stimulating
you or overwhelming you.Yet, let’s both be honest here- you haven’t been
the greatest to me either.
You’re sick. I get that, we all get sick, but my sick days are occasional.
You, on the other hand, are sick all the time. Seriously? You need to get
your shit together. For me. For us.
I want to live. I honest to Gods, want to live a full and happy life.
What’s standing in the way of that? You. I must keep badgering you, no I
don’t want to die at every little inconvenience. That’s you, or the sickness,
or you, or…I can’t tell anymore. Either way, get it straight. I don’t want to
hurt myself anymore. I don’t want to hurt those I love anymore. Why make
me? Because you’re hollow? Selfish? Just plain mean?
Why are you mean to me so much? Every other organ in my body
operates the way it should. My lungs pump air and my heart pumps blood.
My cells are all working so hard on a microscopic level for the sake
of a functioning organism known as me. Why can’t you pull your weight?
Look, I appreciate you. I do.You help me walk, and talk, and feel. But
this whole feeling thing, at least the way you operate it, is a little jacked up. I
don’t need to always feel in extremes, or feel dull, or hollow, or like a void.
It’s okay to feel emotions, just not in the wild way you do. The pain is good
for my art, but the suffering is destroying my life.
I know you’re trying, and I am too. I just need you to try a little
harder.
Best regards,
Me
April Petesch
48
Monsters
As a child,
I had monsters
Just as most kids do.
Except,
They didn’t hide in closets
or underneath my bed.
Instead,
They slept down the hall,
In a room I dare not run to.
Naturally or by magic,
Monsters leave when there’s light,
Disguised as strangely hung clothes
or as toys stuffed oddly in corners.
My monsters,
Weren’t scared of the light.
In fact,
They flourished during the day.
Seeing them all the time,
I had to give them names.
Sometimes I relied on them.
Called them to my aid.
Crying out for mom or dad,
to come and save the day.
Rarely did that happen though.
I learned quite early on,
To never call upon a monster,
Not at any cost.
However,
49
Monsters can’t stay monsters.
Children must grow up.
Told monsters don’t exist.
Taught they’re imagination.
Kids grow up.
Night lights disappear.
Knowing,
That dark pile is actually a chair.
What happens,
When the monsters don’t go away?
When you’re told they don’t exist?
What do you do when no one will listen?
When no one believes they’re there?
You start to believe your peers are right.
Convincing yourself its all made up.
Losing trust of what you feel.
Never knowing fake from real.
The monsters’ lies become your truth
Your truth becomes the lie.
I wish my monsters were like most
and stayed beneath my bed.
Falling Saturn
50
Mariah, of Wind and Sea
Heart in your chestTreasure I need,
Heaving and sighing
My waves rock you to sleep.
Spend eternity in me,
Little ship,
Fill your sails,
I will be your sea.
Spend eternity in me,
Little ship,
Moored in the deep,
With sunny skies
And misty dreams.
Be my light,
You have me.
You have me.
Robert Greenberg
51
Lavendar
Noelle Ziegler
52
Spring Cleaning
I lost the memory
In the couch cushions.
After months of
Much needed cleaning
I take the vacuum out and
Use the hose to
Suck up the dirt, dust bunnies,
Stale crumbs,
Lost pennies,
And popcorn kernels.
Suddenly the vacuum growls
I shut it down
Looks like I sucked up
Something it couldn’t handle.
Something I couldn’t handle.
There it was,
The memory of us,
Sticky and grubby.
There’s not enough Febreze
To cover the foul stench
My stomach churns,
I hold my breath,
And throw it into the trash.
My mother asks me what
Smells so bad,
I say,
“Something rotten.”
Bailey Milnik
53
Smorgasbord
Generation of addicts. Smorgasbord of addictions.
Born an alcoholic. Four years old
Scrambling up the kitchen counter
swigs of Vanilla extract.
No clue, liked how it made me feel.
Tasted my first beer. Same effect.
Had a love affair with liquor until I was
Double crossed.
Could not get enough, never enough.
Went down dark alleys not knowing if
Daylight would arise. Saying prayers to
Stay alive.
Will stop after this one.
After this one, After this one, After this one.
Until my body screamed, no more no more
I lost my sanity
Talked nonsense
Seen the light, staggered away
I am an alcoholic, born an alcoholic
Put down the drink
Other addictions pop up
Some are old pals, others unwelcome guests.
It is a smorgasbord of addictions
Kim Johnson
54
Top 5 Things to do While the Lobster is
Screaming in the Pot
Lobster is a delicious seafood that people all over the world enjoy.
However, those who home-cook their lobsters may find it disturbing
when they drop the live animal in a pot of boiling water only to hear
it clattering around in an attempt to escape the pot while the steam
escaping from between the flesh and the shell makes a whistling noise
very much like desperate screaming. The secret to coping with this is not
to ignore the screams, as many have tried and failed to do, but to embrace
them. Here are our top 5 ways to accept the scream of the lobster and
rejoice in your future fresh seafood meal.
1. Scream with the lobster. We all know it’s not actually the lobster
screaming, but rather the steam escaping from between the meat and the
carapace. Nevertheless, the lobster’s frantic scrabbling sure makes it seem
like the lobster would scream if it could. Join in! Accept your inevitable
mortality as one.
2. Play a flute, recorder, or other wind-based instrument with the scream.
Who said despair can’t be musical? Much great art comes from a dark
place of hopelessness after all. The scream of the lobster, combined
with the clanging of its claws against the walls of the pot, are almost like
a musical symphony when it comes down to it. They are like the first
caveman to discover rhythm and song, demanding the meaning of life from
a deaf sky.
3. Record the lobster.You’re using the lobster’s boiled body for your food,
so why not record its screams and frantic scrabbling for later listening
pleasure? Imagine what a nice wind-chime sound you could remix out of
this.You might even be able to turn it into a good ringtone for your alarm.
4. Sit in silence. A common reaction to the “screaming” lobster is to set
a timer and leave the kitchen. Chefs who do this are cowards and fools.
To think the lobster’s pain ceases simply because there is no one there to
observe it is a comical display of ignorance. Instead, grab a stool and perch
yourself next to the pot of boiling water. Imagine yourself as the lobster.
55
5. Think about how good the lobster is going to taste. This may seem like
avoidance at first, but don’t be fooled. The lobster is giving up its life for
you.You are boiling the lobster alive not for any greater good, but because
it tastes nice. Remember that as the scream fills your kitchen. In several
short minutes, that pain will be on your plate, and it will taste delicious.
Ash Chapman
56
Just Desserts
To cake a problem
you must first tart the issue
then calmly snicker doodle
until you can pound cake
now meringue
and maybe butterscotch
just to be sure
that everyone is apple pie
about the whole thing,
and it never hurts
to chocolate mousse
about it a little more
but this is only one option
in a saltwater taffy
of others,
and not every problem
has a cake.
Arianna Tomb
57
Flawed Fruit
Do not touch me,
I’m fragile.
I have been dropped
time
and
time
again.
Cold consequences
for letting the wrong hands
handle my delicate
legacy.
My skin remains
bruised
from past lovers,
each piercing me
with a hearty bite
to my ego.
They took advantage
of my lust
for love
and desire
for purpose.
More bruises
than bushels,
less love
than lives.
No one wants
a flawed
fruit.
Katie Spengler
58
All’s Well That Ends Well
She was a young girl, too young to experience such a thing in
a courtroom in mid-December. Although her face showed youth, the
white hairs sparkling from her root told otherwise of what she had been
through. She spent a lot of time in the courtrooms that reeked of old
books and her own tears. She often retreated to her home, a reflection
of herself, where her anxiety could be hung up with her coat and left at
the door. Her walls were decorated in frames of happy children that hid
the holes behind them, with slight darkness peaking at the corners. She
softly draped her fragile soul onto the couch and laid awake, staring at the
ceiling. Her phone rang, an unknown phone number.
Her anxiety sprang from the coat rack and embraced her like
an old friend would. The voice on the other side of the line spoke in
whispers that could shoot darts into her heart from over the electronic
waves.
“Hello, is this Mrs. Alexander?”
“Well, yes. But please call me Ms. Morrow.”
“My apologies, miss. I am the defense attorney appointed to the
Jason Alexander v. The Commonwealth of New Hampshire, how are you
doing today?”
“I am doing fine. Why are you calling?” she brushes her hair to be
placed behind her ear, exposing the scars he left.
“Jason Alexander is now in custody, located at the Manchester
Prison. Would you like him to have access to your information for
contacting purposes?”
“Are you kidding? Why would I? He already knows my address,
does he need anything more?”
“I guess not, it is just customary for me to ask, I apologize ma’am.”
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“How long?”
“How- oh yes. 10 years, shorter with good behavior.”
She hangs up the phone.
She felt the cinder blocks that pressed on her shoulders vanish as
she rose from her couch. She sprang with such excitement, that she ran
outside of her house. It was a cold December day, snow nestled on the
frozen ground. Everything covered but her clean sidewalk she slaved over
the day before. She threw her hands in the air fleetingly, with her coat still
in place on the rack. She took a deep inhale, and let it go with a cloud that
lifted into the blue sky above. She felt as free as she ever felt, and safe as
she ever would be. The cold air embraced her but the adrenaline kept her
as warm as the furnace in her fists. She thought to herself now, that this
would be her life. She could let him go, move on, and embrace the life she
has been given. Life had given her a second chance. She thought of all that
she could accomplish now that the threat of him has been pressed into
the defined corners of concrete and bars. She reached for the sky, and
realized she could go back to school. She could write again, and embrace
all that she loved. She could move to a town where no one knows her
name. All these ideas flooding her mind brought to her new light and new
hope, now that she is free.
But then a car raced around her corner, a small white ford focus
with illegally tinted windows. The passenger leaned out of the window,
in perfect firing range. The woman with her arms in the air, as free and
as safe as she has ever felt, found red growing from her chest as the car
drove by and a deafening shot echoed the once quiet neighborhood. She
fell, defeated, on her no longer cleaned sidewalk, as her hard work was
covered now in crimson red as it poured. It was his brother, the one who
seeks revenge, who leaned out of the passenger seat of the car and fired
at her. But now, she is truly free, as she lay on the cold sidewalk drenched
in red alone.
Kaitlyn Johnson
60
Grinding
You are my first thought at the crack of dawn.
The reason why I get out of bed with a grin.
I crave your heat, your taste, the rush you give me.
I want to be filled to the brink by you,
Your warmth coating my insides as I sigh in bliss.
I need my lips to gently glide against yours
While you overwhelm my tongue with your bite.
Help me understand why
Others do not love you as much as I do.
They call you bitter. Sharp. But very hot.
A morning owl, always there to perk me up.
Without you, I cannot go on.
You complete me, my precious cup of coffee.
Kady Keck
61
I Dream a World Pt 2.: Dr King Would be
Dissapointed
I dream a world where imagination roams free,
Where kids play happily on city blocks,
And people open their doors to everyone that knocks.
I dream of a world where hope & faith rest in our hearts,
And wretchedness, harm, or despair always do us part.
A world where people saw someone’s character before their skin
Where what mattered was within and not based on one’s preference of
religion
Where beauty had a broad definition
And no individual influenced others to fit into their narrow definition of it
Where money and greed were not synonyms used constantly
And unique names were pronounced correctly
Where fear did not cripple believers and dreamers
And faith was used as wings
Each individual striving for their sole purpose
Meeting success without meeting jealousy as well
Where great included all
Not limited to one man’s decision
Where great incorporated all the visions of the ones living who strived
for greatness creating a broad definition of it
When kids remember there’s more to life than technology & T.V.,
And children again begin to pick up books to read.
The world a picture framed of things to be,
Not a mixture of things, we don’t wish to see.
I dream of a world where ghetto, ugly, slut, and curse words don’t exist,
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And when someone offers you drugs or a cigarette you are able to resist.
A world where happiness and harmony exist too,
Where sorrow and tragedy just won’t do.
Our journey a mountain not mattering how fast we get there,
Or what’s waiting for us on the other side,
Our journey depends on the climb.
Yes it sounds cliche
But this term has never been overused
I assure you
I dream of a world where when someone asked you what violence is,
You wouldn’t have a clue.
And instead of wasting time walking to greatness,
we picked the race and flew.
Uniting ourselves with hot glue,
Checking for worn out shoes that need to be mended for the journey
anew.
Impatiently we wait for the exquisite view,
Getting ready to go, waiting for our cue.
And at the end of our journey,
We’ll tell the story,
Of how we threw away our extra weight,
And how our paths changed from narrow and curved,
To nice and straight.
And our trials an interesting book to tell,
Chapters and chapters of how we climbed the hills and fell,
And got back up again,
Because of this glorious day we wished to attend.
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Not knowing the address, we got to our destination,
Eyes glistening in the process,
Our creation a new generation.
Finally we pushed past the doors of death to the future,
Now our trials and tribulations fewer.
This world we can get to if we try,
But we must first learn to push our worry and struggle aside.
We must learn to change from within,
Shrinking our struggles in a bin,
Listen to our kin,
Only then will our lives spin,
And we will be able to win,
This voyage.
These things might be hard to do,
But changing this world starts with you
And when you realize these things are not as hard as they seem,
Then my friends this is the world I dream.
Our differences are what make us unique
Believing that we are all equal is what unites us
Because there is unity in diversity
Debbie Bates
64
cerEYEbellum
Anna Jedrejczyk
65
Daydream
I had a dream last night,
Hand gripping the back of your neck,
Fingertips imprinting themselves in your skin,
You drove what felt like a million miles per hour.
Into the auburn orange sunset,
streaked with cotton candy pink clouds,
that flowed and followed us in uniform.
No real destination, just the excitement of leaving.
We didn’t look back,
Except to wave goodbye to what we once thought was important.
Swaying under a yellow crescent moon
You told me you thought you loved me.
I think I love you too.
That was my dream last night.
Carly Ritz
66
Life on Earth: A Cautionary Tale
Before it all started
We had nothing
No phones to satisfy our boredom
No Twitter
No Instagram
No Snapchat
No Facebook
No YouTube
Social media was nonexistent
Just peaceful rivers
The sound of trickling water
Moss growing on tree bark
Rocks randomly scattered upon the woodland floor
Plants of all kinds
Growing
Breathing
Living
Bathing in the sunlight
Filled with serenity and bliss
The trees stood waving in the wind
The air swells with wonder and hope
No distractions
All of it now used as a backdrop
Posted to Instagram for likes
Likes that fill your ego with joy
Everyone is obsessed with numbers
Number of followers
Number of posts
Number of hearts
All social media is connected
Like spiderwebs in the world
Catching little bugs as prey
Entrapping their victims until death
The devices we hold
Have overtaken the tranquility of nature
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Destroyed it
Always in our hands
Never without something to do
Earbuds in
Music blasting
Scrolling with our thumbs
Playing games
Watching Netflix
Ignoring the beautiful world surrounding us
Human contact is slowly being erased
The digital world is our focus
Nothing else
Every day our foundations are being forgotten
The ground beneath our feet being overlooked
Once cherished and prayed upon by the pure
Now neglected and filled with trash
The garbage that roams the streets will end in Earth’s demise
Suffocating its creatures with plastic
Covering its land with wrappers
Filling its water with sewage
Polluting the atmosphere with fossil fuels
Fossil fuels that are depleting
Year by year
Month by month
Day by day
The wind and water
Once our friends
Now transportation for litter
Vessels leading to extinction
Many people seem to forget
We need Earth, but Earth doesn’t need us
We steal mother nature’s resources for our own evolution
She questions us every day
Why would you abuse me after I’ve given you these fruits of nature?
How much longer can I hold on?
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The answers rely on our actions
By taking steps towards the future
A cleaner
Healthier
Safer future
Tiara Chescattie
69
Christmas Star
Twinkling lights surround the frozen pond, the nearby trees glitter
with snow and ornaments. The colored lights spread the joy of the season
through the air, as they reflect off the snow and ice. The little cabin nearby
radiates warmth, a decorated Christmas tree can be seen in the window,
with a fire crackling in the fireplace next to it. Away from the city the
stars shine in the night as bright as the lights around the trees.
On this beautiful night a young woman sits on a bench with her
date outside of the cabin. She pulls the laces tighter on her skates, hands
shaking, trying to make sure she won’t fall out of them. He chuckles and
grabs her hands helping her up off the bench. She grips onto his hands and
tries to balance on the blades as he guides her over to the frozen pond.
She pulls her scarf tighter around her neck before taking the first step
onto the ice. Her skates slide around on the ice and her ankles wobble as
she tries to gain her balance.
The smile on his face grows as he sees her staring down at
the skates where they connect with the ice. He gently pushes himself
backwards pulling her along with him. She nervously laughs as she starts
to get the hang of it.
The surface of the pond was not very smooth, since nature was
the one to maintain it. The couple glides along until her skate catches on a
tiny imperfection. She falls forward into him and he falls back onto the ice.
Once they stop sliding across the ice, the couple starts laughing.
She rolls onto the ice next to him, taking a moment to look at all
the stars. Out here, they could see thousands of them. “Make a wish,” she
whispers and points up to the sky, motioning towards a shooting star.
Why make a wish, when I wouldn’t change a thing?
Sam Goss
70
New Beginnings
Ryan Krueger
71
Slow Dance in the Forest
We are the hidden creatures that
when the music of the forest begins
to vocalize our dance begins.
Fleet footed as deer so gracefully
do we roam by the moonlit trail?
No, we can only imagine each other
as night elves with shimmering
silvery-blue skin.
I can’t help but stare at you
the woman who has my,
heart, soul, my everything.
In my head I hear Denver
sing his classic Annie’s Song.
Because the way you trigger
my senses are nothing short of
an 18-karat diamond.
My heart can’t help but
feel an abundance of grace.
Looking into your face
and the feel of your skin.
Immortal is what I want
this night to become.
The tears of the sky become
our bedroom as we share
this slow dance in the forest.
Nicole Potts
72
Be with Someone
be with someone who loves you
wildly and unconditionally
both behind closed doors
and in front of the whole damn world
be with someone who loves you
for the reasons you do and the reasons you don’t
for every single flaw you pick out
and every single trait you flaunt
be with someone who loves you
during your darkest moments
let them be your moon on your darkest nights
and your sun on your brightest days
and every little moment in between
be with someone who loves you
like it’s all that they know
and who treasures you
like it’s the last breath they’ll take
you deserve that kind of happiness
Rachelle Renninger
73
Toe Beans
Bailey Milnik
74
Society
Do you feel sad, depressed, full of anxiety or panic?
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better.
Do you feel at a loss for words, or lack focus?
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better.
Do you feel like your world looks wrong or twisted?
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better.
Sides Effects may include:
Worsening depression,
Suicidal thoughts,
Blurry vision,
Dizziness,
Drowsiness or fatigue,
Dry mouth,
Feeling agitated or restless,
Gaining weight,
Headaches,
Nausea,
Sexual problems or erectile dysfunction,
Sleep problems,
Upset stomach,
Constipation,
Increased Blood Pressure,
Loss of appetite,
And sweating more than usual.
After all, remember what they say,
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better, right?
Em Bush
75
Solitary
It can be trickery or ignorance
Reasonable or not
In good faith
Or wishes to do harm
It always ends up falling apart regardless
So, what do I do?
Just wait until everyone leaves
Lock the door
And feign the love that I’ve been searching for
While on the other side of my wall, a friend already found it for himself?
It’s always worse when you save a friend
They escape their solitary
They find their savior, their partner
All because you brought them together
And yet you keep getting hurt
It’s becomes a Caesarean stabbing
An unknowing and unintentional betrayal
How can he be so joyous
While I’m alone
All while putting in ten times the effort he did?
They all claim that I’ll find someone
That there will be one that breaks this monotonous routine
That one day I won’t be fucked over
That one day I will be able to escape this pattern
That one day I’ll be happy like all of them
Cole Cox
76
Finding & Flourishing
Whitney Morris
77
Family Reunion
There is restlessness on the land that sleeps. Families from all
over the pueblo of Cuxpala gather at the cemetery carrying candles for
Dia de los Muertos, illuminating these restful grounds. Inside these inner
gates is a city of shrines decorated in colorful paper cut outs and flowers.
On every shrine you can see a cross, photos of people, and statues of the
Virgin Mary. This city that is always quiet is now singing prayers and songs.
Mamá Juanita, holding a basket, leaves a trail of orange magnolias
petals from her house to the Heavens as she walks up to the cemetery.
Little Benito follows her with his face decorated as a candy skull. His eyes
wander around but occasionally his hand checks on the item that he’s
holding inside his sweatshirt pocket. Little Benito can hear the church
bells signaling that it’s evening. He looks over to the sun set seeing the
orange sky slowly consumed by space.
They arrive at the cemetery and head to a shrine that has a
picture of an old woman wearing a flowing white dress. Mamá Juanita
pulls out a blanket and lays it on the woman’s tomb. “Good to see you
again Esli. I found the cobija we made together when Mamá thought it
was time for us to know how to knit when we were kids. This should
keep you warm for another year.” She places a candle and lights it.
“Good to see you again, hermana.”
They move to the next shrine that has a picture of an old man
wearing a sombrero with boots, plaid shirt, and jeans. Mamá Juanita pulls
out an unopened glass bottle of Coke and pops the cap off, then looks
at his photo. “It’s your favorite.” She chuckles and says, “I was right, Tio
Oscar! I knew you were gonna go out before I did.” She pauses. “But…
at least it wasn’t from the toros, so I’ll give you that.” She raises the
bottle. “Salud”. She takes a sip from the bottle and hands it to Little
Benito. He takes a sip then places the half empty bottle on Tio Oscar’s
tomb. She places a candle and lights it. “Good to see you again, Tio.
Lastly, they arrive at a shrine that has a picture of a man in the
middle front of a group of people including Mamá Juanita and Little Benito.
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Mamá Juanita pauses for a moment. Little Benito tugs her traditional
floral dress. “Mamá Juanita…”
Mamá Juanita snaps back to reality. “Oh. Sorry Benito. Go ahead
and give Papá Ricardo what you brought.”
Little Benito reaches into his sweatshirt pocket and pulls out a
harmonica that he got from Papá two months ago. He places it on Papá’s
tomb and looks at his photo. “I’ve been practicing like you told me, Papá
Ricardo, but I accidently broke it. I’m sorry.”
Mamá Juanita pats Little Benito’s head and pulls out a candle. “I’m
sorry amor, there isn’t much to talk about.” She smiles sincerely and
then lights the candle. “It’s good to see you again so soon.” Little Benito
notices a small case laying on the ground. He picks it up and finds a
brand-new harmonica. Looking around, Little Benito tries to figure out
where it came from, but ends up being drawn to Papá Ricardo’s photo.
He then slowly places the harmonica in his pocket while continuing to
look at the photo. Mamá Juanita sets the lit candle down and, in that
moment, the stars began to glow.
Adolfo Alvarez
79
Two Gods Playing Chess
Two Gods were, are, and will be
Playing a game of chess.
Both omnipotent.
Both omniscient.
Both all encompassing.
The beginning, the middle,
And the end of all.
Both gods already know the outcome
Of the game.
They know the winner.
Yet they have both devised
Flawless strategies
For winning the game
And likewise know each other’s strategies
Before they have even been devised.
They have, are, and forever will
Be adapting their strategy based on their
Vast knowledge of each other,
Themselves, and the grand scheme of
Eternity which they both understand.
Their paradoxical match can never end.
And will likewise never begin.
Even though they can see the beginning
And know the end.
It is a match of Godly patience
Where knowledge is shown
Through lack of motion.
A stillness that mocks the hurried
Thoughts of the world’s greatest minds.
The chess match of eternity.
Cameron Crouse
80
Survivor
i never thought it would happen to me.
it was something that i just heard in the news
i always said “it won’t be me”
that night you took a part of me
and you crushed it with your hands as your fingers wrapped around my
throat
i said i would always be careful
but i let my guard down
i thought i was safe
but i guess i was wrong
i cry and wonder why
why would you do what you did?
is it something i said? was it something i did?
why me?
you left me broken and hurt
bleeding and bruised
i hate the way you made me feel
disgusted in my own skin
you did this to me
you destroyed a part of my soul
crushed it into fine pieces and blew it into the wind
it is an icy pain that chills me to my bones
making my stomach quake
nights im awaken with fear
praying and wishing my mother were here
but i take a deep breath and realize
i am more than just my tears
i am worth more than what you did
i am a woman who is overcoming
someone who isn’t afraid to share her story
in hopes that one maybe
nobody will have to feel the same pain
Jordan Seig
81
Arizona
Kaitlyn Durf
82
The Two Faced Poem
One side,
Opens the rusted, tin can.
Letting loose memories,
You tried desperately to repress.
Continuously throttling your neck,
Till all justifications been expelled.
Slowly,
You begin to crumble.
The powerhouse
That kept your poison from leaking,
Shatters, and drains down through your ribcage.
One side,
Stands hopelessly behind bars of gray.
Guarded by demons that vary in strengths,
Yet, dominate you constantly in battle.
Abused daily without hesitation,
But
Never once been labeled expendable.
Repeatedly piecing together your identity,
After fierce scrubbings from the identity unnamed.
Dreaming to one day sit upon the tainted throne,
Cleansing the kingdom you’ve used to rule.
One side.
Can’t decide.
Ernest Frazier
83
Durmlavores
They haunt me in the midnight
Watching from the street
They sneak in like marauders
They surface from the deep
Their faces grim and hollow
Red eyes dark with weep
They hunger for my sanity
They gnaw upon my sleep
They’re missing something from me
Scouring my skull for more
They delve into my groggy eyes
And open every door
But now, they can’t escape the flood
Waves crash to the floor
Their tiny shadow bodies crack
Those fragile durmiavores
They’ve broken through the concrete wall
They’re rattled to their cores
They’ve set a flood upon the town
They can’t feed anymore
Cooper Shirey
84
Bright Feathers
Abigail Lee
85
Scientific Method
Identify the Problem
You never know when your heart will stop for the first time. It could be
in your death, during an orgasm, a near death experience, or something
wholly unexpected. Something truly shocking.
It started off innocent enough, another day in a new school filled with
people I didn’t know- and didn’t care enough to get to know. The science
class material was boring and dragged on and on. I tried my hardest not
to fall asleep, so I divided my time between doodling in my notebook and
observing my peers.
Then- all the sudden- in a large gust of bravado and blinding infatuation I
caught my first glimpse of her radiant smile. She was absolutely stunning
with flowing locks and eyes full of depth. Everything else in the room
stopped and stood still as I stared at her. She stopped what she was doing,
looked in my direction. I quickly and, quite frankly, awkwardly dodged her
gaze.
My problem? I have a mad crush on this adorable girl in my science class.
My problem? I don’t stand a chance…
Or do I?
Background Research
Her favorite and most often worn color is red. It matches her fiery
energy and bubbly personality. She’s a bursting firecracker, always laughing,
always joking, and always smiling. She always writes in colorful pens. It
suits her because she adds color to my world like a rainbow. Her zodiac
sign is a Sagittarius. Once again, up-keeping the fiery energy she displays
from the core of her being. She loves all types of music from rock to rap.
I don’t like half the stuff she listens to, but I always enjoy watching her
head bop to the beat. It’s a cute quark of hers. She likes doodling, but her
skills are limited to stick figures and flowers. It’s adorable.
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She’s cute. Like super cute.
Yet, the real research question begs to remain answered.
Does she like girls? Has she ever imagined what a woman’s soft touch felt
like? Has she imagined it, or perhaps how soft another’s lips would be?
Has she ever daydreamed giving soft butterfly kisses across a woman’s
collar bone, filling the cracks between the bones with tender love and
touch?
To put it unpoetically, is she gay like me?
Even just a little bit? Is there any hope she’ll ever love me?
Hypothesis
She loves me. (Please, oh please, oh please)
Experiment
The experiment itself was messy. Not messy like the dirt underneath
fingernails, or dog turds on the porch type of way. Those were obvious
sorts of messy.
This was a different type of messy. The kind of messy that had my stomach
tied in knots. Not in a digesting sort of way, but slowly devouring itself
into the pit of my organs. It was slowly throbbing, sinking its dull teeth
into my chest. My chest pounding and sweating at odd hours of the night.
It was gnawing at me from the inside.
Messy in a sore, thought consuming I-Can’t-Think-About-AnythingExcept-Her sort of way.
The experiment itself started off lightly in a few rounds of subtle
techniques. The soft poetic flirting.
It started off with a few light compliments, “Hey, I really like your hair. It
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looks gorgeous on you.”
See? Nothing explicitly gay about that. Just testing the waters.
She laughed kindly and expressed gratitude. She returned the favor by
saying she liked my freckles.
Does this mean she thinks I’m attractive? Only time can tell.
Weeks passed and we exchanged conversation. Deep conversation.
She told me abut her life and I told her about mine. She told me her
dreams of becoming a nomad hippie, traveling the world and doing
unusual but rewarding jobs. Jobs like joining the circus or being a fortune
teller. She expressed her interest in always wanting to backpack in Europe.
She loved adventure, the outdoors, and experimenting with new hobbies.
She discussed her personal life and how her mom and her always fought.
She said her dad was distant and was never really that engaged. She told
me of her traumatic break up with her ex-boyfriend.
Aw, shit, is she straight? I crashed inside at first.
Then she continued and said she was done with men and their hurtful
ways.
Does this mean I have a chance to swoop in and sweep her off her feet?
Weeks then passed without much development.
We went hiking one day. It was on the Appalachian trail, on top of the
mountains in the crisp autumn air. The leaves were hues of orange, red,
and gold. The wind carried them as they danced gracefully all around us.
When we reached the utmost top of the mountain, we watched the
sunset together.
She gazed full of wonder over our home valley. “God, It’s absolutely
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beautiful up here.”
Without thinking I whispered, “I think you’re more beautiful.”
Oh, shit was my first thought when I let it slip.Yet, when I looked at her
while I was blushing, she was blushing too.
We didn’t say anything the rest of the hike. We didn’t need to.
Months passed without us speaking of the incident. Then the experiment
got really crazy.
She looked at me mischievously from behind the neck of the wine bottle.
We were in her basement while her parents were both at work. Hence,
we broke out the big guns and brought out her parent’s alcohol stash. She
sloshed the liquid’s contents around while looking at me dazedly. This was
our third bottle of wine, so we were definitely screwed by the time her
parents came home. She said not to worry about it because she knows
how to cover it up, that her parents were almost never down in the basement. I don’t know if it was her sweet voice that lulled me into a sense of
security or the cheap wine’s liquid courage, but I wasn’t worried at all. I
was enjoying the moment being with her.
“Have you ever kissed a girl?” She asked sultry.
At least, I think it was supposed to be sultry. Alcohol clung to her breathe
as she crawled towards me in what I think was supposed to be sexy. In
hindsight, her attempts at being sexy were silly but I too, was feeling just
as lost in the sea of drunken judgment.
“N-no” I stammered out, a harsh mixture of the alcohol’s haziness and my
natural nerves creeping out.
It was true- I’ve never kissed a girl. I’ve only ever been dreaming about
kissing her. I was a virgin in the truest sense of the word.
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She leaned forward and it was pure bliss when our lips touched. I stroked
her head closer, petting her hair as our kiss got more passionate.
The rest? Don’t get too nosy. Even if I wanted to document it, I couldn’t.
The rest is a blur.
Data
The thoughts plague the next day. They continue to tumble inside of me
like a hurricane. I’m analyzing every interaction we’ve ever had- especially
of the events the night before. I woke up in my own bed, away from the
basement and that tender kiss. Away from her.
Did that kiss mean as much to her as it did to me? It meant the world to
me.
The data points that she feels the same as me, but only time can say for
sure. Tomorrow I’ll find out.
Conclusion
Tomorrow came and I wished it didn’t.
I saw her kissing a boy from our science class in the bathroom. Her
tongue was tangled with his; her hands in his hair. She pressed herself hard
into him as if she was trying to forget the feel of my body and anything
that might’ve transpired the previous months.
I’m beyond hurt, I’m devastated.
Just when I thought I had it all. Just when I almost really did have it all. I
lost it.
Conclusion? She doesn’t love me, and she never did.
I’m just an experiment in her world. A protagonist in her “sexy and wild”
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drunken story. A one-night stand. Something to laugh and talk about with
her actual love interests.
I’ll try to move on and tell myself she didn’t matter that much to me.
Yet, there’s 3 things I’ve never been good at.
1.Lying to myself, because I do truly and deeply love her. I wish I
could wake up beside her, kiss her good morning, and call her mine. I want
to hold her as we watch the sunset again. I wanted her to be my special
girlfriend.
2.Science. The signs were all there. Her flippant nature when I talked about love deeply. The fact if I looked a little bit deeper, she always talked about liking women superficially and always ogled men. If I organized
my data better, I could have drawn the conclusion sooner and maybe less
painfully. The experiment should’ve never happened, I should’ve known the
second I saw her- she was too beautiful for me.
3.Love, because look at me now. Single, never had a girlfriend, but
I’ll always carry a broken heart.
It hurts to be just another experiment in her life, because she was more
than just an experiment to me.
April Petesch
91
Emptied
While
your
tender
Run
down
from
my
Touching
my
Then meeting my chest
You
breathe
me
And
kiss
my
hands
hair
shoulder
I
feel
your
hands
down
my
Miles
and
miles
of
tingling
I
start
to
feel
myself
You
kiss
me
long
and
With
hands
on
inner
Our
legs
And
my
heart
legs
skin
sinking
hard
thighs
entwined
panicking
in
neck
I forget how to breathe
As you lay on top of me
I feel so numb
Face sticky with salty wet tears
My throat closes up
And my body goes limp
I want you to stop
But not even a whisper will escape my lips
As you force my body down
I feel my soul dying
I wish I had been stronger
Because now
You have stripped my life away
And as I sit here with my pain
In my blood stained underwear
And tear stained eyes
I feel nothing
Kimberly Braet
92
I’ve Been Having Trouble Sleeping
Every time I stay here it’s the same,
by night the house is silent
aside from that raspy cough down the hall.
A blue light lined up so perfectly,
Cutting into my eyes wide shut
missing yours by mere centimeters.
What kind of cruel misfortune is that?
The same ancient fan
older than I am,
spinning on two, dust clinging to the frame,
Just right at 10:00,
frozen solid by 9:00.
The way the sheets,
on my corner at least,
creep from under the bed
pass my pillow
and slip beneath me.
The space between the mattress and the wall
steals my water bottles night after night,
cooking them on the radiator
and swallowing them whole into its’ outdated maw.
Your blankets are too short for me.
No matter which direction I flip it
my feet are too damn big for them
sticking out like half-buried posts and dangling off the edge.
Every day it’s the same
and I can’t sleep,
but that’s fine with me.
Because you’re always there, in that same spot to my right,
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and everything else takes on a different shape in the dark of your room,
holding my attention night after night.
Trent Betham
94
Sumere: The Painting God
Sumere, a painting god, stood above his empty canvas stroking
his chin, unsure of how to go about creation. All the other painting gods
had found their knack, their style, and had flaunted their realizations
ceaselessly out in the streets--for everything a painting god painted gained
life and power attributed to the form given it by the god. This, however,
was only possible when the painting god had found that style of creation
that so befitted them that their godly powers flow out onto the canvas
without control, forming something grand and unintended, but most of all,
alive.
Sumere had gone through myriads of painting styles, many were
impressive imitations of the styles of more Realized painting gods, and
some paintings were even borne from styles exclusively trademarked by
Sumere, yet they did not speak to him, they did not flow into the world
like they should have.
Sumere looked at his paintings, remembering all the sweat and toil
put into creating each and the complete lack of payoff that came from
observing their lack of motion. It infuriated Subere, and with one angry
motion he slapped the can of red paint resting near the blank canvas and
it landed squarely on the floor of his studio, garnering every item on the
floor with subtle and long streaks of glowing red.
Sumere turned to walk away, wanting to rest and start his toil
again in the morning, but some unexplainable inclination compelled him
to turn around. And when he did, he found that the large red splash
upon the floor that had before only slightly splattered a few objects –
bowls, brushes, etc., had now completely engulfed them in color. Their
forms could still be seen like bumps in the splash, but now they were all
completely red, and from the top of each object a trickling of the red
color ascended upward like a reverse stream with small bubbles resting in
the midst.
This had never happened before. Nothing he had painted had ever
reacted quite like this. He wondered, had he really found his style? And
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with so little effort? In his amazement, he bumped a shelf piled high with
all kinds of paints and from the very top fell a small can of green paint.
It landed among the red and mixed slightly with it, engulfing the can it
resided in and proceeding to rise into the air, tapping Sumere lightly on his
nose.
Sumere dabbed his nose and grinned. “That is my style,” he said.
He grabbed another can of paint from the shelf and splashed it upon himself, then proceeded to dance onto the canvas that was his studio.
“Chaos!” He said proudly. “Effortless creation.”
He tipped his table over and watched it roll into the color.
“Destruction!” He yelled.
He watched the paint climb all around , creating an explosion of
color that reached toward the ceiling, longing for the sky.
He continued to do this for hours and hours, dumping buckets
upon buckets of paint into the mixture and flinging brushes and throwing
objects everywhere, eyes closed so not to disrupt the flow of randomness which seemed to be the life of his art. And when he finally felt like
he had done everything possible with the colors at his disposal he opened
his eyes and peered around his studio, nearly brought to tears by the
majesty of color that seemed to come out of his strange and seemingly
meaningless actions. And as he looked at the colors morph and move
about the floor rising into the sky fueled by his godly powers, he finally
felt satisfied, even as he stared at his prior paintings, the ones that he had
struggled in making, overshadowed by the fruits of his aesthetic unleashed,
he still could not help but feel completely and totally satisfied.
He did not feel that he could add more to what he saw, in fear of
disrupting something that was meant to be, but still he wondered if what
he saw had not reached its full potential, if there was still something he
96
could offer it to improve its beauty. He then realized something.
He ran into a small room in his studio that he scarcely ever
ventured to. He wiggled around among the junk heaps piled inside until
he finally found what he was looking for--a large can of Black paint.
Sumere never cared for the color black, he felt it something like
a color placed in the background of great art, a constructor of lines and
nothing more, entirely incapable of producing a sense of pleasure in a
person, perhaps a sense of dread or neutrality but not pleasure. But
the art god had realized many unexpected potentials of the colors that
surrounded him on that day and wondered if he could be proven wrong
just as well with the color black. He wondered if this bucket of black in
his hand was the true finishing touch of his art.
Sumere walked into the center of his studio, held out the bucket
of black paint, closed his eyes, and spun around rapidly, flinging the
black paint every direction until the bucket was empty. Sumere threw
the bucket against the wall at the end of his spin and opened his eyes
immediately to see what he had created.
Almost as soon as his eyes opened, he felt a deep sense of regret.
All he did was besmirch his colorful art with numerous empty voids.
He knelt onto the floor and began to sob into his hands.
“It is ruined!” He yelled.
And as soon as those words escaped his lips, something
unprecedented happened. Beneath Sumere’s knees, he could feel
something slithering. When he looked down, he had found that it was the
paint. It was moving, but not as it had before. It seemed to be retreating
somewhere. Sumere turned around to find his painting. All the color he
had thrown was crawling into each of the hundreds of black marks that
he had thrown. The paint that had risen to the ceiling was now falling to
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the floor and flowing into the blackness that he felt he had created out of
foolishness.
Within a few short seconds. All that had remained of his painting
were the black dots.
He walked over to one of them, the smallest dot he could
perceive, and bent over to touch it. As his finger went towards the black
dot, he found that it did not press any kind of surface, but that it kept
going down. It was not a black dot, but a black hole.
Sumere’s expectations were again defied, and excitedly he placed
his eye in front of the hole and what he saw was beyond the beauty
ever before conceived by any god. There were colors racing each
other, folding into a white void, like light speeding into the unknown at
incredible speeds and then returning once again to where they left mere
seconds later. There were even colors that had not been included in his
original painting. There were even colors he had never seen. It was all
so titillating that Sumere had to stop looking down into the hole or the
sheer ecstasy of what he took part in creating would give him a heart
attack. He lied down before his creation and looked on at it with dreary
and proud eyes, utterly satisfied, refusing to move.
Even as each of the holes expanded and ate up the natural colors
of his studio that had long been there prior to his painting, even as the
holes sucked in the walls that made up his studio, even as they brought
down into them all the life and color of the realm of the painting gods,
and even as they claimed the color and form of their master Sumere--he
did not waiver in his unmoving admiration.
Instead he whispered into the void that slowly began to crush
his now white colorless form, the words he felt were most needed of
speaking:
“Truly this is the finishing touch.”
Cameron Crouse
98
5 Minutes and 23 Seconds
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The desolate ticking of the clock on the wall
Repeats itself over and over again as I sit on my bathroom floor
Crying over a boy, barely on the cusp of a man
Who I gave a piece of myself to.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I wait anxiously for my phone to vibrate
Any kind of affection
But it remains silent through the night
As I wonder who he’s with and if they will make love
under the same moon as we once did.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I feel weak and helpless
But I know once I hear that buzz my heart will leap into my chest
As I frantically check to see if its him.
It’s not.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
So here I sit in the silence that doesn’t seem to drown out my thoughts
As they scream at me
Telling me how foolish I am to sit and wait for someone
Counting the ticks of a clock that knows our time here is done
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Abigail Kauffman
99
What Happened to the Earth?
When I was thirteen, the sky touched the ground.
The light blue abyss squeezed and pinched,
Until it bent all the way down.
The most peculiar thing, no one flinched.
No one asked why.
They just accepted it and dealt with the pitch of this concave Earth.
The sad thing is, they didn’t even try.
Maybe because they didn’t understand its worth.
They liked it better before, when they didn’t have to climb up and down,
Nonetheless, they climb
with their heads down.
Tori Helfrick
100
Untitled
Taryn Good
101
Dreams of a Homecoming Queen
You didn’t want this
Cold, callused and amiss
Beauty queen of the hour
Faded now is your power
You thought your tribulations were over
Always crying in the dark, only my birth could make you momentarily
sober
I arrived just the way you wanted
All your hopes and dreams for a little girl
I’ll be a perfect mother, let me give it a whirl!
But I grew up to disgust you
Embodying all the anger you once endured and knew
You dreamed of a wedding and family
But I’m not allowed to be your definition of conventional and happy
Reality wavers as you accept your daughter
But every day you wish she wasn’t at all like her father
The unconditional love of a mother is what I’ve always wanted
Without your compassion and empathy, I’ll forever be haunted
You were my first love
A love I once thought to have descended from above
But I was wrong
I’ll forever search for your warmth even if I never belong
I’ll never give up on the admiration for you and love I once felt
One day I’ll miss you and will reminisce on the little moments of what we
shared
I have always been alone without you, endlessly scared
Whitney Bender
102
Thank You for Not Letting Me Die
You picked me up from the
fires of hell and dragged me
out of the cave where darkness
tried to bring me to my demise.
When my mind was in the
shadows you were there
to bring it back into the light.
There is a heart of gold in you
that beats so true and shines
so bright.
It takes someone with an abundance
of care and patience in them.
Heart and soul to show to
deal with a broken soul like
me.
Thank you for being the light
that glistens through the shadows
of darkness.
Thank you for not letting me
die in shadow and fire
ice and pain.
Thank you for being there
every step of the way.
Nicole Potts
103
A Letter to My Daughter
If I have a daughter, I will tell her that when society raises a little
girl, it teaches her to hate herself. She is told that she is worthless, that
she is not skinny enough, not pretty enough, not good enough. It will tell
her to measure her worth by how many men want her and then shame
her for being with those men. I will tell my daughter this because I want
her to know that she is so much more than what society says she is. I
will tell her that I was just like her when I was younger. I scoffed at what
society said on the outside, but really, I just wanted to belong.
I will tell her this. I will tell her that she will want to belong too. I
will tell her that she will have friends, peers, and even partners that will
want her to be something that she is not and yet she will want to at the
same time just to feel like she means something to those people. I will
tell her that she does not need to do those things or be those things to
matter, that her life matters because she says it does and she is the only
one who needs to say so. I will tell her that society has no heart and does
not love her. She will not believe me.
I will tell her that she will change her mind again and again about
what she wants to be. Again, she will look to society to tell her. I will tell
her that society cannot and should not dictate who she is, but she will not
hear me. Society will beat her down again and again. She will grow stronger and learn to hate society too.
One day she may have a daughter of her own. She will tell her
daughter about how society chewed her up and spit her back out, how
she loved society, but it had no love for her. Her daughter will not listen,
for she has already fallen prey to humanity’s monster.
Kathryn Milliren
104
Skin and Rain
It is lying on your back
while into your skin a raindrop sinks,
burrowing around your spine, desperate for mud.
It is weight and static
buzzing behind blurred clouds
that spit anesthetic.
It is pulling pieces away.
Bits of flakey ribs and stringy tendons come loose
painlessly, though still you wait for the ache.
It is skin in-between
the chill outside and the air whistling through,
placid while something wriggles out.
You miss it without inviting it back.
Now.
You want to swim the storm,
uproot yourself from the rich decay.
A nourishing poison when gone leaves only water.
You want to shed the skin,
that gray and pruned hide
incubating the new incarnation.
You want to choke on words,
let lips smart on damp substance
just to know the parts still work.
You want to flood yourself,
hose off the endless muck
for flesh whole and raw. New.
Stand. Leave what stays stuck.
Haley Bennett
105
I am Emotionally Unavailable
I want to touch
you.
I cannot be in love
with someone next
in my queue.
I am not myself,
anymore.
I want
sex,
lust,
fucking,
nothing to be sure.
Pull on my hair,
not my heartstrings.
You are kind
to me,
though not one
to fulfill
my puzzle
with your piece
or expensive ring.
I do miss
companionship,
sometimes,
but I can live as
self-employed.
For now,
just fill my void.
Anonymous
106
Girl Playing Cello
Kelly Moriarty
107
Worth
Sometimes, I look at my feet
And wonder their worth.
Pale, small, and uncalloused,
Much unlike the wolfish ones
With sharp talons that I
See, walking the Earth in great strides,
Gripping the world with such power,
And I cannot help but envy these
Warrior-women; These
Titans that demand respect.
My toes peek out from the
Tub of steaming water,
Surrounded by clouds of
Iridescent bubbles,
The walls thinning and
Thinning, becoming less
Incandescent and defined,
… and then gone; faded
From existence.
And with a flash,
I harvest my crops.
A flash on my mouth,
My hands,
My breasts,
My thighs,
And yes, my feet,
And I remember the time when
I connected a jar of fireflies to
A tree with pieces of string
And called it revolutionary.
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Now, I long for a day that
The flowers sing to me
Like they once did,
And the stars halo
Around me before
Falling to the Earth,
And the First Tree melts
Its woody flesh, revealing
The Woman made of clay,
And the bees buzzing in
Honeycombs that
Fill my womb
Cease to exist.
Quincy Loss
109
Another
As all around are dancing
to the beat of the key,
it would seem the last note
has faded from being.
The scene has ended,
I know that is my cue.
It is time for me to take the stage
and show them all what I can do.
To the light of the stage, I stride
and face the audience in the midst.
Though my body has ceased its motion
I yet begin to move my lips.
And as I do so
I am no longer me,
for the me of the past has receded
you see.
What remains is simply
“Another.”
“Another” is the voice of the script,
the voice we’re scared to share,
the voice that tosses nervous shackles
and empties out our cares.
We have all been “Another,”
we’ve known him all along.
He talks as a speech, as a line, or a verse
and shouts joy into a song.
My line ends
and so begins the applause,
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I snap back to myself,
smile, and then pause.
How the voice has helped me
throughout the course of my climb
and oh how I wish to take hold of that voice
and speak it all the time.
Cameron Crouse
111
Love Her Enough
He remembers how she looked that day. Kneeling on the
bathroom floor, dry heaving over the porcelain rim of the toilet bowl,
shoulders trembling. He stood in the doorway, wanting to go to her but
not trusting she would let him in. And then she looked at him, water from
the lakes of her eyes spilling over ghostly white cheeks and carving a path
to her chin. Her mouth was agape, and her hand gripped the edge of the
tub, and she had never looked as small to him as she did in that moment.
“Dexter.” She gulped great mouthfuls of air. He imagined her lungs
burning with oxygen, expanding until her chest cracked and burst open,
but his name still came out a whisper. She clung to that one word as if it
were the only thing in the world that made sense. “Dexter, Dexter.”
He dropped to his knees beside her and pulled her to him. She
was shaking so badly that he couldn’t keep her in place, so he moved with
her, rocking back and forth gently. Her head fell easily onto his shoulder,
pale strands of hair tickling his nose. She buried herself in him, tucking her
legs up and curling into his embrace like a child in the cradle of his arms.
Hours earlier, her father had been found in his favorite armchair,
head drooping to the side as if asleep. He’d put a bullet in his brain. The
bloodstained note in his lap held only three words: I’m sorry Cas.
Dexter knew then, as his girlfriend clung to his shirt and begged
him to please please make it go away oh please give him back I’ll do
anything, that he would never forgive anyone who made her this small.
***
“Mr. Rogan?”
Dexter looks up, pulling himself from his memories and back
into the sterile white-walled office he’s been trapped in for the past
hour. Snow blows past the picture window in hazy drifts, but next to the
radiator it’s stifling, and he wipes his sweaty palms on his coat. He shifts
and feels his keys prod him sharply from his back pocket, an unpleasant
reminder of how far he is from home. The couch he sits on dwarfs him; he
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is a boy again in its grasp.
The therapist is staring at him. Something about the way she’s
decorated her face with powder and gloss, the way she’s clad herself in
boots with fur on the edges and a teal scarf and a long plaid skirt has him
feeling under-dressed. He wonders how he must look to her now - a man
more bone than skin, with dark circles under his eyes and ink-stained
fingers that crawl and twitch and flutter like a moth in a spider’s web.
“Sorry,” he says. “What were we talking about?”
“I asked about your medication. The new doctor I referred you todoes he seem to be a better fit? I know you had some...concerns the last
time we spoke.”
New doctor. The one with the nose ring? No, that was last
month’s - she was talking about the guy with pictures of horses on his
desk.
“He’s alright.”
She nods, as if those two stupid words are the most important
things she’s heard all day. “And he’s taken you down to 100 milligrams of
Sertraline, correct? Now as I recall, the last time we changed your dosage
you experienced some side effects.” She checks the lined legal pad in her
lap. “Insomnia, indigestion, and lack of appetite, I think you said. Any issues
this time?”
Dexter can’t remember the therapist’s name. He knows she
told him the first time they met, but there have been many sessions since
then and when he thinks back on their initial introduction, the only thing
he can recall is her cold hand in his as he signed his privacy away. It starts
with an “L”, he thinks. Linda or Leena or...something.
“No, nothing like that. I feel better than ever. In fact, I was
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wondering how quickly you could get me off the medication.”
Her brow furrows. “Off?”
Dexter focuses on the blackboard over her shoulder, so juvenile
and out-of-place here. Shoot for the stars! Never give up! Learn how to dance
in the rain! The phrases scream at him from its dark surface, punctuated
by smiley faces printed in yellow chalk. “Yeah, y’know, so I don’t have to...
to take it anymore.”
Linda-or-Leena looks down at her notes. Shuffles them. Looks
back up at him. “Mr. Rogan, I don’t think I follow. We just put you on
Sertraline a few weeks ago.You told me it was helping.”
“It is! But…” They all work at first. Dexter bites down on the
words, holds them in place, and they burn a hole in his tongue.
The therapist sighs. “Your girlfriend, Cassandra - does she know
you want to stop taking your medication?”
Dexter inwardly recoils. He makes it a point to keep Cas far away
from these little talks, and her name does not belong in this therapist’s
mouth, this white-walled room. “She’s actually my fiancé now,” Dexter
says, and he doesn’t know why he bothers but it feels better somehow,
because girlfriend strikes him as childish in the way that the blackboard
with the smiley faces is childish.
“Congratulations,” the therapist says. Then she waits for Dexter
to answer her question. She will not be distracted.
“Well I haven’t...haven’t exactly discussed it with her yet. But I
will. I just have to wait until she recovers from the anniversary tomorrow,
and in the meantime I thought we could keep lowering the dosage -”
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“What’s tomorrow?”
Dexter pauses. “Sorry?”
“You said Cas needed to ‘recover from the anniversary tomorrow’.
Anniversaries are usually happy occasions, aren’t they?”
“I...no, that’s...I didn’t say that, did I?”
The therapist looks at her notepad. That goddamn notepad. “You
did.”
Dexter’s fingers tug at his coat sleeves. Dance across his lap.
Twine together in a white-knuckled grip. “Right.Yes. Of course I did. Uh,
Cassandra’s father killed himself a year ago tomorrow. He...shot his own...
uh, head. His neighbor found him, some teenager who cut his grass once
a week, and this kid had Cas’ number so she gave us a call. She told us he
was dead over the phone.” Dexter reminds himself to breath.
Linda-or-Leena steeples her fingers. “And the anniversary of his
death gives you anxiety. Why?”
Dexter shrugs. “Dunno.”
“Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he -”
“What’s your name again?” Dexter asks. “I can’t remember. It’s
been driving me crazy.”
She opens her mouth but the timer interrupts her, breaking the
spell that holds Dexter to the couch.
He shoots up instantly.
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If she notices his eagerness to leave, she doesn’t show it. “Do you
want to stay a bit longer, Mr. Rogan? I know you said you had work to do,
but…”
“No, no. I really should be getting home. Got a deadline coming
up.” Dexter’s smile is held up by invisible strings pulling taut against his
cheeks. “But thanks. For, uh, the offer.”
The therapist gives him a long, searching look. “Of course. We can
talk about your dosage next week, then. Maybe you could bring Cassandra
along - it sounds like this time of year is very trying for her.”
Dexter has a hand on the doorknob when she clears her throat.
“Mr. Rogan?”
He turns back, bracing himself for more questions. More judgment.
More friendly suggestions.
“My name is Madison.”
***
Sertraline. 100 mg. A tiny, innocent white tablet. Take once every
morning. Dexter’s already put it off for as long as he dares - the sun has
gone down by the time he drags himself to the bathroom and roots
around in the medicine cabinet for his prescription bottle. He has to take
it at least one time this week or he won’t be able to keep any food down,
and Cas will notice.
He looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. Part of him
can still feel Madison’s eyes boring into him from therapy that morning,
stripping him bare and leaving him to die on the baby blue tiles of the
bathroom floor.
Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he-
116
Dexter closes his eyes. He doesn’t open his mouth but shoves the
Sertraline between rigid lips, tapping it against his teeth. Dexter holds the
tablet in his mouth for as long as he can before it starts to melt, stabbing
his tongue with its bitterness. He remembers Cas, how small she looked
on this ugly blue-tiled floor. Then he swallows.
That’s when the anger boils up, red and hot beneath his adam’s
apple. Dexter doesn’t want that little white thing inside him, doesn’t
want it messing with his head, doesn’t want to need it so much. Because
eventually it will fail him. He’ll get low again, on some impossibly long
afternoon when he’s alone in the house with nothing but drugs in his
bathroom and voices in his head. He’ll start to think about Cas’ father.
He’ll start to think about the handgun hidden away in the coat closet, and
his fingers will start to twitch.
Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he The pill has barely gone down his throat before he shoves his
fingers after it and brings it up again.
Dexter hunches over the sink as he empties the contents of his
stomach. He waits until he’s sure it’s all out, then wipes his mouth with
the back of his hand and washes the bile down the drain with cold water.
From the living room, he hears keys jingling in the lock on the
front door.
Dexter turns the sink off and rushes from the bathroom.
Then he sees her, and he’s just as enchanted as he was the first
time they met.
Fine strands of corn silk hair frame her face, having escaped from
her hasty Dutch braid. The muscles in her arms are well-defined beneath
her sheer blouse, and she has a square jaw, and laugh lines crease her
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cheeks. As soon as she’s through the door, she kicks her heels off, but
even without them she is a good two inches taller than Dexter. She looks
at him, and her face melts into a smile.
The fire in Dexter’s esophagus is quenched by a torrent of icy
shame. He thinks about the pills waiting in their bottle, the gun in the
closet, the woman of his dreams retching into a toilet because of one
stupid phone call. Dexter shoves his hands in his pockets so she doesn’t
see him digging his nails into his palms. “Hi, Cassie.”
Cas takes three running-steps and throws her arms around him,
planting a kiss on his cheek.
Dexter feels the buckle of her overalls against his fingers as he
hugs her back. Despite everything, it’s easy to convince himself that Cas is
still untouched by the realities of the world - she packs lunches in brown
paper bags and thinks just about anything can be solved with a kiss and an
ice cream cone.
“I was thinking about you today,” she says, winking at him
conspiratorially.
He blinks, imagining her daydreaming about him in front of a room
of second-graders, and can’t help but laugh. “Right.”
“I was.” Cas swats his shoulder and practically dances into the
kitchen, where he’s kept the spaghetti warm on the stove. “From the
Pledge of Allegiance to my lunch break. I was wondering how far you’d
gotten in your article. The one about the Ice Festival.”
“Oh.”
Cas heaps sauce-covered noodles into a bowl and hops up to sit
on the counter. She looks at him and tilts her head. “Did you finish it?”
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His eyes immediately snag on a stain in the living room carpet.
“Uh…”
No. I went to therapy and then I came home and slept for three
hours and watched TV and ate all the Christmas cookies in the freezer and
slept for another hour and tried to take a stupid little pill and didn’t because I’m
a fucking coward.
“Sort of.” He grins sheepishly at her. “It’s...coming along.”
“I can’t wait to read it. What a perfect opportunity for you
to show off your narrative skills. The way you write imagery is just
breathtaking.”
“A journalistic piece isn’t really the same as descriptive narrative,
Cas.” It comes out drier than Dexter intended, and her heavy silence has
him dragging his gaze back to her.
She’s crying.
Dexter stands shocked for a moment, then takes a few faltering
steps forward. “Cassie?”
Cas puts a hand to her streaming eyes. He can tell she’s angry
with herself from the way she rubs them as if she wants to tear them out.
“No, it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.”
“It wasn’t you, Dex. It’s just...I was thinking about Dad today,
too.”
He flashes back to his therapy session that morning and silently
berates himself. Of course she’s upset, the anniversary is tomorrow. How
could it have slipped his mind? Dexter presses a kiss to her hairline. “Oh,
119
Cas.”
She leans into him as if to hide her tears. “You know, it’s funny up until he...he passed, I was so sure I hated him for driving Mom away.
I wanted nothing to do with him. God, I never even introduced you two.
Did I tell you I used to catch him burying his pill bottles in the backyard?
I’d get so mad. I thought he didn’t want to get better, that he was making
our lives hard on purpose.” She laughs, but it comes out as a sob. “But
he...he would take me to baseball games sometimes, even if he didn’t want
to go. And he came to all of my school musicals even though I couldn’t
sing like the other girls and only ever played extras. He always told me
how p-proud he was to have a daughter like me.”
Cas tightens her grip on Dexter and breathes hard, trying to get
herself under control. Finally, she pulls away and tries to smile, and it’s like
watching sunlight shiver across the surface of a lake. “I’m sorry, Dex. I told
myself I wouldn’t do this tonight.”
Dexter keeps his hands on her shoulders, massaging them with his
thumbs. “You never have to apologize to me, okay? I want you to open up
when you feel like this.”
“No, don’t worry. It comes and goes.” She brushes at her eyes,
gently this time. “See? Already gone.”
Dexter frowns. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Cas.”
Cas looks up at him, startled. “I’m not.”
“I know you’re still hurting. Any time there’s a lull in our
conversations, you go somewhere I can’t follow.You cry in bed when
you think I’m asleep. And you work yourself to death all day, as if you’re
running from something. I wish...I wish you would trust me, Cas. I want to
help you get through this.”
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She takes Dexter’s hand in hers, eyes wide. “God, Dexter, no, it’s
not like that at all. It’s just...well, you try so hard for me, Dexter. Like my
dad used to. I didn’t see it back then, but I do now, and if you can handle
what you’re going through than I can handle this.” Cas smiles again, and it’s
brighter now. “So I was thinking - you should write love sonnets, like you
did when we were in high school.”
Dexter allows her to change the subject, but he sits next to her
on the counter and puts his arm around her shoulders. “I only wrote
those to get your attention.”
She laughs. “Bullshit. You liked writing them - it had nothing to do
with me.”
“Okay, maybe. But you can’t make a living in this world writing
poems.”
“You always said you were going to sell them. A whole book full.
What happened to that?”
He shrugs.
Cas nestles her head against his shoulder. Her next words are
tentative, as if she’s trying to tiptoe around the subject. “You should take
it up again. Send them off to some publishers. Maybe...maybe that would
make you happy.”
Dexter doesn’t want to talk about happiness. He doesn’t want Cas
to ask him how his therapy session went, how he felt today, how much he
ate and did you take your medicine Dexter?
“Maybe,” he says.
***
The next morning, Dexter lies in bed staring at the ceiling. His
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phone buzzes from across the room, but he makes no move to retrieve
it. He already knows what has popped up on the screen, that simple
reminder he’s set for himself every morning.
Take your medicine.
Today is Tuesday. No - Wednesday. Which means a year ago today,
Cas’ father wrote three words on a piece of paper and sat in his favorite
armchair and chose to leave her.
Today is a bad day. Nothing feels right, everything is wrong, and
God, he has to get up and take a shower and get dressed and write that
article and buy groceries and try to take his medicine. Then he has to
mail the rest of the wedding invitations because oh God the wedding is in
eight weeks.
Dexter just woke up, and already he’s impossibly tired.
There is a gun in the coat closet by the front door. It rests,
unloaded, on the top shelf, hidden in the shadows cast by the closet’s
single light bulb. Dexter gets low and it’s waiting for him. The chamber is
empty but he could fill it - slide a cartridge in, fingers dancing fluttering
twitching like a moth, slide the bullet in and put the barrel to his eye, stare
it right in the face, and he’s never shot a gun before but he could, all you
gotta do is squeeze the trigger BAM just like that, it’s easy Cas says, Cas So small on the bathroom floor, retching into the toilet, whispering
his name. The only thing in the world that made sense.
Dexter curls up in bed, puts his hands over his ears as if he could
block out his own traitorous thoughts. He’s gone down this path before,
more times than he can count. For a while, it got so bad he isolated
himself completely, pushed everyone away, because when he inevitably put
the barrel of a gun to his eye the only heart he wanted to break was his
own. But somehow, at his lowest, Cas had gotten in. Cas with her
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beautiful smile, her corn silk hair. Cas with the father who didn’t take his
pills and eventually shot himself in the head.
Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he A lot of yourself See a lot of yourself
Dexter screams into his pillow but it doesn’t make the voices go
away. His mind won’t stop talking to him, calling him selfish, asking why oh
why why did you let her in? He always knew how this was going to end with a pathetic apology written on card stock and a coat-closet gun with
a single bullet in the chamber. He knew, because something was broken
inside him, something he couldn’t fix. He knew, and he still dragged Cas
into his mess.
Dexter remembers his lowest points, before Cas. His long walks
in the dark with a gun in his coat pocket, the only constant in his lonely
life. Even back then, there were people waiting for him at home - his
mother, for a while, and then his college roommate, and his first girlfriend,
the clumsy one who was always breaking dishes. Dexter left them all
behind, going off to die on his own like a stray cat who can sense the end
approaching. And when he inevitably pulled himself back from that edge,
when he unloaded the pistol and held the innocent cartridge against his
palm , when all he had left was the fear that those people waiting at home
would somehow find him with his brains blown out or see a picture of his
corpse in the paper, Dexter would run. New city, new people to abandon.
Because at least then they could live with the hope that he wasn’t dead.
So why is Cas any different?
Dexter stops screaming. He sits up in bed. His fingers are
motionless on the sheets.
***
123
Dexter is waiting by the door when Cas gets home.
She bursts in like a hurricane, already bare-footed, holding her
shoes in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other. “Dexter! I wanted
to make up for my mood yesterday.” Her smile lights up the room as she
sweeps past him, snow melting in her hair and on her coat. “A dozen red
roses, like you always get me for Valentine’s Day. And I asked around - my
coworkers said they would be very interested to read any poems you
write and give you feedback. Isn’t that great? I -”
“Cassandra.”
Something in Dexter’s voice gives her pause, and she turns to look
at him.
He’s still standing by the door.
Cas’ eyes are uneasy now, but she continues to smile. “What are
you doing, silly? Come help me find a vase for these flowers. I want to
hear about your day.”
“Cassandra. I...I have to go.”
She blinks at him. “Oh. Alright. Just...don’t be home too late if
you’re going to the store.You know I worry when the roads are this bad.”
“Cas…”
“In fact, unless you absolutely have to go out, I’d much prefer you
stay here tonight and get whatever it is you need tomorrow.”
“Cas.”
“What?” She suddenly snaps. “Goddamn it Dexter, what?” But
she’s not angry. Her eyes are wide and her face is bloodless. She’s staring
124
at his fingers.
Dexter can’t look at her. She is a memory, a pale ghost of the
person she was when she broke a year ago on the bathroom floor. Why
did he have to wait for her to come home? Why didn’t he just go when he
had the chance? He can’t do this. He’s not strong enough.
Dexter closes his eyes. “I love you, Cassie.”
Silence.
Then, “Dexter, have you taken your medicine today?”
He hears her moving toward him, and his eyes fly open and he
backs into the door. “Don’t,” he says.
Cas stops. She raises her hands, as if in surrender, and he wonders
what she sees on his face. “Okay, alright, Dexter. Just...just hang on a
second.”
“I have to go, Cas, I have to go.”
She bites her lip. Dexter can’t look at her. Dexter can’t stop
looking at her. “Go where? Dexter, I don’t understand, you’re scaring me
Dexter. Just come sit with me, please? Tell me what’s going on.”
Dexter shakes his head. His back presses against the door. He
fumbles for the knob.
Cas takes another step forward, and he throws his hand out as if
to physically hold her back. “Stay there! Don’t come any closer!”
“Okay, okay Dexter. Everything is fine. It’s fine, okay? Just calm
down.”
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“I can’t.”
“Why? Tell me why, Dexter, let me help you.”
Dexter puts his hands over his ears. “Because, damn it! Because
every time I look in the mirror...every time I talk to that therapist and stay
in bed when I should be providing for you and...and stop taking my pills...I
see your father in me. I see him with that gun pressed to his head but it’s
my hand pulling the trigger, because I’m just one bad day shy of being him.
And I’m terrified, because I can’t do that to you Cas, I can’t hurt you like
that, I can’t put you through that again. I know you see it too, Cas, I know
you do, you see him too, and it’s so hard, Cas, because you’re the only
thing that makes me happy anymore -”
Cas’ arms wrap around his waist.
Dexter reels back, and the door is open now, and he’s trying to
push her away, away from his crazy twisted mind, away from this wretched
broken thing. But he’s too hysterical, and he’s shaking so badly. In this
moment, Cas is stronger than him, and she pins his arms to his sides.
She’s stronger, but when she whispers in his ear she’s small. So
small, and so quiet that Dexter has to stop and listen. Like that day on the
bathroom floor. “Please, please Dexter, you’re all I have and I l-love you, I
love you too, okay? Dexter, please.”
Please please make it go away oh please give him back I’ll do anything.
Dexter stills in her arms. He sees rose petals scattered across the
carpet.
He remembers that day - a single phone call, a note with three
words, a broken woman pleading with God. He remembers the promise
he made to himself, the one sin he could never forgive. And he’s crying
now, because it’s too late. If he walks out into the night, if he leaves her
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here with the pills in the drain and the roses on the living room floor, she
will never stop being small.
They stay like this, entwined in the space between. Cas lets him
empty himself out. He knows that she can sense the change in him, can
feel the tension draining from his bones.
Cas waits until Dexter goes quiet. Then she reaches out, puts a
hand on the partially-open door. “I’m going to close this,” Cas whispers.
And he loves her enough to let her.
Nell Behta
127
Oxymoron of War
A born warrior,
Who does not like the weight of the sword.
The blade that slices,
And the tip that pierces deep.
Because deep down she has the urge to pray for her enemies
A veteran who has never fought a battle,
But is fighting a war
Thus, the reason why every wound cuts deep
What’s the point of healing when the scars are still visible
Ugly reminders of war tattooed into the skin, etched into the memory
Scars from a war she was drafted into
There is no time for resentment
She must grow accustomed to the sword
Or she will be held ransom by the wounds on her soul
~ The Story of the Stagnant Warrior
Debbie Bates
128
Boiling Point
There is a forest fire
raging inside of my chest
igniting my heart
and scorching my veins.
The fire never comes out,
it never goes out,
it burns and blisters
boiling until it reaches
a point.
The fire turns my blood
to steam, that rises
slipping through cracks,
crevices, that I can
hardly protect until
I’m suddenly crying.
At this point the fire
has been roaring
too long for me to remember
why it had even started
in the first place.
So I cry at nothing,
at anything,
at everything
until my blood runs cold
and my heart is ash
only for it to rise
like a phoenix
and sit in my chest
once more waiting
for another fire
to spark.
Ariana Tomb
129
Introspective
Ryan Krueger
130
Silence
Tell me,
Are you happy?
Do you find joy in life’s small things?
Or does life seem dull and boring?
Tell me,
When do you find yourself smiling?
Just mindlessly throughout the day?
Or does it fade once the joke has passed?
Tell me,
Is your mind confident?
Does it encourage you to push forward?
Or does it demean and guilt you?
Tell me,
Is a bad day just temporary?
Does it disappear with the waves?
Or does it linger and cause chaos?
Tell me,
Is your nervousness anxiety?
Does it pass after the task at hand?
Or does it attack without rhyme or reason?
Tell me,
So, I may know you better.
Teach me your language.
I want to hear your voice and stories.
Tell me,
It doesn’t have to be with words.
Just sit quietly beside me.
I am fluent in silence.
Falling Saturn
131
Wilt
You plucked each petal
Alone
Under a sky as blank as creation
It was pouring, I remember
The way you mingled with the rain
And you were sitting there
Watching me
“I love you,”
“I love you not.”
And so you went, on and on
For what seemed like months
Years, even
And I couldn’t bare to look at you
I couldn’t stand the thought of you
Not because I didn’t love you
But because you could never love me
And as you marred that poor daisy
Hands made of razing desolation
Chocolate eyes ablaze
I couldn’t escape the thought
That over and over, I died for you
Just as quickly as I’d lived
Cooper Shirey
132
Running Water
Calvin Ng
133
Love Mountains
I do not have to do anything
to deserve to be loved.
it didn’t even cross my mind
until you told me
that I shouldn’t have to move mountains
to be loved,
and suddenly so many things became clear:
why I feel the constant need to give,
like maybe if I give someone enough of my own soul
they would be so kind as to give me some of theirs in return.
and, if I didn’t get it back,
maybe I just need to give a little more,
cut my skin a little deeper to bleed out
and say “look at what I did for you,
how much will it take for you to love me?”
I realize now
that I’ve been asking the wrong things
of the wrong people.
no amount of my soul or sacrifice
could make anyone give me what I wanted.
I have transactions instead of friendships
except I’m the one who’s always paying.
over and over again I will tell myself
“I do not have to do anything
to be deserving of love.”
one of these days I will believe it.
Andrea Kling
134
To My 11th Grade History Teacher Who
Said: “Racism isn’t a thing anymore.”
Welcome to the Trump era
And thank you for your contribution.
I’m sure you didn’t mean
To belittle the struggles
Of millions of colored people
When you denied the racists
while explaining that the KKK
had every right to march
on Washington.
And thank you
for the year of confusion
I spent wondering if white people
really thought racism died in the 60s.
Wondering if all white people
were as ignorant as you.
I hope the latest wave of police brutality
and white activist screaming,
“Go back to your country”
to an American citizen
has changed you mind.
If it hasn’t,
then I guess nothing
will, but stop telling
your students
that racism has stopped
because it’s here,
and will stay as long
as there’s one person
who looks at our skin,
our hair,
our faces,
and sees less
than we are.
Ariana Tomb
135
Forgotten Friend
Megan Stambaugh
136
Like a Ghost
You pulled me close
Like a ghost
I left my body
Evaporated
into thin air when
you touched me
yanked my zipper down
I stood above
my lifeless body
Searching
for reality
Gasping
for clean air
Emily Hummel
137
Missing Light
1.
Another missed call.
the phone widget has an unheard of red seventeen in the right corner.
The calls come so rapidly it’s impossible to do anything but
decline decline decline
Why
It’ll stop eventually.
A person as undedicated as he could never keep this up for so long.
Ah, here come the messages— how is this my fault?
Ignore mute swipe away
Stop
2.
“It wasn’t always like this”
I repeat like a mantra as I
read through hundreds of angry messages from someone I
might have loved once.
Remember
I know childhood was nothing more than a blind fantasy
of obliviousness and naivete
ignoring the red flags I yet knew existed.
Every little girl’s first hero is their father
Wrong
3.
I will never answer his calls.
Not because I do not miss hearing his voice and
reminiscing of a time that never quite existed
but because his words are a poison that seeps through even the strongest
shield.
138
His calls are only made to
blame and twist and accuse and
Lie.
And I know I’m right until I talk to him.
Then after I’m so confused that I no longer know.
His tactics are so skilled that he leaves his opponent, no
his daughter
unsure of what’s real and what isn’t.
Manipulation
4.
Unlike a bad breakup, a friendship ending,
no matter how hard I try
He’s still part of me
he’s on every record of myself
insurance, birth certificate, last name, and it is impossible to take that
away.
Stuck
A sister of mine was fortunate enough to marry away the name and
forget
but we do not take the same paths, and so
the name stays.
While it is a reminder,
I want it to have a new meaning estranged from its founder.
Hope
5.
Many in my place cannot move on.
The poison seeped through their heart and they can never recover
hatred burns deep within them that soils their lives and destroys their
hope.
139
but that will not be me.
Though I’ve yet to win the battle,
on this ferocious sea of hate pain wishing neglect guilt hoping—
There is a lighthouse! in the distance
shining towards me.
I’ll make it to the shore.
With its light I can feel an emotion
that washes away the damage he’s done and the hurt, somehow, it’s
Peace
Julianna Vaughan
140
How the U.S. Forgot Its History
We changed from free and equal,
Only to give racism a bigger sequel.
We changed from democracy,
Only to make a form of hypocrisy.
We changed from how high,
Only to tell the UN and the world bye bye.
We changed from Superman,
Only to show a laughing brand.
We changed from the presidential touch,
Only to lose global respect so much.
We changed from a strong nation,
Only to be the comical TV station.
We changed from glowing horizons,
Only to say Let’s be friends with lions.
We changed from help one another,
Only to why should we love each other.
We changed from such a great country,
Only to adopt the bad habits we all see.
Em Bush
141
America Unseen
If you are American and alive
some may say or view it as you
made it or you have succeeded.
But what about those hearts who
are American and alive who wake
before dawn. Without any caffeine or
food and work their asses off to give us
the fortunate ones what we want.
When they can’t afford what they
need.
From the nurse in the hospital who
goes into the empty room to weep
for the person that died on her table.
To the soldiers that bust their spines,
risk their health, and their lives and
come home to nothing not even a home.
Why are they outcasted and not as a
success? They have stories we just
must let them tell them. They are not
just a number they are humans and
they deserve respect.
Nicole Potts
142
Railroad Bridge
Whitney Bender
143
We Are More Than What We Are Labeled
Publicity hounds I used to call them
Where I was born freedom did not have much meaning to me
An identity I thought was given I didn’t fully understand
I didn’t share the same family tree nor dark history
For as far as I was concerned we were not dropped off on the same land
Publicity hounds I used to call them
But life had different plans for me
Soon I realized it didn’t matter the family tree we had come from
Hate their skin their very existence is what the media did teach
The slogan plastered on every channel doing continuous runs
Publicity hounds I used to call them
I used to think they craved attention
Their continued fight for freedom was never mentioned
They etched this negativity into every young mind
Creating prejudice, bias, and racism that would last a lifetime
Publicity hounds I used to call them
Till one day a group of students stood their ground
Hatred rose up in me, blood boiled, I found anger where I thought it
could never be found
Coffee, juice, and syrup spilled from head to toe
Resilience in their stance they did show
Publicity hounds I used to call them
For their strength stood in their stillness, as if they knew
That one day their freedom would ring true
144
They looked forward heads held straight as if they could see the glory of
what their skin would become
And in that moment I realized that we were all one
Publicity hounds I used to call them
I had been blinded by the facade of what the White man wanted me to
believe
To trick me into believing my own skin was the enemy
For the true enemy was the enemy within
A sin that had seen committed time and time again
They became we and them became us
And from that day on is what I vowed to only trust
I vowed that I must fight for what is just
And everytime opposition would bark
I would fight, for the new dream that lay deep at the core of my heart
Till the day death do us part
For publicity hounds I used to call them,
I used to call us
Debbie Bates
145
Big Square Gold Buttons
My friend wears her avocado-colored shirt with pride.
She knows I hate that shirt
with the big square gold buttons.
I told her not to buy it, she insisted it’s on sale.
Yuck, I said, I won’t be borrowing that one.
I don’t know what’s brighter
the avocado shirt or my friend’s red hair.
She doesn’t care if she looks like a Christmas tree,
it was on sale.
Ugh, I said where’s my sunglasses.
She’s wearing the avocado-colored shirt
with the big square gold buttons
to parties.
She gets attention, when she opens the
two top buttons, her push-up bra bursting
and her red hair blown out.
Oh, she is the talk of the night,
especially when she leaves with the
hottest guy.
Yuck, I hate that avocado-colored shirt,
especially, when those big square gold buttons
trap a man.
Kim Johnson
146
Maps
Kimberly Braet
147
Maps
My skin is a road map
Veins of cities pumping blood across pale complexion
Set up your houses with white picket fences
Making yourself comfortable
As ground quakes beneath you
You are a disease
Sucking the life out of the very grass you build upon
Digging into roads, into skin
Destroying the essence of my being
I am left with this hollowing feeling of death
The once vibrant veins of my cities still and lifeless
This map is now a ghost town
Closed-off highways littered with stalled out cars
Dead-end roads of broken states
My skin is a road map
That I pray you never travel again
Kimberly Braet
148
Needless Trinkets
“There’s a way that these things need to be done.You always
follow it and it’s always okay. Everything has worth here under our sun. So,
what is no longer of worth to you today?” The pawn shop owner asked,
her deceptively young face holding in a pair of brown eyes that possessed
a wisdom deep down in their pupils, the same wisdom cutting his gaze.
Her fingers tapped against the warped cedar countertop that hid her rail
thin legs, fingers moving rhythmically, but not to any recognizable song
from this decade.
“I don’t need this anymore.” he said. An assortment of objects
were flung from his pockets. Two silver pens, foreign change from the
hemispheres of the world, a watch; worn but worthwhile, and a single
tooth, a moral perhaps. They lay on the counter, rolling and shifting until
settling down into the divots and creases of the table-top plateau.
“There is a way that things need to be done” she repeated. “Wash
your hands three times in the basin.” She motioned to an ornamental
dish engraved with a set of looping curves and knots that covered its’
surface. “Cleanse them of the past, wash your palms of the meaning of
these objects and anything that they ever could mean to you”. Her fingers
stopped clattering away at the wooden surface only to sweep above the
counter-top, signaling for him to get moving.
“Wash my hands? In there?” he asked. “You want me to what,
clean my hands before you pay me? Do you think that I’m contag-.”
“There is a way that things need to be done.” she repeated, colder
this time. “Wash your hands before accepting payment.” Her fingers took
a break from their music to mimic that same sweeping gesture, this time
at double tempo.
“Alright, I get it. I’ll wash my hands.” He slowly plunged his palms
into the icy water, watching the dirt and dust of the day peel off his skin,
float away, and dissipate; clouding the water’s surface in a thin film.
149
“Three times!” she exclaimed.
“I’m getting there, ma’am.” he reassured, raising his hands only to
signal compliance before digging them back into the basin. “So, what’s it
worth?” he asked, wiping his palms down the leg of his jeans.
“Thirty dollars and an idea of time well spent, and ill disposed of.”
she said, her fingers once again breaking their rhythm to join her hands in
sweeping the objects into a desk drawer.
“I’ll take it.” he said. As the cash entered his palm and he walked
out, the slight sound of rattling, a jingle of new money, and the tick of time
could be heard, but that was the past and the past had been washed clean.
Later, in his home as he exited the shower as all people do, clean
and a little bit lonely, he could not remember the events of the day. Nor
could he recall the stresses of his past and the accomplishments made in
spite of them. But that didn’t bother him one bit, he smiled, “There’s a way
that things need to be done and it’s always okay in the end.” he repeated
alone to himself.
Trent Betham
150
Ocean Terror
Whitney Morris
151
Icarus’ Flight
I find myself soaring closer and closer to the sun
Your rays warming the sides of my cheeks
As I remember the first time You held my hand
While we went for a hike in the laziness of summer
We swam as our bodies shivered together
The electric current running between us
Begging for us to touch so that we may ignite
I fly higher, counting the time until I am with You
I imagine when I get there You’ll greet me with that smile
The kind that makes me stop and stare
And You’ll ask me what I am looking at
To which I’ll tell You that I’m just taking everything in
That’s what I want us to do now, to take everything in
Is this what love feels like
To feel something so intense, so foreign, yet alive
I’m sweating now, as I think about our last kiss
Your lips were tender and soft as I bit into them
My need to be only met with hesitance
As You pulled away from me
Am I too much for You
Even now as I fly You seem to strip me down
to my most flightless state
they told me not pursue You, to get so close
but I didn’t listen, I just wanted You to consume me
I’m falling now
Harder than before- into the depths of Your darkness
As You forget who I was and who we once were
Me, a forgotten memory, and You a piece of me.
Abigail Kauffman
152
Bereavement
In the dead of night
The full moon fell out of the sky
It crashed to the ground without a fight
For it knew it could no longer fly
The trees dripped tears of grief
For though it is the sun that gives them life
And nourishes them leaf by leaf
It is the moon that cuts through the darkness like a knife
Without the moon their trail of tears
Grows so large it soaks and rots their roots
They deteriorate as the end nears
In preparation they drop their fruits
They can’t be saved
Our path is paved
Tori Helfrick
153
I’m Afraid
“what are you so afraid of?” he asked me
this
i’m afraid of this
whatever this is between us
it’s new and exciting and i’ve never felt like this before
i’m afraid of this
of the way my heart beats faster when i’m near you
and how it flutters when you say my name
i’m afraid of this
of losing you to someone who is better
and watching you learn to lover her
i’m afraid of this
of being someone that you appreciate and admire
and pretending that i am enough to be that for you
i’m afraid of this
of falling for you
when i can’t even love myself
i’m afraid of this
because i’m already
in love with you
“nothing” i whisper
Rachelle Renninger
154
A Walk on the Beach
Kathryn Milliren
155
Go to War
A respected man from a downtrodden country
Had talked of rebellion and talked of war
And now his mouth is sealed and muzzled
So he may talk no more.
His hands are bound, his feet are tied
And his heads been placed upon a block
A punishment for those who stray
And give themselves to sinful talk.
For he had given many speeches
To the men and women of the beaten land
And gained from them a worthy trust
Which helped him device a sinful plan.
On the day when they would break their shackles
And give to the government the rings of war
The signal given to the peasant rebels
Would be 3 knocks upon their doors.
But now the plan had thus been figured
By the soldiers of the oppressive hands
And thus to keep it from its starting
They cut off the starter with their righteous bands.
Now the man awaits his fate
Of death, which shall keep the people gored
For at his death there will live no rebels
For there will be no knocks upon their doors.
A man above the sinful man
With cloak of blackness and axe of steel
Strikes upon the chopping block
And frees the man’s head with wrathful zeal.
156
He lifts the head up in the sky
For all the people now to see.
He says “For those of you who sinfully talk,
This is what your fate shall be.”
The men all gasp and women cry
For their sinful man is now brought down.
And with his death now dies their hope
And future honors drowned.
A man in the crowd now shouts with anger:
“Let us see at least the face.
Remove that muzzle from his mouth
So our eyes may gain a last embrace.”
The black-cloaked man now smirked with glee
And started to unlock the muzzle:
“All you’ll see is pure defeat
And the eyes of one both shocked and puzzled.”
The face now free from conceal
Is lifted high up in the air
The black-cloaked man expects horrid yells
But instead they all just stare.
The sinner’s head had a wagging tongue
Wet with blood from final wounds
Inflicted by 3 final bites
With crimson taste he left entombed.
It was a final act
A cry for renewal knocked on death’s door.
For with three bites upon his tongue
The people knew:
“The signal’s given. Go to war!”
Cameron Crouse
157
Borrowed Lip Balm
This lip balm tastes like someone else,
like nice towels and dirty floors,
like paint, now chipping, but once
stuck cosmic wonders to the walls.
It smells like another life
filled with warm bread
and burnt pizza
and close hugs
and closed wounds.
This lip balm is pink
and pretty
and it isn’t mine.
Robert Greenberg
158
Gerontophobia: The Fear of Growing Old
My age clings to my frame and
I feel plain, like the walls I’m staring it,
but when it feels like I’ve finally
got ahold of everything,
like I’m coasting along that flow
life is taking everyone else around me
to reach much greater heights and destinations,
it turns out, actually, that feeling:
Stability. Comfort. Ease. Whatever you call it.
Isn’t like a flowing river, it’s closer to how it must be
to drive a car, lose control, and wrap it’s
metal frame around a wooden pole.
You might be hurt, your head’s throbbing, and your body aches, and the
mess it leaves
might be big, scattered plains of safety glass and crisscrossed incisions
of bumper, fender, and mirror. The pieces though,
they can all be gathered up and picked off the road
so as to not inconvenience any passerby’s or gawkers.
But the big stuff, the frame, the windshield, the tires, and their axels,
they have to go somewhere too. Somewhere safer than
a cautionary kick aside and into the grass creeping
its way onto the road. They need repairs, they need replacements.
Eventually, you can drive again,
just in time to swerve right into
your mid-life crisis like an older
woman into the supermarket with a book
full of coupon cut-outs:
expectant, prepared, and imminent.
Trent Betham
159
Jubilee
Madalyn Wolfinger
160
Love
You convinced me
That I was what was right in this world.
In my darkest days,
You reminded me to face the sun.
I would revel in her golden glow,
Letting my cold hands soak the up
The energy they so lusted after.
Allowing my eyes to admire the radiant light
Shining on my pale, fragile skin,
I was not omitted from her warmth
As not I, your love.
Bailey Milnik
161
See Me
Anna Jedrejczyk
162
Push On
You’ll wake up,
And peep out the window.
An ominous fusion of gray and blue, Engulfed large portions of the sky.
Howling winds
Viciously rattles the trees like maracas.
The lone crow,
That sits dainty on the very edge of the roof, Screech the infamous tune
of sorrow...
Push on!
Part of a dynamic,
Far from perfect.
In the heat of the moment,
You’re forced to choose a side.
Dreading the inevitable scorn,
From the side left ignored.
The minions of three,
cackle silently in corner.
Push on!
Carelessly dumped,
In a bowl of diverse kinds of souls.
The alphas,
Of such undignified stature,
Adored by many,
Leaving peasants like you,
alone with the rejects.
Some savable,
Others fade into obscurity
A few,
Forever challenge you,
Till they’ve killed off the last bit of you. Push on!
Piece together the puzzle,
That was once your sanity
Showcase a smile,
That doesn’t hide any hidden scars
Break free from your old chain,
163
Bury it deep underground
Let the flames roar.
Reheat a shriveled, frigid heart. Stay...just stay and enjoy!
Ernest Frazier
/or
Submit to
The Reflector
Prose | Poetry | Art
Now accepting submissions
year round.
To submit to The Reflector,
or for more information, contact
The Reflector at reflect@ship.edu.
2020
/or
The Reflector
Shippensburg University’s
Journal of the Arts
2020
The Reflector
The Reflector, founded in 1957, is the annual Undergraduate Arts Journal
financed by the Student Government Association of Shippensburg
University. We accept works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, interviews, and
artwork year-round. Works are considered for publication based on blind
submission policy. Submissions are accepted electronically at
reflect@ship.edu. All writers/artists retain rights to their work.
For questions regarding our submission policy, contact: reflect@ship.edu.
Visit The Reflector on our Facebook or Instagram, The Reflector.
The Reflector office is located in the old section of Shippensburg
University, in the Creative Writing Wing of Horton Hall, Room 301.
The Reflector. Issue 2020.
Cover Design: Noelle Zeigler, “Cat with the Purrr-l Earring”
Book Layout and Design: Anna D’Orazio, Angela Piper & Luke Hershey
Cover Stock: Silk Cover 100# with Soft Feel
Paper Stock: Finch Bright White Smooth Vellum, 80 lb.
Foil Stamp: Luxor #356
Text set in Superclarendon, Gill Sans, Seravek, and Optima
Printed by Mercersburg Printing. Mercersburg, PA.
Staff
Executive Board
Editor-In-Chief
Associate Editor
Public Relations Chair
Anna D’Orazio
Angela Piper
Luke Hershey
Genre Editors
Prose
Trent Betham
Matthew Hathaway
Poetry
Emily Fitzgerald
Veronica Ponti
Kaitlyn Johnson
Art
Megan Gardenhour
Noelle Zeigler
Committee Members
Prose
Aria Jewel Barnett
Ash Chapman
Andrea Kitner
Cameron Crouse
Nicole Potts
Em Bush
Eylie Johnson
Taryn Good
Dale Crowley
Poetry April Petesch
Ashleigh Kennedy
Autumn Jones
Haley Bennett
Rachelle Renninger
Bailey Milnik
Emily Hummell
Ernest Frazier
Art
Cheinne Herman
Maddie Farin
Sarah Herlia
Faculty
Advisor
Dr. Nicole Santalucia
Contents
Ariana Tomb
Prose
.My Grandmother’s Garden........................................................16
Paige Vant Hoogt
.Obscurity..................................................................................23
Chelsea Ealey
.Deadly Friendship.....................................................................32
April Petesch
. A Letter to my Brain..................................................................47
.Scientific Method......................................................................85
Ash Chapman
.Top 5 Things to do While the Lobster is Screaming in the Pot.....54
Kaitlyn Johnson
.All’s Well That Ends Well............................................................58
Sam Goss
C
. hristmas Star ...........................................................................69
Adolfo Alvarez
.Family Reunion .........................................................................77
Cameron Crouse
S. umere: The Painting God..........................................................94
Kathryn Milliren
.A Letter to My Daughter..........................................................103
Nell Behta
. Love Her Enough....................................................................111
Trent Betham
.Needless Trinkets.............................................................................148
Kimberly Braet
Dale Crowley
Andrea Kling
Ayva Lacoco
Poetry
.Dying Garden...........................................................................15
.Emptied.....................................................................................91
.Maps.......................................................................................147
.For Carol...................................................................................19
.The Ladder Builder....................................................................22
.Love Mountains.......................................................................133
.Ocean Lovers............................................................................25
Veronica Ponti
.Not Wanted...............................................................................26
Anonymous
.Torn Tonight...............................................................................29
Matthew Hathaway
.Pink Clouds...............................................................................30
Anonymous
B
. utts 4.......................................................................................39
Haley Bennett
.A Big Bounce............................................................................40
.Skin and Rain..........................................................................104
Quincy Loss
.Musings of a Modern Woman...................................................42
.Worth......................................................................................107
Nicolas Kemmerer
.Blue Lampshades......................................................................44
Falling Saturn
. onsters...................................................................................48
M
.Silence....................................................................................130
Robert Greenberg
.Mariah, of Wind and Sea...........................................................50
.Borrowed Lip Balm..................................................................157
Bailey Milnik
.Spring Cleaning.........................................................................52
.Love........................................................................................160
Kim Johnson
.Smorgasbord.............................................................................53
.Big Square Gold Buttons.........................................................145
Ariana Tomb
J.ust Desserts..............................................................................56
.Boiling Point............................................................................128
.To My 11th Grade History Teacher Who Said: “Racism isn’t a thing
anymore.”...............................................................................134
Katie Spengler
F. lawed Fruit..............................................................................57
Kady Keck
.Grinding...................................................................................60
Debbie Bates
.I Dream a World Pt 2.: Dr King Would be Disappointed............61
. xymoron of War....................................................................127
O
.We Are More Than What We Are Labeled................................143
Carly Ritz
D
. aydream.................................................................................65
Tiara Chescattie
.Life on Earth: A Cautionary Tale.................................................66
Nicole Potts
.Slow Dance in the Forest...................................................................71
. hank You For Not Letting Me Die....................................................102
T
.America Unseen..............................................................................141
Rachelle Renninger
.Be with Someone......................................................................72
.I’m Afraid.................................................................................153
Em Bush
Cole Cox
S. ociety......................................................................................74
.How the U.S. Forgot its History...............................................140
S. olitary......................................................................................75
Cameron Crouse
.Two Gods Playing Chess...........................................................79
. nother...................................................................................109
A
.Go to War...............................................................................155
Jordan Seig
Ernest Frazier
.Survivor....................................................................................80
.Two-Faced Poem......................................................................82
.Push On.................................................................................162
Cooper Shirey
Trent Betham
.Durmlavores.............................................................................83
. ilt.........................................................................................131
W
.I’ve Been Having Trouble Sleeping............................................92
. erontophobia: The Fear of Growing Old...............................158
G
Abigail Kauffman
.5 Minutes and 23 Seconds................................................................98
.Icarus’ Flight....................................................................................151
Tori Helfrick
.What Happened to the Earth?...........................................................99
.Bereavement....................................................................................152
Whitney Bender
.Dreams of a Homecoming Queen...................................................101
Anonymous
.I am Emotionally Unavailable...........................................................105
Emily Hummel
.Like a Ghost............................................................................136
Julianna Vaughan
.Missing Light...........................................................................137
Art
Kelley Moriarty
.Time.........................................................................................14
.Girl Playing Cello.....................................................................106
Cameron Conroy
. roovy Voyage..........................................................................18
G
Ryan Krueger
.Shrouded Truth.........................................................................21
.New Beginnings.......................................................................70
.Introspective...........................................................................129
Megan Stambaugh
.Dusk........................................................................................28
.Forgotten Friend......................................................................135
Kimberly Braet
.Self Portrait................................................................................31
.Maps.......................................................................................146
Whitney Morris
.Hungry.....................................................................................41
.Finding & Flourishing................................................................76
Alyssa Green
.Ocean Terror...........................................................................150
.An Unusual Infestation...............................................................46
Noelle Ziegler
.Lavender...................................................................................51
Anna Jedrejczyk
.cerEYEbellum...........................................................................64
.See Me...................................................................................161
Bailey Milnik
.. Toe Beans................................................................................73
Kaitlyn Durf
.Arizona....................................................................................81
Abigail Lee
..Bright Feathers.........................................................................84
Taryn Good
.Untitled..................................................................................100
Calvin Ng
.Running Water........................................................................132
Whitney Bender
.. Railroad Bridge......................................................................142
Kathryn Milliren
. A Walk on the Beach.............................................................154
Madalyn Wolfinger
.. Jubilee..................................................................................159
A Letter From the Editor
Dear Reader,
I was always told to never start a piece of writing with a
cliché, but I can’t seem to help it here: it seems just like yesterday I
was walking into Horton to attend my first Reflector meeting. I was
a Sophomore, and way more nervous than I’d like to admit. That’s
always been one of my flaws: I get overly anxious about the tiniest
things sometimes. For whatever reason, the idea of going to a club
meeting by myself and being surrounded by all of these people who I
didn’t know terrified me. I had almost talked myself out of not going,
but at the last second, I asked myself “What’s the worst that can
happen?” and I went.
There have been many times throughout my undergraduate
career that I’ve reflected on that moment, and wondered what would
have happened if I had chosen to leave—if I had let my anxiety win
over and stayed to what was comfortable. The consensus that I have
often come to is that my experience at Shippensburg would have
been incredibly different. By choosing to go to that meeting, and all
the other ones thereafter, I have met people who I can indefinitely
say are my best friends and have had the pleasure to work with the
most creative and hard-working students and faculty this university
can offer. If you had told me three years ago that a publication would
grow to mean so much to me and that the thought of ever leaving
it feels like I’m losing a part of myself, I don’t think I would have
believed you.
On this note of encouragement, I think it is also necessary
to address how this journal wouldn’t even exist if not for those who
overcame their anxiety in submitting work to be published. It’s a
scary thing to put yourself out there and try new things (believe me,
I know) and to push aside that overwhelming fear of the unknown to
experience all the possibilities that life has to offer takes courage. The
fear of rejection is always an obstacle that hinders our actions, and so
my hope is that this journal is a representative artifact of what
happens when we take risks. I’m extraordinarily proud of the work
that is showcased here, and therefore, beyond proud of the creators
we have published within it. To date, this is our largest publication
and I hope that our club continues to encourage the student body in
taking artistic risks such as the ones showcased within these pages.
Of course, none of this would have been possible if not for
our staff. They have, perhaps, the most difficult job one could ever
ask of them: to judge the work that has been submitted and decide
what gets to be published. Someone asked me once how this process
works, or more specifically, how is a club able to find students who
can commit to such a time-consuming job? The best answer I can
provide is that this organization has always been filled with devoted
students who have a passion for the arts and who strive to make this
campus a more artistic one. It’s not a normal group, that’s for certain,
but I know that without a doubt I could not have been given a better
group of people to work with. Although my time with The Reflector is
coming to a close, I know that I am leaving it in capable hands.
Additionally, with the support of our Associate Editor, Angela
Piper, and our PR Chair, Luke Hershey, this book would not be sitting
before you. They have gone above and beyond to reach expectations
to make this organization run as smoothly as it does. Our advisor,
Dr. Nicole Santalucia, is also equally amazing with her constant
guidance and advice. All of these people are dedicated and have
made The Reflector’s success a reality. They, honestly, are what have
made my last year here at Shippensburg the most incredible it could
have been.
I have many hopes for this book, but I ultimately hope this
book speaks to you in more ways than one and that a desire to
continue creating has been sparked. Art is what keeps us grounded
and what continues to ignite joy and inspire change to whoever may
see it. The biggest roadblock that we come across, however, is this
component of the unknown. Fear is often what halts us in our steps,
and that pesky question of “What If?” sometimes guides us more than
we’d like it to.
So, if you won’t hear it from anyone else today, you’ll hear it
from me: the best thing you can do for yourself is to take risks, and if
you’re scared to do it, then you know you’re on the right path.
It may just change your life forever.
Yours truly,
Anna D’Orazio
/or
14
Time
First Place | Carragher-Pound Prize of Excellence
Kelley Moriarty
15
Dying Garden
Second Place | Carragher-Pound Prize of Excellence
I
am
a
garden
of
dying
My
grass
a
brittle
You
rip
my
flowers off
their
And
smash them
on
the
Watch
my
oozing
crimson
Bleed
into a
colorful
mural
of
My
dull
thorns
crumble
into
I
have
wasted
roses
brown
branches
ground
petals
pain
dust
away
I
am
a
garden
of
dying
Wilting
in
a
rainless
My
quivering skeletal branches fall to the earth in
Blossoms
collapse
in
a
bloody
The
emptiness
consumes
I
am
Petal
by
rotting
I have faded out of existence into the abysmal void of nothing
roses
box
heaps
chaos
me
dying
petal
Kimberly Braet
16
My Grandmother’s Garden
Third Place | Carragher-Pound Prize of Excellence
Grandma always told me the air tasted different before the earth
died, before the invention of artificial oxygen. That it was alive with an
energy that “the fake stuff” didn’t have and it always made me wonder
what that energy could be. Maybe Grandma could feel the lives of other
creatures breathing the way she did. Maybe those creatures put out an
energy on their exhale that can’t be replicated. Or maybe Grandma just
remembers it romantically and nothing was ever really different. But
then she reminded me of plants.
Her stories always started in the backyard of her parents’ house.
She grew up on one of the last farms in the world and she never let me
forget it. “The hills sang, Esperanza,” she’d say. “The apple trees whistled
with the wind in a tune unheard.”
I’d always ask what they were like. How they smelled and felt and
tasted.
And she’d always reply, “Alive” with a look in her eyes resembling
love. That look always reminded me that she grew up in the Plant
Protests nearly a century ago now. When world governments were still
trying to convince people that plants were no longer necessary for the
survival of human beings. That they were simply wasted space.
Seeing those pictures of people tying themselves to trees and
lying flat on patches of grass makes me laugh. It was like they thought
they were trees themselves or that they were one with the ground.
How anyone could ever believe that is beyond me.
When she answered this way, I would demand to know what
she meant. Looking back I’m sure that no matter how she explained it, I
would never understand. In the same way, I’ll never understand the poets
who praise nature, because I’ve never witnessed it. I’ve never stood, like
the protesters, with my back to a tree. I’ve never even seen one in real
life.
My favorite stories were the ones she told of flowers. “They
bloomed,” she said. “Flowers colored the field outside my window in
17
reds and yellows and blues and greens and when the sun hit them just
so… a kaleidoscope would paint my bedroom walls.”
We tried one summer, when she was too hampered by age to
leave the bed, to recreate the effect. Her bay windows took days to paint,
but by the time we’d finished she’d already passed.
The paint was beautiful, and I sat for hours in the early light of
morning just to see the effect. But I’m positive it wasn’t the same as her
flower colored, kaleidoscope walls.
Grandma always said the plants died when she was young, but, to
me, they died with her because there was more beauty in the color of her
stories than there would ever be in the color of this artificial world.
Ariana Tomb
18
Groovy Voyage
Cameron Conroy
19
For Carol
She came into my life when the bad guys were winning.
She said I’ve been there and I’ll try to help.
Her heart was a reflection of compassionate love.
In her eyes, the soul of a warrior.
A soul that said, together we can get through this.
Three times in the next year I asked for her hand.
Three times that year she said no.
Finally, I didn’t need her anymore and told her.
Not in the sense of needing her help.
Now I just needed her so I could breath.
Being without her was like having air taken away.
So, one more time, I said “Be my wife.”
She said yes and “I thought you’d never ask!”
A quarter of a century has passed.
I still lean on her.
But sometimes she leans on me too.
I still look in her eyes.
I still see the soul that says: Together.
That quarter of a century hasn’t reduced her beauty.
She’s still the best-looking lady in any room.
Now and then in the evening when we’re home alone,
She won’t see me just looking at her.
I never get tired of just looking at her.
My world could end with one more look at her.
I often wonder in those moments
If my tomorrow never comes,
Will she know how I loved her today?
A love so real that it scares me.
A love so real that when I touch her skin
My fingertips actually tingle.
The passion of our humanity too intense to contain.
How do I tell her without useless clichés?
20
Do I talk of her smile or of her infectious laugh?
Do I tell her I never want to get into a battle of wits with her?
I know she could bury me with her brain in that conflict.
Do I say “Please let me grow old with you by my side?”
No, none of those will work.
Words are futile.
I simply say thank you.
Thank you for loving me as much as I love you.
Dale Crowley
21
Shrouded Truth
Ryan Krueger
22
The Ladder Builder
Inspired by Robert Frost’s “After Apple-Picking”
I build my long, two-pointed ladder higher
always reaching towards the top.
There are piles of leaves below me,
the kind you would dive into as a kid—
I know they will not catch me soft,
so I climb down,
I am done with ladder building now.
I am going to find company
that will help me forget my aching shoulders
and the roughness built into my hands.
The evening will fall early,
but I know that this shared laughter will not,
love flying around in all directions
over empty apple-cider mugs.
The weight of the thought
of the next day’s work
pushes me to bed.
There are ten thousand rungs to be built,
so many that repetition repeats itself.
I go to sleep knowing the next day
will bring the same feeling of never being able
to reach the top, reach the end,
but also the same crisp air,
the same love flying around evening tables,
the same beautiful leaves
falling beside me as I climb
my endless ladder towards the skies.
Andrea Kling
23
Obscurity
Rays of sunshine layered themselves between the tangled branches,
skewering the sky into a mosaic of blue and white hues. A breeze wisped
itself between the tree trunks before teetering off into the clearing below
and disappearing in the loose tendrils of Zahra’s hair. She sat amongst
the tall, paling grass, with her fingertips buried in the dried earth and the
apples of her cheeks angled to the treetops. The ghost of a smile rested
between her parted lips.
Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths as she slowly molded
herself against the earth to peer upward. The sun flickered through the
bobbing leaves, catching in her eyes and accentuating the green specks
floating in her irises. She was radiant lying there, cradled by the earth.
Serene, she thought. Not a care in the world to be had here, Zahra.
Here in this patch, this personal haven she had stumbled across
so many months ago, she was free. The forest had opened up before her,
bowing and buzzing with joy as she glided through the threshold of the
clearing. Eleven towering oak’s formed a barrier around the patch like
guards, long branches crossing in the treetops to make a grand canopy.
Safe, she thought. Reassured.
A stronger gust of wind broke into the clearing and urged the
wispy grass against her, the blades abruptly kissing at her skin. The
greenery above rustled warningly and she curled her fingers as she
used her forearm to lift herself back up. Some rebellious baby hairs–
unbothered by her earlier attempt to restrain them–drummed against her
forehead as the breeze circled around her, taunting her in faux tornadoes.
Not here, she chanted to herself. Never here.
The trees swayed in the sky, bending and twisting their branches
together tighter, tighter, tighter. Soon the sky was shielded from view and
the air grew cold as a malevolent cloud crawled over the blue canvas and
began rapidly eating away at the sun. Her skin was taught, goosebumps
24
running down her exposed legs in a manner akin to an alarm.
Go. The word had never existed in this space before but it was
suddenly plastered in her vision, spelled out in the mangled brush beyond
the barrier oaks. Run, Zahra.
The ground moved from beneath her as she stood, freckled knees
locked and tentative arms crossed over her chest. Loose hairs at the back
of her neck were slicked to her skin from the gleam of sweat sprouting
from her pores.
It’ll find you, this voice was different. Run, run, run…
A figure never clear, always a blur anchoring itself at the edge of
her vision, playing the part of a trick of the eyes. The trees were deserter’s in this ongoing game, playing the part of guardians but allowing it to
cloister just beyond the clearing. Jeering at her, prodding with temptation
and empty promises meant to leave her void.
It found you. Frozen, petrified amidst the traitorous trees, she
crumbled. I’ve found you, Zahra.
Paige Vant Hoogt
25
Ocean Lovers
The sunbeams dance across the sand
and my heart fills with the glow in your eyes
I long for the feeling of your hands in mine
Our souls tumble under the waves like broken sea glass
Our laughter was meant to wash away the fear that all will be shattered
and we will be two broken promises
drifting away in the foam of the sea
Ayva Lacoco
26
Not Wanted
I pretty much knew this would happen the whole time,
but I didn’t want to admit it.
I should’ve known when you didn’t invite me
to parties, when only a few of you wanted to hang out
With me and actually get to know me as a person.
when two of you cared when I ended up in the hospital,
When I cried for days around Christmas and New Year’s,
when you told me that I wasn’t welcome anymore.
When you believed the rumors that were spread,
didn’t have the guts to tell me that I’m apparently
A bitch to my face.
We’re all told to be sisters, but is it sisterhood
when all of you talk about what I did wrong
While I’m not even in the room?
I still share my secrets with a few of you,
the ones who actually dare to make eye contact.
I am The One Who Shall Not Be Named
even though I was around for almost two years.
I’m not allowed to be your friend if I don’t
have letters across my chest.
I drove you home at 2 am,
lent you my shoulder to cry on,
And spent countless hours that I will never
get back.You told me that I’m selfish,
That I’m aggressive for speaking up against rules
that serve a few while making everyone else feel like shit.
You discouraged me for writing essays instead of showing up
at 10 o’clock on a school night, for reading novels and
Creating lesson plans instead of wasting hours of my time
On a random Wednesday night when I had an 8 am
the next morning.
I never thought I would say goodbye,
27
hand away all of the shirts that were passed down,
the artwork, and the Greek label that was attached
To my name.
I never thought I would have the courage to speak
up against the favoritism, the system that places some
Women on a pedestal and makes other women bow down
to them as if their fellow college students are queens.
Go where you feel wanted, not where you are being
ordered around by those who can skirt the rules.
Veronica Ponti
28
Dusk
Megan Stambaugh
29
Torn Tonight
All people are capable of good
We hold doors open, we call each other beautiful, we even share our
drinks.
All people are good.
But you’re different.
Yeah, you hold the door for me and tell me I’m beautiful.
You even bring me coffee every morning, even when I don’t ask.
But your heart is different.
It’s broken.
You do all this for me
Because no one has done it for you.
You smile wide enough for me to see
You laugh loud enough for me to hear
That you’re broken.
So here we are on a Friday night, living under the strobing lights.
We laugh and stumble about
You carry me home and tuck me in
And I know that you are so much more
Than that big tear on your heart.
Anonymous
30
Pink Clouds
We chased the highs—
they offered the best views.
But the highs mean the furthest falls
when the lows come for you.
And they will come.
The highest high is in
the pink clouds.
When life lines up and hope
rises from the horizon.
But the clouds are passersby—
waving from the shoreline
offering best wishes and smooth sailing.
So set off alone
into the fog
Matthew Hathaway
31
Self Portrait
Kimberly Braet
32
Deadly Friendship
Someone once said that a person dies twice. The first time is
when they stop breathing, and the second time is the last time someone
says their name. If that’s the case, we were almost positive that if Mallory
had anything to do with it, Nayeli would live on forever. She probably
preferred it that way, seeing as she always loved as much attention as she
could muster from the townspeople of Newport. It was a small town,
but we’d all grown up here, which was enough time to watch everything
become old and unused together. It’s funny how that happens in places
where everyone knows each other.
Nayeli and her family moved to town when we were in fifth grade.
They lived across the street from Mallory and her parents, right near the
end of our cul-de-sac. And for as long as anyone could remember, the two
had been inseparable. Except for the three months when Nayeli had tried
to put moves on Mallory’s brother, but that was beside the point. Nayeli
had long, brown hair that was straight as a board with caramel colored
skin, while Mallory had blonde curls, almost always pulled back in a tight
ponytail that framed her porcelain skin. One was sweet and composed,
while the other was outspoken and high strung. Complete counterparts,
but so complimentary of one another. From girl scouts to cheerleaders,
we watched the girls grow up together alongside the rest of our group,
climbing out Mallory’s window to sit on top of the rooftop every day,
gossiping until late hours of the night.
Today, we walk the halls of Newport High School as
upperclassman. Juniors and seniors on the brink of graduation, devastated
by the loss of one beautiful girl. Day by day, playing out the mystery
that is her death as the local authorities attempt to unmask what really
happened on that Halloween night. We worried that if they didn’t uncover
the truth soon, Nayeli’s death would be ruled as an accident, or worse, a
suicide. But those of us who knew her couldn’t bear the thought of either
of these outcomes. No one could’ve possibly laid a hand on her. Not even
herself.
It was the Saturday before Halloween, and everyone in Newport
33
knew that Mallory would be hosting one of her biggest parties of the year.
The blonde was very well known for her parties, so much so that the
residents of Newport – the parents and the authorities – would turn a
blind eye for a select few nights of the year in hopes that knowing their
kids would be confined to the McIntyre property rather than roaming
around the outskirts of town would put them at ease. Until this year.
Everything started out as usual. Nearly all of Newport High’s
student body compiled into Mallory’s backyard, playing beer pong and
conversing over the bonfire while dressed in various costumes. The
two hostesses floated around the party gregariously, flashing smiles
at everyone as they flaunted their perfect attire. They’d spent months
planning for this and we all knew it.
Sometime around midnight, Izzy Cooper wondered around the
front of the house to find Mallory, standing over Nayeli’s lifeless body,
paralyzed in what she deemed to be fear. Izzy’s scream brought forth the
crowd from behind the house, as we all looked on in horror as the blood
pooled around the brunette’s long locks and onto the sidewalk.
“Mallory, did you see anything? Did you call 911?” Someone finally
spoke, breaking the silence that even the cool, autumnal breeze had left us
in those moments.
By the time she finally looked up, as if Mallory were about to end
her wordlessness, the blaring of the ambulance broke into the air as the
lights flashed, and it turned onto the street. From what we’ve heard, it
took the police hours to get Mallory to talk, and even then, they couldn’t
get much out of her. The next morning, there were only two things the
Newport Sheriff’s department knew: Nayeli Bagent was dead and Mallory
McIntyre was the primary suspect.
It wasn’t until two days later, on that Tuesday, that we would see
Mallory again. None of us expected it, so when she showed up to first
period no one knew what to say. She looked like she hadn’t slept since
34
the party, eyes caked with eyeliner that had obviously been there for
days. She didn’t go out of her way to speak to anyone, and everyone else
reciprocated. After all, what does someone say to a girl who’s just lost her
best friend without seeming terribly cliché?
On Thursday afternoon, we all started to worry. Mallory was sort
of the ring leader. She kept us all in sync with one another. Now everyone
just shared side glances and hushed voices. Newport High had never
felt so tranquil than in these hours. At lunch, Mallory and her boyfriend,
Jeremy, sat together and shared very few words. This was the most status
quo moment we’d seen thus far. That was until Jeremy asked to copy his
girlfriend’s biology notes, flipping open her notebook to the most recently
used page.
“I don’t have them!” Mallory shouted at him, ripping her notebook
from his grip. Her anger startled all of us.
“I just saw them right there! What do you mean you don’t have
them?” Both of their voices were elevated at this point.
A few more unintelligible words were exchanged before Mallory
stormed out of the cafeteria. Later, we found out that what Jeremy really
saw inside her notebook was not biology notes at all. Scribbled inside the
pages of Mallory’s notes, she’d written something that changed her entire
story: I think I know who killed Nayeli.
It seemed like since Nayeli, all the leaves had fallen in the entire
town of Newport. It was fitting; the way that the lifelessness of the nature
surrounding the town matched the lifelessness that we’d succumbed
to with such a major disruption to our tiny town. Much like any other
gossip, it didn’t take long for whispers to start about what Jeremy had
seen. It was like a game of telephone, and with time the story morphed
into a monster of lies created by the mind of high schoolers. Our favorite
version was that in which Nayeli was actually abducted by aliens who had
killed her that Halloween.
35
But small-town gossip doesn’t last long. On Monday morning,
Newport’s Deputy sheriff stood in the doorway of Mrs. McCoy’s
American History class, ushering Mallory out of the school and down
to the station. This time, they were able to get a little more information
out of her. She confessed that she thought that Nayeli had fallen from the
rooftop of her house, a spot that had been sacred for the two of them,
which was information that police had managed to gather themselves.
For the most part, Mallory stuck to her original statement, blaming
alcohol for her lack of memory. Who could blame her? Underage drinking
is a minuscule crime when compared to potential murder. With no new
information, the local authorities began to expand their questioning. One
by one, they interrogated all of Mallory’s closest friends. A few of them
came out to say that they hadn’t seen Mallory with Nayeli for hours by
the time everything was said and done that evening. A few even said that
they’d seen Nayeli with Jeremy, looking for Mallory that night. Somehow
no one could piece the night together quite yet.
For the next two weeks, things went back to normal. Days would
go by, and it was like nothing ever happened, until Mallory would excuse
herself from the room sniffling, leaving the room somber until her return,
as if everyone was holding their breath while she was gone. Over this
time, Mallory and Jeremy had decided to call their relationship quits. And
for some who’d just lost their boyfriend and best friend, she seemed to
be getting on well.
Her curls that had turned into matted nests and strands began to
soften and returned to the perfect ponytail we all knew so well while her
sweatpants turned back into jeans and skirts. She started talking more.
Just small talk at first, mostly hi’s and hello’s, until finally she was back to
the bubbly girl we’d all known and loved.
There were moments when we could all tell she felt a little bare
without her sidekick, but she smiled and pushed through it. She even got
back together with Jeremy, eventually. She began organizing a vigil for
Nayeli to take place on her birthday, about a week from the day, and
36
about a month since the accident. The whole school was behind it as we
came to Mallory’s aid, helping with whatever she needed.
On the night of the memorial, we celebrated Nayeli’s life in what
was the best we could. We lit candles and shared our favorite stories of
growing up together. Towards the end of the night, speeches were given,
starting with Nayeli’s mom, then the principal, and then Jeremy.
Mallory’s was saved for last, of course, and we all expected it.
While Jeremy finished up his words, Mallory’s demeanor seemed to
change from peaceful to nervous. She listened as her boyfriend talked
about how beautiful and amazing her best friend was, and the memories
of that night flooded back into her mind.
She took the stage, looking out into the crowd of people,
obviously overwhelmed with emotions. She opened her mouth to speak,
but stopped, looking down for an uncomfortably long pause before she
finally spoke.
“Tonight, I intended to get up in front of you all, and tell you about
how much I loved Nayeli and how much I miss her,” she began, her eyes
looking up from the podium. “I think instead I’ll shed a little light onto
what really happened that night at my party.”
The crowd became restless in anticipation as she paused. We
expected her to be more emotional. For someone who’d just lost their
best friend, it seemed that she was oddly detached at this point. Much
unlike the Mallory we’d seen for the past few weeks, constantly excusing
herself in tears.
“That night, I had broken off from Nayeli for a bit to chat with
someone about the upcoming bake sale, and when I was finished, no one
had seen her. I didn’t think anything of it, so I looked for Jeremy instead.
Come to find out, no one had seen him either. Now, me being the lovely
friend I am, didn’t think anything of this, and decided to go up to my room
37
to freshen up. I opened the door to my room, and through the window I
saw Nayeli and Jeremy. Together. On the roof. Next thing I know, maybe
twenty minutes later, I find Nayeli was on the sidewalk.”
At this point, we were all looking at Jeremy, and his face was as
white as a ghost. He had no clue what to say or do, so he just shook his
head as if to tell us all that Mallory’s wrong. Mumbles began amongst the
townspeople, and no sooner than we could make sense of everything
Mallory said, Deputy Sheriff Martin was putting Jeremy in handcuffs before
throwing him in the back of his police car.
And with that, we all felt a sense of peace. Nayeli’s death was no
longer a mystery to us. Something had happened between the two of
them that night that caused Jeremy to push Nayeli over the edge of the
roof, even if we weren’t sure what that reason was. We went back to talk
about Mallory in hushed tones, wondering if she felt silly for taking Jeremy
back now that she’d realized that he must’ve killed her best friend. She
didn’t seem to mind. That we talked about her, that is.
The next day, Jeremy showed back up at school, angrier than any
of us had ever seen him. It turns out that the sheriff’s department didn’t
have enough evidence to keep him in custody, so they just kept him as
long as they could and turned him away in the morning. None of us were
really sure if he’d done it or not. It didn’t seem like Jeremy had any real
reason to push Nayeli of the roof, anger issues or otherwise.
He cornered Mallory in the hallway later that day before Izzy
stepped in and pulled Mallory off to biology. Before she went, she
apologized to him for telling everyone what sounded like him being the
one who pushed Nayeli off the roof.
That day after school, word came from the sheriff that they’d
finally caught the person who’d murdered Nayeli. Hopefully, this would be
the end of it, we all though. For Mallory’s sake, at least. Then, we found out
that Mallory had gone to the station during sixth period and confessed.
38
Apparently, that night, when she saw Jeremy and Nayeli through
her window, she overheard them talking about how they needed to stop
sneaking around in secret. Mallory, upset at what she’d heard, backed
out of the room and went to head downstairs. A few minutes later, she
decided to go back up and confront them, when she passed Jeremy on the
stairs, who claimed he’d been looking for both her and Nayeli for some
time now. Mallory climbed the stairs to her room, and out the window
onto the roof.
“Are you sleeping with Jeremy?” she accused Nayeli, her words
slurred with her drunkenness and eyes burning with tears.
“Mal, it’s much more complicated than that,” she replied, not able
to meet the eyes of her friend.
In a fit of range, Mallory pushed her friend. Nayeli lost her balance
on the rooftop, and Mallory watched as she fell to the ground beneath
her. It’s said that when she went down to see if she was okay, she’d been
in so much shock, she barely remembered what happened, and then Izzy
was screaming. She never meant to hurt her.
This story was groundbreaking. The sheriff was so stunned that he
even let Mallory go home for the evening so the town could collaborate
on what to do next. The next morning, Newport’s sheriff travel to the
McIntyre residence to take her way. He found Mallory atop the roof. The
same spot she and Nayeli had been on the night of the party
“Why don’t you go ahead and come down now, Mallory?” the
sheriff beckoned, never really a stern man to begin with.
Mallory stood up.
And jumped.
Chelsea Ealey
39
Butts 4
Damn, girl that’s a nice ass.
That’s a nice ass for a white girl.
Damn, white girl got ass.
Look at that perfect peach.
Damn, that girl got cake.
There’s no way that ass belongs to a white girl.
Do these jeans make my butt look fat?
Yeah totally Phat, like the Phattest.
Damn, white girl got a Phat ass.
Anonymous
40
A Big Bounce
Like the universe,
I’m expanding, thinning
myself, reaching out into nothing.
If I disperse wide enough
I’ll collapse back into the point,
infinitely small and dense and hot,
I came from
when some swaying whim broke
and will break again.
I’ll fly out, explode back into myself,
search for the edge of anything,
and everything everywhere
scatters, and at once
it’s me, here.
Haley Bennett
41
Hungry
Whitney Morris
42
Musings of a Modern Woman
Am I a bad bitch?
Alexa, play that song again.
I wonder,
If I could peel the Earth
Like the skin of an orange
Into a delicate swirl,
then drink the Milky Way
And swallow the stars whole,
would I be enough?
Ask me again when
I’m not feeling
the sting of the hot pharmacist pining
after the mail order bride; too
Distracted to notice the acid somebody
Hid in my underwear drawer
turn into a goldfish,
then a teacup,
then back again.
If I were a stronger woman,
I would pluck the sun from the sky
And crack it in half with my fingers,
Letting the molten rock
rain down and baptize me.
Instead, I’m content to balance each half in my hands,
snapping its contents like bubble gum in my mouth
and tapping my feet to a hymn
only I can hear.
As I come down from my estrogen high,
I am crowned with a planet’s rings.
If I set fire to a rosebush,
maybe then I would speak to God
And She would remind me
43
that I needed to orgasm regularly.
And as the deep red petals fall
into my mouth and turn to ash,
I would be able to rest,
knowing that I am, in fact,
A bad bitch.
Qunicy Loss
44
Blue Lampshades
I’m going to town to meet someone special. I don’t know who
they are, but I’ve known them before. Longing for the day I reach out and
the switch flips. I’ve got a lampshade of blue and it sings me some songs
sweeter than the brisk fall sun. I’ve got a craving for a calling to drive
me right off the road of intoxication, driving with two hands tied behind
my back with a smile full of fangs, bloody with ambition. The ship keeps
righting itself as I float on bye, nothing by smooth sailing when the waters
grow wild, rolling along with each burst of waves crashing and dipping.
Got a box full of fun things, it’s always a lock pick away from yours. Missing
a leg to shake, missing the beat to which they all dance. I’m going to town
to meet someone special, we might not see eye to eye, but there’s always
recognition. A twinkle in the night’s skyline, shooting like the speed of
a hand that learned the piano as a child, rekindling the fire they once
circled around. Like a bullet passes through the skull I hope it takes one
stare to find the words in which to speak, and the manner meant to say
them. Carving my impression with the touch of a hand, the rattle of an
empty skeletal structure, my stomach churns, and the buttons on my
dash seem to swing limply. I hope the dizzy feeling of another time rushes
on by, like the first time you hear your baby cry all the way until the can
walk without your hand and then when you must hold theirs to keep up.
I’ve got a blue lampshade that sings rain from the sky, and the clouds it
sputters from follows those less fortunate than we. Just spin, spin, spin.
The cycles of a washing machine crashing down a flight of stairs by a tree
with initials that have been intimate for far longer than my memory can
reckon. I’m going to town to meet someone special. Our faces might
have changed, but the colors around ain’t, a hue of violet will encircle her
face like it did so many moons ago, I hope mine still shines a memorable
picture-perfect purple in the streetlights of my old kitchen. A cold snowy
night, in a field of sunflowers and roses that grow toe to toe, at a stoplight
that always holds traffic to a stop, a single car with two passengers, at
red. Their destination always unknown, but always where they may rest.
I’m going to town to meet someone special, where bloodshot eyes are
happy times and vulnerability is alluring, where tears are kept on an index
finger of someone who cares, and where a memory is never too far from
another. I’ve got a blue lampshade that sings pale melancholies to
45
sleep. I’m going to town to meet someone special, by a tree with initials
that have been intimate for longer than my mind can remember.
Nicolas Kemmerer
46
An Unusual Infestation
Alyssa Green
47
A Letter to my Brain
Dear Brain,
I know I haven’t been the greatest to you. I’ve neglected you. I don’t
eat the right foods or drink water enough. My sleeping habits are poor at
best and unpredictable at worst. I swing wildly between under stimulating
you or overwhelming you.Yet, let’s both be honest here- you haven’t been
the greatest to me either.
You’re sick. I get that, we all get sick, but my sick days are occasional.
You, on the other hand, are sick all the time. Seriously? You need to get
your shit together. For me. For us.
I want to live. I honest to Gods, want to live a full and happy life.
What’s standing in the way of that? You. I must keep badgering you, no I
don’t want to die at every little inconvenience. That’s you, or the sickness,
or you, or…I can’t tell anymore. Either way, get it straight. I don’t want to
hurt myself anymore. I don’t want to hurt those I love anymore. Why make
me? Because you’re hollow? Selfish? Just plain mean?
Why are you mean to me so much? Every other organ in my body
operates the way it should. My lungs pump air and my heart pumps blood.
My cells are all working so hard on a microscopic level for the sake
of a functioning organism known as me. Why can’t you pull your weight?
Look, I appreciate you. I do.You help me walk, and talk, and feel. But
this whole feeling thing, at least the way you operate it, is a little jacked up. I
don’t need to always feel in extremes, or feel dull, or hollow, or like a void.
It’s okay to feel emotions, just not in the wild way you do. The pain is good
for my art, but the suffering is destroying my life.
I know you’re trying, and I am too. I just need you to try a little
harder.
Best regards,
Me
April Petesch
48
Monsters
As a child,
I had monsters
Just as most kids do.
Except,
They didn’t hide in closets
or underneath my bed.
Instead,
They slept down the hall,
In a room I dare not run to.
Naturally or by magic,
Monsters leave when there’s light,
Disguised as strangely hung clothes
or as toys stuffed oddly in corners.
My monsters,
Weren’t scared of the light.
In fact,
They flourished during the day.
Seeing them all the time,
I had to give them names.
Sometimes I relied on them.
Called them to my aid.
Crying out for mom or dad,
to come and save the day.
Rarely did that happen though.
I learned quite early on,
To never call upon a monster,
Not at any cost.
However,
49
Monsters can’t stay monsters.
Children must grow up.
Told monsters don’t exist.
Taught they’re imagination.
Kids grow up.
Night lights disappear.
Knowing,
That dark pile is actually a chair.
What happens,
When the monsters don’t go away?
When you’re told they don’t exist?
What do you do when no one will listen?
When no one believes they’re there?
You start to believe your peers are right.
Convincing yourself its all made up.
Losing trust of what you feel.
Never knowing fake from real.
The monsters’ lies become your truth
Your truth becomes the lie.
I wish my monsters were like most
and stayed beneath my bed.
Falling Saturn
50
Mariah, of Wind and Sea
Heart in your chestTreasure I need,
Heaving and sighing
My waves rock you to sleep.
Spend eternity in me,
Little ship,
Fill your sails,
I will be your sea.
Spend eternity in me,
Little ship,
Moored in the deep,
With sunny skies
And misty dreams.
Be my light,
You have me.
You have me.
Robert Greenberg
51
Lavendar
Noelle Ziegler
52
Spring Cleaning
I lost the memory
In the couch cushions.
After months of
Much needed cleaning
I take the vacuum out and
Use the hose to
Suck up the dirt, dust bunnies,
Stale crumbs,
Lost pennies,
And popcorn kernels.
Suddenly the vacuum growls
I shut it down
Looks like I sucked up
Something it couldn’t handle.
Something I couldn’t handle.
There it was,
The memory of us,
Sticky and grubby.
There’s not enough Febreze
To cover the foul stench
My stomach churns,
I hold my breath,
And throw it into the trash.
My mother asks me what
Smells so bad,
I say,
“Something rotten.”
Bailey Milnik
53
Smorgasbord
Generation of addicts. Smorgasbord of addictions.
Born an alcoholic. Four years old
Scrambling up the kitchen counter
swigs of Vanilla extract.
No clue, liked how it made me feel.
Tasted my first beer. Same effect.
Had a love affair with liquor until I was
Double crossed.
Could not get enough, never enough.
Went down dark alleys not knowing if
Daylight would arise. Saying prayers to
Stay alive.
Will stop after this one.
After this one, After this one, After this one.
Until my body screamed, no more no more
I lost my sanity
Talked nonsense
Seen the light, staggered away
I am an alcoholic, born an alcoholic
Put down the drink
Other addictions pop up
Some are old pals, others unwelcome guests.
It is a smorgasbord of addictions
Kim Johnson
54
Top 5 Things to do While the Lobster is
Screaming in the Pot
Lobster is a delicious seafood that people all over the world enjoy.
However, those who home-cook their lobsters may find it disturbing
when they drop the live animal in a pot of boiling water only to hear
it clattering around in an attempt to escape the pot while the steam
escaping from between the flesh and the shell makes a whistling noise
very much like desperate screaming. The secret to coping with this is not
to ignore the screams, as many have tried and failed to do, but to embrace
them. Here are our top 5 ways to accept the scream of the lobster and
rejoice in your future fresh seafood meal.
1. Scream with the lobster. We all know it’s not actually the lobster
screaming, but rather the steam escaping from between the meat and the
carapace. Nevertheless, the lobster’s frantic scrabbling sure makes it seem
like the lobster would scream if it could. Join in! Accept your inevitable
mortality as one.
2. Play a flute, recorder, or other wind-based instrument with the scream.
Who said despair can’t be musical? Much great art comes from a dark
place of hopelessness after all. The scream of the lobster, combined
with the clanging of its claws against the walls of the pot, are almost like
a musical symphony when it comes down to it. They are like the first
caveman to discover rhythm and song, demanding the meaning of life from
a deaf sky.
3. Record the lobster.You’re using the lobster’s boiled body for your food,
so why not record its screams and frantic scrabbling for later listening
pleasure? Imagine what a nice wind-chime sound you could remix out of
this.You might even be able to turn it into a good ringtone for your alarm.
4. Sit in silence. A common reaction to the “screaming” lobster is to set
a timer and leave the kitchen. Chefs who do this are cowards and fools.
To think the lobster’s pain ceases simply because there is no one there to
observe it is a comical display of ignorance. Instead, grab a stool and perch
yourself next to the pot of boiling water. Imagine yourself as the lobster.
55
5. Think about how good the lobster is going to taste. This may seem like
avoidance at first, but don’t be fooled. The lobster is giving up its life for
you.You are boiling the lobster alive not for any greater good, but because
it tastes nice. Remember that as the scream fills your kitchen. In several
short minutes, that pain will be on your plate, and it will taste delicious.
Ash Chapman
56
Just Desserts
To cake a problem
you must first tart the issue
then calmly snicker doodle
until you can pound cake
now meringue
and maybe butterscotch
just to be sure
that everyone is apple pie
about the whole thing,
and it never hurts
to chocolate mousse
about it a little more
but this is only one option
in a saltwater taffy
of others,
and not every problem
has a cake.
Arianna Tomb
57
Flawed Fruit
Do not touch me,
I’m fragile.
I have been dropped
time
and
time
again.
Cold consequences
for letting the wrong hands
handle my delicate
legacy.
My skin remains
bruised
from past lovers,
each piercing me
with a hearty bite
to my ego.
They took advantage
of my lust
for love
and desire
for purpose.
More bruises
than bushels,
less love
than lives.
No one wants
a flawed
fruit.
Katie Spengler
58
All’s Well That Ends Well
She was a young girl, too young to experience such a thing in
a courtroom in mid-December. Although her face showed youth, the
white hairs sparkling from her root told otherwise of what she had been
through. She spent a lot of time in the courtrooms that reeked of old
books and her own tears. She often retreated to her home, a reflection
of herself, where her anxiety could be hung up with her coat and left at
the door. Her walls were decorated in frames of happy children that hid
the holes behind them, with slight darkness peaking at the corners. She
softly draped her fragile soul onto the couch and laid awake, staring at the
ceiling. Her phone rang, an unknown phone number.
Her anxiety sprang from the coat rack and embraced her like
an old friend would. The voice on the other side of the line spoke in
whispers that could shoot darts into her heart from over the electronic
waves.
“Hello, is this Mrs. Alexander?”
“Well, yes. But please call me Ms. Morrow.”
“My apologies, miss. I am the defense attorney appointed to the
Jason Alexander v. The Commonwealth of New Hampshire, how are you
doing today?”
“I am doing fine. Why are you calling?” she brushes her hair to be
placed behind her ear, exposing the scars he left.
“Jason Alexander is now in custody, located at the Manchester
Prison. Would you like him to have access to your information for
contacting purposes?”
“Are you kidding? Why would I? He already knows my address,
does he need anything more?”
“I guess not, it is just customary for me to ask, I apologize ma’am.”
59
“How long?”
“How- oh yes. 10 years, shorter with good behavior.”
She hangs up the phone.
She felt the cinder blocks that pressed on her shoulders vanish as
she rose from her couch. She sprang with such excitement, that she ran
outside of her house. It was a cold December day, snow nestled on the
frozen ground. Everything covered but her clean sidewalk she slaved over
the day before. She threw her hands in the air fleetingly, with her coat still
in place on the rack. She took a deep inhale, and let it go with a cloud that
lifted into the blue sky above. She felt as free as she ever felt, and safe as
she ever would be. The cold air embraced her but the adrenaline kept her
as warm as the furnace in her fists. She thought to herself now, that this
would be her life. She could let him go, move on, and embrace the life she
has been given. Life had given her a second chance. She thought of all that
she could accomplish now that the threat of him has been pressed into
the defined corners of concrete and bars. She reached for the sky, and
realized she could go back to school. She could write again, and embrace
all that she loved. She could move to a town where no one knows her
name. All these ideas flooding her mind brought to her new light and new
hope, now that she is free.
But then a car raced around her corner, a small white ford focus
with illegally tinted windows. The passenger leaned out of the window,
in perfect firing range. The woman with her arms in the air, as free and
as safe as she has ever felt, found red growing from her chest as the car
drove by and a deafening shot echoed the once quiet neighborhood. She
fell, defeated, on her no longer cleaned sidewalk, as her hard work was
covered now in crimson red as it poured. It was his brother, the one who
seeks revenge, who leaned out of the passenger seat of the car and fired
at her. But now, she is truly free, as she lay on the cold sidewalk drenched
in red alone.
Kaitlyn Johnson
60
Grinding
You are my first thought at the crack of dawn.
The reason why I get out of bed with a grin.
I crave your heat, your taste, the rush you give me.
I want to be filled to the brink by you,
Your warmth coating my insides as I sigh in bliss.
I need my lips to gently glide against yours
While you overwhelm my tongue with your bite.
Help me understand why
Others do not love you as much as I do.
They call you bitter. Sharp. But very hot.
A morning owl, always there to perk me up.
Without you, I cannot go on.
You complete me, my precious cup of coffee.
Kady Keck
61
I Dream a World Pt 2.: Dr King Would be
Dissapointed
I dream a world where imagination roams free,
Where kids play happily on city blocks,
And people open their doors to everyone that knocks.
I dream of a world where hope & faith rest in our hearts,
And wretchedness, harm, or despair always do us part.
A world where people saw someone’s character before their skin
Where what mattered was within and not based on one’s preference of
religion
Where beauty had a broad definition
And no individual influenced others to fit into their narrow definition of it
Where money and greed were not synonyms used constantly
And unique names were pronounced correctly
Where fear did not cripple believers and dreamers
And faith was used as wings
Each individual striving for their sole purpose
Meeting success without meeting jealousy as well
Where great included all
Not limited to one man’s decision
Where great incorporated all the visions of the ones living who strived
for greatness creating a broad definition of it
When kids remember there’s more to life than technology & T.V.,
And children again begin to pick up books to read.
The world a picture framed of things to be,
Not a mixture of things, we don’t wish to see.
I dream of a world where ghetto, ugly, slut, and curse words don’t exist,
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And when someone offers you drugs or a cigarette you are able to resist.
A world where happiness and harmony exist too,
Where sorrow and tragedy just won’t do.
Our journey a mountain not mattering how fast we get there,
Or what’s waiting for us on the other side,
Our journey depends on the climb.
Yes it sounds cliche
But this term has never been overused
I assure you
I dream of a world where when someone asked you what violence is,
You wouldn’t have a clue.
And instead of wasting time walking to greatness,
we picked the race and flew.
Uniting ourselves with hot glue,
Checking for worn out shoes that need to be mended for the journey
anew.
Impatiently we wait for the exquisite view,
Getting ready to go, waiting for our cue.
And at the end of our journey,
We’ll tell the story,
Of how we threw away our extra weight,
And how our paths changed from narrow and curved,
To nice and straight.
And our trials an interesting book to tell,
Chapters and chapters of how we climbed the hills and fell,
And got back up again,
Because of this glorious day we wished to attend.
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Not knowing the address, we got to our destination,
Eyes glistening in the process,
Our creation a new generation.
Finally we pushed past the doors of death to the future,
Now our trials and tribulations fewer.
This world we can get to if we try,
But we must first learn to push our worry and struggle aside.
We must learn to change from within,
Shrinking our struggles in a bin,
Listen to our kin,
Only then will our lives spin,
And we will be able to win,
This voyage.
These things might be hard to do,
But changing this world starts with you
And when you realize these things are not as hard as they seem,
Then my friends this is the world I dream.
Our differences are what make us unique
Believing that we are all equal is what unites us
Because there is unity in diversity
Debbie Bates
64
cerEYEbellum
Anna Jedrejczyk
65
Daydream
I had a dream last night,
Hand gripping the back of your neck,
Fingertips imprinting themselves in your skin,
You drove what felt like a million miles per hour.
Into the auburn orange sunset,
streaked with cotton candy pink clouds,
that flowed and followed us in uniform.
No real destination, just the excitement of leaving.
We didn’t look back,
Except to wave goodbye to what we once thought was important.
Swaying under a yellow crescent moon
You told me you thought you loved me.
I think I love you too.
That was my dream last night.
Carly Ritz
66
Life on Earth: A Cautionary Tale
Before it all started
We had nothing
No phones to satisfy our boredom
No Twitter
No Instagram
No Snapchat
No Facebook
No YouTube
Social media was nonexistent
Just peaceful rivers
The sound of trickling water
Moss growing on tree bark
Rocks randomly scattered upon the woodland floor
Plants of all kinds
Growing
Breathing
Living
Bathing in the sunlight
Filled with serenity and bliss
The trees stood waving in the wind
The air swells with wonder and hope
No distractions
All of it now used as a backdrop
Posted to Instagram for likes
Likes that fill your ego with joy
Everyone is obsessed with numbers
Number of followers
Number of posts
Number of hearts
All social media is connected
Like spiderwebs in the world
Catching little bugs as prey
Entrapping their victims until death
The devices we hold
Have overtaken the tranquility of nature
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Destroyed it
Always in our hands
Never without something to do
Earbuds in
Music blasting
Scrolling with our thumbs
Playing games
Watching Netflix
Ignoring the beautiful world surrounding us
Human contact is slowly being erased
The digital world is our focus
Nothing else
Every day our foundations are being forgotten
The ground beneath our feet being overlooked
Once cherished and prayed upon by the pure
Now neglected and filled with trash
The garbage that roams the streets will end in Earth’s demise
Suffocating its creatures with plastic
Covering its land with wrappers
Filling its water with sewage
Polluting the atmosphere with fossil fuels
Fossil fuels that are depleting
Year by year
Month by month
Day by day
The wind and water
Once our friends
Now transportation for litter
Vessels leading to extinction
Many people seem to forget
We need Earth, but Earth doesn’t need us
We steal mother nature’s resources for our own evolution
She questions us every day
Why would you abuse me after I’ve given you these fruits of nature?
How much longer can I hold on?
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The answers rely on our actions
By taking steps towards the future
A cleaner
Healthier
Safer future
Tiara Chescattie
69
Christmas Star
Twinkling lights surround the frozen pond, the nearby trees glitter
with snow and ornaments. The colored lights spread the joy of the season
through the air, as they reflect off the snow and ice. The little cabin nearby
radiates warmth, a decorated Christmas tree can be seen in the window,
with a fire crackling in the fireplace next to it. Away from the city the
stars shine in the night as bright as the lights around the trees.
On this beautiful night a young woman sits on a bench with her
date outside of the cabin. She pulls the laces tighter on her skates, hands
shaking, trying to make sure she won’t fall out of them. He chuckles and
grabs her hands helping her up off the bench. She grips onto his hands and
tries to balance on the blades as he guides her over to the frozen pond.
She pulls her scarf tighter around her neck before taking the first step
onto the ice. Her skates slide around on the ice and her ankles wobble as
she tries to gain her balance.
The smile on his face grows as he sees her staring down at
the skates where they connect with the ice. He gently pushes himself
backwards pulling her along with him. She nervously laughs as she starts
to get the hang of it.
The surface of the pond was not very smooth, since nature was
the one to maintain it. The couple glides along until her skate catches on a
tiny imperfection. She falls forward into him and he falls back onto the ice.
Once they stop sliding across the ice, the couple starts laughing.
She rolls onto the ice next to him, taking a moment to look at all
the stars. Out here, they could see thousands of them. “Make a wish,” she
whispers and points up to the sky, motioning towards a shooting star.
Why make a wish, when I wouldn’t change a thing?
Sam Goss
70
New Beginnings
Ryan Krueger
71
Slow Dance in the Forest
We are the hidden creatures that
when the music of the forest begins
to vocalize our dance begins.
Fleet footed as deer so gracefully
do we roam by the moonlit trail?
No, we can only imagine each other
as night elves with shimmering
silvery-blue skin.
I can’t help but stare at you
the woman who has my,
heart, soul, my everything.
In my head I hear Denver
sing his classic Annie’s Song.
Because the way you trigger
my senses are nothing short of
an 18-karat diamond.
My heart can’t help but
feel an abundance of grace.
Looking into your face
and the feel of your skin.
Immortal is what I want
this night to become.
The tears of the sky become
our bedroom as we share
this slow dance in the forest.
Nicole Potts
72
Be with Someone
be with someone who loves you
wildly and unconditionally
both behind closed doors
and in front of the whole damn world
be with someone who loves you
for the reasons you do and the reasons you don’t
for every single flaw you pick out
and every single trait you flaunt
be with someone who loves you
during your darkest moments
let them be your moon on your darkest nights
and your sun on your brightest days
and every little moment in between
be with someone who loves you
like it’s all that they know
and who treasures you
like it’s the last breath they’ll take
you deserve that kind of happiness
Rachelle Renninger
73
Toe Beans
Bailey Milnik
74
Society
Do you feel sad, depressed, full of anxiety or panic?
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better.
Do you feel at a loss for words, or lack focus?
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better.
Do you feel like your world looks wrong or twisted?
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better.
Sides Effects may include:
Worsening depression,
Suicidal thoughts,
Blurry vision,
Dizziness,
Drowsiness or fatigue,
Dry mouth,
Feeling agitated or restless,
Gaining weight,
Headaches,
Nausea,
Sexual problems or erectile dysfunction,
Sleep problems,
Upset stomach,
Constipation,
Increased Blood Pressure,
Loss of appetite,
And sweating more than usual.
After all, remember what they say,
Take this pill, it’ll make you feel better, right?
Em Bush
75
Solitary
It can be trickery or ignorance
Reasonable or not
In good faith
Or wishes to do harm
It always ends up falling apart regardless
So, what do I do?
Just wait until everyone leaves
Lock the door
And feign the love that I’ve been searching for
While on the other side of my wall, a friend already found it for himself?
It’s always worse when you save a friend
They escape their solitary
They find their savior, their partner
All because you brought them together
And yet you keep getting hurt
It’s becomes a Caesarean stabbing
An unknowing and unintentional betrayal
How can he be so joyous
While I’m alone
All while putting in ten times the effort he did?
They all claim that I’ll find someone
That there will be one that breaks this monotonous routine
That one day I won’t be fucked over
That one day I will be able to escape this pattern
That one day I’ll be happy like all of them
Cole Cox
76
Finding & Flourishing
Whitney Morris
77
Family Reunion
There is restlessness on the land that sleeps. Families from all
over the pueblo of Cuxpala gather at the cemetery carrying candles for
Dia de los Muertos, illuminating these restful grounds. Inside these inner
gates is a city of shrines decorated in colorful paper cut outs and flowers.
On every shrine you can see a cross, photos of people, and statues of the
Virgin Mary. This city that is always quiet is now singing prayers and songs.
Mamá Juanita, holding a basket, leaves a trail of orange magnolias
petals from her house to the Heavens as she walks up to the cemetery.
Little Benito follows her with his face decorated as a candy skull. His eyes
wander around but occasionally his hand checks on the item that he’s
holding inside his sweatshirt pocket. Little Benito can hear the church
bells signaling that it’s evening. He looks over to the sun set seeing the
orange sky slowly consumed by space.
They arrive at the cemetery and head to a shrine that has a
picture of an old woman wearing a flowing white dress. Mamá Juanita
pulls out a blanket and lays it on the woman’s tomb. “Good to see you
again Esli. I found the cobija we made together when Mamá thought it
was time for us to know how to knit when we were kids. This should
keep you warm for another year.” She places a candle and lights it.
“Good to see you again, hermana.”
They move to the next shrine that has a picture of an old man
wearing a sombrero with boots, plaid shirt, and jeans. Mamá Juanita pulls
out an unopened glass bottle of Coke and pops the cap off, then looks
at his photo. “It’s your favorite.” She chuckles and says, “I was right, Tio
Oscar! I knew you were gonna go out before I did.” She pauses. “But…
at least it wasn’t from the toros, so I’ll give you that.” She raises the
bottle. “Salud”. She takes a sip from the bottle and hands it to Little
Benito. He takes a sip then places the half empty bottle on Tio Oscar’s
tomb. She places a candle and lights it. “Good to see you again, Tio.
Lastly, they arrive at a shrine that has a picture of a man in the
middle front of a group of people including Mamá Juanita and Little Benito.
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Mamá Juanita pauses for a moment. Little Benito tugs her traditional
floral dress. “Mamá Juanita…”
Mamá Juanita snaps back to reality. “Oh. Sorry Benito. Go ahead
and give Papá Ricardo what you brought.”
Little Benito reaches into his sweatshirt pocket and pulls out a
harmonica that he got from Papá two months ago. He places it on Papá’s
tomb and looks at his photo. “I’ve been practicing like you told me, Papá
Ricardo, but I accidently broke it. I’m sorry.”
Mamá Juanita pats Little Benito’s head and pulls out a candle. “I’m
sorry amor, there isn’t much to talk about.” She smiles sincerely and
then lights the candle. “It’s good to see you again so soon.” Little Benito
notices a small case laying on the ground. He picks it up and finds a
brand-new harmonica. Looking around, Little Benito tries to figure out
where it came from, but ends up being drawn to Papá Ricardo’s photo.
He then slowly places the harmonica in his pocket while continuing to
look at the photo. Mamá Juanita sets the lit candle down and, in that
moment, the stars began to glow.
Adolfo Alvarez
79
Two Gods Playing Chess
Two Gods were, are, and will be
Playing a game of chess.
Both omnipotent.
Both omniscient.
Both all encompassing.
The beginning, the middle,
And the end of all.
Both gods already know the outcome
Of the game.
They know the winner.
Yet they have both devised
Flawless strategies
For winning the game
And likewise know each other’s strategies
Before they have even been devised.
They have, are, and forever will
Be adapting their strategy based on their
Vast knowledge of each other,
Themselves, and the grand scheme of
Eternity which they both understand.
Their paradoxical match can never end.
And will likewise never begin.
Even though they can see the beginning
And know the end.
It is a match of Godly patience
Where knowledge is shown
Through lack of motion.
A stillness that mocks the hurried
Thoughts of the world’s greatest minds.
The chess match of eternity.
Cameron Crouse
80
Survivor
i never thought it would happen to me.
it was something that i just heard in the news
i always said “it won’t be me”
that night you took a part of me
and you crushed it with your hands as your fingers wrapped around my
throat
i said i would always be careful
but i let my guard down
i thought i was safe
but i guess i was wrong
i cry and wonder why
why would you do what you did?
is it something i said? was it something i did?
why me?
you left me broken and hurt
bleeding and bruised
i hate the way you made me feel
disgusted in my own skin
you did this to me
you destroyed a part of my soul
crushed it into fine pieces and blew it into the wind
it is an icy pain that chills me to my bones
making my stomach quake
nights im awaken with fear
praying and wishing my mother were here
but i take a deep breath and realize
i am more than just my tears
i am worth more than what you did
i am a woman who is overcoming
someone who isn’t afraid to share her story
in hopes that one maybe
nobody will have to feel the same pain
Jordan Seig
81
Arizona
Kaitlyn Durf
82
The Two Faced Poem
One side,
Opens the rusted, tin can.
Letting loose memories,
You tried desperately to repress.
Continuously throttling your neck,
Till all justifications been expelled.
Slowly,
You begin to crumble.
The powerhouse
That kept your poison from leaking,
Shatters, and drains down through your ribcage.
One side,
Stands hopelessly behind bars of gray.
Guarded by demons that vary in strengths,
Yet, dominate you constantly in battle.
Abused daily without hesitation,
But
Never once been labeled expendable.
Repeatedly piecing together your identity,
After fierce scrubbings from the identity unnamed.
Dreaming to one day sit upon the tainted throne,
Cleansing the kingdom you’ve used to rule.
One side.
Can’t decide.
Ernest Frazier
83
Durmlavores
They haunt me in the midnight
Watching from the street
They sneak in like marauders
They surface from the deep
Their faces grim and hollow
Red eyes dark with weep
They hunger for my sanity
They gnaw upon my sleep
They’re missing something from me
Scouring my skull for more
They delve into my groggy eyes
And open every door
But now, they can’t escape the flood
Waves crash to the floor
Their tiny shadow bodies crack
Those fragile durmiavores
They’ve broken through the concrete wall
They’re rattled to their cores
They’ve set a flood upon the town
They can’t feed anymore
Cooper Shirey
84
Bright Feathers
Abigail Lee
85
Scientific Method
Identify the Problem
You never know when your heart will stop for the first time. It could be
in your death, during an orgasm, a near death experience, or something
wholly unexpected. Something truly shocking.
It started off innocent enough, another day in a new school filled with
people I didn’t know- and didn’t care enough to get to know. The science
class material was boring and dragged on and on. I tried my hardest not
to fall asleep, so I divided my time between doodling in my notebook and
observing my peers.
Then- all the sudden- in a large gust of bravado and blinding infatuation I
caught my first glimpse of her radiant smile. She was absolutely stunning
with flowing locks and eyes full of depth. Everything else in the room
stopped and stood still as I stared at her. She stopped what she was doing,
looked in my direction. I quickly and, quite frankly, awkwardly dodged her
gaze.
My problem? I have a mad crush on this adorable girl in my science class.
My problem? I don’t stand a chance…
Or do I?
Background Research
Her favorite and most often worn color is red. It matches her fiery
energy and bubbly personality. She’s a bursting firecracker, always laughing,
always joking, and always smiling. She always writes in colorful pens. It
suits her because she adds color to my world like a rainbow. Her zodiac
sign is a Sagittarius. Once again, up-keeping the fiery energy she displays
from the core of her being. She loves all types of music from rock to rap.
I don’t like half the stuff she listens to, but I always enjoy watching her
head bop to the beat. It’s a cute quark of hers. She likes doodling, but her
skills are limited to stick figures and flowers. It’s adorable.
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She’s cute. Like super cute.
Yet, the real research question begs to remain answered.
Does she like girls? Has she ever imagined what a woman’s soft touch felt
like? Has she imagined it, or perhaps how soft another’s lips would be?
Has she ever daydreamed giving soft butterfly kisses across a woman’s
collar bone, filling the cracks between the bones with tender love and
touch?
To put it unpoetically, is she gay like me?
Even just a little bit? Is there any hope she’ll ever love me?
Hypothesis
She loves me. (Please, oh please, oh please)
Experiment
The experiment itself was messy. Not messy like the dirt underneath
fingernails, or dog turds on the porch type of way. Those were obvious
sorts of messy.
This was a different type of messy. The kind of messy that had my stomach
tied in knots. Not in a digesting sort of way, but slowly devouring itself
into the pit of my organs. It was slowly throbbing, sinking its dull teeth
into my chest. My chest pounding and sweating at odd hours of the night.
It was gnawing at me from the inside.
Messy in a sore, thought consuming I-Can’t-Think-About-AnythingExcept-Her sort of way.
The experiment itself started off lightly in a few rounds of subtle
techniques. The soft poetic flirting.
It started off with a few light compliments, “Hey, I really like your hair. It
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looks gorgeous on you.”
See? Nothing explicitly gay about that. Just testing the waters.
She laughed kindly and expressed gratitude. She returned the favor by
saying she liked my freckles.
Does this mean she thinks I’m attractive? Only time can tell.
Weeks passed and we exchanged conversation. Deep conversation.
She told me abut her life and I told her about mine. She told me her
dreams of becoming a nomad hippie, traveling the world and doing
unusual but rewarding jobs. Jobs like joining the circus or being a fortune
teller. She expressed her interest in always wanting to backpack in Europe.
She loved adventure, the outdoors, and experimenting with new hobbies.
She discussed her personal life and how her mom and her always fought.
She said her dad was distant and was never really that engaged. She told
me of her traumatic break up with her ex-boyfriend.
Aw, shit, is she straight? I crashed inside at first.
Then she continued and said she was done with men and their hurtful
ways.
Does this mean I have a chance to swoop in and sweep her off her feet?
Weeks then passed without much development.
We went hiking one day. It was on the Appalachian trail, on top of the
mountains in the crisp autumn air. The leaves were hues of orange, red,
and gold. The wind carried them as they danced gracefully all around us.
When we reached the utmost top of the mountain, we watched the
sunset together.
She gazed full of wonder over our home valley. “God, It’s absolutely
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beautiful up here.”
Without thinking I whispered, “I think you’re more beautiful.”
Oh, shit was my first thought when I let it slip.Yet, when I looked at her
while I was blushing, she was blushing too.
We didn’t say anything the rest of the hike. We didn’t need to.
Months passed without us speaking of the incident. Then the experiment
got really crazy.
She looked at me mischievously from behind the neck of the wine bottle.
We were in her basement while her parents were both at work. Hence,
we broke out the big guns and brought out her parent’s alcohol stash. She
sloshed the liquid’s contents around while looking at me dazedly. This was
our third bottle of wine, so we were definitely screwed by the time her
parents came home. She said not to worry about it because she knows
how to cover it up, that her parents were almost never down in the basement. I don’t know if it was her sweet voice that lulled me into a sense of
security or the cheap wine’s liquid courage, but I wasn’t worried at all. I
was enjoying the moment being with her.
“Have you ever kissed a girl?” She asked sultry.
At least, I think it was supposed to be sultry. Alcohol clung to her breathe
as she crawled towards me in what I think was supposed to be sexy. In
hindsight, her attempts at being sexy were silly but I too, was feeling just
as lost in the sea of drunken judgment.
“N-no” I stammered out, a harsh mixture of the alcohol’s haziness and my
natural nerves creeping out.
It was true- I’ve never kissed a girl. I’ve only ever been dreaming about
kissing her. I was a virgin in the truest sense of the word.
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She leaned forward and it was pure bliss when our lips touched. I stroked
her head closer, petting her hair as our kiss got more passionate.
The rest? Don’t get too nosy. Even if I wanted to document it, I couldn’t.
The rest is a blur.
Data
The thoughts plague the next day. They continue to tumble inside of me
like a hurricane. I’m analyzing every interaction we’ve ever had- especially
of the events the night before. I woke up in my own bed, away from the
basement and that tender kiss. Away from her.
Did that kiss mean as much to her as it did to me? It meant the world to
me.
The data points that she feels the same as me, but only time can say for
sure. Tomorrow I’ll find out.
Conclusion
Tomorrow came and I wished it didn’t.
I saw her kissing a boy from our science class in the bathroom. Her
tongue was tangled with his; her hands in his hair. She pressed herself hard
into him as if she was trying to forget the feel of my body and anything
that might’ve transpired the previous months.
I’m beyond hurt, I’m devastated.
Just when I thought I had it all. Just when I almost really did have it all. I
lost it.
Conclusion? She doesn’t love me, and she never did.
I’m just an experiment in her world. A protagonist in her “sexy and wild”
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drunken story. A one-night stand. Something to laugh and talk about with
her actual love interests.
I’ll try to move on and tell myself she didn’t matter that much to me.
Yet, there’s 3 things I’ve never been good at.
1.Lying to myself, because I do truly and deeply love her. I wish I
could wake up beside her, kiss her good morning, and call her mine. I want
to hold her as we watch the sunset again. I wanted her to be my special
girlfriend.
2.Science. The signs were all there. Her flippant nature when I talked about love deeply. The fact if I looked a little bit deeper, she always talked about liking women superficially and always ogled men. If I organized
my data better, I could have drawn the conclusion sooner and maybe less
painfully. The experiment should’ve never happened, I should’ve known the
second I saw her- she was too beautiful for me.
3.Love, because look at me now. Single, never had a girlfriend, but
I’ll always carry a broken heart.
It hurts to be just another experiment in her life, because she was more
than just an experiment to me.
April Petesch
91
Emptied
While
your
tender
Run
down
from
my
Touching
my
Then meeting my chest
You
breathe
me
And
kiss
my
hands
hair
shoulder
I
feel
your
hands
down
my
Miles
and
miles
of
tingling
I
start
to
feel
myself
You
kiss
me
long
and
With
hands
on
inner
Our
legs
And
my
heart
legs
skin
sinking
hard
thighs
entwined
panicking
in
neck
I forget how to breathe
As you lay on top of me
I feel so numb
Face sticky with salty wet tears
My throat closes up
And my body goes limp
I want you to stop
But not even a whisper will escape my lips
As you force my body down
I feel my soul dying
I wish I had been stronger
Because now
You have stripped my life away
And as I sit here with my pain
In my blood stained underwear
And tear stained eyes
I feel nothing
Kimberly Braet
92
I’ve Been Having Trouble Sleeping
Every time I stay here it’s the same,
by night the house is silent
aside from that raspy cough down the hall.
A blue light lined up so perfectly,
Cutting into my eyes wide shut
missing yours by mere centimeters.
What kind of cruel misfortune is that?
The same ancient fan
older than I am,
spinning on two, dust clinging to the frame,
Just right at 10:00,
frozen solid by 9:00.
The way the sheets,
on my corner at least,
creep from under the bed
pass my pillow
and slip beneath me.
The space between the mattress and the wall
steals my water bottles night after night,
cooking them on the radiator
and swallowing them whole into its’ outdated maw.
Your blankets are too short for me.
No matter which direction I flip it
my feet are too damn big for them
sticking out like half-buried posts and dangling off the edge.
Every day it’s the same
and I can’t sleep,
but that’s fine with me.
Because you’re always there, in that same spot to my right,
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and everything else takes on a different shape in the dark of your room,
holding my attention night after night.
Trent Betham
94
Sumere: The Painting God
Sumere, a painting god, stood above his empty canvas stroking
his chin, unsure of how to go about creation. All the other painting gods
had found their knack, their style, and had flaunted their realizations
ceaselessly out in the streets--for everything a painting god painted gained
life and power attributed to the form given it by the god. This, however,
was only possible when the painting god had found that style of creation
that so befitted them that their godly powers flow out onto the canvas
without control, forming something grand and unintended, but most of all,
alive.
Sumere had gone through myriads of painting styles, many were
impressive imitations of the styles of more Realized painting gods, and
some paintings were even borne from styles exclusively trademarked by
Sumere, yet they did not speak to him, they did not flow into the world
like they should have.
Sumere looked at his paintings, remembering all the sweat and toil
put into creating each and the complete lack of payoff that came from
observing their lack of motion. It infuriated Subere, and with one angry
motion he slapped the can of red paint resting near the blank canvas and
it landed squarely on the floor of his studio, garnering every item on the
floor with subtle and long streaks of glowing red.
Sumere turned to walk away, wanting to rest and start his toil
again in the morning, but some unexplainable inclination compelled him
to turn around. And when he did, he found that the large red splash
upon the floor that had before only slightly splattered a few objects –
bowls, brushes, etc., had now completely engulfed them in color. Their
forms could still be seen like bumps in the splash, but now they were all
completely red, and from the top of each object a trickling of the red
color ascended upward like a reverse stream with small bubbles resting in
the midst.
This had never happened before. Nothing he had painted had ever
reacted quite like this. He wondered, had he really found his style? And
95
with so little effort? In his amazement, he bumped a shelf piled high with
all kinds of paints and from the very top fell a small can of green paint.
It landed among the red and mixed slightly with it, engulfing the can it
resided in and proceeding to rise into the air, tapping Sumere lightly on his
nose.
Sumere dabbed his nose and grinned. “That is my style,” he said.
He grabbed another can of paint from the shelf and splashed it upon himself, then proceeded to dance onto the canvas that was his studio.
“Chaos!” He said proudly. “Effortless creation.”
He tipped his table over and watched it roll into the color.
“Destruction!” He yelled.
He watched the paint climb all around , creating an explosion of
color that reached toward the ceiling, longing for the sky.
He continued to do this for hours and hours, dumping buckets
upon buckets of paint into the mixture and flinging brushes and throwing
objects everywhere, eyes closed so not to disrupt the flow of randomness which seemed to be the life of his art. And when he finally felt like
he had done everything possible with the colors at his disposal he opened
his eyes and peered around his studio, nearly brought to tears by the
majesty of color that seemed to come out of his strange and seemingly
meaningless actions. And as he looked at the colors morph and move
about the floor rising into the sky fueled by his godly powers, he finally
felt satisfied, even as he stared at his prior paintings, the ones that he had
struggled in making, overshadowed by the fruits of his aesthetic unleashed,
he still could not help but feel completely and totally satisfied.
He did not feel that he could add more to what he saw, in fear of
disrupting something that was meant to be, but still he wondered if what
he saw had not reached its full potential, if there was still something he
96
could offer it to improve its beauty. He then realized something.
He ran into a small room in his studio that he scarcely ever
ventured to. He wiggled around among the junk heaps piled inside until
he finally found what he was looking for--a large can of Black paint.
Sumere never cared for the color black, he felt it something like
a color placed in the background of great art, a constructor of lines and
nothing more, entirely incapable of producing a sense of pleasure in a
person, perhaps a sense of dread or neutrality but not pleasure. But
the art god had realized many unexpected potentials of the colors that
surrounded him on that day and wondered if he could be proven wrong
just as well with the color black. He wondered if this bucket of black in
his hand was the true finishing touch of his art.
Sumere walked into the center of his studio, held out the bucket
of black paint, closed his eyes, and spun around rapidly, flinging the
black paint every direction until the bucket was empty. Sumere threw
the bucket against the wall at the end of his spin and opened his eyes
immediately to see what he had created.
Almost as soon as his eyes opened, he felt a deep sense of regret.
All he did was besmirch his colorful art with numerous empty voids.
He knelt onto the floor and began to sob into his hands.
“It is ruined!” He yelled.
And as soon as those words escaped his lips, something
unprecedented happened. Beneath Sumere’s knees, he could feel
something slithering. When he looked down, he had found that it was the
paint. It was moving, but not as it had before. It seemed to be retreating
somewhere. Sumere turned around to find his painting. All the color he
had thrown was crawling into each of the hundreds of black marks that
he had thrown. The paint that had risen to the ceiling was now falling to
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the floor and flowing into the blackness that he felt he had created out of
foolishness.
Within a few short seconds. All that had remained of his painting
were the black dots.
He walked over to one of them, the smallest dot he could
perceive, and bent over to touch it. As his finger went towards the black
dot, he found that it did not press any kind of surface, but that it kept
going down. It was not a black dot, but a black hole.
Sumere’s expectations were again defied, and excitedly he placed
his eye in front of the hole and what he saw was beyond the beauty
ever before conceived by any god. There were colors racing each
other, folding into a white void, like light speeding into the unknown at
incredible speeds and then returning once again to where they left mere
seconds later. There were even colors that had not been included in his
original painting. There were even colors he had never seen. It was all
so titillating that Sumere had to stop looking down into the hole or the
sheer ecstasy of what he took part in creating would give him a heart
attack. He lied down before his creation and looked on at it with dreary
and proud eyes, utterly satisfied, refusing to move.
Even as each of the holes expanded and ate up the natural colors
of his studio that had long been there prior to his painting, even as the
holes sucked in the walls that made up his studio, even as they brought
down into them all the life and color of the realm of the painting gods,
and even as they claimed the color and form of their master Sumere--he
did not waiver in his unmoving admiration.
Instead he whispered into the void that slowly began to crush
his now white colorless form, the words he felt were most needed of
speaking:
“Truly this is the finishing touch.”
Cameron Crouse
98
5 Minutes and 23 Seconds
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The desolate ticking of the clock on the wall
Repeats itself over and over again as I sit on my bathroom floor
Crying over a boy, barely on the cusp of a man
Who I gave a piece of myself to.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I wait anxiously for my phone to vibrate
Any kind of affection
But it remains silent through the night
As I wonder who he’s with and if they will make love
under the same moon as we once did.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I feel weak and helpless
But I know once I hear that buzz my heart will leap into my chest
As I frantically check to see if its him.
It’s not.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
So here I sit in the silence that doesn’t seem to drown out my thoughts
As they scream at me
Telling me how foolish I am to sit and wait for someone
Counting the ticks of a clock that knows our time here is done
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Abigail Kauffman
99
What Happened to the Earth?
When I was thirteen, the sky touched the ground.
The light blue abyss squeezed and pinched,
Until it bent all the way down.
The most peculiar thing, no one flinched.
No one asked why.
They just accepted it and dealt with the pitch of this concave Earth.
The sad thing is, they didn’t even try.
Maybe because they didn’t understand its worth.
They liked it better before, when they didn’t have to climb up and down,
Nonetheless, they climb
with their heads down.
Tori Helfrick
100
Untitled
Taryn Good
101
Dreams of a Homecoming Queen
You didn’t want this
Cold, callused and amiss
Beauty queen of the hour
Faded now is your power
You thought your tribulations were over
Always crying in the dark, only my birth could make you momentarily
sober
I arrived just the way you wanted
All your hopes and dreams for a little girl
I’ll be a perfect mother, let me give it a whirl!
But I grew up to disgust you
Embodying all the anger you once endured and knew
You dreamed of a wedding and family
But I’m not allowed to be your definition of conventional and happy
Reality wavers as you accept your daughter
But every day you wish she wasn’t at all like her father
The unconditional love of a mother is what I’ve always wanted
Without your compassion and empathy, I’ll forever be haunted
You were my first love
A love I once thought to have descended from above
But I was wrong
I’ll forever search for your warmth even if I never belong
I’ll never give up on the admiration for you and love I once felt
One day I’ll miss you and will reminisce on the little moments of what we
shared
I have always been alone without you, endlessly scared
Whitney Bender
102
Thank You for Not Letting Me Die
You picked me up from the
fires of hell and dragged me
out of the cave where darkness
tried to bring me to my demise.
When my mind was in the
shadows you were there
to bring it back into the light.
There is a heart of gold in you
that beats so true and shines
so bright.
It takes someone with an abundance
of care and patience in them.
Heart and soul to show to
deal with a broken soul like
me.
Thank you for being the light
that glistens through the shadows
of darkness.
Thank you for not letting me
die in shadow and fire
ice and pain.
Thank you for being there
every step of the way.
Nicole Potts
103
A Letter to My Daughter
If I have a daughter, I will tell her that when society raises a little
girl, it teaches her to hate herself. She is told that she is worthless, that
she is not skinny enough, not pretty enough, not good enough. It will tell
her to measure her worth by how many men want her and then shame
her for being with those men. I will tell my daughter this because I want
her to know that she is so much more than what society says she is. I
will tell her that I was just like her when I was younger. I scoffed at what
society said on the outside, but really, I just wanted to belong.
I will tell her this. I will tell her that she will want to belong too. I
will tell her that she will have friends, peers, and even partners that will
want her to be something that she is not and yet she will want to at the
same time just to feel like she means something to those people. I will
tell her that she does not need to do those things or be those things to
matter, that her life matters because she says it does and she is the only
one who needs to say so. I will tell her that society has no heart and does
not love her. She will not believe me.
I will tell her that she will change her mind again and again about
what she wants to be. Again, she will look to society to tell her. I will tell
her that society cannot and should not dictate who she is, but she will not
hear me. Society will beat her down again and again. She will grow stronger and learn to hate society too.
One day she may have a daughter of her own. She will tell her
daughter about how society chewed her up and spit her back out, how
she loved society, but it had no love for her. Her daughter will not listen,
for she has already fallen prey to humanity’s monster.
Kathryn Milliren
104
Skin and Rain
It is lying on your back
while into your skin a raindrop sinks,
burrowing around your spine, desperate for mud.
It is weight and static
buzzing behind blurred clouds
that spit anesthetic.
It is pulling pieces away.
Bits of flakey ribs and stringy tendons come loose
painlessly, though still you wait for the ache.
It is skin in-between
the chill outside and the air whistling through,
placid while something wriggles out.
You miss it without inviting it back.
Now.
You want to swim the storm,
uproot yourself from the rich decay.
A nourishing poison when gone leaves only water.
You want to shed the skin,
that gray and pruned hide
incubating the new incarnation.
You want to choke on words,
let lips smart on damp substance
just to know the parts still work.
You want to flood yourself,
hose off the endless muck
for flesh whole and raw. New.
Stand. Leave what stays stuck.
Haley Bennett
105
I am Emotionally Unavailable
I want to touch
you.
I cannot be in love
with someone next
in my queue.
I am not myself,
anymore.
I want
sex,
lust,
fucking,
nothing to be sure.
Pull on my hair,
not my heartstrings.
You are kind
to me,
though not one
to fulfill
my puzzle
with your piece
or expensive ring.
I do miss
companionship,
sometimes,
but I can live as
self-employed.
For now,
just fill my void.
Anonymous
106
Girl Playing Cello
Kelly Moriarty
107
Worth
Sometimes, I look at my feet
And wonder their worth.
Pale, small, and uncalloused,
Much unlike the wolfish ones
With sharp talons that I
See, walking the Earth in great strides,
Gripping the world with such power,
And I cannot help but envy these
Warrior-women; These
Titans that demand respect.
My toes peek out from the
Tub of steaming water,
Surrounded by clouds of
Iridescent bubbles,
The walls thinning and
Thinning, becoming less
Incandescent and defined,
… and then gone; faded
From existence.
And with a flash,
I harvest my crops.
A flash on my mouth,
My hands,
My breasts,
My thighs,
And yes, my feet,
And I remember the time when
I connected a jar of fireflies to
A tree with pieces of string
And called it revolutionary.
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Now, I long for a day that
The flowers sing to me
Like they once did,
And the stars halo
Around me before
Falling to the Earth,
And the First Tree melts
Its woody flesh, revealing
The Woman made of clay,
And the bees buzzing in
Honeycombs that
Fill my womb
Cease to exist.
Quincy Loss
109
Another
As all around are dancing
to the beat of the key,
it would seem the last note
has faded from being.
The scene has ended,
I know that is my cue.
It is time for me to take the stage
and show them all what I can do.
To the light of the stage, I stride
and face the audience in the midst.
Though my body has ceased its motion
I yet begin to move my lips.
And as I do so
I am no longer me,
for the me of the past has receded
you see.
What remains is simply
“Another.”
“Another” is the voice of the script,
the voice we’re scared to share,
the voice that tosses nervous shackles
and empties out our cares.
We have all been “Another,”
we’ve known him all along.
He talks as a speech, as a line, or a verse
and shouts joy into a song.
My line ends
and so begins the applause,
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I snap back to myself,
smile, and then pause.
How the voice has helped me
throughout the course of my climb
and oh how I wish to take hold of that voice
and speak it all the time.
Cameron Crouse
111
Love Her Enough
He remembers how she looked that day. Kneeling on the
bathroom floor, dry heaving over the porcelain rim of the toilet bowl,
shoulders trembling. He stood in the doorway, wanting to go to her but
not trusting she would let him in. And then she looked at him, water from
the lakes of her eyes spilling over ghostly white cheeks and carving a path
to her chin. Her mouth was agape, and her hand gripped the edge of the
tub, and she had never looked as small to him as she did in that moment.
“Dexter.” She gulped great mouthfuls of air. He imagined her lungs
burning with oxygen, expanding until her chest cracked and burst open,
but his name still came out a whisper. She clung to that one word as if it
were the only thing in the world that made sense. “Dexter, Dexter.”
He dropped to his knees beside her and pulled her to him. She
was shaking so badly that he couldn’t keep her in place, so he moved with
her, rocking back and forth gently. Her head fell easily onto his shoulder,
pale strands of hair tickling his nose. She buried herself in him, tucking her
legs up and curling into his embrace like a child in the cradle of his arms.
Hours earlier, her father had been found in his favorite armchair,
head drooping to the side as if asleep. He’d put a bullet in his brain. The
bloodstained note in his lap held only three words: I’m sorry Cas.
Dexter knew then, as his girlfriend clung to his shirt and begged
him to please please make it go away oh please give him back I’ll do
anything, that he would never forgive anyone who made her this small.
***
“Mr. Rogan?”
Dexter looks up, pulling himself from his memories and back
into the sterile white-walled office he’s been trapped in for the past
hour. Snow blows past the picture window in hazy drifts, but next to the
radiator it’s stifling, and he wipes his sweaty palms on his coat. He shifts
and feels his keys prod him sharply from his back pocket, an unpleasant
reminder of how far he is from home. The couch he sits on dwarfs him; he
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is a boy again in its grasp.
The therapist is staring at him. Something about the way she’s
decorated her face with powder and gloss, the way she’s clad herself in
boots with fur on the edges and a teal scarf and a long plaid skirt has him
feeling under-dressed. He wonders how he must look to her now - a man
more bone than skin, with dark circles under his eyes and ink-stained
fingers that crawl and twitch and flutter like a moth in a spider’s web.
“Sorry,” he says. “What were we talking about?”
“I asked about your medication. The new doctor I referred you todoes he seem to be a better fit? I know you had some...concerns the last
time we spoke.”
New doctor. The one with the nose ring? No, that was last
month’s - she was talking about the guy with pictures of horses on his
desk.
“He’s alright.”
She nods, as if those two stupid words are the most important
things she’s heard all day. “And he’s taken you down to 100 milligrams of
Sertraline, correct? Now as I recall, the last time we changed your dosage
you experienced some side effects.” She checks the lined legal pad in her
lap. “Insomnia, indigestion, and lack of appetite, I think you said. Any issues
this time?”
Dexter can’t remember the therapist’s name. He knows she
told him the first time they met, but there have been many sessions since
then and when he thinks back on their initial introduction, the only thing
he can recall is her cold hand in his as he signed his privacy away. It starts
with an “L”, he thinks. Linda or Leena or...something.
“No, nothing like that. I feel better than ever. In fact, I was
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wondering how quickly you could get me off the medication.”
Her brow furrows. “Off?”
Dexter focuses on the blackboard over her shoulder, so juvenile
and out-of-place here. Shoot for the stars! Never give up! Learn how to dance
in the rain! The phrases scream at him from its dark surface, punctuated
by smiley faces printed in yellow chalk. “Yeah, y’know, so I don’t have to...
to take it anymore.”
Linda-or-Leena looks down at her notes. Shuffles them. Looks
back up at him. “Mr. Rogan, I don’t think I follow. We just put you on
Sertraline a few weeks ago.You told me it was helping.”
“It is! But…” They all work at first. Dexter bites down on the
words, holds them in place, and they burn a hole in his tongue.
The therapist sighs. “Your girlfriend, Cassandra - does she know
you want to stop taking your medication?”
Dexter inwardly recoils. He makes it a point to keep Cas far away
from these little talks, and her name does not belong in this therapist’s
mouth, this white-walled room. “She’s actually my fiancé now,” Dexter
says, and he doesn’t know why he bothers but it feels better somehow,
because girlfriend strikes him as childish in the way that the blackboard
with the smiley faces is childish.
“Congratulations,” the therapist says. Then she waits for Dexter
to answer her question. She will not be distracted.
“Well I haven’t...haven’t exactly discussed it with her yet. But I
will. I just have to wait until she recovers from the anniversary tomorrow,
and in the meantime I thought we could keep lowering the dosage -”
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“What’s tomorrow?”
Dexter pauses. “Sorry?”
“You said Cas needed to ‘recover from the anniversary tomorrow’.
Anniversaries are usually happy occasions, aren’t they?”
“I...no, that’s...I didn’t say that, did I?”
The therapist looks at her notepad. That goddamn notepad. “You
did.”
Dexter’s fingers tug at his coat sleeves. Dance across his lap.
Twine together in a white-knuckled grip. “Right.Yes. Of course I did. Uh,
Cassandra’s father killed himself a year ago tomorrow. He...shot his own...
uh, head. His neighbor found him, some teenager who cut his grass once
a week, and this kid had Cas’ number so she gave us a call. She told us he
was dead over the phone.” Dexter reminds himself to breath.
Linda-or-Leena steeples her fingers. “And the anniversary of his
death gives you anxiety. Why?”
Dexter shrugs. “Dunno.”
“Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he -”
“What’s your name again?” Dexter asks. “I can’t remember. It’s
been driving me crazy.”
She opens her mouth but the timer interrupts her, breaking the
spell that holds Dexter to the couch.
He shoots up instantly.
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If she notices his eagerness to leave, she doesn’t show it. “Do you
want to stay a bit longer, Mr. Rogan? I know you said you had work to do,
but…”
“No, no. I really should be getting home. Got a deadline coming
up.” Dexter’s smile is held up by invisible strings pulling taut against his
cheeks. “But thanks. For, uh, the offer.”
The therapist gives him a long, searching look. “Of course. We can
talk about your dosage next week, then. Maybe you could bring Cassandra
along - it sounds like this time of year is very trying for her.”
Dexter has a hand on the doorknob when she clears her throat.
“Mr. Rogan?”
He turns back, bracing himself for more questions. More judgment.
More friendly suggestions.
“My name is Madison.”
***
Sertraline. 100 mg. A tiny, innocent white tablet. Take once every
morning. Dexter’s already put it off for as long as he dares - the sun has
gone down by the time he drags himself to the bathroom and roots
around in the medicine cabinet for his prescription bottle. He has to take
it at least one time this week or he won’t be able to keep any food down,
and Cas will notice.
He looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. Part of him
can still feel Madison’s eyes boring into him from therapy that morning,
stripping him bare and leaving him to die on the baby blue tiles of the
bathroom floor.
Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he-
116
Dexter closes his eyes. He doesn’t open his mouth but shoves the
Sertraline between rigid lips, tapping it against his teeth. Dexter holds the
tablet in his mouth for as long as he can before it starts to melt, stabbing
his tongue with its bitterness. He remembers Cas, how small she looked
on this ugly blue-tiled floor. Then he swallows.
That’s when the anger boils up, red and hot beneath his adam’s
apple. Dexter doesn’t want that little white thing inside him, doesn’t
want it messing with his head, doesn’t want to need it so much. Because
eventually it will fail him. He’ll get low again, on some impossibly long
afternoon when he’s alone in the house with nothing but drugs in his
bathroom and voices in his head. He’ll start to think about Cas’ father.
He’ll start to think about the handgun hidden away in the coat closet, and
his fingers will start to twitch.
Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he The pill has barely gone down his throat before he shoves his
fingers after it and brings it up again.
Dexter hunches over the sink as he empties the contents of his
stomach. He waits until he’s sure it’s all out, then wipes his mouth with
the back of his hand and washes the bile down the drain with cold water.
From the living room, he hears keys jingling in the lock on the
front door.
Dexter turns the sink off and rushes from the bathroom.
Then he sees her, and he’s just as enchanted as he was the first
time they met.
Fine strands of corn silk hair frame her face, having escaped from
her hasty Dutch braid. The muscles in her arms are well-defined beneath
her sheer blouse, and she has a square jaw, and laugh lines crease her
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cheeks. As soon as she’s through the door, she kicks her heels off, but
even without them she is a good two inches taller than Dexter. She looks
at him, and her face melts into a smile.
The fire in Dexter’s esophagus is quenched by a torrent of icy
shame. He thinks about the pills waiting in their bottle, the gun in the
closet, the woman of his dreams retching into a toilet because of one
stupid phone call. Dexter shoves his hands in his pockets so she doesn’t
see him digging his nails into his palms. “Hi, Cassie.”
Cas takes three running-steps and throws her arms around him,
planting a kiss on his cheek.
Dexter feels the buckle of her overalls against his fingers as he
hugs her back. Despite everything, it’s easy to convince himself that Cas is
still untouched by the realities of the world - she packs lunches in brown
paper bags and thinks just about anything can be solved with a kiss and an
ice cream cone.
“I was thinking about you today,” she says, winking at him
conspiratorially.
He blinks, imagining her daydreaming about him in front of a room
of second-graders, and can’t help but laugh. “Right.”
“I was.” Cas swats his shoulder and practically dances into the
kitchen, where he’s kept the spaghetti warm on the stove. “From the
Pledge of Allegiance to my lunch break. I was wondering how far you’d
gotten in your article. The one about the Ice Festival.”
“Oh.”
Cas heaps sauce-covered noodles into a bowl and hops up to sit
on the counter. She looks at him and tilts her head. “Did you finish it?”
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His eyes immediately snag on a stain in the living room carpet.
“Uh…”
No. I went to therapy and then I came home and slept for three
hours and watched TV and ate all the Christmas cookies in the freezer and
slept for another hour and tried to take a stupid little pill and didn’t because I’m
a fucking coward.
“Sort of.” He grins sheepishly at her. “It’s...coming along.”
“I can’t wait to read it. What a perfect opportunity for you
to show off your narrative skills. The way you write imagery is just
breathtaking.”
“A journalistic piece isn’t really the same as descriptive narrative,
Cas.” It comes out drier than Dexter intended, and her heavy silence has
him dragging his gaze back to her.
She’s crying.
Dexter stands shocked for a moment, then takes a few faltering
steps forward. “Cassie?”
Cas puts a hand to her streaming eyes. He can tell she’s angry
with herself from the way she rubs them as if she wants to tear them out.
“No, it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.”
“It wasn’t you, Dex. It’s just...I was thinking about Dad today,
too.”
He flashes back to his therapy session that morning and silently
berates himself. Of course she’s upset, the anniversary is tomorrow. How
could it have slipped his mind? Dexter presses a kiss to her hairline. “Oh,
119
Cas.”
She leans into him as if to hide her tears. “You know, it’s funny up until he...he passed, I was so sure I hated him for driving Mom away.
I wanted nothing to do with him. God, I never even introduced you two.
Did I tell you I used to catch him burying his pill bottles in the backyard?
I’d get so mad. I thought he didn’t want to get better, that he was making
our lives hard on purpose.” She laughs, but it comes out as a sob. “But
he...he would take me to baseball games sometimes, even if he didn’t want
to go. And he came to all of my school musicals even though I couldn’t
sing like the other girls and only ever played extras. He always told me
how p-proud he was to have a daughter like me.”
Cas tightens her grip on Dexter and breathes hard, trying to get
herself under control. Finally, she pulls away and tries to smile, and it’s like
watching sunlight shiver across the surface of a lake. “I’m sorry, Dex. I told
myself I wouldn’t do this tonight.”
Dexter keeps his hands on her shoulders, massaging them with his
thumbs. “You never have to apologize to me, okay? I want you to open up
when you feel like this.”
“No, don’t worry. It comes and goes.” She brushes at her eyes,
gently this time. “See? Already gone.”
Dexter frowns. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Cas.”
Cas looks up at him, startled. “I’m not.”
“I know you’re still hurting. Any time there’s a lull in our
conversations, you go somewhere I can’t follow.You cry in bed when
you think I’m asleep. And you work yourself to death all day, as if you’re
running from something. I wish...I wish you would trust me, Cas. I want to
help you get through this.”
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She takes Dexter’s hand in hers, eyes wide. “God, Dexter, no, it’s
not like that at all. It’s just...well, you try so hard for me, Dexter. Like my
dad used to. I didn’t see it back then, but I do now, and if you can handle
what you’re going through than I can handle this.” Cas smiles again, and it’s
brighter now. “So I was thinking - you should write love sonnets, like you
did when we were in high school.”
Dexter allows her to change the subject, but he sits next to her
on the counter and puts his arm around her shoulders. “I only wrote
those to get your attention.”
She laughs. “Bullshit. You liked writing them - it had nothing to do
with me.”
“Okay, maybe. But you can’t make a living in this world writing
poems.”
“You always said you were going to sell them. A whole book full.
What happened to that?”
He shrugs.
Cas nestles her head against his shoulder. Her next words are
tentative, as if she’s trying to tiptoe around the subject. “You should take
it up again. Send them off to some publishers. Maybe...maybe that would
make you happy.”
Dexter doesn’t want to talk about happiness. He doesn’t want Cas
to ask him how his therapy session went, how he felt today, how much he
ate and did you take your medicine Dexter?
“Maybe,” he says.
***
The next morning, Dexter lies in bed staring at the ceiling. His
121
phone buzzes from across the room, but he makes no move to retrieve
it. He already knows what has popped up on the screen, that simple
reminder he’s set for himself every morning.
Take your medicine.
Today is Tuesday. No - Wednesday. Which means a year ago today,
Cas’ father wrote three words on a piece of paper and sat in his favorite
armchair and chose to leave her.
Today is a bad day. Nothing feels right, everything is wrong, and
God, he has to get up and take a shower and get dressed and write that
article and buy groceries and try to take his medicine. Then he has to
mail the rest of the wedding invitations because oh God the wedding is in
eight weeks.
Dexter just woke up, and already he’s impossibly tired.
There is a gun in the coat closet by the front door. It rests,
unloaded, on the top shelf, hidden in the shadows cast by the closet’s
single light bulb. Dexter gets low and it’s waiting for him. The chamber is
empty but he could fill it - slide a cartridge in, fingers dancing fluttering
twitching like a moth, slide the bullet in and put the barrel to his eye, stare
it right in the face, and he’s never shot a gun before but he could, all you
gotta do is squeeze the trigger BAM just like that, it’s easy Cas says, Cas So small on the bathroom floor, retching into the toilet, whispering
his name. The only thing in the world that made sense.
Dexter curls up in bed, puts his hands over his ears as if he could
block out his own traitorous thoughts. He’s gone down this path before,
more times than he can count. For a while, it got so bad he isolated
himself completely, pushed everyone away, because when he inevitably put
the barrel of a gun to his eye the only heart he wanted to break was his
own. But somehow, at his lowest, Cas had gotten in. Cas with her
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beautiful smile, her corn silk hair. Cas with the father who didn’t take his
pills and eventually shot himself in the head.
Is it possible you see a lot of yourself in what he A lot of yourself See a lot of yourself
Dexter screams into his pillow but it doesn’t make the voices go
away. His mind won’t stop talking to him, calling him selfish, asking why oh
why why did you let her in? He always knew how this was going to end with a pathetic apology written on card stock and a coat-closet gun with
a single bullet in the chamber. He knew, because something was broken
inside him, something he couldn’t fix. He knew, and he still dragged Cas
into his mess.
Dexter remembers his lowest points, before Cas. His long walks
in the dark with a gun in his coat pocket, the only constant in his lonely
life. Even back then, there were people waiting for him at home - his
mother, for a while, and then his college roommate, and his first girlfriend,
the clumsy one who was always breaking dishes. Dexter left them all
behind, going off to die on his own like a stray cat who can sense the end
approaching. And when he inevitably pulled himself back from that edge,
when he unloaded the pistol and held the innocent cartridge against his
palm , when all he had left was the fear that those people waiting at home
would somehow find him with his brains blown out or see a picture of his
corpse in the paper, Dexter would run. New city, new people to abandon.
Because at least then they could live with the hope that he wasn’t dead.
So why is Cas any different?
Dexter stops screaming. He sits up in bed. His fingers are
motionless on the sheets.
***
123
Dexter is waiting by the door when Cas gets home.
She bursts in like a hurricane, already bare-footed, holding her
shoes in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other. “Dexter! I wanted
to make up for my mood yesterday.” Her smile lights up the room as she
sweeps past him, snow melting in her hair and on her coat. “A dozen red
roses, like you always get me for Valentine’s Day. And I asked around - my
coworkers said they would be very interested to read any poems you
write and give you feedback. Isn’t that great? I -”
“Cassandra.”
Something in Dexter’s voice gives her pause, and she turns to look
at him.
He’s still standing by the door.
Cas’ eyes are uneasy now, but she continues to smile. “What are
you doing, silly? Come help me find a vase for these flowers. I want to
hear about your day.”
“Cassandra. I...I have to go.”
She blinks at him. “Oh. Alright. Just...don’t be home too late if
you’re going to the store.You know I worry when the roads are this bad.”
“Cas…”
“In fact, unless you absolutely have to go out, I’d much prefer you
stay here tonight and get whatever it is you need tomorrow.”
“Cas.”
“What?” She suddenly snaps. “Goddamn it Dexter, what?” But
she’s not angry. Her eyes are wide and her face is bloodless. She’s staring
124
at his fingers.
Dexter can’t look at her. She is a memory, a pale ghost of the
person she was when she broke a year ago on the bathroom floor. Why
did he have to wait for her to come home? Why didn’t he just go when he
had the chance? He can’t do this. He’s not strong enough.
Dexter closes his eyes. “I love you, Cassie.”
Silence.
Then, “Dexter, have you taken your medicine today?”
He hears her moving toward him, and his eyes fly open and he
backs into the door. “Don’t,” he says.
Cas stops. She raises her hands, as if in surrender, and he wonders
what she sees on his face. “Okay, alright, Dexter. Just...just hang on a
second.”
“I have to go, Cas, I have to go.”
She bites her lip. Dexter can’t look at her. Dexter can’t stop
looking at her. “Go where? Dexter, I don’t understand, you’re scaring me
Dexter. Just come sit with me, please? Tell me what’s going on.”
Dexter shakes his head. His back presses against the door. He
fumbles for the knob.
Cas takes another step forward, and he throws his hand out as if
to physically hold her back. “Stay there! Don’t come any closer!”
“Okay, okay Dexter. Everything is fine. It’s fine, okay? Just calm
down.”
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“I can’t.”
“Why? Tell me why, Dexter, let me help you.”
Dexter puts his hands over his ears. “Because, damn it! Because
every time I look in the mirror...every time I talk to that therapist and stay
in bed when I should be providing for you and...and stop taking my pills...I
see your father in me. I see him with that gun pressed to his head but it’s
my hand pulling the trigger, because I’m just one bad day shy of being him.
And I’m terrified, because I can’t do that to you Cas, I can’t hurt you like
that, I can’t put you through that again. I know you see it too, Cas, I know
you do, you see him too, and it’s so hard, Cas, because you’re the only
thing that makes me happy anymore -”
Cas’ arms wrap around his waist.
Dexter reels back, and the door is open now, and he’s trying to
push her away, away from his crazy twisted mind, away from this wretched
broken thing. But he’s too hysterical, and he’s shaking so badly. In this
moment, Cas is stronger than him, and she pins his arms to his sides.
She’s stronger, but when she whispers in his ear she’s small. So
small, and so quiet that Dexter has to stop and listen. Like that day on the
bathroom floor. “Please, please Dexter, you’re all I have and I l-love you, I
love you too, okay? Dexter, please.”
Please please make it go away oh please give him back I’ll do anything.
Dexter stills in her arms. He sees rose petals scattered across the
carpet.
He remembers that day - a single phone call, a note with three
words, a broken woman pleading with God. He remembers the promise
he made to himself, the one sin he could never forgive. And he’s crying
now, because it’s too late. If he walks out into the night, if he leaves her
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here with the pills in the drain and the roses on the living room floor, she
will never stop being small.
They stay like this, entwined in the space between. Cas lets him
empty himself out. He knows that she can sense the change in him, can
feel the tension draining from his bones.
Cas waits until Dexter goes quiet. Then she reaches out, puts a
hand on the partially-open door. “I’m going to close this,” Cas whispers.
And he loves her enough to let her.
Nell Behta
127
Oxymoron of War
A born warrior,
Who does not like the weight of the sword.
The blade that slices,
And the tip that pierces deep.
Because deep down she has the urge to pray for her enemies
A veteran who has never fought a battle,
But is fighting a war
Thus, the reason why every wound cuts deep
What’s the point of healing when the scars are still visible
Ugly reminders of war tattooed into the skin, etched into the memory
Scars from a war she was drafted into
There is no time for resentment
She must grow accustomed to the sword
Or she will be held ransom by the wounds on her soul
~ The Story of the Stagnant Warrior
Debbie Bates
128
Boiling Point
There is a forest fire
raging inside of my chest
igniting my heart
and scorching my veins.
The fire never comes out,
it never goes out,
it burns and blisters
boiling until it reaches
a point.
The fire turns my blood
to steam, that rises
slipping through cracks,
crevices, that I can
hardly protect until
I’m suddenly crying.
At this point the fire
has been roaring
too long for me to remember
why it had even started
in the first place.
So I cry at nothing,
at anything,
at everything
until my blood runs cold
and my heart is ash
only for it to rise
like a phoenix
and sit in my chest
once more waiting
for another fire
to spark.
Ariana Tomb
129
Introspective
Ryan Krueger
130
Silence
Tell me,
Are you happy?
Do you find joy in life’s small things?
Or does life seem dull and boring?
Tell me,
When do you find yourself smiling?
Just mindlessly throughout the day?
Or does it fade once the joke has passed?
Tell me,
Is your mind confident?
Does it encourage you to push forward?
Or does it demean and guilt you?
Tell me,
Is a bad day just temporary?
Does it disappear with the waves?
Or does it linger and cause chaos?
Tell me,
Is your nervousness anxiety?
Does it pass after the task at hand?
Or does it attack without rhyme or reason?
Tell me,
So, I may know you better.
Teach me your language.
I want to hear your voice and stories.
Tell me,
It doesn’t have to be with words.
Just sit quietly beside me.
I am fluent in silence.
Falling Saturn
131
Wilt
You plucked each petal
Alone
Under a sky as blank as creation
It was pouring, I remember
The way you mingled with the rain
And you were sitting there
Watching me
“I love you,”
“I love you not.”
And so you went, on and on
For what seemed like months
Years, even
And I couldn’t bare to look at you
I couldn’t stand the thought of you
Not because I didn’t love you
But because you could never love me
And as you marred that poor daisy
Hands made of razing desolation
Chocolate eyes ablaze
I couldn’t escape the thought
That over and over, I died for you
Just as quickly as I’d lived
Cooper Shirey
132
Running Water
Calvin Ng
133
Love Mountains
I do not have to do anything
to deserve to be loved.
it didn’t even cross my mind
until you told me
that I shouldn’t have to move mountains
to be loved,
and suddenly so many things became clear:
why I feel the constant need to give,
like maybe if I give someone enough of my own soul
they would be so kind as to give me some of theirs in return.
and, if I didn’t get it back,
maybe I just need to give a little more,
cut my skin a little deeper to bleed out
and say “look at what I did for you,
how much will it take for you to love me?”
I realize now
that I’ve been asking the wrong things
of the wrong people.
no amount of my soul or sacrifice
could make anyone give me what I wanted.
I have transactions instead of friendships
except I’m the one who’s always paying.
over and over again I will tell myself
“I do not have to do anything
to be deserving of love.”
one of these days I will believe it.
Andrea Kling
134
To My 11th Grade History Teacher Who
Said: “Racism isn’t a thing anymore.”
Welcome to the Trump era
And thank you for your contribution.
I’m sure you didn’t mean
To belittle the struggles
Of millions of colored people
When you denied the racists
while explaining that the KKK
had every right to march
on Washington.
And thank you
for the year of confusion
I spent wondering if white people
really thought racism died in the 60s.
Wondering if all white people
were as ignorant as you.
I hope the latest wave of police brutality
and white activist screaming,
“Go back to your country”
to an American citizen
has changed you mind.
If it hasn’t,
then I guess nothing
will, but stop telling
your students
that racism has stopped
because it’s here,
and will stay as long
as there’s one person
who looks at our skin,
our hair,
our faces,
and sees less
than we are.
Ariana Tomb
135
Forgotten Friend
Megan Stambaugh
136
Like a Ghost
You pulled me close
Like a ghost
I left my body
Evaporated
into thin air when
you touched me
yanked my zipper down
I stood above
my lifeless body
Searching
for reality
Gasping
for clean air
Emily Hummel
137
Missing Light
1.
Another missed call.
the phone widget has an unheard of red seventeen in the right corner.
The calls come so rapidly it’s impossible to do anything but
decline decline decline
Why
It’ll stop eventually.
A person as undedicated as he could never keep this up for so long.
Ah, here come the messages— how is this my fault?
Ignore mute swipe away
Stop
2.
“It wasn’t always like this”
I repeat like a mantra as I
read through hundreds of angry messages from someone I
might have loved once.
Remember
I know childhood was nothing more than a blind fantasy
of obliviousness and naivete
ignoring the red flags I yet knew existed.
Every little girl’s first hero is their father
Wrong
3.
I will never answer his calls.
Not because I do not miss hearing his voice and
reminiscing of a time that never quite existed
but because his words are a poison that seeps through even the strongest
shield.
138
His calls are only made to
blame and twist and accuse and
Lie.
And I know I’m right until I talk to him.
Then after I’m so confused that I no longer know.
His tactics are so skilled that he leaves his opponent, no
his daughter
unsure of what’s real and what isn’t.
Manipulation
4.
Unlike a bad breakup, a friendship ending,
no matter how hard I try
He’s still part of me
he’s on every record of myself
insurance, birth certificate, last name, and it is impossible to take that
away.
Stuck
A sister of mine was fortunate enough to marry away the name and
forget
but we do not take the same paths, and so
the name stays.
While it is a reminder,
I want it to have a new meaning estranged from its founder.
Hope
5.
Many in my place cannot move on.
The poison seeped through their heart and they can never recover
hatred burns deep within them that soils their lives and destroys their
hope.
139
but that will not be me.
Though I’ve yet to win the battle,
on this ferocious sea of hate pain wishing neglect guilt hoping—
There is a lighthouse! in the distance
shining towards me.
I’ll make it to the shore.
With its light I can feel an emotion
that washes away the damage he’s done and the hurt, somehow, it’s
Peace
Julianna Vaughan
140
How the U.S. Forgot Its History
We changed from free and equal,
Only to give racism a bigger sequel.
We changed from democracy,
Only to make a form of hypocrisy.
We changed from how high,
Only to tell the UN and the world bye bye.
We changed from Superman,
Only to show a laughing brand.
We changed from the presidential touch,
Only to lose global respect so much.
We changed from a strong nation,
Only to be the comical TV station.
We changed from glowing horizons,
Only to say Let’s be friends with lions.
We changed from help one another,
Only to why should we love each other.
We changed from such a great country,
Only to adopt the bad habits we all see.
Em Bush
141
America Unseen
If you are American and alive
some may say or view it as you
made it or you have succeeded.
But what about those hearts who
are American and alive who wake
before dawn. Without any caffeine or
food and work their asses off to give us
the fortunate ones what we want.
When they can’t afford what they
need.
From the nurse in the hospital who
goes into the empty room to weep
for the person that died on her table.
To the soldiers that bust their spines,
risk their health, and their lives and
come home to nothing not even a home.
Why are they outcasted and not as a
success? They have stories we just
must let them tell them. They are not
just a number they are humans and
they deserve respect.
Nicole Potts
142
Railroad Bridge
Whitney Bender
143
We Are More Than What We Are Labeled
Publicity hounds I used to call them
Where I was born freedom did not have much meaning to me
An identity I thought was given I didn’t fully understand
I didn’t share the same family tree nor dark history
For as far as I was concerned we were not dropped off on the same land
Publicity hounds I used to call them
But life had different plans for me
Soon I realized it didn’t matter the family tree we had come from
Hate their skin their very existence is what the media did teach
The slogan plastered on every channel doing continuous runs
Publicity hounds I used to call them
I used to think they craved attention
Their continued fight for freedom was never mentioned
They etched this negativity into every young mind
Creating prejudice, bias, and racism that would last a lifetime
Publicity hounds I used to call them
Till one day a group of students stood their ground
Hatred rose up in me, blood boiled, I found anger where I thought it
could never be found
Coffee, juice, and syrup spilled from head to toe
Resilience in their stance they did show
Publicity hounds I used to call them
For their strength stood in their stillness, as if they knew
That one day their freedom would ring true
144
They looked forward heads held straight as if they could see the glory of
what their skin would become
And in that moment I realized that we were all one
Publicity hounds I used to call them
I had been blinded by the facade of what the White man wanted me to
believe
To trick me into believing my own skin was the enemy
For the true enemy was the enemy within
A sin that had seen committed time and time again
They became we and them became us
And from that day on is what I vowed to only trust
I vowed that I must fight for what is just
And everytime opposition would bark
I would fight, for the new dream that lay deep at the core of my heart
Till the day death do us part
For publicity hounds I used to call them,
I used to call us
Debbie Bates
145
Big Square Gold Buttons
My friend wears her avocado-colored shirt with pride.
She knows I hate that shirt
with the big square gold buttons.
I told her not to buy it, she insisted it’s on sale.
Yuck, I said, I won’t be borrowing that one.
I don’t know what’s brighter
the avocado shirt or my friend’s red hair.
She doesn’t care if she looks like a Christmas tree,
it was on sale.
Ugh, I said where’s my sunglasses.
She’s wearing the avocado-colored shirt
with the big square gold buttons
to parties.
She gets attention, when she opens the
two top buttons, her push-up bra bursting
and her red hair blown out.
Oh, she is the talk of the night,
especially when she leaves with the
hottest guy.
Yuck, I hate that avocado-colored shirt,
especially, when those big square gold buttons
trap a man.
Kim Johnson
146
Maps
Kimberly Braet
147
Maps
My skin is a road map
Veins of cities pumping blood across pale complexion
Set up your houses with white picket fences
Making yourself comfortable
As ground quakes beneath you
You are a disease
Sucking the life out of the very grass you build upon
Digging into roads, into skin
Destroying the essence of my being
I am left with this hollowing feeling of death
The once vibrant veins of my cities still and lifeless
This map is now a ghost town
Closed-off highways littered with stalled out cars
Dead-end roads of broken states
My skin is a road map
That I pray you never travel again
Kimberly Braet
148
Needless Trinkets
“There’s a way that these things need to be done.You always
follow it and it’s always okay. Everything has worth here under our sun. So,
what is no longer of worth to you today?” The pawn shop owner asked,
her deceptively young face holding in a pair of brown eyes that possessed
a wisdom deep down in their pupils, the same wisdom cutting his gaze.
Her fingers tapped against the warped cedar countertop that hid her rail
thin legs, fingers moving rhythmically, but not to any recognizable song
from this decade.
“I don’t need this anymore.” he said. An assortment of objects
were flung from his pockets. Two silver pens, foreign change from the
hemispheres of the world, a watch; worn but worthwhile, and a single
tooth, a moral perhaps. They lay on the counter, rolling and shifting until
settling down into the divots and creases of the table-top plateau.
“There is a way that things need to be done” she repeated. “Wash
your hands three times in the basin.” She motioned to an ornamental
dish engraved with a set of looping curves and knots that covered its’
surface. “Cleanse them of the past, wash your palms of the meaning of
these objects and anything that they ever could mean to you”. Her fingers
stopped clattering away at the wooden surface only to sweep above the
counter-top, signaling for him to get moving.
“Wash my hands? In there?” he asked. “You want me to what,
clean my hands before you pay me? Do you think that I’m contag-.”
“There is a way that things need to be done.” she repeated, colder
this time. “Wash your hands before accepting payment.” Her fingers took
a break from their music to mimic that same sweeping gesture, this time
at double tempo.
“Alright, I get it. I’ll wash my hands.” He slowly plunged his palms
into the icy water, watching the dirt and dust of the day peel off his skin,
float away, and dissipate; clouding the water’s surface in a thin film.
149
“Three times!” she exclaimed.
“I’m getting there, ma’am.” he reassured, raising his hands only to
signal compliance before digging them back into the basin. “So, what’s it
worth?” he asked, wiping his palms down the leg of his jeans.
“Thirty dollars and an idea of time well spent, and ill disposed of.”
she said, her fingers once again breaking their rhythm to join her hands in
sweeping the objects into a desk drawer.
“I’ll take it.” he said. As the cash entered his palm and he walked
out, the slight sound of rattling, a jingle of new money, and the tick of time
could be heard, but that was the past and the past had been washed clean.
Later, in his home as he exited the shower as all people do, clean
and a little bit lonely, he could not remember the events of the day. Nor
could he recall the stresses of his past and the accomplishments made in
spite of them. But that didn’t bother him one bit, he smiled, “There’s a way
that things need to be done and it’s always okay in the end.” he repeated
alone to himself.
Trent Betham
150
Ocean Terror
Whitney Morris
151
Icarus’ Flight
I find myself soaring closer and closer to the sun
Your rays warming the sides of my cheeks
As I remember the first time You held my hand
While we went for a hike in the laziness of summer
We swam as our bodies shivered together
The electric current running between us
Begging for us to touch so that we may ignite
I fly higher, counting the time until I am with You
I imagine when I get there You’ll greet me with that smile
The kind that makes me stop and stare
And You’ll ask me what I am looking at
To which I’ll tell You that I’m just taking everything in
That’s what I want us to do now, to take everything in
Is this what love feels like
To feel something so intense, so foreign, yet alive
I’m sweating now, as I think about our last kiss
Your lips were tender and soft as I bit into them
My need to be only met with hesitance
As You pulled away from me
Am I too much for You
Even now as I fly You seem to strip me down
to my most flightless state
they told me not pursue You, to get so close
but I didn’t listen, I just wanted You to consume me
I’m falling now
Harder than before- into the depths of Your darkness
As You forget who I was and who we once were
Me, a forgotten memory, and You a piece of me.
Abigail Kauffman
152
Bereavement
In the dead of night
The full moon fell out of the sky
It crashed to the ground without a fight
For it knew it could no longer fly
The trees dripped tears of grief
For though it is the sun that gives them life
And nourishes them leaf by leaf
It is the moon that cuts through the darkness like a knife
Without the moon their trail of tears
Grows so large it soaks and rots their roots
They deteriorate as the end nears
In preparation they drop their fruits
They can’t be saved
Our path is paved
Tori Helfrick
153
I’m Afraid
“what are you so afraid of?” he asked me
this
i’m afraid of this
whatever this is between us
it’s new and exciting and i’ve never felt like this before
i’m afraid of this
of the way my heart beats faster when i’m near you
and how it flutters when you say my name
i’m afraid of this
of losing you to someone who is better
and watching you learn to lover her
i’m afraid of this
of being someone that you appreciate and admire
and pretending that i am enough to be that for you
i’m afraid of this
of falling for you
when i can’t even love myself
i’m afraid of this
because i’m already
in love with you
“nothing” i whisper
Rachelle Renninger
154
A Walk on the Beach
Kathryn Milliren
155
Go to War
A respected man from a downtrodden country
Had talked of rebellion and talked of war
And now his mouth is sealed and muzzled
So he may talk no more.
His hands are bound, his feet are tied
And his heads been placed upon a block
A punishment for those who stray
And give themselves to sinful talk.
For he had given many speeches
To the men and women of the beaten land
And gained from them a worthy trust
Which helped him device a sinful plan.
On the day when they would break their shackles
And give to the government the rings of war
The signal given to the peasant rebels
Would be 3 knocks upon their doors.
But now the plan had thus been figured
By the soldiers of the oppressive hands
And thus to keep it from its starting
They cut off the starter with their righteous bands.
Now the man awaits his fate
Of death, which shall keep the people gored
For at his death there will live no rebels
For there will be no knocks upon their doors.
A man above the sinful man
With cloak of blackness and axe of steel
Strikes upon the chopping block
And frees the man’s head with wrathful zeal.
156
He lifts the head up in the sky
For all the people now to see.
He says “For those of you who sinfully talk,
This is what your fate shall be.”
The men all gasp and women cry
For their sinful man is now brought down.
And with his death now dies their hope
And future honors drowned.
A man in the crowd now shouts with anger:
“Let us see at least the face.
Remove that muzzle from his mouth
So our eyes may gain a last embrace.”
The black-cloaked man now smirked with glee
And started to unlock the muzzle:
“All you’ll see is pure defeat
And the eyes of one both shocked and puzzled.”
The face now free from conceal
Is lifted high up in the air
The black-cloaked man expects horrid yells
But instead they all just stare.
The sinner’s head had a wagging tongue
Wet with blood from final wounds
Inflicted by 3 final bites
With crimson taste he left entombed.
It was a final act
A cry for renewal knocked on death’s door.
For with three bites upon his tongue
The people knew:
“The signal’s given. Go to war!”
Cameron Crouse
157
Borrowed Lip Balm
This lip balm tastes like someone else,
like nice towels and dirty floors,
like paint, now chipping, but once
stuck cosmic wonders to the walls.
It smells like another life
filled with warm bread
and burnt pizza
and close hugs
and closed wounds.
This lip balm is pink
and pretty
and it isn’t mine.
Robert Greenberg
158
Gerontophobia: The Fear of Growing Old
My age clings to my frame and
I feel plain, like the walls I’m staring it,
but when it feels like I’ve finally
got ahold of everything,
like I’m coasting along that flow
life is taking everyone else around me
to reach much greater heights and destinations,
it turns out, actually, that feeling:
Stability. Comfort. Ease. Whatever you call it.
Isn’t like a flowing river, it’s closer to how it must be
to drive a car, lose control, and wrap it’s
metal frame around a wooden pole.
You might be hurt, your head’s throbbing, and your body aches, and the
mess it leaves
might be big, scattered plains of safety glass and crisscrossed incisions
of bumper, fender, and mirror. The pieces though,
they can all be gathered up and picked off the road
so as to not inconvenience any passerby’s or gawkers.
But the big stuff, the frame, the windshield, the tires, and their axels,
they have to go somewhere too. Somewhere safer than
a cautionary kick aside and into the grass creeping
its way onto the road. They need repairs, they need replacements.
Eventually, you can drive again,
just in time to swerve right into
your mid-life crisis like an older
woman into the supermarket with a book
full of coupon cut-outs:
expectant, prepared, and imminent.
Trent Betham
159
Jubilee
Madalyn Wolfinger
160
Love
You convinced me
That I was what was right in this world.
In my darkest days,
You reminded me to face the sun.
I would revel in her golden glow,
Letting my cold hands soak the up
The energy they so lusted after.
Allowing my eyes to admire the radiant light
Shining on my pale, fragile skin,
I was not omitted from her warmth
As not I, your love.
Bailey Milnik
161
See Me
Anna Jedrejczyk
162
Push On
You’ll wake up,
And peep out the window.
An ominous fusion of gray and blue, Engulfed large portions of the sky.
Howling winds
Viciously rattles the trees like maracas.
The lone crow,
That sits dainty on the very edge of the roof, Screech the infamous tune
of sorrow...
Push on!
Part of a dynamic,
Far from perfect.
In the heat of the moment,
You’re forced to choose a side.
Dreading the inevitable scorn,
From the side left ignored.
The minions of three,
cackle silently in corner.
Push on!
Carelessly dumped,
In a bowl of diverse kinds of souls.
The alphas,
Of such undignified stature,
Adored by many,
Leaving peasants like you,
alone with the rejects.
Some savable,
Others fade into obscurity
A few,
Forever challenge you,
Till they’ve killed off the last bit of you. Push on!
Piece together the puzzle,
That was once your sanity
Showcase a smile,
That doesn’t hide any hidden scars
Break free from your old chain,
163
Bury it deep underground
Let the flames roar.
Reheat a shriveled, frigid heart. Stay...just stay and enjoy!
Ernest Frazier
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