The Reflector

Shippensburg University’s
Journal of the Arts
2021

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 a 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 Facebook (The Reflector, Journal of the Arts) or
Instagram (@shippensburg.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 2021.
Cover Art: Bailey Milnik, “Bright”
Cover Design: Matthew Hathaway
Book Layout and Design: Angela Piper, Luke Hershey, and Kaitlyn Johnson
Cover Stock: Silk Cover 100#
Paper Stock: Finch Bright White Smooth Vellum, 80 lb.
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

Angela Piper
Luke Hershey
Kaitlyn Johnson

Genre Editors
Prose

Hannah Cornell
Nell Behta

Poetry

Dale Crowley
Tristan Brownewell

Art

Megan Gardenhour
Autumn Jones

Committee Members
Prose

Poetry

Karon Banks-Bailey
Hannah Borkenhagen
Emily Dziennik
Caity Kennedy
Haley Bennett
Cameron Crouse
Emily Fitzgerald
Ernest Frazier
Victoria Helfrick
Abigail Long
Bailey Milnik
Nicole Potts

Art

Kimberly Braet
Bailey Faesel
Maddie Frain
Sarah Herlia
Elizabeth Peters

Faculty
Advisor

Professor Neil Connelly

Contents
Prose
April Petesch
First Day of College
Addicted

17
30

Caity Kennedy
At Peace

27

Piper Kull
Efflorescence
This I Believe
Clowns

34
63
135

Anonymous
Only Human

35

Julianna Vaughan
Ears
Light in the Storm

50
85

Anonymous
Matches

55

Cameron Crouse
The Mouse and the Puddle
Sincerely St. Peter

58
140

Isabella Brignola
Icarus and the Sun
Taking Off Glasses
We in the Bathroom

67
111
120

Jacob Jackson
The Art of Limbo

77

Hannah Borkenhagen
The Crowns

82

Emily Sterner
Coffee Shop
What Happens After The Bee Movie?

92
144

Hannah Specht
Dearest Rae

95

Abigail Long
Half Full, Half Empty
Swimmer’s Ear

99
115

Yashir Williams
Above

104

Anonymous
The First of the Last Quesos

106

Bruce Washington
A Couple

113

Ashley Ivanoff
The Redhead at Dollar General

119

Kimberly Braet
I Go Back to the Woods

131

Daddy’s Little Girl

133

Kay Kitrell
Anonymous
Voicemail

145

Poetry
Ariana Tomb
Loud Mixed Woman

15

Andrea Kling
Why I Stopped Writing Poetry
Love Poem #69 / Non-Sexual

21
94

Debbie Matesun
I Dream a World Pt. 2: Dr. King Would be Disappointed
Oxymoron of War
We Are More Than What We Are Labelled

23
53
146

Morgan Stahley
When a Democracy Goes to Therapy
Resoluteness
A Forbidden Existence

26
116
148

Kim Johnson
Whispers for RBG
Scarred

32
102

Anonymous
What Matters
24 Notes
Say Their Names

33
110
129

Cooper Shirey
Sirens’ Rest
Starbathing
The Collector

52
103
117

Jay (Carole) DiDaniele
Update

54

Victoria Helfrick
Note to Self

65

Anonymous
Flower
Dysphoria

66
128

Emily Dziennik
Sprite

80

Ryanne Martin
Knitted

81

Matthew Hathaway
Moonlight
Since Monday

93
139

Anonymous
Doesn’t Really Matter How Old You Are

108

Isabella Brignola
Mask of the White Death

137

Art
Elizabeth Peters
Abandonment
Shattered Dreams

20
57

Matthew Hathaway
Carlisle Bird
Old Main in Snow
High Rock

29
76
132

Kimberly Braet
Roommate
Self Portrait
Hiding

49
98
105

Autumn Garibay
Untitled

75

Bailey Milnik
Icy
In the Trees

91
143

Sadie Walshaw
50’s Summer
Among the Moss

97
127

Julianna Vaughan
Afternoon Sun

114

A Letter From the Editor
Dear Reader,
I suppose in this year of the coronavirus pandemic, riots, a
truly memorable presidential election, online learning, closures
and openings, and a whirlwind of firsts, The Reflector would, of
course, be no different. The collection of works in the 2021
edition is one that is truly unique to the year and the incredible
individuals who’ve still created art in a time that feels like it is full
of darkness and uncertainty. I am so proud to have been part of
this club’s incredible work this year, despite the ridiculousness of
doing it all during a worldwide pandemic.
I think The Reflector has always been that source of positivity
and inspiration on this campus since the moment I walked into
my first Reflector meeting as a first-year student. Before I started
college, I thought I would just show up to classes every day for
four years and then walk out with a degree at the end of it all. But
someone told me about a small publishing club opportunity that
piqued my interest in writing, and so I bravely walked into Horton
Hall and found a group of people that would become some of the
most influential people in my life. The club was loud yet inviting,
demanding yet exciting, and encouraging of every single one of
its members to take on larger roles within the community. After
my first year, I wanted to take more and more of a role in its work
until eventually, I became its Editor-in-Chief. As I close out my
final semester and final weeks as EIC, I feel as though I’m leaving
behind a part of myself with this production, and I’m moving
forward with memories that I will cherish forever.
To show my gratitude, I would first like to thank every one of
the people who took the brave step to hit send and hand off their
beautiful creations to a group of strangers to judge and review.
You are truly an inspiration to not only have created art in a
world with so little inspiration, even in a normal world, but to
create something in one ravaged by an unpredictable disease and
mass confusion is truly something to be proud of. Every piece that

was submitted to us could’ve been the cover, the first in show, or
represented the journal on its own. The risks you all took inspire
me to be a better writer and to want to continue this path in life,
so I thank you all sincerely.
Also, to my overwhelming talented staff and editors, I want to
thank you as well. You all have shown up and continued to make
the creative juices of this club’s passion flow just as vibrant as
ever. Even though we hardly got to meet up in person and always
had to remain socially distant and always had to send a million
emails to stay in touch, you all remained a constant flow of
positivity and excitement that created the atmosphere of our club.
The time and dedication this organization demands of its
members and, especially our genre editors, is challenging for
people who more often than not are involved in other places on
campus, are incredible students academically, and still maintain a
home life. So, thank you for sharing those precious moments of
your life with this club.
Additionally, with the support of my talented Associate Editor,
Luke Hershey, and our amazing PR Chair, Kaitlyn Johnson, this
book would not be here today. They have been my rocks through
this whole year and have helped create a club and a journal that
I’m so proud to be a part of. Our advisor, Professor Neil Connelly,
is also equally wonderful in his wise advice and large dedication
to wanting to see us succeed. All of the people mentioned above
have been crucial in the creation of this year’s truly unique
Reflector. They have made saying goodbye to this organization
incredibly difficult.
I’ve had many ideas for this book and where it will take those
who choose to read it, but my one hope is that it opens your eyes
to new voices and new perspectives. Our world chooses to
overlook so many differences that it’s almost nauseating.
However, this small light into the future may bring change and
happiness into a world that will certainly emerge with new scars
and new traumas to overcome. Art is a channel that we can
express diversity and hope in a way that is manageable to all
humans and it is one of the most beautiful ways to experience

change. Without it, we are merely blobs of flesh bumping into
each other from time to time.
Take what you will from this collection, but I hope it inspires
you to believe in the power of multiple voices and the power of
art to influence the world.
Yours truly,
Angela Piper

/or

15

Loud Mixed Woman
First Place | D’Orazio-Carragher Prize of Excellence

To all of those hoping I will smile more, talk less
Today I have decided that my hands
Look strong enough to hold a part of the world
And maybe they can shape it into
A vernacular that makes sense to some
And excludes those who don't, can't see
The strength of my small hands.
Today I have decided that my back
Is wide enough to shoulder a load of ugly
And bring it to the river for washing
Because ugly that thick must be mud
And mud can, will be washed away
To show the quilt of many colors beneath
And oh! Is that what I've been shouldering
It's gargantuan, but I must be resilient.
Today I have decided that my tongue
Feels loose enough to speak my own mind
And not the mind of the person who wrote me
That can't, won't understand me as long as they live
Whose hands were stained by innocent blood
Because don't I have the right to speak too.
Today I have decided that my voice
Is loud enough to be heard above the cries
Of the obtuse
who won't, can't let anyone speak truth
For fear that someone would notice their lie.
Today I have decided that my eyes
Are clear enough to see the hurt of many
To witness a plight so stricken by fear
That it should, will be seen by ten million more
So they will be windows to the scorned
Not shutters for those who do not want to see.

16
Today I have decided that my skin
Is thick enough to withstand attacks
Of mind and body, of flesh, of flesh
I have been gifted with tougher hide than that
So let them come and throw there rocks
Shoot off at the mouth and shoot off.
Because today I have decided
that smile means speak
And less means louder!

Ariana Tomb

17

First Day of College
Second Place | D’Orazio-Carragher Prize of Excellence

When was the last time you slept? Three days. You’re not even tired.
When was the last time you ate? You can’t recall. You’re not even the
slightest bit hungry.
Bugs are crawling under your skin. It started off simple, light. A light
crawling sensation, their little feet scrambling under your skin, their bodies
rippling beneath the surface. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Your fingernails are
clawing at your skin, frantic to get the insulting insects off. You start to feel
blood well up under your nails. You look down on your arm, just to see
little wounds cutting up and down your arm like gory sprinkles. The pain
doesn’t even register to your wired brain.
Distractions. You need a distraction.
You turn on the television. You see moving pictures. You hear words
being spoken. The words don’t make sense and the images flash
meaninglessly. You cannot connect the words and the images and the
images and the words…together they are like a slinky tangled. Unable to
bounce, or move, or do anything useful. It’s like a dark mass of knots, little
rhyme nor reason. You turn off the television, haunted by the fact you
couldn’t comprehend it.
You turn to a book. You start small, by flipping a page, you start by
reading a single line. And then another. And another. Progress? No. You
couldn’t remember the words. They start swimming on the page, floating
around and jumbling like the devil himself turned your book into a
demented alphabet soup. You close the book, shuddering. How could
something you used to love so much lose any meaning?
You start to walk on campus. You’ve run out of time and it’s close to
your first class. Wait. Where was it? What building? Where is that building?
What building? Where? What? Where? Your thoughts run in a loop you
cannot escape. You can run from people, animals, places, things. But you
cannot run from yourself, not when you’re living in your head. It’s a literal
broken record, stuttering and spitting out the same worries. You can’t
decide which direction you want to go. It takes you a moment, but you
eventually register you’re walking in circles. Circles. Circles. Circles. This is
what insanity feels like. You’re going in circles in your head in circles in your
head in circles in your head.

18
You want to cut. You want to slice your thighs, hidden under your
clothes. You want it to be your dirty little secret. You want to grasp your
dull blades and grace your skin lightly, before slashing harder and harder and
harder. You want to draw blood. You want to feel pain, something outside
of your own mind. You need an escape, and this is it.
You want to die. It was subtle at first, the itching to jump in front of a
speeding car or the urge to devour your whole medicine cabinet in hopes of
a deadly concoction. Then the weight got heavier, the urges got stronger.
You started planning it out. How you would tie the noose. How you would
obtain the gun. What you would write and to whom. What would be your
reasoning?
I’m sorry Mom, I was never meant for this world. The weight of living is
just too heavy.
I love you my partner. You were there for me when the world was too
much. This isn’t your fault.
Dear cat, you’re the most lovable asshole I’ve ever met. My sister will
take good care of you.
You go on and on and on, planning the right diction. You are vying for
just the right words. You’re trying to pick them like someone does for a
love note. In some ways, that’s just what you’re doing. A love note to your
loved ones, a love note inviting Death himself.
To all my friends and family. I’m at peace now.
You stop abruptly in your fantasy. Would you be at peace?
You stop your thought. Peace. Serenity. Peace. Serenity. Poetry of
words with meaning as foreign as color is to blind folk.
How would you describe red to someone who’s never experienced
color?
Much like that, how would you find peace if you’re constantly at war
with yourself?
Red. It tastes like a red delicious apple. Red feels like the heat of the sun
on your skin. Red is the texture of a snakeskin. It’s the feeling in your
cheeks when you’re with someone you’re infatuated with. Red is the heat of
your rage. Red is when you see injustice and you want to do something
about it. Red is the liquid that leaks from your wounds. It’s the pain of a

19
picked scab. Red is the rush in your head when you feel something move
your soul. Red is passion. Red is burning love causing your soul to ache.
Peace. The clouds on a sunset. Looking into someone’s eyes you not
only love, but trust as well. Peace feels fluffy like a cuddly animal’s fur. Peace
feels soothing like running water in a stream. It flows through your fingers,
leaving a tingling wet sensation on your skin. Peace tastes textured like a
fluffy marshmallow, but the flavor is of your favorite home-cooked meal.
Peace is a hug that lasts a second longer than normal, tight and fulfilling. It’s
curling your fingers around your favorite person’s hand. Peace is when you
feel safe. Content. Satisfied.
Peace for you is something that feels out of reach. Right when you think
you can caress it and pull it closer; it floats away. Death feels like the only
way to reach peace…no, no, no, no, no, no, no!
There’s got to be something better than this, you ponder, this can’t
possibly be all that there is.
You look to the sky, your eyes devouring the clouds above the sunset.
Maybe peace isn’t always going to be out of reach.

April Petesch

20

Abandonment
Third Place | D’Orazio-Carragher Prize of Excellence

Elizabeth Peters

21

Why I Stopped Writing Poetry
I stopped writing poetry
just when I had the most to say.
When I can’t breathe became a rallying cry
I felt guilty for even having a voice.
I stopped writing poetry
because I was afraid to admit
I had not stood up to live,
that I didn’t need others to stand up
so I could live.
I stopped writing poetry
when I couldn’t figure out how to write about
the things I didn’t even know how
to think about.
I stopped writing poetry
because I knew that if I couldn’t use my voice
to speak for the ones on ventilators,
the ones who had their breathe shot out of them,
I didn’t deserve to use my voice at all.
I stopped writing poetry.
I tried to fade away into the background,
stop calling myself ‘poet’
because poets don’t cower
instead of using their power
for the ones who have theirs taken from them.
I stopped writing poetry
because I was afraid of failure.
I was afraid to name the privilege inside of me,
afraid to admit that I am still learning.
I started writing poetry again
because the lives of others cannot wait
for me to get over my guilt,
they cannot wait for me to teach myself everything
before I even think about opening my mouth.

22
As long as others have to live their lives in fear,
I will use the fear in my own lungs
to write ‘poet’ back into my name.

Andrea Kling

23

I Dream a World Pt. 2: Dr. King Would be
Disappointed
I dream a world where imagination runs free,
Where kids play happily on city blocks,
And people open their doors to everyone that knocks.
I dream of a world where hope and 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
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 and T.V.,
And children again begin to pick up books and read
The world a framed picture 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,
And when someone offers you drugs of 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,

24
Our journey depends on the climb.
Yes it sounds cliché
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.
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.

25
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 Matesun

26

When a Democracy Goes to Therapy
America is the withering flower
that’s been in my room for four years,
and I try my best to
keep her alive in my dreams.
Tonight we take a walk
through the valleys and vessels
deep inside of her
to see where it all went wrong.
I show her the melancholy skyline,
how the people are as hollow as the trees
and she shows me her ribcage,
where pillars collapse and dead bills gather.
I dissect the emptiness from her heart
and collect the past with a dustpan.
I excavate her cold apathetic lungs,
and plant a brighter future into them.
In this dream America faces her abuser
and I remind her that we have always been predator first, not prey.
We; owl-natured and quiet,
our kindness, more than a weapon
kills to protect those that cannot protect themselves.
Flowers grow best when watered
and right now America is gasping for
freedom, justice, liberty.
I gather empathy from the river
and dump buckets of it on her
until she is united within herself,
until we all are.

Morgan Stahley

27

At Peace
A breeze blows into the room, casting the curtains aside and allowing
the moonlight in, one sliver at a time. Dark stains are scattered throughout
the navy carpet, some having been there awhile, and others are just now
setting in. The sickening stench of spoiled milk and rancid eggs filled the
house, but the man sitting in the corner of the living room seems
unbothered by it all. His shirt is moist and sticky, and his fingers twitch
around the grip of the object in his right hand before relaxing again.
Staring straight forward, he wonders how much longer he’ll have to
wait. He’s always the one waiting, but he prefers it this way. Being alone
with his thoughts is refreshing, it reminds him of his own mortality,
especially now. It’s always good to be reminded of one’s own mortality, and
he tries to remind others of that almost every day. They just never
understand what he means until he shows them. It’s sad, really, he’s just
trying to lead others to the light, to a new beginning where they can start
anew. No one understands him, and the cracked picture of his deceased
wife on the end table is an everyday reminder that he’ll always be alone.
Forever, alone. She would still be alive if she hadn’t found his handgun in the
back of the closet. The memory of finding her in their room after he
returned home from work one afternoon still haunts him to this day, and in
this moment.
Sirens and flashing lights illuminating the room snaps him out of his
pensive thoughts. Closing his eyes, he whispers to himself, “Finally.” He
relaxes his body as the boys in blue burst into the room, surrounding him
with guns drawn. The smell of arrogance wafts in behind them. He rolls his
eyes.
They demand so much more than he thought they would. Do they want
silence or confessions? Hands up, or on the ground? Gun dropped, or slid
across the floor? Whatever it was, he wasn’t listening. He had been planning
his last moments ever since his wife had executed hers. He thought it would
be romantic.
The officer in front spat out, “Any last words, vermin?”
This was his cue. He looked up at the ceiling. “We’ll be reunited soon,
love.”

28
Before any of the officers could react, he whipped his pistol up and
rested it in his mouth before pulling the trigger. No hesitation. The cops
sighed. The coroner was called. Everybody went home.

Caity Kennedy

29

Carlisle Bird

Matthew Hathaway

30

Addicted
When you ask most addicts, they’ll tell you the first high is usually the
strongest, and that the subsequent highs are often a feeble attempt to chase
it. The rush and the euphoria associated with those highs are good, you get
something from it, but you don’t get that same exact feeling of flying. I did
not find that to be true for my addiction. I have come to find out that the
more I do it, the more hits of you I breathe in, the more of you I sniff, the
more of you I want. I just can’t get enough of you; I don’t think I could ever
satisfy my craving for your love.
Each high I got from you became stronger and stronger, intoxicating my
senses. The smell of your hair tingles in my nose. The smooth feeling of
your skin against mine makes me dizzy with love. I love tasting you, kissing
you, it brings me to cloud nine. You love is trippier than acid, more
euphoric than ecstasy, and more calming than pills.
When I first became intoxicated by you, I felt you course through my
veins. Your kisses made me drunk with love. Feeling your skin is the most
euphoric sensation I can indulge in. I crave hearing your breath hitch as I
wander my hands across your body. Bruised veins, healing scars, and all the
blemishes grace under my nails as I lovingly kiss them with my hands. I love
you for you, imperfections, and all. I trace symbols of endearment on your
arms, your shoulders, your thighs…anywhere that you’ll let me I will claim
as my own. I kiss you softly, tenderly, and sensually. I want to devour you
whole, but I hold back. I want to cherish you first and foremost. I want you
to feel loved. I have always intended to make you feel loved.
You were never an easy person to love, but it was always worthwhile. I
don’t regret the love I gave to you; I only wish I could’ve given you the love
you needed. I wish the love I gave to you was enough, but I don’t think it
ever will be. I don’t even think the drugs are enough to give you what you
need. I don’t know what void you’re trying to fill but what you’re doing isn’t
working. It’s not only breaking you down- I see your tired eyes and shaking
hands- but it’s also breaking us apart.
I don’t know when it started taking over your life. When we first met, I
was the most important thing to you, as you are to me. Your temptations
were not a priority…so when did it change? I honestly can’t recall whether
it happened creeping over the years or suddenly and all at once. Maybe it
was my fault for not saying something sooner, but I thought you could
control it. I was so wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things when it came
to us. I honestly thought love would be enough, that the drugs wouldn’t
become consuming, that you wouldn’t fall into the trap of the game. Now
you’re out staying late at night sneaking, and if I’m lucky, you’ll sneak back

31
into our home in the morning. It kills me that I don’t know where you are
anymore, that I don’t recognize your friends anymore, that I barely
recognize you anymore.
Yet, that’s not what kills me the most inside, ripping my soul into
dozens of shards like broken glass. What hurts the most is I don’t know
when it’s going to be the last time, I see you alive. You’re fucking with some
hard shit from some sketchy people. I know you’re not safe out there and
every time you fuck with it, you place your life in jeopardy. I need you to be
safe because I love you so much. I feel you pulling away with every hit of
that vile shit, and I honestly don’t know how much more I can take.
Honey. I love you so much. So much it literally kills me when you do
these things. It hurts me, it’s been hurting me, and I’ve tried countless times
to help you, but I don’t know what else to do. I love you so much, I’m
addicted to you. But you’re addicted to something else and something has
got to give. One of us is going to have to break our addiction. I don’t think
you can do it so I’m breaking mine, despite how much it hurts me. It’s like
I’m losing a piece of myself. I’m so sorry, it hurts me…but this is goodbye. I
have to break my addiction of you.

April Petesch

32

Whispers
for RBG

The wind whispers
through the trees,
Listen
hear
her name
rustling
among the leaves
Listen
hear
The murmurs between
the branches of
a mighty oak
Notorious
Exemplary
The roots have taken hold
with wisdom
Ageless
She will not be forgotten
Men will try to forget
change the landscape
Turn from
the wind
Listen
Hear
The wind
gently whispers
Equality

Kim Johnson

33

What Matters
Black faces protesting in the streets
Lynching images etched in their minds
Anxiety hanging in the air like nooses
Centuries of being shoved off the ladder
Killing the dignity of basic human existence.
Lady Liberty offers hope but no reward
Inequity of opportunity the unwritten law
Vivid possibilities spoken but unacted upon
Economic wealth an unattainable aspiration
Sated by the oppressors filled with hate.
Marchers demanding to be seen and heard
Attacking undeniable ignorance and racism
Terminating injustice, the absence of hope and
Threatening the system of our original sin
Even as some leaders of our nation
Refuse to actually say their names.

Anonymous

34

Efflorescence
I was born in the chrysanthemum month, a tender perennial with petal
soft fingers and toes. Before I could walk, my mother and father made sure I
was outside to see the sun and feel the grass. My home was nestled under a
large magnolia, and I came far before the dogwood fell. I hoped to be as tall
as those trees. In those days, my hair was auburn, and my cheeks were
freckled, and I was almost never without a smile. After all, what else is there
to do when the rain only means puddle-jumping after lunch? My mother
made a garden for me, and it was here that I germinated, roots set into the
Berrell Avenue soil before I could pronounce the name. I grew in love.
According to family legend, my first word was ‘hydrangea.’ It is my
grandfather’s favorite story to tell people who have heard it a good
thousand times before. My grandparents farmhouse became my home away
from the one I knew while my parents worked at the garden center. My
name was rarely my real one when I was younger, and rather became ‘Tiger
Lily,’ showing off my adventurous spirit. My grandmother and I would
fingerpaint until my hands were all shades of periwinkle, peony, and poppy.
We picked strawberries as I soaked up enough sunlight to last a lifetime. I
ran circles in the backyard and read the story’s pictures in between the little
white daisies. It was here that my colors bloomed into view, where
creativity and curiosity were always encouraged. I grew with time.
As my summer feet were given school shoes, my focus shifted, widening
from blossoms and bedtime stories to other children. Friends. Boys. Every
flower was plucked clean, fingers crossed and hoping he didn’t love-me-not.
The farmhouse visits and sleepy mornings were less, but I never wilted,
because the sunshine never really faded. There will always be another
autumn afternoon, another goodnight kiss, and another season for the
chrysanthemums. And I will grow.

Piper Kull

35

Only Human
A story for all those who’ve hurt and been hurt.
We are all merely flesh and blood.
I.

▶ You • A Great Big World

I noticed you.
Whenever Ethan had you over to the house, you’d humor me and we’d
talk about old marching band jokes from high school. And I thought about it,
I did. But I was Ethan’s older sister to you—I admired you from afar, since
that’s all I knew how to do. Never really been kissed. Twenty years old and
never really been kissed.
But that one night you stayed over with Ethan’s other friends, I
mustered up the courage to try something dumb.
It was after 3:00am. The sun faded ever-so-slightly through the dark
night sky, your friends started to drop like flies, and you—you’d been glued
to my side since the evening began out around the fire pit. Once we settled
down inside the house, you laid on the floor next to my couch. You always
sprawled out on that couch when you slept over at our family’s house, but
that night you took the floor.
When I reached out and grabbed your hand, you didn’t resist but didn’t
take it, so I tried again. One finger at a time, then you squeezed my hand
and looked up at me.
Blue—a deep, oceanic blue visible even in the dim light of the den. I’d
never really noticed before then, and now I didn’t want to waste a second
looking anywhere but into those eyes.
Everyone had passed out now, so you sat up off the floor and ran your
hand through my hair. You wore a nervous smile.
Is this okay?
I smiled and nodded, wrapping my arm around the nape of your neck.
Yes.
A few more nervous breaths and nervous smiles, and this was what I’d
been waiting on, what I’d been waiting to feel. Alive. You leaned into me and

36
I leaned into you. I didn’t know what to expect, but I’d never really been
kissed. I never told you that.
I wasn’t expecting fireworks from a nineteen-year-old guy, and it didn’t
feel like fireworks—it was better than that, actually. Warm and clumsy and
sweet. Like you.
You wouldn’t remember this, but you didn’t let go of my hand until you
passed out on the floor after sunrise. Not once.
II.

▶ Tee Shirt • Birdy

I yawned and collapsed on my bed—I was still exhausted from the other
night. We didn’t do anything besides lay awake there with each other, but
we didn’t need to.
You left the house without my number. I didn’t even know what I
wanted when I woke up the next day. All I knew was that I’d never felt
more alive than when I’d kissed you and I wanted to be with you again. So, I
stopped by your work and left my number with your boss like it was 1998. I
hadn’t seen you at all, but we’d been texting.
The other night was really nice.
June 25, 1:15PM
Yeah, it was really nice.
June 25, 1:17PM
Did it mean something to you?
June 25, 1:20PM
Yes. Did it mean something to you?
June 25, 1:21PM
Yes.
June 25, 1:22PM
I clutched my phone against my chest and tried to reign in my fluttering
heart. It did mean something and I wasn’t crazy and you slept on the floor
for me and you didn’t let me go.
A knock sounded at my door and my brother’s chestnut hair peeked its
way through the crack.

37
Come in, Ethan.
He pushed the door open and wandered over to my bed. Hey. What’re
you doing?
Nothing much.
Ethan nodded, hovered over my shoulder for a second too long, and
saw your name on my screen. I thought there was something weird going
on with you two the other night.
Do you have a problem with it? Be honest.
Nah. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go there with him.
I paused and sat up in bed. Why not?
‘Cause he’s not normal.
And you are?
Ethan shook his head, sighed. Not what I meant. I’ve got to go to work,
but Mom and Dad are downstairs. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.
With that, he strode out of the room.
Another notification echoed through my bedroom.
Is there a place we can meet?
June 25, 1:27PM
III.

▶ Like Real People Do • Hozier

We decided on the park.
It poured that day, poured like I hadn’t seen it rain for the entire
summer. That evening was miserably humid, but when it stopped, you met
me there anyway. It was vacant, so it was you and me and a frisbee. We
tossed it back and forth and you learned how to talk to me about something
other than our usual pleasantries. You knew we had something here, and I
wasn’t Ethan’s sister or a former high school bandie anymore, no—
someone else, someone you hadn’t met yet.
But we weren’t there for long until the torrential downpour resumed
and the awning over the pavilion wasn’t enough. We had to make a break
for your Honda Civic.

38
I heaved down into the passenger seat and slammed the car door shut.
The rain water seeped through my hoodie and my socks and my sneakers. I
looked over at you from the passenger seat, then laughed.
You snickered, uncertain and awkward. That was rather sudden, wasn’t
it? You always spoke like a piece of prose, and you made me hold onto
almost every word that left your lips. Never told you that.
Yeah, for real. I shivered and tugged my hoodie tighter around my
torso. I’m cold.
Oh no, I’ll turn down the air. I don’t want you to be cold. You reached
for the knob and switched it off. Here, give me your hands. I’ll warm them
up. I always used to do this for people back during marching band. My hands
are always warm, even when it’s freezing out.
You wrapped my hands in yours, and wow—warm like a wood fire on a
bitter cold day. You rambled on and on about jokes from high school
marching band, something you already knew how to talk about with me,
Ethan’s sister. Me, an acquaintance from our high school days. Me, a
stranger whose lips you’d learned last Friday night.
I listened while you spoke, wondered how I ever managed to look past
you for all those years. Didn’t matter what you said. Just that the sound of
your voice steadied me.
You looked up at me with your blue. Blue like the ocean. That better?
Much better.
You smiled and leaned back in the driver’s seat, then slid your fingers
into mine. You rested our elbows on the divider, and our arms swayed back
and forth. Together. And you felt like a late-night car ride, a lazy day, a
lullaby; you felt like something I didn’t know I needed until I had you.
You spoke and snapped me out of my thoughts. Should we go
somewhere else?
Sheets of rain swept over the windshield, one after another. No, I don’t
think so.
We can wait it out.

39
I nodded and squeezed your hand, running my thumb along yours. We
sat. Listened to the rain for a few minutes.
‘Cause he’s not normal, Ethan had said. My heart thudded in my chest
and you must’ve felt that through the palm of my hand, you must’ve. Heart
thudded harder. Took a breath. Spoke.
I’m nervous.
You furrowed your brows and squeezed my hand. Why?
I dunno. I’m just…I’m really new at this. And I dunno what I’m doing.
Something flickered in your eyes, but you didn’t look away. Yeah, I’m
not really good at this stuff, either.
Perfect.
IV.

▶ Your Hand in Mine • Explosions in the Sky

We sat in the backseat of your Civic, and my head laid in your lap. Tame
Impala pumped through the car radio and we listened as the synth
dissipated. I spoke.
Great song.
For real.
Here, let me play something. I reached out and took your phone.
You laughed, light and boyish. Hey, now. That’s mine.
Shush, it’s my turn. You’ll like this.
It’d only been a few days, but we had a routine at this point. Walk
around the empty park, talk about our days, then hop in the backseat of
your Honda Civic once the sun started to set. You’d hook up your phone
to the aux cord and we’d take turns playing music, making out, talking.
Playing music, making out, talking. And the backseat of the Civic was a tight
squeeze for you even with the front seats pushed forward, but you said you
didn’t care as long as I was there.
Then I hit play on Your Hand in Mine by Explosions in the Sky and it
seeped through the speakers, slowly. Slowly. I sat up a little bit and curled

40
into your chest. You stroked my hair the way you did, and I wrapped my
arm around your neck. Always so warm.
You rubbed my back. I’m a great pillow, right? It’s all that baby fat.
I giggled into your t-shirt, then looked up into your blue. Don’t you get
it? I like it. I like you.
A pause.
I like you, too. And oh-so-softly, you laughed.
What’s so funny? I looked up at you from where I laid on your lap.
Your lips curled into a smile, toothy and genuine. Nothing. Just…I’m
happy.
I smiled.
We sat. Listened. Held each other. And this was it—this was bliss.
Where had you been? That’s all I could think to myself. Where the hell had
you been?
Once the strings faded out, you spoke.
That one was beautiful. I see why you like them.
Yes.
I sat up a bit, and you set your hand on my shoulder. We glanced out
the windows at the vacant pavilion, the rusty goal posts, the flourishing lilies
along the sidewalk—all of it disappeared into the shadows as the sun sank.
No one around for miles. No one but you.
I looked at you.
Do you wanna play one now? Almost whispered. Almost.
You looked at me.
No, it’s okay. Come here.
Five words—that easy.

41
You rested your hand on my back and I wrapped my arms around your
shoulders and this wasn’t the usual clumsy and sweet. Something new.
Couldn’t breathe, but couldn’t stop. Warm, still warm. But even with my
tongue in your mouth, even with my arms around you, it wasn’t enough.
After a few minutes, I broke away from your lips and held you. Just…held
you. You needed it. More than you knew. You said you were happy, but you
seemed so…sad.
A pop then a crackle, and I sat back to look out the rear window. In the
distance, someone was setting off fireworks. I spoke.
Look. No, look. Fireworks.
You followed my gaze and we waited. I could smell your minty breath
against my cheek and wanted to stay like this forever. With you. Waiting for
the colors. And then a palette of vibrant hues peppered the sky,
disappeared. Again, then again—brilliant.
I spoke.
Wow—they’re so pretty.
Yeah…yeah. Really pretty.
The sky darkened and the night stilled, save for the crickets. I turned to
face you and your ocean blue. Much deeper in the dark. And I thought for a
minute that I loved you. But we’d only been…doing this for a week. Your
friends didn’t know. My parents didn’t know. Ethan kept his head down and
covered for me. It wasn’t real yet, so how could I love you?
You spoke.
And you’re…you’re really pretty.
Five more words, and yes—I loved you. Not deeply. But in that
moment, I did.
You drove me home, and once again I crept up to my bedroom.
Collapsed on my bed. Texted you, because my chest hollowed out as soon
as I wasn’t with you.
What the heeeck? I miss you already, ugh.
July 3, 11:23PM

42
I knowww. Wish we could’ve stayed like that forever.
July 3, 11:25PM
Me too. Pretty fireworks, huh?
July 3, 11:26PM
Yes. I thought of you after each one.
July 3, 11:27PM
I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.
July 3, 11:28PM
No, I wasn’t. I dunno, I mean it was nice being there with you.
July 3, 11:30PM
If I knew you at all, you meant it. Still, it seemed rather curated. Almost
too specific to be believable. Easily the cheesiest text message I’d ever
received.
So…why did I feel all warm and fuzzy inside?
V.

▶ Breathe • James Arthur

I thought you had questionable taste in friends. Never told you that.
Had to love ‘em, because sometimes those dudes made me laugh, but
none of them ever discussed anything of substance. All sounded like noise
to me, but then sometimes you made sense.
Like that night you slept on the floor for me.
Waaay before everybody passed out in the house and we kissed, you
and I sat on the dead grass around the fire pit. Your buddies wandered
back and forth between the screened-in porch and the fire for s’mores.
And even though the sun was sinking under the horizon, a few of the
others tossed a football in the backyard. As people came and went, you
spouted off on a moral rant and I’m fairly certain I was the only one who
tuned in.
…and all I’m saying is that sexuality shouldn’t be such a big deal. It’s
not to be mistaken for a personality trait, either. Fucking other dudes
would not make me an interesting person. Hell, it’s no more relevant than
the fact that my eyes are blue. Nobody cares. Nobody should care.

43
Exactly, I echoed. And looked you in the eyes. And inched closer to
you on the grass. Just a little bit. Why do people feel the need to
accentuate our differences?
You shook your head. I don’t know.
Suddenly, Ethan plopped down in a lawn chair near me and you. And
he glanced at me, then spoke.
You look traumatized, so he must’ve gone all philosophical on you
again. Give it a rest, man. Nobody ever understands you.
I understood you. But I didn’t understand you, not once I started
spending more time with you—you talked big, but only because you didn’t
know what you wanted to do with yourself. You didn’t want to face that,
so you always focused on things you couldn’t control instead of the things
you could control. And I wasn’t any better.
And once we started sneaking around, I kept thinking there some
sort of catch. Why did you like me? What did you see in me?
Where…where was this going?
You had similar thoughts, didn’t you? I could tell, the way you
wouldn’t hold my hand in front of your friends. The way you flickered in
and out when I asked about your family. The way you looked at me—in
that deep abyss of blue, something that I wanted to see wasn’t there. I
didn’t have all of you.
I never had all of you.
VI.

▶ Latch (Acoustic) • Sam Smith, Disclosure

My parents weren’t born yesterday, so they knew I wasn’t going out to
the park till midnight for kicks and found out—not a big deal. We weren’t
great at hiding, and we weren’t trying that hard. You said so yourself.
Even though you came to the house to hang with Ethan, you weren’t
there to see me. So I invited you over for an afternoon, and we didn’t leave
my room the whole time. We laid under the soft glow of my twinkle lights
and watched stupid YouTube videos and talked. Nothing. We did nothing. A
fantastic stretch of nothing into the night.
You hadn’t dated many other girls, and I could tell. Just could. When I
closed the door, we ended up kissing, really kissing, and you…tried so hard.
I didn’t want you to feel like you had to be good at this, like you had to be

44
pleasing me every second—your being there was more than enough. For all
I cared, we could’ve laid there and took turns playing YouTube videos like
we did songs in your Civic.
Every now and then, I broke away and looked at you. Looked into your
blue. Saw layers and layers of things you wouldn’t show me yet. Saw
fondness, fear, hesitance. A scared little boy inside that nineteen-year-old
body.
I wanted you to talk to me. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to ask you
something, but what would I ask?
And I didn’t know, so I kept kissing you and kissing you. Like I could
make you better.
After a while, I caught the clock out of the corner of my eye and sat up.
Oh wow. It’s one in the morning.
Is it really? You shifted on the bed and laid your head in my lap.
Yeah. Guess my parents went to bed already.
A pause. Listened to your breath, watched your chest rise and fall, again
and again. Ran my hand through your hair and traced your freckled cheek
with one finger.
I know you’ve been working a lot. Wouldn’t blame you if you went
home.
You looked up at me. I’ll stay, but only if you want.
Really?
Yeah. You slid around and curled into my side, a contented smile on
your lips. I remember how good that smile made me feel. It made me feel
good to make you feel good.
I could go home or stay here. Whatever you want, I’ll do.
And that last part—my heart skipped a beat after those words left your
mouth. You scared me. I’d never felt like I’d ever mattered that much to
someone else. And now I needed you and you needed me. Like air, like
water. Couldn’t go without each other.
Scared the hell out of me.

45
I want you to stay.
You smiled wider and laid your head on my chest. Okay. I’ll stay.
Five words—that easy.
VII.

▶ slumber • Lewis Watson, Lucy Rose

I still don’t really remember how much I slept.
But you slept heavy, and you held me the whole time.
Sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking, and then the sunrise lit the
sky with iridescent hues, vibrant yellows and crimson reds and deep purples.
All bled through the bedside window like watercolor, like fireworks. I didn’t
wanna wake you, so for a while I traced your pale cheeks and flitting eyelids.
And lay there. With you.
I passed the time beside you while you rested, then tried whispering
sweet nothings and shaking you to wake you. When that didn’t work, I
kissed you a few times. Ended up having to shout your name, though.
You made that sound people sometimes make when they wake up.
Then you gave me a kiss through a sleepy haze. You spoke.
Good morning.
Morning. You’re not easy to wake up, you know that?
You laughed and rubbed the sleep from your eyes. I know—I’d sleep
through anything.
Then you smiled and threw your arm around me. You stuck around
making lazy conversation with me until the last possible minute, then left for
work. One more kiss at the door, then I released your hand one finger at a
time and watched you drive away in your Civic.
Whatever you want, I’ll do, you’d said.
I climbed the carpeted stairs, went back to bed, and curled up under my
flowered quilt. It didn’t feel quite right without you there.
And I closed my eyes.

46
Closed my eyes.
Closed my eyes.
Where on God’s green earth had you been?
VIII.

▶ Before You Go • Lewis Capaldi

A few days later, some of my college friends came into town and I was
busy playing tour guide. I didn’t text you much for a few days and you didn’t
text me, but I knew you had plans with your friends.
By the end of the weekend, my friends all went back home and I wanted
to see you. Over the course of those few days, I left you a few little
messages—not crazy bitch material.
Hope you’re having fun.
July 11, 10:17PM
Be safe and smart!
July 13, 2:03PM
I miss you.
July 14, 12:04AM
Days passed, then weeks. Every day, my heart felt a little heavier. I’d
never seen you without your phone, so it wasn’t as if you weren’t getting
these messages. By late July, I figured you’d already made your decision
when you stepped out the front door that morning—I wasn’t even worth a
goodbye.
I didn’t listen to Ethan.
‘Cause he’s not normal.
Didn’t listen, didn’t listen.
Hadn’t I tried hard enough? Was I bad kisser? Had something happened
to you? Did I do something wrong?
Did I do something wrong?
I needed to know.

47
Hey. I wanted to ask where you went. I’m not trying to get you
back or anything like that, but I deserve to know why. I like you and it
hurt when you disappeared on me.
July 24, 4:57PM
I didn’t expect a response, but I sent it anyway. I wanted to call you out.
Horrible, but I wanted you to hurt as much as you hurt me. I’d always heard
heartbreak caused physical pain, and it did. My whole body ached—not a
sharp pain, though. Dull. All day. Every day.
One evening, I was hanging laundry out on the line and my phone dinged
with a notification. When I saw your name followed by a message too long
to fit on my lock screen, I freaked out and dropped it in the basket with the
clothes pins. I forced myself to finish hanging out the bedsheets. And then
once I was finished and shut away in my room, I checked it.
Sorry. I’ve been trying to think of what to say. It’s been very difficult for
me to admit, but I am just not mentally able to be in a relationship. I
really do like you, but I just can’t mentally handle it. It’s nothing you did.
I’m just not mentally mature right now and I really need to work on
myself.
July 27, 4:32PM
I laid down on my mattress and read it over and over—I figured it’d be
the last text you’d ever send me, so I waited a few hours before texting you
back. I said that was okay, but I wished you’d told me sooner. Told you I
understood why we couldn’t be together now, but maybe we could if things
ever changed. Mentioned that you could still come by the house to see Ethan
and your other friends.
And while knowing why you left made me feel a little bit better, a little
less crazy for feeling so attached to you…it made matters worse in a sense.
That message contained a brief summary of everything you’d been hiding
behind your blue, everything you weren’t showing me. Everything I couldn’t
fix for you.
I remembered the scared little boy I’d seen behind your eyes that night
you stayed with me.
And I kept kissing you and kissing you.
Like I could make you better.

48
IX.

▶ flickers • Wrabel

I should burn this.
I should burn this.
I should burn this.
And I stared down at the dark blue diary filled with letters I never sent
you, the only diary I’d ever managed to fill. I stood over the firepit at the
edge of my backyard and held a box of matches in my hand, dropped it in
the dried autumn grass. Then I flipped through the pages and caught
excerpts of words I’d scrawled out to you.
“…like I couldn’t hold on to you tight enough…still miss you, some days
more than others…you had your guard up…not mad at you…disappointed,
maybe…going to hurt for a while…got scared that you weren’t enough,
didn’t you?...wish you hadn’t run away, but you did…feel like I can let go.”
It’d been months since you disappeared, and I needed to burn this.
I leaned down to pick the matchbox out of the oak leaves littering the
ground. Twisted it around in my hand, grabbed a match and set it alight. I’d
gathered some old newspapers and twigs to use as kindling and set the diary
beneath everything. Then I threw the match into the pit and watched the
flames lick at the edges of the diary, slowly melting. Burning.
By the time everything was said and done, I loved you without ever
really knowing you. But if I woke up tomorrow in June with the choice to
opt out of what we had, then I’d want you to know that I wouldn’t have to
think about it for a second—I’d do us all over again.
And I’d try harder this time, because maybe this time, you’d engage with
me. Maybe this time, you’d tell me why you talked to fill the silence. You’d
tell me why you always kissed me so hard, so desperately. You’d tell me
what kept you up at night, what made you cry. You’d tell me everything.
And I’d tell you.

Anonymous

49

Roommate

Kimberly Braet

50

Ears
Keno was an artist. He would sit, propped on the sand dunes and paint
the ocean at sunrise. His knuckles were smudged with paint when he
stopped in at the Ace Hardware on 68th street every Friday. He always paid
in change, sometimes crumpled dollar bills that the Lithuanian cashier
begrudgingly straightened out before printing his receipt. She watched him
wait for the bus, sometimes for over an hour. Then, he was on his way to
the work. He dragged his easel to his spot on the boardwalk and waited in
the heat for some curious tourist to come look at his work.
He usually didn’t sell much— most of his income came from passerby’s
pitying the deaf artist’s situation who left a few coins in his open satchel. His
art was beautiful, their lips read, but the excuse often was that they were
too far from their car to buy a painting right now. Others promised to
come back later, feigning interest only to never return.
Today is no different.
When the fluorescent lights of the Jolly Roger Ferris Wheel illuminated
the skies, Keno packs up and walks towards the bus stop at the end of the
Boardwalk. The driver always waits for him, even if he’s a minute or two
late. The ocean breeze whips through his hair, and he wonders what it
might be like to hear it, or the cheerful tune of the circus calliope, or the
laughter of families after climbing off the Tidal Wave coaster, or the roaring
of the waves at high tide.
The bus comes to a halt, already filled with tourists going back to their
respective condos after a long day at the beach. Seeing no open seats, Keno
takes a step back, deciding to take the next bus instead. He’s not in any
rush, but his easel weighs heavy on his aching shoulder. Twenty years he’s
been doing this, promising himself that today will be the day he finally
reaches his goal of having enough savings to purchase a cochlear implant and
finally hear the world.
And that’s seven thousand, three hundred times that he’s come home
to the darkness of his trailer with no such luck, two decades of quiet as the
prices of cochlear implants continue to rise. Yet every morning, he gets up
and presses on, hoping for what may never happen.
The sea is beautiful even without the howling wind in his ears and
seagulls harps as they dart across the sand. He knows this to be a fact, for
he’s spent many a morning capturing beauty that could only be seen by the
eye. The soft pink and orange clouds of an early summer sunrise, the crystal
white sand pressed flat from the beach cleaner the night before. The

51
abandoned purple and blue shovels and buckets long since washed away
from a forgetful child. The old fisherman who stands knee deep in the
water, casting his line again no matter how many times he came home
empty-handed.
It’s a beauty one can’t find anywhere else, and music of the world or
not, Keno knows, and he loves being here. If only he had more time to
enjoy it.
With the city bus out of sight, Keno decides to walk down to the water.
He once read that the sea air is good for one’s health, which is why in
Victorian literature so many heroines dying of modern-preventable diseases
came here on holiday to lift their spirits. Though one can’t feel it as strongly
anymore, the ocean’s healing nature can still be found here. Keno sets his
easel and satchel down on the lifeguard’s stand and toes off his worn loafers.
His feet ease into the cool sand, and the pain starts to fade from his
body with each step he takes towards the shore.
The unending breeze tugs away his worries, his uncertainty of what life may
hold tomorrow. Outstretching his arms, he wonders if it can take him, too.
Icy cold water rushes laps at his feet and calves from a recently crashed
wave, sending feeling back into his body. He should probably head back to
the bus stop.
Tomorrow, he promises himself as he turns his back to the sea.
Tomorrow I’ll reach my goal.

Julianna Vaughan

52

Sirens’ Rest
If ever
They were
To lay eyes
Upon you,
They would
Silence
Their song,
And whisper
Their condolences
To the many
They had drowned,
And deprived
Of your light
The gold
In your hair
The spark
In your eyes
The spell
On your lips
As you serenade
The stars
Turning over
Lullabies
Drifting
In the dark

Cooper Shirey

53

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 Matesun

54

Update
I haven't gotten better,
I've just gotten better at hiding it.
My mind feels like static and my heart feels like lead.
The voice that I had told you had gone says that I'm better off dead.
I am not happy.
Nor have I recently been.
This is an uphill battle,
I feel that I'll never win.
I feel guilty for feeling happy,
But I've not been faking this.
This life without my demons,
Feels like there's something amiss.
I've been lying to you.
I can't tell you why.
I guess I want to save you the pain.
Who would want to see me cry?
I've isolated myself so that no one is there.
After all and in honesty, why would you ever care?

Jay (Carole) DiDaniele

55

Matches
When he is nine, he steals matches from Eliza’s desk drawer and takes
them into the backyard. He tries to light one against the rough edge of the
box, once, twice, and the third time a gossamer spindle of smoke singes his
nose hairs and the match head darkens and he has to stop because he’s
scared.
Deep breath. Try again.
He presses the match against the striker. It’s fragile, and his fingers are
large and clumsy. Eliza used to catch butterflies in glass jars, and once she let
him hold a monarch, and its wings were so thin that his pudgy baby hands
tore one down the middle. Holding the match is like that.
One quick pull down the side of the box. One smooth movement, and
there’s the smoke again, there’s the smell again, but this time the head snaps
off. Eliza killed the monarch. Crushed it under her bare hand, slammed its
struggling body into the kitchen countertop over and over while he
screamed Mommy Mommy Mommy. She said it was his fault, because he
damaged it. It was beautiful, she caught it because it was beautiful and you
ruined it Thomas why do you ruin everything Thomas. He drops the broken
match and it disappears into a clump of chickweed.
Deep breath. Just pretend it’s the Fourth of July. That smell, like the
fireworks Eliza’s boyfriend sets off down by the railway tracks. The matches
are red and white and the box is blue. Eliza makes him hold an American
flag and they stand beside the railway tracks, and the fireworks go boom
boom like his heart pounding in his ears. Pretend it’s the Fourth of July.
He picks a fresh match out of the box.
Eliza only smokes after she and her boyfriend have sex. She always
closes her bedroom door but he still hears them, and afterward she sits at
the kitchen table and looks at him with smoldering eyes and talks around
her cigarette. Tosses the word from her mouth as if it’s not strange and
scary to him. Yeah, we had sex. You could hear us having sex, right? At least
the sex is good. She cups her hand around the end of the cigarette when
she lights it, as if it’s something to be protected.
Press hard, but don’t break it. Use your fingernail. Crush its raspberry
tip against the striker.

56
Once, she was crying and smoking at the same time, and he reached for
her hand, and she dropped the cigarette and burned her foot.
One quick pull. Pretend it’s the Fourth of July.
The match head erupts into flames that swallow the stick in great
greedy gulps. Orange and yellow and the wood burns black and he wishes
he could stop ruining everything.
The flames nip at his fingertips. He cries out and drops the match and it
falls in the chickweed and he stomps on it kills it before the fire can spread.
Eliza doesn’t catch butterflies anymore.

Anonymous

57

Shattered Dreams

Elizabeth Peters

58

The Mouse and the Puddle
In a small house in the middle of the woods, there lived a young boy.
One day the young boy decided he would venture into the woods in
search of new and interesting things.
And just when he was about to enter the woods, he looked down and
saw a small puddle with a mouse standing near its edge looking at his
reflection in the water.
Curious, the boy stood and watched the mouse, wondering what it
would do next.
Suddenly, the mouse jumped headlong into the water and started
paddling toward the other side of the puddle.
“What are you doing down there?” said the young boy to the mouse.
Naturally, the mouse didn’t respond, he just kept kicking his little feet in
the water to keep himself afloat, trying to get to the other side.
But the mouse got tired, and soon began to sink into the water.
Fearing the mouse would drown, the young boy fished him out of the
water, and dropped the mouse at his destination.
The mouse, seeing that he had gotten to the other side, looked at the
young boy and bowed his head in thanks.
The mouse then ran off into the woods.
“How strange,” said the young boy. “I wonder if he will be back
tomorrow.”
The next day, the young boy walked back out of his house toward the
puddle, and there again he saw the mouse sitting at the puddle’s edge.
Will he jump in? thought the young boy.
And he did, the little mouse jumped straight into the little puddle and
began to swim toward the other end while the young boy watched.
But again, the mouse started to sink.

59
And again, the young boy fished the mouse back out, and placed him at
his destination.
The mouse, seeing that he had gotten to the other side, looked again at
the young boy, but instead of bowing, he just stared at him, as if he were
waiting for something.
The young boy looked at the mouse and said: “You went a little farther
this time. Did you know that?”
The mouse looked back at the puddle, and then at the boy, and bowed
again.
The mouse then ran off into the woods as he had done so yesterday.
Huh, thought the young boy. I think I’ve found something very
interesting.
After that, the young boy would venture from his home to the small
puddle every day, and every day the mouse would be waiting there for him,
seemingly wanting the young boy to help him and watch him swim.
Sometimes the mouse would make it all the way to the end with no
help whatsoever from the young boy, and sometimes he would get tired and
need assistance.
Sometimes he would get very close to the edge, to the point where the
boy just shoved him forward rather than lift him.
And sometimes the mouse wouldn’t get close to the edge at all, and the
young boy would have to pick him up and plop him over to his destination.
But each time, the mouse would look at the young boy for a response,
and when the mouse felt like he had been given one, it would run off into
the woods behind him, not to be seen until the next day.
One day, right before the mouse was about to begin his swim across
the puddle, he looked up at the young boy who had come to watch him yet
again.
“What is it?” said the young boy.

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The mouse quickly looked at the small puddle and then back to the
young boy.
The young boy chuckled. “Do you want me to carry you across the
puddle?” said the young boy.
The mouse again looked at the small puddle and then back again at the
young boy, seemingly to answer the question.
“I’m sorry,” said the young boy. “But no. I’ll only help you if you really
need me to help you.”
With that response, the mouse trotted leisurely into the puddle and laid
in it, his head fully submerged under the water.
The young boy waited for him to swim, but he just didn’t do anything.
Oh no, thought the young boy. He’s putting himself in danger, so that
I’ll help him.
Angry at the mouse, the young boy quickly grabbed the mouse out of
the water, but instead of placing him at his destination, he placed him at the
starting point.
The mouse, seeing that he wasn’t at the end of the puddle, looked at
the young boy with a confused stare.
The young boy leaned in to the mouse’s face, so that they almost
touched, and he said:
“That was not funny. I am here to help you when you are most in need
of it. You are capable of crossing that puddle on your own. I’ve seen you
do it. Do not test me, mouse.”
The mouse looked again at the puddle, and again at the young boy, and
again at the puddle.
And, like he had done so many times before, the mouse jumped in.
He kicked and paddled his little feet until he was almost to the edge, but
just before he got there, he started to get tired. And he was so close, he
could almost touch the other side. The mouse waited for a hand to come
and lift him out but none ever did, instead he heard a loud booming cheer
from the sidelines of his swim.

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“Go!” yelled the young boy. “You can do it! You can make it!”
The mouse believed him, and even though he was tired, he gave a few
extra kicks, and reached the edge of the puddle.
The tired mouse stood triumphant at the far edge of the puddle,
apparently happy that he had pushed through his limits.
He looked up at the young boy, and again waited for something to be
said.
But the young boy said nothing. He just smiled.
The mouse bowed and again retreated into the woods.
Wow, thought the young boy. I wonder how long this will last?

It did not last too long.
The seasons were beginning to change, Summer was fast approaching,
and with its close arrival came the evaporation of many puddles.
Every day the young boy visited the mouse at the puddle and every day
the puddle would get smaller, until one day it had gotten so small that the
mouse no longer seemed to need the young boy’s help or guidance.
What used to be a daunting task for the mouse now seemed more
casual by each passing day.
On the day before Summer arrived, the puddle was only a slightly larger
droplet, one that the mouse splashed through with ease and grace. The
mouse’s challenge was over, but still he respectfully bowed to the young
boy, who he knew had helped him many times before, and who still chose
to watch him even though the mouse no longer needed help.
The mouse then ran back into the woods as he had done many times
before.
The young boy looked at the remains of the puddle and said:
“I wonder what tomorrow will bring?”

62

On the day Summer arrived, the young boy again ventured to the
puddle. There he found an empty space of dried ground where the mouse’s
puddle used to be, but with the mouse standing there in the middle of it,
looking directly up at the young boy.
Like he was waiting for something.
The young boy leaned down and spoke to the mouse:
“It looks like your puddle’s gone? You can’t swim anymore?”
The mouse did not remove his gaze from the young boy. Almost as if
he no longer knew what to do.
The young boy looked behind him at his small house, and then again at
the mouse, who still hadn’t moved an inch.
“Well,” said the young boy. “Maybe you shouldn’t swim anymore.”
And the young boy picked up the mouse in both his hands and walked
back toward his home.
“I think you’ll find there’s many other things.”

Cameron Crouse

63

This I Believe
If I write, “I believe in love,” you’ll sigh and get ready to hear another
conversation about storybook romance. So I’m going to tell you about
chocolate milk.
I shared chocolate milk with my boyfriend the other day, the same day
my family put up our Christmas tree, while we sat on opposite sides of the
kitchen counter and talked about how much we both liked this book I’d
given him. I looked at him through the three PM sun and something felt like
it fell into place. Moments that feel big are sometimes small. As I held that
glass in my hand, I kept thinking about all the fingerpainted memories of
kindergarten, and when I put it down, I was surrounded by the voice of
someone I care about very much. The nostalgia came in, soft and warm, and
nothing felt more like home.
My mother and father used to sit with my sister and I and do big puzzles
surrounded by cups of chocolate milk and tea - Lipton, two sugars. It was
during these sun-blanket Sundays that love became true and real to me. My
grandfather never stops telling me that love is spelled t-i-m-e, and it has
gotten so deeply woven into my conscience that I don’t always fully
comprehend what he means. Thinking back to little moments, simple
pancake-mornings, I couldn’t agree more. Helping someone grow through
life is more than sun and water. It is sharing your warmth and truth, sitting
down and drinking chocolate milk together. In this world where you’re
constantly bombarded with expectations, giving and receiving calm moments
is the best thing you can do.
I drove my friend to Wegmans when we were both feeling crushed
under pressure, just to watch the train over the milk aisle. That night I
smiled more genuinely than I had in months. My friends taught me that love
is the biggest inside joke in this world. You just need to know how to laugh.
I look at my dearest friends and am overwhelmed by just how much I care
about them. Real love can happen at any age, between any people, and it will
take you by surprise. “True love’s kiss,” is a cat figurine, a wink in the
hallway, and a glass of chocolate milk. It is sharing the party, opening your
arms as wide as you possibly can to spread your love, and no expression is
too small.
I apologize, I can’t tell you how exactly to love, but I can tell you that I
believe you must. People might feel like your greatest enemies, but this
shouldn’t dissuade you from finding your truest friend, no use crying over
spilt milk. Love is the most powerful force of which I am capable, and I
believe in putting it out into the world. Being kind to others is more

64
important than being right or being accomplished. After all, no one is too
good for chocolate milk, this I believe more than anything else.

Piper Kull

65

Note to Self
Send your soldiers packing,
Open the can of worms,
Because maybe you’ve mistaken
Caterpillars for worms.
Maybe you’ve built walls meant to be broken down,
Maybe it won’t hurt when they fall,
And you won’t get shot down on the other side,
But maybe you’ll go down saying,
“I tried.”
“I loved.”
“I love.”
One day you won’t be afraid to fly,
Because all that weight will be lifted,
And you won’t be afraid to fall.
Only then will you learn…
Avoiding love, out of fear of loss,
Is perhaps the biggest loss of all.

Victoria Helfrick

66

Flower
On the day you got bored, you planted me in your garden
You told me I was the most beautiful flower you have ever seen
You told me all of your other flowers could never compare
When your friends came over you showed me off
Neighbors were in awe of my presence
I grew and grew and grew and wanted to be the best for you
One day you spotted a tiny leaf sprouting out of my stem
You looked at me and frowned and exclaimed
“You look better without this leaf here” right before you snipped it off
I looked down at myself and felt bare
I liked that leaf and cherished it like a mother bird with her nest
After pulling myself together and thinking really hard
I grew and grew and grew and still wanted to be the best for you
Eventually you got more friends
You stopped showing me off
You barely glanced over at your garden or at me at all
The ground became dry around me and I no longer had a healthy
environment that I could grow for you in
Even throughout the drought
I tried to grow and grow and grow and still wanted to be the best for you
The day came when you came back for me
There was no apology or excuse that you cared to come up with
You came over to me and held onto me
I felt the life coursing through my body and the anger melted away
The hours and days of feeling betrayed disappeared
I washed myself in your affection
Once again, I grew and grew and grew and wanted to be the best for you
That feeling was short lived
You eventually snipped my stem and left me there to die
Left me there to drown in my own pain and loneliness and despair
You planted me because you were bored
But then you got bored with me
I remembered when you used to show me off and hoped this wasn’t real
What did I do wrong?
You have to still love me…
I still try to grow for you

Anonymous

67

Icarus and the Sun
Icarus looked out over the stone ledge, scanning the golden bathed
horizon. The salty breeze from the soft crashing waves below washed over
the young man as the sun gently warmed him over. He watched the rolling
sea, following the swells quietly, with no true judgment. Icarus was looking
out not to find something he longed for as his father would. He watched the
world, not because of a boredom that filled him. Instead, the young man
simply let the gentle, harsh sun and the beautiful, terrible sea cast a spell on
him. Icarus leaned on his hand, allowing the contrasting, contradictory
forces to work their magic while he simply observed and admired.
“Icarus!” A sharp call came from behind the boy.
Icarus turned back to look at a man who stood on the other side of the
tower’s roof that they found themselves on.
The man was bent over a pile of feathers, a pile of candles, and a pool of
hot wax. With steady, calloused fingers, he held a candle over a small lit fire,
allowing the flame to lick the slowly melting stick. The man snatched a
feather from the pile and stuck the tip into the wax before meticulously
sticking it in a line of other waxy feathers. Each motion of the man was fluid
and well-rehearsed, although quick. His long, greying beard had a drop or
two of wax that had dripped from his working hands. Despite their swift
and precise dance from candle to wax to feather to line, the man abruptly
put the warming candle down as he placed the latest feather in a row. He
motioned the boy on the other end of the roof to come closer, although his
eyes never left the materials before him. “Come try these on.”
Icarus gently pushed himself up off the ledge he leaned on and went
over to the man across the roof. “Are they ready?”
The older man stood, picking up the strange contraption as if it were
made of gold and melted silver. “By tomorrow, they’ll be fine enough for
the journey. I can better them at home,” he stated before his eyes finally
landed on the younger man. “Turn your back, boy, so I can put them on.”
“Yes, father,” Icarus replied, obeying his elder.
The new rows of wax and feathers pressed against Icarus’s bare skin,
searing the flesh like hot pokers sticking into him. Leather straps tightened
around his upper chest and each of his arms, constricting him as a snake
suffocates a mouse. The soft feathers brushed his back here or there,
creating an urgent desire to scratch and claw at the affected skin.

68
Icarus began to squirm, his shoulders knitting desperately together to
reduce the exposure on his unprotected back. His hands clenched to resist
the urge to tear off the device that was attached to him. Still, even with this
effort, he couldn’t hold back the slightest whimper of pain. “Father-”
“Hold still.” the older man ordered, his tone neither angry nor
sympathetic. His crafter’s hands held Icarus’s arms, guiding them to go up
and down while outstretched at the boy’s side. He followed the movement
of the wings with a sharp gaze, scrutinizing every last detail. Finally, he
started to undo the straps, taking the contraption in his light grasp. “Go find
more birds, Icarus. If we are quick, then we should leave by tomorrow.”
The young man nodded. He remained still as he could manage while the
feathers were taken off his back, but the second he was free, the young man
rushed to the other side of the roof. Icarus glanced around the area,
locating the jumbled piles of twigs as he ran his hand tentatively across the
stinging patches of skin along his arms. After a few moments, he went about
finding feathers for his father.
Hours of work came and went. The golden sun soon was all but gone,
with the last beams stretching across the sky as a final desperate effort to
light the darkening heavens. Icarus’s father continued his craft, his hands
working as elegantly as a skilled dancer’s feet. Meanwhile, Icarus sat by the
ledge once more, stroking a small, iridescent bird that perched in his palm.
Every now and then, Icarus would gently pluck a feather that seemed to
stick out of the bird’s molting wings.
It was just as the sun was setting when a voice yelled to the two from a
trap door in the middle of the roof. “Daedalus! Dinner!” From a small
opening in the trap door, a loaf of bread was nudged out.
The older man stopped his work, standing and going towards the door.
“What else do you have for me?” he asked, his voice the one that adults use
with their children.
“I’m not giving you any more.” the voice retorted sharply, shutting the
opening with a loud thud. “The others’ll notice what’s going on. Don’t you
got enough?”
“I need one more. You can do that, can’t you? The others won’t
question one extra candle going missing, will they?” Daedalus replied,
kneeling to the trap door. “Besides, I’ll give you an extra drachma if you do
this one last candle.”

69
The offer was met at first with only the smallest mutterings from the
outside door. Of course, it only took a second or two for greed to
overcome survival and honor. “Make it two, or I’ll tell all of Crete about
your nephew.”
Daedalus frowned, his shoulders knitting together. His gaze shifted
towards the young man across the roof. His eyes bore into Icarus, scanning
each detail of the boy’s face in the way he would with a particularly difficult
invention in need of repairing. Slowly, he leaned closer to the trap door and
whispered so quietly that Icarus almost couldn’t make out the words. “Five
if you never speak of that in my presence again.”
A shuffling came from the trap door before the small latch opened, and
a hand shoved a candle out.
Daedalus snatched the candle and stood, making his way back to his
station. His face remained contorted into a glare, which he threw only
towards the heavens.
Icarus didn’t dare to look anywhere but the trap door, where the small
opening was swiftly closed. The young man continues to pet the bird in his
hand, picking the feathers blindly as the presence nearby on the roof
stewed. He could sense the craftsman take up his work, and he attempted
to ignore the harsh grumbles that emanated from the man’s throat. In his
precaution to avert his own gaze, Icarus stared into the sun, which only
proved the great level of effort he exerted to do so.
How brilliant the sun seemed compared to the drab stone Icarus stood
on. Apollo was carrying that massive ball of heat across the sky with a team
of brilliant steeds. The god was a father, just like Daedalus. He had sired
Phaethon, whose tragic death had happened when he tried to control the
very chariot Apollo used to carry the sun. The sun deity had passed on his
medicine skills to Asclepius, who was said to heal the dead. Apollo was even
the father of the musician and poet, Orpheus, whose songs moved the
underworld. He was the god of music, prophecy, poetry, medicine, and of
the sun. Somehow, his children had all met terrible ends, and yet as Icarus
watched the golden ball of light crawl below the horizon, he couldn’t help
but wish he was one of those sons. True, they met terrible ends, but they
had lived. Orpheus had love, fame, and a legacy that followed him as he
wandered the earth. Asclepius was in the stars and was now immortal as his
father. Phaethon, too, had left a mark in the world. His fateful course left a
deep gash that splattered the sky and burned part of the world into desert.
His fault was allowing the chariot to go too high up and then allowing it to
fall to the world below. Even with such a tragic legacy and pain, Phaethon

70
was able to-at least for one moment-fly. He etched his name into the long
black and blue fabric of the night sky in a way that would remain.
Icarus could not do this. He could never change the world so
dramatically. His singing was weak, his healing abilities non-existent, and his
lineage was that of a man that defied the gods with each new step. The boy
lived under Daedalus’ shadow, and yet he was bothered more so by a ghost
instead. The name Perdix remained on his mind but never reached his
tongue. He never dared to tell his father that he knew the name or the
story that came from it; The story of a young apprentice that worked with
his uncle and was killed for surpassing him. Icarus never told his father that
he knew the true reason they had family in Athens and yet lived on Crete.
Icarus never dared to tell of the night he had spent trading stories with
Ariadne, Crete’s princess and the daughter of Daedalus’ boss. He never
described the sickening pang in his stomach when his friend told him that his
father murdered that young boy, with all the potential in the world before
him. Icarus never asked his father why or if he would be next. Instead,
Icarus lived with that name, always present but never spoken. Perdix could
have been the next Asclepius, the next Orpheus, but he was the nephew of
Daedalus, not a son of Apollo. Icarus knew this, and so he remained in the
shadow rather than dare step out. At least when he was hiding there, he
could watch the sun’s glow.
“Finished,” Daedalus said in a sigh, sitting back to look over the
completed project.
Before the inventor sat a pair of wings, held together with melted wax,
and wearable using leather straps. The feathers had the slightest shine of
blue when the light hit them just right. Even in the darkness of the rooftop,
lit by only the candle used to melt the wax, the wings were enormous and
beautiful as the birds Icarus had plucked to make them.
Icarus glanced towards his father, roused from his musing by the older
man’s voice. “So, we’ll leave tomorrow, right?”
Daedalus nodded as he stood. “At dawn, when the sun is at its weakest
and the sea is at its calmest.” He explained, going to a thin pile of hay that
was spread on the stone floor. “We must be careful to fly between the two
tomorrow. But for now, get some sleep, Icarus. You’ll need your strength.”
The boy nodded, staring at the now sunless splattering of white shining
lights in the sky, so impossibly far above him. He could see the scar left by
Phaethon, a boy who had tried to prove his lineage and went too far. How
foolish he seemed, compared to his brothers. How dull of an achievement,
and yet, it was an achievement nonetheless. If only mortals could leave such

71
a mark. The next day, Icarus would take part in his father’s achievement.
He’d receive second-hand acknowledgments about how he flew beside his
father in some great climax of Daedalus’ genius. It would never be his
accomplishment to own. Instead, it would be another small link between
himself and the shining man that brought him to life. He’d be a footnote in
his father’s story, leaving no mark of his own on the page. Icarus would fall
into obscurity, but perhaps tomorrow, he would finally live.
The next morning, the winged Daedalus tightened the leather straps
around his son’s chest and arms. “Recite back to me the rules. Where do
you fly?”
“The middle,” Icarus replied, clenching his fists as the straps constricted
around him.
“What happens if you go too low?”
“The feathers absorb the water and become too heavy to fly.”
“If you go too high?” Daedalus challenged, raising his eyebrow.
“The wax melts, and I fall anyway.” Icarus recited, scanning the
lavender-colored sky for the rising sun. His gaze was clouded, in contrast to
the clear blue heavens stretched above him.
“Correct. Remember, our wings can only carry one of us. We cannot
fly anyone other than ourselves.” He warned, fastening the last strap on his
son’s wings. “We go straight to the northeast, and we’ll stop once we find
civilization.”. Finally, he stepped away, going to the ledge and looking over.
“No one is there, now. If we are to do this, it must be now.” He looked
back to his son. “Are you ready?” he asked, his tone once again falling to
that quiet and deceitfully concerned softness.
Icarus swallowed back the growing lump in his throat that threatened to
suffocate him. “Yes, father. I’m ready.”
Daedalus nodded and turned to look out once more. He licked his
finger and held it up to the air, testing the strength and direction. “I believe
everything is ready. All we need to do is-”
The older man was cut off as feathers brushed against his wings, swiftly
hurtling towards the ledge. Icarus was running, forcing himself once again to
look only at the sun on the horizon. With each step, he could feel his heart
beat faster. With every panting breath, he felt some part of him screaming
to stop before he fell. He scrambled onto the ledge, and for just a brief

72
moment, he knew that whether he continued to jump or not, he would be
going over the edge of the roof. Faced with this knowledge which, faster
than his legs, warned him there was no return, Icarus did what any young
person might do. He saw his destiny and leapt towards it.
The first moment was as if time froze. Icarus felt himself suspended in
the air. He was in the middle, neither flying nor falling, neither son of a god
nor an orphan, neither alive nor dead. He was in the gap between, staying in
an eternal state of moderation. It was here that Icarus felt that sharp pain
strike his heart; that fear that he was about to die filled him to the core.
Then, as it always does, the world continued to move, and with it, Icarus
began to desperately flap his wings.
The motion was difficult. With each downstroke, Icarus took a gasping
breath, trying to keep himself stable. Despite gravity’s strong pull, the young
man soon found that he wasn’t falling. As he continued to flail his arms, he
began to synchronize their movement. Icarus started to slow his breathing
and lean into the wind which he felt embrace him like an old friend. Just as
the breeze may scoop up a falling leaf, so too did it hoist the young man up
above the stone tower he once thought so high up. Soon, Icarus found that
he barely needed to flap the wings at all. For once, some invisible force held
him up and allowed him to soar.
“You’re doing it!” Daedalus called with a great laugh from his spot on
the ledge. The man was grinning from ear to ear, something Icarus had
never seen appear on his often-stony face. The man stepped away before
getting his own running start and bounding off the roof himself.
Icarus didn’t hear this, though. He didn’t care to turn back and see his
father. Instead, he looked up at the untouchable void of blue above him.
Excitement took over fear, and he found that he began to glow just like the
sun. The sun… The sun was just to the right of him. Icarus turned to see
the ball of fire rising over the horizon. Apollo’s chariot would be riding up
there, so close he could touch it. The boy felt something new fill his every
sensation. It was a desire so strong that he could swear it had always been
there as an invisible force throughout his life. It was a connection-no, a
destiny. It was his destiny. His destiny to go to the god of music, of healing,
of the sun-of the sons. Icarus saw the void between his new self and that
untouchable ball of light, and he felt the string the fates weave tug on his still
young fluttering heart. Icarus shone with his new purpose and began to beat
his wings.
“Icarus, I’m here!” Daedalus declared, working his worn limbs to keep
afloat.

73
Icarus didn’t hear his father. He didn’t see the ground growing smaller
and smaller. Instead, the boy heard a song. It was a simple tune, hidden from
him for all of his life, and yet it felt so familiar. Icarus heard the song of the
universe, simple, clear, and true. He set his movements to the beat of this
melody, and he matched his breath with the silent breath of Mother Earth
herself. Icarus saw only the sun’s light and felt only its warmth. It grew
closer and closer as Icarus flew higher and higher. He always thought it
would burn, but it didn’t. The golden rays embraced him, like the hug of a
mother he never knew. It was the hug that his father never gave. The gap
was closing with each downstroke. For Icarus, the only way to go was
higher.
“Icarus! Stop! Come down! Icarus! Do you hear me!?” cried Daedalus,
but for once, his voice went unheeded. Besides, it was too late.
Icarus closed his eyes, feeling himself finally make it to the edge of the
gap between himself and the light he idolized. He stopped his flapping and
felt the world’s never-ending movement beneath him. He felt more than the
sun’s warmth. Icarus could feel the heartbeat of the cosmos, and he
matched it to his own. For one moment, he hung there in the sky. He was
flying. He was no longer only the son of an inventor. He was Icarus, and he
was alive.
Then, pain broke him out of his state. Melted wax seared into the
unprotected skin on his back. Icarus’s eyes flashed open, and he squirmed to
look behind himself as pure happiness gave way to the feeling of being numb.
Feathers covered in liquid candle fluttered away from him into the clouds
below.
Icarus gasped in his attempt to take in enough air. His stomach was filled
with a sharp pang as his heart stopped. The boy grasped at the air, reaching
for the sun so close. Looking back towards the great ball of light, Icarus
desperately flailed, hoping to catch hold of something-anything, but nothing
was there to hold. The gap between himself and the sun was just too wide
to bridge alone, and no one came to meet him. All too soon, Icarus felt
himself falling against the too weak wind. Tears filled his eyes as he began to
plummet.
This couldn’t be the ending. He couldn’t die like this. He only just got to
fly-to live. It isn’t fair that he was stopped so soon. It wasn’t his fault that
Apollo didn’t help him. He was left to fall alone-or was he? Icarus squirmed
in the air, searching and scanning the growing waves below him for his
father’s figure. It took only a moment before he saw the older man, only
just a bit further than he was. Icarus reached out. “Father! Father, help me!”
He called as the ocean grew exponentially bigger and closer to him.

74
Daedalus looked back towards Icarus. There were tears in his eyes as
he watched, but he did not stop his march forward. He didn’t turn around.
Daedalus simply watched him for a moment before he looked away to the
north and continued the course.
Icarus felt his face grow hot and his stomach churn. “Father-Father
Please!” he cried out to deaf ears. Tears began to leak out of him and fly up
towards the sky he could no longer reach. “Dad!”
The gap, so seemingly close, became a chasm, a dark sea of suffocating
void. By the time he hit the water, Icarus had already drowned.

Isabella Brignola

75

Untitled

Autumn Garibay

76

Old Main in Snow

Matthew Hathaway

77

The Art of Limbo
Middle school is a tough time for anyone, but if you want to go through
it on hard difficulty be fat. When I was in seventh grade, I was 5’4”, 280
pounds and I did not wear the weight well. Unfortunately for me I had more
than just my mirror to remind me. Chad McDunderson was the back-toback roller rink limbo contest champion and my rival. He would always
taunt me about my “big bones,” how I’ll never kiss anyone, and remind me
that I could never be the limbo champion. I used to think he was right until I
saw something worth fighting for. I heard in the cafeteria line that the next
limbo contest was giving away a year’s supply of Big Macs. I had never
wanted anything more than I wanted that prize and I would stop at nothing
to get it.
The annual Middletown, Pennsylvania roller rink limbo contest always
happens the first Friday of the new year which meant I had two months to
prepare myself. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I would be at the
roller rink mastering the art of limbo. My dedication to the craft eventually
got me noticed by Jonesy Williams. Jonesy is the only person to have a
picture on the limbo hall of fame board. He went undefeated in both his
middle school and high school limbo career. I was at the rink on a Monday
and Jonesy walked out from behind the food stand and made his way over
to me. I was so nervous to be in his presence I fell while going under my
Wilson limbo bar. He reached out his hand to help me up and said, “Not
bad, kid.”
I replied with, “It wasn’t my best.”
He laughed and told me, “I’ve been watching you practice for a while
now and I think you have what it takes to go all the way. I’ll teach you
everything I know about limbo.” I didn’t think I could win by myself but
with a coach like Jonesy I stood a chance.
The following Monday Jonesy had me come to the rink when his shift
started, and I stayed until his shift was over. I asked him what we were
doing for my first training, and he said, “Fill up the soda fountain with ice.” I
looked at him, confused, and he quickly said, “Hey kid, which one of us won
seven limbo competitions?” My face went from confused to worried and I
quickly ran into the basement to fill the soda machine. Right after I poured
the ice in, Jonesy came up to me and said, “I have a new task” as he handed
me a broom. He told me that there was a homeless guy sleeping in the alley
and to take care of it. I went out into the alley and there I saw the homeless
man covered in his own urine. I held in my breath and poked him with the
brooms handle. This startled the homeless and he screamed, “NOT THIS
TIME YOU KOREAN BASTARDS!” Suddenly he took the broom and with

78
one swift motion swiped my feet from underneath me. The homeless man
then threw the broom in the air and ran away screaming “THAT’S FOR
PVT. PECKER.” I went back into the roller rink, bruised and bleeding from
my elbow. Jonesy was hiding in the manager’s officer smoking a joint and
drinking from a flask.
“Is this what you have been doing?” I asked.
He said “Nah, I’ve also just did a whippet.” In that moment of time, I
knew Jonesy was just a loser. I decided to do the rest of the training by
myself.
The energy at school the week before the big contest could only be
described as rowdy. There were 11 fights leading up to Friday. All the kids
who were friends turned into bitter rivals. It got so bad on Friday there was
a stampede of horse girls that ran out of the school when it ended. That day
there were 12 kids injured, and we all sent our thoughts and prayers out to
the families. It was 4:00PM and the contest was two long hours away. I was
so bored I decided to count how many red bricks were used around my
house. At one point I just started making up numbers, but if you are
interested in the total brick count, it is four million billion bricks. I’ve never
been more excited than when I heard my mother say, “Go to the bathroom
before we go.”
Pulling into the roller rink made me feel like it was my time to win.
When I walked through the door, I was greeted by a McDonalds employee
who handed me a Big Mac and winked at me. It was as if she knew the
power hidden in the Big Mac’s umami-filled secret sauce. I inhaled the
delectable burger and began doing my warm-up stretches. Midway through
my stretches Chad came cruising by, and of course that’s when I fell. Chad
said, “That rumble had a Richter magnitude of at least 6.2.” He thought this
would hurt my feelings, but it only fueled my fire. There were 43 kids who
entered the competition and slowly one by one there were only five of us
left. Henry Genzel was the first of the final five to go, but unfortunately for
him he got too nervous. Henry threw up on the floor right in front of him,
causing him to spin out and break his ankle. Everyone at the contest got
down on one knee as Henry was wheeled off crying in the stretcher.
Todd Crissy was up next, but he had always been a lanky kid and when
he went to lean back his legs couldn’t support his surfboard frame and he
crumbled. Finally, I got to watch Chad go. Chad’s strategy was always to go
as slow as possible to allow maximum time for micro adjustments. Slowly
Chad came rolling under the bar, but he never made it all the way through.
The panic on Chad’s face was so good I took a picture and made it my
profile picture. He was underneath the bar for what felt like five minutes,

79
desperately waving his hands trying to get enough momentum to go
forward. Eventually he gave up and let gravity do its thing.
I felt my heart begin to race when I realized it was my turn. I, with the
most graceful of strides, made my way to the bar. I bent my knees, bent
backwards, and prayed for the best. I watched as my chest cleared the bar
and then I tilted my head back. I felt a bump on my second chin from the
top, then I heard the screech from the airhorn of failure. Although I lost, I
kept all of my chins high because I made it further than I thought I could.
The last person to go was a girl I barely knew but always thought was cute.
Her name was Jenny and she was always the runner- up. Jenny sprinted
towards the bar and at the last second went into a split and slid under the
bar. When we were all standing on the finalist podium, she whispered in my
ear “Meet me by the Skee-Ball machines.” I waited the appropriate amount
of time then headed my way over. I saw her next to the ski ball machines
and before I could say hi, she ran up to me and kissed me then she left
without saying anything. Five minutes later I was broken out of my daze by
the intercom saying, “Jenny McDunderson please come to the ticket
counter to redeem your prize.”
From the start I was doubted because of my weight. Chad doubted I
would ever kiss a girl and then I kissed his sister. I might have lost the limbo
contest and the year’s supply of Big Macs, but I got the best comeback
possible: “I kissed your sister.” In my mind, I won everything.

Jacob Jackson

80

Sprite
I like the way that sprite tastes,
how it tingles in my throat.
I like the way that flowers smell
even through their winter coats.
I like the color of the grass,
vibrant green and yellow.
I like the way clean sheets feel
so soft and cool and mellow.
I like the way that you taste,
how your mouth fits onto mine.
I like the way that you smell
so warm and gentle and kind.
I like the color of your eyes,
green and yellow-brown.
I like the way you make me feel
not lost, but suddenly found.

Emily Dziennik

81

Knitted
We entwine ourselves into one another.
Our spiritual limbs interlock
until we disappear into the knots.
Missed stitches here and there
are soaked in our sweat and tears.
I hope we will never unravel completely,
but I know we will never be completed.
We will always be an unfinished, abandoned project.

Ryanne Martin

82

The Crowns
Once upon a time there was a silver palace nestled in a far valley
between the green hills and blue mountains. Each year as the days grew
shorter and the storms grew fiercer, the young people of the area would
flock to the hills in their finest. They knew that was the time when the
magic was strongest, that they would be able to see the princes and
princesses who lived there and dance with them. So, they would go, dressed
in rubies and silks, top hats and corsets, to find the palace that no map ever
told the location of. Paths to it had been created, but within three days they
were no longer there, mapmakers attempted to write it down, but would
wake up the next morning to find the paper blank. Many who searched
found the palace, but no one ever recognized those they knew from outside
the mountains once inside the palace walls. They would arrive with dirt on
their hems and spiders in their coats, but as soon as the first waltz began,
the stains and pests would be as if they never were.
The princes and princesses who lived at the palace had no names, and
therefore no relation to each other save that they were all known as De
Dansers van de Zilveren Heuvel. They themselves were not magic, but their
palace was, which is why they were there. Once a year they let the magic
that kept them hidden fall for three months to reveal to the shining silver
columns and white polished floors. The princesses' pastel dresses of purples,
blues, and pinks would glitter with crystals and diamonds, their tiaras
likewise as the arrival of the guests drew near. The suits of the princes
would become crisper, their bold blues, purples, and reds darkening as their
crowns and buttons began to shine. As a rule, that was never placed but
always known to be followed, the visitors of the palace would be the only
dancers for the first dance. The permanent inhabitants would stand along
the edge of the room, watching as they whirled across their floor. During
the season the princes and princesses who had spent ages dancing together,
did not recognize one another and could not pick their own out from the
crowd after the first dance began. Though they never grew old, the princes
and princesses delighted in their party and the many new faces that would
fill their halls for them to laugh and dance with. They had seen generations
of dancers pass by, and always enjoyed watching and dancing with the sons
and daughters of past favorites. Once an outside dancer had danced four
seasons at the palace, they could never go back, even if they were taken
there by a younger person. If they chose, the royals could give up their
eternal youth to go back with the visitors at the end of the season but
would never be able to see the palace or dance again. Few ever chose this
route, for four short seasons of dancing was not long enough to fall
properly in love. Not to fall far enough to give up dancing and everlasting
youth.

83
It was the second week of the season when they met. Her dress was
lavender, so pale it was nearly white, a popular color that year amongst the
visiting ladies who hoped to marry into the palace. She had broken her tiara
earlier that night, and the magic would not fix it until the next morning
came. He, however, had simply forgotten his golden crown that evening as
he dressed in deep red, and had already begun to dance when its absence
was noticed. Uncaring as to whether or not he was known as a prince that
night, he continued to spin in time with as many ladies as he could before
the dawn rose.
As the final hours of the ball began, so did a twisting dance with ribbons,
and the princess in lavender paired herself with the prince in red. He had no
objections to this, as she was the finest dancer he had danced with all
season. They danced together, and no steps or beats were missed, no hems
or shoes were stepped on, the only fault made was that they continued to
dance after the music had stopped. As he bowed to her and kissed her
hand, the prince without a crown asked the unknown princess for the next
dance. She accepted, as no partner had ever danced half as well as he, had
never righted her missteps by making them part of the dance. The next song
began, a sweeping waltz, and as they whirled around the room, catching the
eyes of the other couples. After they finished and drank glasses of a pearly
liquid together, she proposed that he be her partner for the rest of the
evening. Knowing that once he left her, she would be swept away into the
crowd, he agreed. They danced to every song that was played by the unseen
orchestra for the remainder of the night, always in time and perfect step
with each other. Much was spoken between them, but nothing either could
remember once the dancing had finished. She never told him what to call
her, as she assumed that he was from the outside world and he would not
remember her face once the night had ended. Likewise, he did the same,
thinking she was from outside the palace and would not remember him
when the sun rose. So, they danced, neither knowing that the other was
one of their own, and uncaring of this falsehood since both were excellent
dancers. All those from outside knew that the pair was royal, but all the
princes and princesses saw them as strangers, not recognizing their closest
friends. As the sky grew light, the pair danced their last dance, each hoping
to recognize the other again the next night, and the night after that. The
music ended and didn’t begin again, and they realized that they were the
only two left in the hall. The prince bowed as the princess curtsied, each
going in opposite directions to the rooms they called home.
The next evening began, she in her tiara and a pink dress and he in his
crown and a blue coat. Each danced less than half the dances, ceaselessly
looking for the other, unable to find them due to the charm they placed
upon themselves. Many times they passed by each other, brushing shoulders

84
more than once, but too busy searching for the stranger to see beyond
their own magic as to see who was in front of them.
For the rest of the season, two and a half months of dancing, they
searched for the other in every corner of the palace. Those three hours
spent together was enough that the couple knew they had to see each other
again, and after weeks spent looking, both were nowhere near giving up
their search. On the last night of the season, when all the visitors dance
their last dance, princes and princesses who wish to leave the palace may
join them, to signify their departure and break their magic. The princess
wore a dress of deep red and her tiara of silver, and the prince the palest
coat he could find to complement his golden crown. Thinking that their
partners from the night long ago were leaving that morning, they paired
themselves with unskilled dancers. The poor abilities of their partners did
not matter, as with each step they felt their magic being taken from them.
With each step they felt the ground more firmly, took each breath sharper,
saw the faces of their royal friends clearly for the first time in months. As
the song ended, the prince and princess found themselves outside the gates
of their palace, surrounded by the young who had stood in that spot three
months prior, waiting for the gates to open the first night.
Snow was falling from the grey sky, the fog closing in on the group
through the trees as the sun rose, a pale pink light that seemed closer than
the stones on the ground. Friends embraced, recognizing each other after
three months of being strangers though sharing dances every night, laughing
and crying over the experience they just had, making plans for the next
season. Only two stood still and silent in the crowd. A boy in pale blue held
a golden crown in his hands, and a girl held a silver tiara against her red
bodice. Their eyes met and saw the crowns.

Hannah Borkenhagen

85

Light in the Storm
As another summer gale assaults the mass of rock known as Matinicus,
Luce Collins’ cabin is reclaimed by the sea. The winds rip the American flag
just outside the window to shreds, yet it still clings onto the pole for dear
life— “a symbol of the American spirit”, as the old lightkeeper, Josiah,
would put it. But as she watches the island submerge under the unrelenting
surf, she can only hope that the American flag will represent her at the end
of this storm; still clinging on, still alive somehow.
Water rushes through the lower levels as another wave smashes into
the side of the lighthouse, taking the supplies she couldn’t lug up the stairs
with it, and she can practically hear Josiah asking her where her head’s gone,
even though he’s still dozens of miles away. To handle such strenuous
situations that Matinicus Rock often challenged, all she had to do, according
to Josiah’s expertise, was to never be afraid. “Fear fogs up your mind,
kiddo,” He’d always say. “Your brain’s gotta be the light in that storm, so
you can do what you gotta do.”
And if Josiah was here with her, if anyone was, for that matter, she
might’ve been able to heed that advice. They’ve had many a gale before on
Matinicus Rock, after all, and she’s grown used to hauling supplies up endless
flights of stairs at ungodly hours of the night to avoid the ocean’s wrath.
Josiah would make sure that she and his sons weren’t afraid by teasing them,
telling jokes or stories, even if he might’ve been afraid himself. It was just
easier to do this together. But when the only sound above the crashing
waves and wind is her own turbulent thoughts, fear runs rampant.
The Pelletiers are two weeks past their expected return late after their
journey to the mainland, leaving Luce to man the lighthouse alone. She
hasn’t received any word of their return, which is highly unusual given how
dangerous the Pelletiers, especially Josiah, know Matinicus Rock to be. It is a
lighthouse that cannot be kept alone; not with the treacherous weather
conditions and exhaustive duties that come with the maintenance. Josiah
knew that, but he left her alone anyway because he trusted her to be
capable enough to hold down the fort for a few days. “I trust you’re just as
capable as any other assistant,” he’d said, “And I know you’re going to do
great.” With his failing heart, she had to do great. There was no one else
available to cover for him during this impromptu visit to the mainland. She
didn’t have a choice but to accept.
His absence could not have come at a more convenient time. Having
just turned twenty, Luce recently had her first encounter with doubt. Ever
since she came to Matinicus five years ago, she’s had her mind set on
lightkeeping like her father and all male Collins descendants had in ages past.

86
But as her teen years ended, she started to wonder more and more about
what a life might be like outside of the solitary world of lightkeeping. It’s not
that she didn’t love what she did and the freedoms that came along with it,
but the twinge of doubt grew increasingly stronger as the months passed,
until now, when she was given the chance to see what life as a lightkeeper is
truly like.
On her race against the gale up the eight flights of stairs, she somehow
managed to keep hold of the heavy Keeper’s Log. Now, it’s all she has to
keep her from losing her mind in this deadly silence. Flipping through the
pages of this heavy, worn book, she can find her father’s handwriting, and
Josiah’s, and her own, lacking the confidence in her words that the two men
held. And pressed against the back page to dry lies the root of all of her
doubt, written in looped, black ink from Wellesley College and bearing the
words Miss Collins, we are very pleased to offer you admittance into
Wellesley Women’s College for the Fall 1913 Academic Year.
The whole point of being a lightkeeper was to be isolated from the rest
of society, and Luce has waited for her chance of true isolation for years. As
a child, she was entranced at the idea of being alone. There was something
magical about the life of a lightkeeper, and she idolized none more than her
father, Hux Collins. She watched him go about his duties every day with
fascination, copying his actions in secret when her parents weren’t around.
Her mother had never elicited such intense emotion in her entire life as she
did when Luce announced that she would be applying for a position as a
substitute keeper as soon as she could. But her mother begged her to stay,
because Luce was her only child, so she mustn’t ever leave her. And Luce
promised her she wouldn’t, yet her eyes still wandered towards the open
sea, as did her dreams.
But life wasn’t always kind to the Collins’, and Luce’s dreams were
placed on the backburner when her mother died unexpectedly one cold
winter morning. The light went unlit that night for the first time in Luce’s
memory. At the time, her father manned the Burnt Coat Light on Swan’s
Island, but just a week after her mother’s funeral, he applied for transfer and
moved out to Matinicus Rock. Insisting that Matinicus was no place for a
young lady, Luce was shipped off to Berwick Preparatory school in Southern
Maine until she was fifteen, when Hux ran out of money to spare for such
an expensive education. He deemed her education “good enough” and
asked a friend of his, Josiah Pelletier, to bring her out to Matinicus with him
and his family.
She traveled to Rockland by train and welcomed the ocean like an old
friend after many years apart. Berwick taught her to sit properly, but she
couldn’t help but to spring out of her seat when she caught sight of the

87
endless rolling sea before her. Matinicus would be a hard life, she reminded
herself, but she wanted a change. She wanted to be by the sea and live up to
the Collins’ name, despite all odds pointing against it. Six generations of
lightkeepers before her ended on the tragic note of Greta Collins bearing
only a daughter during her thirty-seven years of life, and yet it was Luce
who always felt the weight of her descendants’ disappointment. Before her
grandfather’s death, he’d speak with melancholy of the good old days, of
adventures on the open sea and manning Matinicus Rock Lighthouse himself
when her father was just a boy. Lightkeeping was in the Collins’ blood, he’d
say, adding that it was a terrible shame that such a fantastic legacy had to
end. As Luce disembarked the train and crosses the way towards her next
travel companions, she wondered, Why must the legacy end here?
Josiah Pelletier’s younger son Alfie became immediately seasick once the
charter boat left the docks. Tomas, the elder, punched him a few times,
teased him, laughed at him, but eventually became nauseous himself. It was
more than a twenty-mile trip out into open sea, and she often wondered if
the boat would capsize against the sizable waves. She held onto her seat,
though she was not seasick. Rather, she found herself growing increasingly
eager to lay eyes upon the island in the sea. She heard its foghorn before
the rocky island came into view. “What’s that?” She found herself asking,
despite promising herself not to speak to the seasick boys beside her.
“Foghorn.” Tomas replied bitterly. “Day and night, every twenty
seconds.”
“I’ll go mad.” Luce said, concern twisting her stomach. “Why can’t they
turn it off during the day?”
“Are you stupid? The only way that foghorn goes silent is if a gale floods
the island and wipes it out. You’ll get used to it.”
Exactly twenty seconds later, the foghorn bellowed again. Luce felt as if
her skin was vibrating.
As they neared the island, the waves knocked them into each other,
soaking the ground as a few men ran down to the rocks to tie off their boat
the docks. What was possibly louder than the foghorn and roaring waves
were the birds, hundreds of birds swooping around the island and
screeching along with the noise. This must be what hell is like, she thought
as a round, burly man lifted her off of the boat and onto the slippery rocks.
“Go on up!” He shouted over the noise, and Luce numbly followed his
command. When she reached the top of the rocks, she rested a trembling
hand on the side of one of the buildings while she tried to calm the nausea
building up in her stomach.

88
Matinicus Rock was windy, day and night, summer or winter. The wind
never stopped, and for the first night at the keeper’s house, Luce couldn’t
sleep. In the bunk across from hers, Tomas snored soundly, as if he was
somehow used to it already. But Alfie stayed awake with a good book for
much of the night, until his glasses drooped down on his nose and his book
slumped over.
Sighing, she turned onto her side and stared out the window at the
open sea, the light reflecting off the water every few seconds, followed by
that loud foghorn— which, yes, is probably why she was unable to sleep
above anything else. Resigned, she slipped out of bed and tip-toed towards
the window. It could never completely shut and the draft was unbearable.
She found herself shivering despite the thickness of her cotton nightgown.
Across the way was her father’s quarters, the lights dim. After so many
years apart, he was unrecognizable. It took hours for her to realize that the
man who helped her ashore was the same man she once knew as her father,
and she hadn’t seen him since. In a way, she supposed bunking with two
boys was more comfortable than sharing a room with him. Regardless, she
couldn’t sleep.
The floors creaked even without her light footsteps, so she didn’t worry
much about her host waking up. The bright light above the house guided her
across the yard— thin sprouts of grass atop the craggy rock that cover the
island. She was glad to be wearing her slippers, as her soft feet had never
known the toughness of the earth on her mother’s insistence. The strong
wind ripped through her hair, ruffling her nightgown all around like it was
trying to play with her. Looking up, she imagined she could see every star in
the universe, uninterrupted by any buildings or light— other than the
lighthouse, of course. Matinicus wasn’t so scary at night. And without the
birds, it wasn’t so overwhelming. Not at all. As she crept across the yard,
she wondered how her father’s routine at Matinicus might differ from their
life at Burnt Coat Light. Did he sleep through the day, keeping a vigilant
watch out at the turbulent seas all night? What did he do to pass the time?
How did he bear all of the noise? Her mother once said that Hux hardly
ever paid any mind to the world, its noise, habits or rules, and that was why
he fit so well as a lightkeeper. “But me? I hate it, Lucy,” She’d said, “I hate
the lack of rules and regulations, and your father swims in it. If society
would collapse without structure, then how can I expect to last?”
That was back at Burnt Coat Light, an island populated by two dozen
people. Greta Collins wouldn’t have lasted a day at Matinicus Rock, and
Luce had always believed that she wouldn’t either. Because that had to be
why her father didn’t take her along with him when he moved here five
years ago. But now that she was here, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was the

89
Hux Collins in her, but the realization that there wouldn’t be as many rules
regarding her behavior as a young lady, strict schedules set by preparatory
schools, or expectations towards her future away from the rest of society,
was thrilling. Her pace quickened on her walk, but she came to a swift halt
at the edge of a cragged cliff on the edge of the island. Mist from the large
waves blew against her cheeks, salt sticking to her face. The bottom of her
nightgown was soaked with the icy water. Reminding herself that she was
miles away from the rest of the world, she hiked up the nightgown and
tucked it into her bloomers, leaving her bare legs victim to the cold wind
and mist. Women in popular novels might use this opportune time to leap
to their death, and nothing could be seen as more poetic, but Luce standing
on the edge of the cliff all alone, watching waves crash against the shore by
the light of the moon and the lighthouse was much more romantic. She
decided that she wouldn’t mind Matinicus as much as she originally thought,
and that maybe, with time, it might be possible to continue her family legacy
here. The only question left was, what should she do with that decision?
The door to the lighthouse creaked open. Luce spun around,
unexpectedly meeting her father’s gaze. Why did a single look leave her
regretting everything she’d ever done? She quickly pulled down her
nightgown, cheeks burning from the shame of her previous actions. She
turned back towards the Pelletier’s house, hoping he wouldn’t call after her.
“Lucy.”
She froze in her tracks.
“Come here. I want to show you something.” He said, propping open
the door with his elbow. “Hurry up then. Don’t got all night.”
The winding steps leading up to the top of the lighthouse were narrow
and her legs ached before they were even halfway to the top. Hux’s lantern,
a good flight of stairs ahead of her, was the only light guiding her ascent.
“Spend a week running’ up and down these and you’ll be fine.” He called
back at her, voice echoing off of the walls. “You’ll be quicker than me one of
these days.”
Out of breath, she clung to the railing on the top step to steady her
wobbling legs while her father tapped his foot impatiently, having long since
been waiting for her. There was a narrow door across from the light,
leading out onto a slim balcony surrounding the room. “You better not be
afraid of heights, young lady.”
“I’m not.”

90
She was. Burnt Coat Light wasn’t half as tall as this, and it’d been years
since she climbed it. But Hux was waiting, and she’d already come this far.
So, she crossed the room. She walked out onto the iron balcony, and she
looked down. Her knees buckled at the sight of waves crashing just below
them, and the wind was much more intense than it was at the cliff. Surely,
she would fall. Yet Hux just stood there, leant over the side, making
everything worse.
“Stop doing that.” She said without thinking.
“Doing what? This?” He leant a bit further. “I’m not gonna fall. And so
what if I did?”
“You’d die.”
“So? We all die someday.”
She bit her lip.
“Shake that fear out of you right now, Lucy. Cause you can’t live on this
island if you’ve got fear in you. Got it?”
“You must’ve been scared at least once in your life, Dad.”
“Me? Scared? Never. Nope. By your age, I was already assistant out at
Minot’s Ledge. Most dangerous lighthouse in the world, that was. You know
how I got that job? Shaking that fear off before I even got a look at it. I
marched right in and took that job, did my work. It paid off, right? Now I get
to be here. Even more isolated, even more dangerous. Us Collins’, we love
danger. Laugh in the face of it, if that’s how that saying goes. And so will
you, Lucy.”
By then, Luce could hardly breathe from the wind— and maybe a fear of
heights, too. There was too much noise, she was too high off the ground, it
was just too much. “I’m going downstairs.” She managed to mumble before
stumbling towards the stairs again.
“Just as I thought.” Hux sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “The
Collins name dies with me.”
Stopping dead in her tracks, she said, loud enough for him to hear, “It
won’t.”

Julianna Vaughan

91

Icy

Bailey Milnik

92

Coffee Shop
Hundreds of times a day, the shopkeeper’s bell above the door chimed,
accompanied by a customer after their daily dose of caffeine. Some
customers wanted their Matcha Lattes with no foam and vanilla soy milk
instead of regular soy milk, while others just wanted a cup of black coffee
and a toasted croissant. Occasionally a customer would fuss that their
espresso wasn’t “hot enough” or their caramel-swirl iced coffee didn’t have
enough caramel, but most people just took their drinks and left.
But Claire was waiting for one person in particular to wander through
the door.
When she started her job at The Grind Café to help pay for college, she
had hoped that it would be like those coffee shop stories that kept her
warm at night. One day, her soulmate would sound the bell, order
something extremely specific but not too difficult to make – this was
important; she had to be able to have it memorized to surprise him later –
and take a seat at the corner table by the window, only to later approach
her and ask her on a date. Soon, after several dates and late-night texts, he
would convince her to skip work, instead taking her on a moonlit picnic.
She sighed. As she scrubbed the coffee grinder before closing time,
Claire lost herself in her fantasy: a soft smile, deep and intelligent eyes. She
almost didn’t hear the bell ring with one final customer for the night.

Emily Sterner

93

Moonlight
We are the children
Who were raised by wolves
But managed escape
Who taught ourselves to
Walk upright and wear
Smiles that hid “wolf”
But in the moonlight
Our hearts still do howl
And break a little
And I don’t know if
We wear sheep’s clothing
To hide or fit in
But I know I’d like
To be loved and learn
To love in return
And to stop myself
From always crying
Wolf

Matthew Hathaway

94

Love Poem #69 / Non-Sexual
when I finally get to see you again
I’m going to spend the next twelve years
buried into you.
I’m going to compose sonnets
about the way your nose scrunches
and whisper odes into the mole on your neck.
I’ll craft sestinas
to the scar on your knee
and epics about the way your eyes flicker
when you watch movies,
I’ll fill whole volumes with haikus
about the way you smile,
and when I’m done, there will be a canzone
for each one of your fingertips.
I will write lyrics about the bend of your elbows
and rondeaus about the way your hair
falls across your face,
I’ll make found poems out of your eyelashes
and write ballads to your heartbeat,
but nothing I create
can even come close
to the poetry
of hearing you say “I love you.”

Andrea Kling

95

Dearest Rae
Dearest Rae,
I hope this letter reaches you in a timely manner. I suppose I could have
called you but these days my thoughts are often scattered, and the pen
keeps them in line a bit better. I can only hope that your mother has kept
you informed and that what I am about to tell you does not come as a
shock. I am dying. They say it’s some kind of cancer, but they don’t realize
that I am well aware of the truth. They have been slipping things into my
food. I am no fool; I see them watching me to see it hit me when I start to
feel more like myself. Regardless, I am writing because what I wish to leave
you when they take me cannot be placed in a will.
Years ago, when I was still young and not weighed down by this poison,
your uncle and I were staying in an old hotel out in Albuquerque. He
claimed we were getting away, but his plans were not hidden well
considering he wasn’t the type of man to whisk me away for a romantic
weekend. Nevertheless, I joined him and took it as a chance to get caught
up on some much-needed sleep. It was late Sunday night when I heard it —
an ear-splitting scream. The kind of scream I had only heard when I was a
child and my grandfather mistakenly drove over a rabbit’s nest with his
tractor. A scream let out by a dying creature who never expected their end
would come. I reached for your Uncle Randy, but realized he was not asleep
beside me. I listened again, but the silence was filled with only the memory
of the terrific scream, repeating in my head over and over. I slipped out of
bed and peaked through the blinds. They were mostly drawn shut and I was
sure not to ruffle them too much so that whoever was below didn’t notice
me. Even then, I knew it was not wise to bring attention to myself. Down
below were a few men crowded together in the dim light of the
streetlamps. They stood very close and their shadows made it difficult to tell
how many were there, but I am sure there were at least three. One of the
men stepped back to light a cigarette and the spark from his match brought
just a glimpse into the horror below me. Among the shadows from these
strangers lay a small, crumpled woman. I knew it was a woman from the
pool of fabric around her lower body. I only assumed it was a dress and not
a pool of something else. I watched them stand around her as if she were a
warm fire, passing around matches and chatting away as if she hadn’t just let
out the most horrific cry the world had ever heard. After a few minutes
they began to disperse. Two of the men grabbed the woman as if she were
an old duffle of sports equipment and tossed her into a nearby vehicle. The
third man watched them climb into the front of the car and drive away
before walking back into the hotel in a way that stopped my heart and
caught the air in my lungs mid-breath. I knew that walk. I scampered into
the bed and tossed the duvet over myself trying to look as though I had

96
been fast asleep. Trying to look even a fraction less petrified than I was.
When I heard the heavy click of the hotel door, I forced my breathing to
sound slow and deep. He could never know.
It has been 47 years. I have lived with this memory for 47 years and yet
when I tell it to you know it is as if I have told it a thousand times. I never
told a soul. When your uncle passed, I was sure someone would come to
me, asking about what he did. Maybe the police, maybe one of the other
men I saw that night. But no one ever came. But that doesn’t mean no one
ever knew. The nurses at the home knew. The cooks who looked the other
way when they began slipping things into my food, they had to know
something. The awkward man I see out of the corner if my eye each
morning when I cross the street to get my morning coffee, he must know.
And now, you know.
When you finish reading this, you must burn it. You must never tell
anyone what you know. Not even your sweet Nicholas and absolutely never
tell the children. Before I die, I just needed someone to know the truth. I
am so sorry that with every word I write, I am likely killing you as well.
They will find out. You must be watchful at all times. Trust no one and
question everything. I can feel it stripping away at me. My bones feel cold
and stiff. Soon I will be just like that poor girl in the street, heavy and silent.
Please, my sweet girl, remember what I have told you and know that I am
deeply sorry for passing on this grave truth. Watch for my obituary, it will
be any day now.
Love you always,
Sarah

Hannah Specht

97

50’s Summer

Sadie Walshaw

98

Self Portrait

Kimberly Braet

99

Half Full, Half Empty
The sun was just beginning to rise and the air felt much damper than
usual. As the two girls locked their apartment door, it stuck a little more
than it had when they moved in. One of them had to pull the door shut with
all of their weight while the other forced the key in until a click was finally
heard. As Alex grew increasingly frustrated with it, Zoe became optimistic.
Every time the door stuck a little extra, she would walk away thinking it
happened for a reason. Stalled her from driving to work so she would miss
the pile up accident on the freeway. Kept her for an extra minute so she
didn’t have to say hi to the overly talkative lady that lived on the first floor.
Alex on the other hand, well, she just wanted to feel like things went right
for once.
When they finally made it down the flights of stairs and left the building,
the amount of dew in the air stuck to them as if they just opened a shower
curtain. If only they always woke up that early. Zoe would love the peace,
the quiet, the chilly air that blew just the right amount on their deck. She
wondered how Alex would feel about it.
Zoe walked to the driver’s side of the car, opened the door, and
hopped right in. She found beauty in the creaky doors of her 2002 Honda
Civic. She never minded that the keys constantly got stuck in the ignition.
Alex on the other hand was still struggling to open the passenger door.
When it finally gave in to her tugging, the rubber liner fell off the window,
making them run late. Alex wondered what her father would say.
Eventually, they were on their way. They drove through the small
rundown town, into farmland, where the only sights to see were barns with
giant crosses and one too many cows. Zoe always loved the cows.
Sometimes, she would even get so distracted by them that the steering
wheel would drift out of her hands and the car would move into the
opposing lane. She would then lose her composure. Laugh at the top of her
lungs in a way no one else ever got to see. Alex on the other hand, well, she
wondered how someone could be so careless. Maybe it was because the
insurance money would get her a car that didn’t steal your keys every time
you parked crooked.
The optimism and pessimism were in a constant battle. Like a brutal war
that had no end in sight. But at one point, there was a small sense of peace.
It was right after the road stopped winding. When they finally arrived at the
mechanic, a silence had fallen over them. No words had been exchanged for
the past thirty minutes, which felt like an eternity for some and the blink of
an eye for others.

100
“You ready for this?”
“Hopefully my card won’t decline,” said Zoe.
It declined. It always declined. Money seemed to disappear from her
account as if it was stolen before payday. Zoe began to panic, not knowing
what to do. Her cheeks turned bright red and she began to swallow harder
than usual.
“No worries, I got it,” Alex handed over her card, which had never
declined. She checked her bank account too often for that to happen.
As they waited in the car, tears welled up in Zoe’s eyes. Alex’s mind
was spinning out of control trying to think of some way to make her feel
less ashamed.
“I can’t catch a break,” said Zoe.
“Zo, it’s not a big deal. You work really hard. You pay all of your bills
on time. You moved out with $8 in your bank account right after
graduation. I really don’t mind helping out once in a while.”
“I just don’t know how to get ahead. It’s like I’m always one step
behind.”
all?”

Alex considered this statement for a while before saying, “Aren’t we

The drive home that day felt a little longer than normal for one of them.
Alex took over the wheel and realized how thankful she was to have that
car in her life. It wasn’t even hers, but the squeaking of the breaks and the
cracked windshield had a sense of home to it. And she fell in love in it. As
Alex looked around, she dreamt of her future. The country roads were so
peaceful, she thought about living there forever. She hoped Zoe was
thinking the same. Zoe was too busy to think about her future as she grew
frustrated with the stickiness in the air and the smell of the farms, causing
her to roll up her window and find something new to reflect on. Alex
wasn’t used to the breaks, causing her to press them much harder than she
needed to at every red light. Zoe wondered how someone could be so
careless.

101
When they got home, Alex flew up the stairs, unlocked the door, and
laughed at how hard she had to push it to get inside. The dying flowers on
the counter made her think of her mom. She couldn’t help but smile. Zoe
took the flowers out of the vase, threw them away, and began cleaning.
“Why did you just throw those out? They weren’t dead yet,” asked
Alex.
“They were barely surviving.”
Alex tried to think of something to make her smile, but all she had left
in her was a few words.
“Aren’t we all?”

Abigail Long

102

Scarred
You want to know what my scar looks like.
It is long and deep. It runs from my head to my heart,
lands in my stomach with clenched fists.
Pulsates inside of me like a hot poker burning a
tattoo on my soul.
You want to know where my scar came from,
Paralyzing fear, body shifting, floating to the ceiling,
watching the terror as a casual bystander. A small
girl sobbing, waiting a lifetime to hear, you are loved.
My scar is like a cat, I pet it when I am scared.
When I distrust, when I am anxious.
In return, my scar protects me. It purrs, tells me to hide.
Always on high alert for the next ambush.
My scar is amber and gold like a can of Genesee
or a Black Label bottle. My scar comes from being a child of an alcoholic
My mind is padlocked, the scar is the keeper of secrets.
My scar is magical. I became invisible.
I have no original thoughts. Frightened to speak.
A dragon guarding a crumbling tower.
Nobody gets to enter.

Kim Johnson

103

Starbathing
How?
That’s all
I want
To know
While the hum
Of your breath
Echoes
Through
My bones,
The waves
Within your hair
Build
And break
To the currents
In my fingertips,
And the weight
Of your head
On my chest
Keeps me
From falling
So deeply
Into the stars
Just the way
I fell for youI want to know
How
They could say
You’re wrong
To love
The way
You do

Cooper Shirey

104

Above
Taking a deep 4 count inhale, then a shallow 8 count exhale. I grab the
cold railing as I walk up the stairs. Asking myself Should I go through with
this. The voice in my head is asking me why not. If I stop now ill only be
even more of a coward. Such a coward I was even too scared to end my
own misery. No, I’m no coward. I begin to force open the icy steel door a
energetic breeze glides across my face. As I slowly walking closer and closer
to my demise. I put my lifeless hands on the rough jagged ledge in order to
stand tall above this nightmarish city. Is this what a coward feels like, its as if
my body wont go through with it. taking a deep 4 count inhale, then a
shallow 8 count exhale. I can’t, I won’t. I gently move my right foot to get
off the ledge, only after I’m thrown off balance. Its over now, I couldn’t even
make the decision to taking my own life, gravity had to do it for me. Good
riddance, I don’t have to make any more decisions, I don’t have to please
anyone else in this world. I opened my eyes to witness my last view from
above.

Yashir Williams

105

Hiding

Kimberly Braet

106

The First of the Last Quesos
Denis and Reina tied the knot in her parents’ backyard on the same day
Usain Bolt won his first gold, and by the time the next-door neighbors hung
Christmas lights, they were the proud owners of a hole-in-the-wall Mexican
restaurant with a big red sign out front that read “ALWAYS OPEN.” He
had worked extra hours at the shipyard and she sold movie tickets on
Thanksgiving just to scrape up enough cash for the down payment. It was
their dream, their magnum opus, their baby, and they poured every drop of
their humanity into making that building sparkle. The churros tasted like
their abuelitas’.
On the tenth anniversary of the restaurant’s opening, some lady found,
buried in her queso dip, a cherry tomato-sized clump of black hair. Denis
whisked up the dish, apologized six or seven times, and promised
complimentary entrées before snaking across the crowded room toward
the kitchen.
When he kicked open the door, Reina was hunched over the grill,
intently flipping chicken breasts and monitoring the browning of the fried
rice. To him, she looked like God standing over all that half-cooked food.
“Hey,” he called.
She dragged her head out of her work, looked in his direction, and
raised her eyebrows.
“Ven aquí,” he said, motioning with his free hand. His voice was small.
Reina flipped another chunk of chicken and turned the temperature
gauge on the grill to six o’clock. She was still holding a spatula as she peered
into the dish of queso. “Looks like I left someone a little surprise.”
She touched the hair held captive behind her ear and a thin strand fell to
the floor. They both studied the group of homeless spindles for a few
seconds. They were instantly reminded of the night earlier that week when
Reina had called Denis into the bathroom after her shower. The drain was
clogged with dark locks, and there were five inches of water in the bottom
of the tub.
Denis sighed and dumped the queso into a trash can. “Maybe you
should take over the host stand tonight? Don’t think I don’t remember how
to whip up an enchilada.”

107
They locked eyes, and Reina forced a teeny-tiny smile. As she held the
spatula out to be taken, her arm shook like a busted dishwasher. He knew
instantly that the handoff would require a little prying.
Eleven months later, the “ALWAYS OPEN” sign by the road was
contrasted by a much smaller handwritten notice in the window that said,
“closed indefinitely.”

Anonymous

108

Doesn’t Really Matter How Old You Are
he steals matches from 7-11
so he can set things on fire.
twelve years old he rips his heart
from his sleeve holds it in his palm and
crushes it.
his fingers are red and he
hates everything and he
doesn’t want to hate anything
burns what is left of his heart but it doesn’t help.
he builds his dreams out of paper
so he can add them to the ash pile.
five years old he wants
to be a superhero like in the comics
and he wants a red cape and eventually
he realizes that he can’t be a
superhero because superheroes
win
don’t steal matches.
he is supposed to love his parents
so they can love him back.
fifteen years old he knows
what love is he’s seen
romeo & juliet but he doesn’t
really get this shakespeare guy and he doesn’t
have a balcony cause he’s not rich and he doesn’t
really
love his parents
like romeo & juliet cause they die at the end.
he hears it all the time
so he knows exactly how to get their attention.
ten years old he repeats it to himself
a lot,
don’t burn the money. don’t burn the money.
money is for alcohol and frozen pizza and pills,
don’t burn the money.
you can set your dreams on fire but
don’t burn the money.
he has holes in his sweaters
so he’s glad he doesn’t go to college.

109
twenty years old he understands
only rich kids go to college and they
judge people like him and they
have really nice sweaters and they
are all greedy bastards, at least
his dad says so
he thinks they are.
he doesn’t really know what to do with himself
so most days he walks on the train tracks.
twenty-five years old he feels
them coming cause his feet vibrate and
one day he lies down and tries to take
a nap.
because he is
so
tired.
he says bad words sometimes
so he puts quarters in the swear jar.
four years old his dad tells him
doesn’t really matter how old you are,
i ain’t gonna censor myself,
you not a pussy, boy.
but he still puts quarters
in the swear jar cause he doesn’t like
when his dad
says things like pussy
tells him what to do.
he sometimes feels as if he doesn’t have a mom
so he keeps a picture of her in his pocket.
nine years old she doesn’t
leave her room that much and she doesn’t
eat when she’s sad and she is
sad all the time. he hears
trains pass at night and he
can’t sleep he is nine years old and
so tired.

Anonymous

110

24 Notes
The soldier stands as straight as Liberty herself
Please accept this honored flag
On behalf of a grateful nation
She closes her eyes and a coffin full of memories flood her
Memories of nervous first dates
An even more nervous wedding
Then the joy as they brought new life.
The agony of leaving and the promise to return unharmed.
A promise now as broken as her heart.
She cringes as the rifles offer their salute
And weeps harder thinking it was his last sound
Never to hear his baby’s laughter
Never to beam in pride on her graduation
Or walk her down the aisle toward her new life.
She takes the flag and braces for the next
The haunting sound of the 24 notes.
A nation’s final tribute to a fallen warrior.
Rest soldier.

Anonymous

111

Taking Off Glasses
Sometimes, I take off my glasses. I'll be sitting outside near autumn
trees, and carefully take them off. The shapes blur, and I am left with
indistinct blobs of green, with a gradient of orange-gold to vibrant yellow.
The rain becomes harder to see, joining the particles of confusion as my
subconscious struggles to make sense of the lack of information. In the
smearing and smattering of color, I feel safe. I forget the cold invading my
fingertips and creeping stubbornly up my arm. All is indistinct and
connected, and I feel I am not alone.
But every so often, when in this state of being gone and yet aware, I feel
a gaze. Though I have not recognized the cold, I shiver under the unseen
eyes.
In the corner of my vision, then, it appears. A pair of hands, one on
either side of my head, reaches its claws, inching slowly but surely across my
sight.
I used to be brave. I'd hold my state as long as I could, but by the time
the talons reached the middle of my eye, my heart would tense, my throat
close up, and I would shake out my head. The connection to all things
dissolved, but so did the hands.
Recently, I have avoided taking off my glasses. It's been two weeks since
I last looked at any trees. By now, I wear my glasses to bed each night so
that if I accidentally wake up in the night, I will not see them.
So you can imagine my fear when, about a week ago, I started to see the
hands in real life. I'd be behind the wheel of a car when I noticed the sharp
tips of claws poke out of the corners of my eyes. I haven't driven since. I
chalked it up to paranoia and began to ignore it.
But ignorance rarely solves things, and so I should have known this
wasn't the solution. I began to see the claws when I would stare at anything
too long-be it a screen, papers, books, or even a plate. I've taken to sleeping
as much as I can, the pounding of my heart becoming too deafening when I
was awake. I no longer ask whether I will see the claws again, only when.
You can imagine the horror last night when I saw them in my dream.
Inching further and further, I found myself trapped in the illusion for much
longer than I thought possible. I tried to wake up, but it wasn't until the
talons almost covered my entire sight that I could break free.

112
They are there now. They are in the corners of my eyes-just the tips...
Recently, I have seen them in sharp detail. Its skin is grotesque, dark purple,
and wrinkled. Scratches and scars littered the skin-and the open wounds
were there...
Blood seeps from them even now, as they conceal half of my field of
view. Their nails are black as obsidian and sharp as daggers. They curl in, as
if close enough to gouge my eyes out.
I've stopped! I've stopped looking at everything! Is that what they want!?
Yet still, the talons are coming closer and closer to my eyes. I am shaking
my head, but it's not working. Nothing is working!
I can't see anything but the hands now. Not even the blobs of color I
used to see are left. I-I see darkness. Everything is disconnected and so far
away. I can’t feel anything, even myself.
I am taking off my glasses. I see only nothing.

Isabella Brignola

113

A Couple
A man slowly stumbled up a flight of stairs and groaned to himself.
When he got to his apartment door, a woman stared him down as he
tackled the wall laughing.
“Where were you?” the woman asked.
“I just went to get change,” the man replied in a sloppy voice.
The woman pulls him into the apartment and locks the door. “For two
hours! Junior.”
“C'mon baby, relax here's yours,” Junior said with a smile.
“How could you? We were doing great, four years destroyed,” the
woman replied.
“Vicki, Vicki, Vicki, you're overthinking it,” Junior said with a chuckle.
“Here, drink up.”
Vicki took it out of his hands and sat it on a brown coaster.
“I want you to leave, pack something for tonight and get out,” Vicki
replied with a cracked sob.
“Oh, come on! It's not that serious. Dr. Lei doesn't even know what
he's fucking talking about,” Junior said.
“Get the hell out, please!” Vicki shouted.
Junior's smile evaporated from his face.
“I don't know what the hell has gotten into you, but you need to fix it,”
Junior replied.
“Leave,” Vicki said softly.
Junior opened the apartment door, slammed it, and trotted downstairs.
Vicki then sat down. As she tried to hold back tears, she grabbed the bottle.

Bruce Washington

114

Afternoon Sun

Julianna Vaughan

115

Swimmer’s Ear
It was someone’s party. Maybe birthday or graduation. I can’t quite
remember which. I can’t quite remember whose. What I do remember was
that it was my father’s side of the family. The one with all the tension and
pent-up anger. After all, my grandfather did leave everyone when they were
just kids. My father being the oldest brother had to step up and fill the shoes
his own father left behind. There was an old picnic table. The dark brown
wood stung against the back of my thigh and I feared I would get a splinter
before the day was over. We all sat around in a grassy area filled with lawn
chairs everyone brought for themselves. A cooler full of drinks. Alcohol no
doubt. My grandfather struggled to get the grill going. It was one of those
ones with coals. I felt lonely that day. My two cousins closest to my age
were my best friends at the time. After all, my mother always said cousins
make the best first friends. I’m not sure why they weren’t there that day,
but I was rather shy without them. At some point the sun became
unbearable. I had sat there for hours on end watching all the big kids jump
off the highest diving board. And I mean that. It was the highest diving board
I’ve ever seen to this day. But was it really that big? Who knows. Eventually I
got the courage to take a turn myself. Once I got past that first jump, no
one could stop me. I jumped, the water hit me like a bucket of concrete, my
skin stung, and I went again. I was still jealous though. Everyone else was
diving or doing flips while all I could do was jump in with my feet downward
and my eyes closed. That was the deepest pool I’d ever been in. A few days
later the doctor said I had Swimmer’s Ear. It was the worst pain I’ve ever
felt in my life. And I mean that. But then again, that’s probably how all of the
adults felt that day. Sitting in the hot sun with no bathing suits. Talking about
their new jobs or house projects as if their father never left and everything
was normal. We must’ve all had some sort of Swimmer’s Ear.

Abigail Long

116

Resoluteness
Survival is commitment
but
lucky is a word a dead girl will never speak.
Call it a brave act
when you wake up in the morning,
this performance out the belly of the beast.
Turn your house into a barren landscape.
Empty the cabinets of poison.
Look at the mess you’ve made
don’t try to clean it upthe stains have already set in.
Pick apart the sun. Swallow.
Remind yourself 70,000 people
didn't get the chance to be you.
Lithium for breakfast
so you don’t become just another statistic,
as sirens from a past life still echo in goosebumps.
Being born on a ledge,
you learn there’s nothing more than
just a tightrope of choices
running through your soul.
On that dark night I reached for the sky
as a stranger held me close and
told me to stay,
told me you will grow wings
but you won’t flygravity loves you too much to let go.
He told me I was one of the lucky ones.
To be born again,
less girl gone ghost
and more girl on fire
is a gift.
You once asked
“what does it mean to survive?”
I think it means this.

Morgan Stahley

117

The Collector
He lives
By the ocean
In a house
With one door
And no windows
A cot
And a kettle,
A garden out back
A table by the wall
And a pouch
Of broken glass
Hearts in pieces
Broken, scrapped
Edges polished
Free of cracks
Shattered
Weathered
Tossed together
A jigsaw puzzle
Of his past:
One piece contains
Her patience,
And the next
Resembles her fury
He’s gathered
Fragments
Of her wit,
Her smile,
And her touch
He’s thrown around
So many hearts
Just to
Scavenge
The color
Of her eyes

118
And in his home
Above the waves
He works without
Mention of time,
To try to
Reconstruct a love
That never
Should’ve
Died

Cooper Shirey

119

The Redhead at Dollar General
Secure Browser: chicago.craigslist.org/mis
CL > Chicago, IL > community > missed connections
Reply, favorite, hide, flag
Posted 11 days ago
The redhead who works at Dollar General.
You probably don’t remember me, I’m not anywhere near as remarkable as
you or those bouncy curls you wear in pride. I came in last week in the blue
shirt and my two friends who, well, I saw you immediately when I walked in
and knew I wanted to know you more but my friends mocked your ginger
locks and the freckles which shaded your cheeks. They called you
Strawberry Shortcake and asked if the curtains matched the drapes. You
looked like you were going to cry. I’m so sorry.
I know that I have no chance with you, but I want you to know that I’m not
like them. I don’t do that, I wish they didn’t either. I wish I could make them
stop. We’ve all changed so much since freshman year but I can’t abandon
them. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. My mom used to invite
them over and we’d eat homemade Mac n Cheese on the porch swing. I
wish it were still that easy.
If there’s anyway I can convince you I deserve a second chance, write me
back. Tell me what I bought and I’ll believe it’s you.
Jackson

Ashley Ivanoff

120

We in the Bathroom
(GRACE sits by a toilet in a bathroom, leaning against it for the cool surface.
She hugs her knees, rocking slightly to allow some outlet for the energy that
fills her to the point of suffocation. Her face is red from tears, yet she
doesn't cry anymore. She feels that she has already let out most of her
emotions, and perhaps the worst is over. All that is left is attempting to
make sure that the aftermath remains that, and doesn’t grow into a second
attack. Offstage, laughter and chatter can be heard, although it is the type
that is good-natured and accepting. For GRACE it serves as a reminder of
the support and happiness that is waiting just behind the bathroom door.)
GRACE
(She is counting quietly, to avoid being heard. With each number,
she finds herself gaining speed. The numbers are not numbers, but
more like a pattern she has memorized to the point that repeating
them at great speed requires no thought, so they do not help her
calm down.)
1... 2... 3... 4...5..6.78910-come on GraceLOGIC
(Hearing GRACE struggle, LOGIC steps out behind the toilet where they
were hidden. They stand tall, arms folded, with a stoic yet slightly
encouraging presence. Any emotion they show is subtle and less upfront.
They are logic, and they take no sides.)
Count by 7s-like that one book says. It will be more
difficult so you have to pay attention to it.
GRACE
(GRACE speaks notably slower. Inaccuracy and any stream of
consciousness the actor uses to count by sevens is encouraged. The
point is that counting by sevens is not natural or easy, and so it
distracts. LOGIC echos her, repeating in an emotionless statement.
They repeat back any inaccuracies.)
7, 14, 22.. 28... 35... 42... 49... 50 something-56...
seven minus one is six and nine minus six is three63…
LOGIC
There you go, Grace... once you get past 7×12 it
will be even harder than that.
(Offstage voices laugh suddenly. Despite the lack of any malicious intent, the
volume and sudden nature are cause for a start. GRACE jumps at the

121
sudden sound, just as EMOTION jumps out from behind the toilet.
EMOTION is panicked and excitable. Every reaction is more dramatic than
a normal person’s would be. They are emotion and they are unbound by
reason.)
EMOTION
We're going to be hurt!
LOGIC
(They roll their eyes. LOGIC is what holds back EMOTION from
extremities.)
Relax. It is just laughter.
EMOTION
(EMOTION instantly switches to disappointment. They are fickle as
the roll of the dice. Sometimes, this can help, but at the moment,
they seem to remain on the pessimistic side. Even in their despair
though, they are brimming with energy)
Right. They're out there having fun while we're in
here... how pitiful are we? We should be out there.
LOGIC
If we go out they will know something is wrong.
Our face is bound to be all red. They catch that
stuff fast.
EMOTION
They'll be so hurt-we'll ruin their time if we go out.
LOGIC
They would tell us to tell them.
EMOTION
(They repeat themself. Despite the new information, the same
thought is appearing twice, asserting itself regardless of the context)
They'll be so hurt-we'll ruin their time if we go out.
LOGIC
(LOGIC is getting caught in the same loop. They speak with the
same matter-of-fact tone, unsympathetic. They simply are
expressing the truth, and what it means doesn’t matter to them.)
We will have to tell them.
EMOTION
We hurt.

122
LOGIC
(Starts to connect the action of telling to the memory they have a
connection to. They, however, cannot complete it alone, since it is
outside of reason.)
It is like in elementary schoolEMOTION
(EMOTION picks up where LOGIC could not. They are haunted by
the memory, and panicking once again.)
Crowding. They'll crowd around us. They'll not let
us go till we tell.
LOGIC
(For the first time, LOGIC is repeating EMOTION. On this one
point, both LOGIC and EMOTION agree. Still, they remain
emotionally detached.)
They won't let us go until we tell.
EMOTION AND LOGIC
(They speak in unison, although LOGIC speaks matter-of-factly
while EMOTION’s voice is dripping in fear)
They won't let us go until we tell.
GRACE
(GRACE curls into herself, as frightened as EMOTION appears to be,
although they speak in a way that is attempting to appear calm, like LOGIC.)
I can stay here.
EMOTION AND LOGIC
(Once again in unison, although this time they command GRACE to
do as they say.)
Stay Here.
(Let the command ring out through the audience. Let them feel the
discomfort. When GRACE does count again, LOGIC counts one number
behind, and EMOTION counts one number behind LOGIC. LOGIC counts
emotionlessly, EMOTION counts with a tremble in their voice, and GRACE
counts with both of their speech combined.)
GRACE
7, 14, 21, 24-no 28, 35... 42, 47-49... 56... 63LOGIC

123
(LOGIC breaks the counting suddenly. GRACE’s actor should not
be prepared, and so the line will be a surprise to everyone. LOGIC
could have let it go, but they speak only because they know the
truth.)
We are trapped now. We cannot leave until we are
sure they are gone.
EMOTION
What if someone has to go? They’ll knock and we
have to answerLOGIC
They will hear our voice crack and know we were
crying.
EMOTION
(EMOTION is beginning to speculate and irrationally cause fear.)
They’re coming any second. They’re going to
knockLOGIC
(LOGIC knocks on the toilet, connecting the situation with the most likely
responses, following this line of thought instead of contradicting. They
knock hard and fast, with a force that is as sudden as the earlier laughter.)
That’s what we are about to hear.
(LOGIC starts to knock again without stopping as they wait for the knock
to be replicated by someone real.)
EMOTION
(EMOTION is becoming firm once again)
We can’t let them in.
LOGIC
We cannot let them in.
EMOTION AND LOGIC
(This is a second command, with a force greater than the first time.)
We cannot let your friends in.
(We hear GRACE begin to whimper. This isn’t a sound that she is forcing,
but rather it grows as her stomach churns. This is the scream that she is
barely keeping back. Grace bounces her knee constantly, and at a fast pace.
She does not yet cry, but is on the verge.)

124
LOGIC
Crying this much is going to make our face look
worse again. It is going to hurt when we try to sleep
tonight.
EMOTION
(Disappointment and fear sharply turn to anger towards GRACE.
The blame and pain are being turned inward, in an irrational attempt
to understand or stop it.)
We’re pathetic. Our friends are out there having
fun and we’re here sobbing. We hate anxiety.
LOGIC
It could just be our period. It causes mood swings.
EMOTION
(EMOTION starts the internal debate once again.)
That’s sexist!
LOGIC
It is true, and hormones do not make anxiety
better. We also only got a few hours of sleep last
night. We are sleep deprived.
EMOTION
We are such an idiot. Why do we do this to
ourself!?
LOGIC
(Suddenly they step over the line, speaking the unspeakable which
could very well be true.)
Maybe it is a form of self-harm.
EMOTION
(EMOTION deflates, losing their energy. Their stomach is in knots, and they
are forced to swallow to hold back the possible throw up that can come
from it.)
But… then we would be broken.
LOGIC
(For the first time, LOGIC shows empathy. They are pained by this
knowledge that they unloaded, regretting it but being too wise to wish they
could take back those irreversible words. They take a moment to think
through their response.)
We are broken.

125
EMOTION
(For the first time, EMOTION becomes emotionless. They straighten their
stance, though their hands tremble with this burden of knowledge.)
We are broken.
EMOTION AND LOGIC
We are broken.
GRACE
(Quietly, voice cracking, GRACE repeats what her mind tells her, only this
time, she acknowledges that it is not “we” but “I”. Her words are that deep
difficult type, forced out with revulsion towards each syllable and the truth
they hold.)
I am broken
(She finally begins to sob into her hand to muffle her wailing so that she will
be left alone. It is an ugly, forceful cry, where what sound comes out is
already forced down as much as possible.)
(Leave a long pause at this moment and allow the audience to feel how
GRACE does; alone and stuck with this knowledge. GRACE should
continue crying, but slowly calm down until LOGIC starts the next line)
LOGIC
(They almost regret having to speak again, but they go on with it
anyway.)
They are quiet out there now. If we go quickly, we
can avoid being seen.
EMOTION
(EMOTION speaks in a sombre tone, but there is a desperation for
this comfort)
But we want to see them. We just want someone
to hold us. They will.
LOGIC
If they see us, they will ask. We will cry. They will
know.
EMOTION
(They speak with authority, for this is a subject they are in charge
of.)

126
We want to lie down. We want someone to hold
us. We just want someone to wrap their arms right
around our shoulders. Right here.
(ALL THREE touch their shoulders in unison, for in truth, they are one.)
It feels so light there. So bare right now. We just
want to be held.
LOGIC
We have a blanket in our room. We can curl up in
bed, in the dark, and sleep. We can leave.
EMOTION
We should leave.
GRACE
(She stands, this time she is the one commanding.)
I’m leaving.
(GRACE starts to exit the stage, her pace slow and completely unsteady. A
spotlight goes on her, allowing LOGIC and EMOTION to leave the stage.
She softly counts by 7s, at first echoed, but slowly LOGIC AND
EMOTION’s echo disappears until we hear GRACE alone)
7… 14… 21… 28… 35…
(continue until GRACE has left the stage)
FIN
Author’s Notes
1) Throughout the scene, Grace should be watching Logic and
Emotion, and reacting to them. There are no scene freezes.
2) The offstage voices should be any crew members backstage, or if
needed, a recording of the three actors.
3) The counting by 7s should often be incorrect and hesitant. The idea
is that it is more difficult than counting normally.
4) The repetition of lines is intentional and should be used to their
fullest extent.
5) Logic should remain mostly stoic throughout the work, and
Emotion should be much more expressive. The only deviations are
directed.
6) The audience should be warned about the triggering content.
7) Logic should speak without contractions, as written. They are
meant to feel almost robotic. Emotion can input slang as desired.

Isabella Brignola

127

Among the Moss

Sadie Walshaw

128

Dysphoria
Nothing feels right.
I feel like I'm suffocating inside a body that doesn't belong to me,
It feels like a suit, a mask that I don't belong in.
Someone else's skin is wrapped around my bones.
I'm in someone else's house, and I can't seem to find the exit.
Mostly because there isn't one in sight,
There's no way out of this prison,
And there's no way around the horrid things everyone calls me.
Especially out in public,
The derogatory language rolls off the tongue of my peers.
Everyday I am reminded that not only am I not understood,
But I am not understood because the way I feel is unnatural.
Unheard of.
My own mirror stares back at me day after day, waiting for me to
acknowledge its presence.
I constantly attempt to shake the feeling of its eyes that peer into the depths
of my soul.
It latches itself onto my insides,
I look into it and it swallows me whole as I gaze into the clear glass that
casts off my appearance.
Staring back at myself creates a fire in my chest
I get the feeling that something is not right, something is out of place.
Or maybe it was never in place to begin with.

Anonymous

129

Say Their Names
Say Their Names:
George Floyd - May 25, 2020
A photo-op, bible in hand, meant to project strength.
Instead bone spurs cast a yellow pall from the spine of the bunkered.
More golden then the piss showered on the first amendment
by the orange man with his knee on the neck of Lady Liberty.
“I was inside and could not have felt more safe.” - Donald J. Trump
“Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent
revolution inevitable.” – John F. Kennedy
Say Their Names:
Carlos Ingram Lopez - April 21, 2020
Breonna Taylor - March 13, 2020
Rivers of red on the boulevards of history.
Shouts of “Black Lives Matter” by
peaceful ebony marchers and their ivory allies.
Tear gas, flash grenades and rubber bullets raining.
“When the looting starts, the shooting starts.” - Donald J. Trump
“To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of
men.” AL
Say Their Names:
Ahmaud Aubrey - February 23, 2020
Byron Williams - September 5, 2019
Vincente Villella - February 3, 2019
The “good people” from both sides
make the list longer. One group by their
actions, the other by their inaction. Neither
side knows anything of justice.
“Riot is the language of the unheard” - Martin Luther King, Jr.
“Justice will not be served until the unaffected are as outraged as
those who are.” - Benjamin Franklin
Say Their Names:
Marshall Miles - October 28, 2018
Cristobal Solano - May 1, 2018
Hector Arreola - January 9, 2017
Fermin Vincent Valenzuela - July 2, 2016
Enough is enough!

130
Just once in your life, do the right thing.
Just have a little courage for a change.
Just say their names, damn it.
“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do
for your country.” – John F. Kennedy
“Protest beyond the law is not a departure from democracy; it is
absolutely essential to it.” - Howard Zinn
Michael Brown – August 9, 2014
Trevon Martin - February 26, 2012
Emmett Till – August 28, 1955
Haywood Patterson 1913 - 1952
Clarence Norris – Unknown
Charlie Weems - Unknown
Andy Wright - Unknown
Roy Wright - Unknown

Olen Montgomery - Unknown
Ozie Powell - Unknown
Willie Robertson - Unknown
Eugene Williams – Unknown

“This many black bodies deep, the synonymy between ropes and
gunfire is lost on no one.” - Joshua Bennett

Anonymous

131

I Go Back to the Woods
It’s a gravel type of parking lot, no lines, and a wooden fence barring off
the main road. There are deep rivets at the mouth and a Maine to Georgia
trail sign. I take the back corner that’s shrouded by sappy smelling pines
which kiss the black and blue sky. It’s drizzling, with that wet worm kind of
smell. My feet sink into the pebbles like quicksand, gushing between my
naked toes and painting their coldness up my ankles.
There’s a man, about 60, looking through his telescope. He’s no taller
than me, wearing a tan bucket hat which twins his dampened trench coat.
He acknowledges me curiously.
I walk away from him, towards trees and trails. There’s an owl
overhead, and he greets me with a crisp cooing, playing king of the trees.
Around him, stars are shouting, can you hear me? It’s obnoxious.
Then, a car on the main road. Its moving headlights are broken by
spruce trees, playing a game of shadows. It pulls into the lot behind me,
jumping across uneven gravel. The brakes squeal to a halt, and the engine
cuts off. I continue walking toward the trail’s opening.
I cling to tree branches and shove through the overgrowth. The moon
shines down on pines, blanketing the clearing in silver and shadows. It smells
of powdery dirt and dewy grass, the ground tickling my feet. I trek over
smooth boulders and jagged roots.
Ahead, a deer crunches leaves underfoot, stopping short. The crickets
chirp as its doe eyes glare into mine. Wind comes in a gentle draft, its soft
ears twitching. My foot shifts on the soft earth, twig snapping.
In a flash of light, she returns to the trees.

Kimberly Braet

132

High Rock

Matthew Hathaway

133

Daddy’s Little Girl
Dear Da-,
Hey there,
Hi,
You don’t know me but I think I’m your kid. Your daughter to be
precise. My name is Reaper. Reaper Delano. And ever since my sixteenth
birthday things have been a little strange. OK, more then a little strange.
Either I’m going crazy or I can see and speak to the dead, and umm… other
stuff. The dead they hang around me like I’m some kind of celebrity. I told
my mom about it, I don’t know if you remember her. She’s a cool lady, Lyra.
My mom is really pretty, I can see why you fell for her. Though she has a
few gray hairs now. But I’m getting off topic, my mom looked really nervous
when I told her. I’d never seen her lose her cool like that before. She asked
me if anything else weird was happening. It was. I’m starting to lose my
sense of taste, and the world has been shifting into shades of grey. I’m sure
you know about that Dad. But the scariest part is that some dead things
won’t stay dead when they’re near me.
I found that out the hard way. Did that ever happen to you? Did you
ever raise something that should have stayed dead? Well I did. I haven’t told
my mom. She’d freak. It was a small dog. It had been runover God knows
when. One eyeball dangled from the socket like a Christmas light. The other
eye red with blood stared at me lifelessly. The poor things ribs had pierced
its side. I could count its bones. To top it all off I could see bits of its brain
splattered on the side of the road. And the smell, God the smell of rot and
decay was unbearable. The stench flooded my nose. I was gagging on it. The
poor creature was well and truly dead. That is until I came along. I could
only watch in horror as those lifeless eyes began to light up. The thing rose
slowly, I opened my mouth to scream. Nothing came out. Not at first. Not
until it fixed those awful yellow eyes on me and took it’s first steps towards
me. That’s when the screaming started. I couldn’t stop screaming. Every
time I close my eyes, I see its small misshapen face. I want to keep
screaming.
Daddy… I’m scared. I get that running the underworld is a hard job…
but… please, please… Help me. I’m afraid of what I’m becoming. I hate to
say this, but my mom won’t admit that she’s afraid too. Afraid of me. I can
see it in her eyes, in the funny looks she gives me when she thinks I’m not
looking. A lot of people have been giving me funny looks lately. I can hear
them whispering behind my back. They don’t think I can hear them. But I
can hear so many new things now. Things you wouldn’t believe. But wait

134
who am I kidding of course you would believe it. You’re like me. Different.
Yeah... So, I don’t know if you’ll get this letter or if you’ll even care. But if
you do, come and find me.
Your Daughter,
Reaper

Kay Kitrell

135

Clowns
The fact that I collect clown dolls is, a feel, a very telling hobby. I haunt
thrift shops in search of them, I have my friends help me name them, and I
display them around my room. I refer to them as my children sometimes
when people ask why I love them so much. I don’t even wholly and
completely understand my attraction - I’m honestly decently scared of
clowns to the point where I’ll jump depending on the face they’re making but need I justify it? My clown collection, I think, really exemplifies how I’m
just a tad strange, be it endearing or off-putting. and I like that about myself.
I’m up to interpretation. My clown children feed into my motherly side, my
thrifty side, and exemplify my poor impulse control and fixation on the
strange.
I came upon my first clown when I told myself I wasn’t allowed to spend
any more money that month. I fell in love with him, his little blue hat and
heavily lashed eyes, the fact that he played “Send In The Clowns,” and spun
around on his little pedestal when you wound him up. Love at first sight.
Really. All my friends told me no; no don’t buy that clown. You said you
were saving money. Piper, I swear to god. Please put him down, he is so
scary. I did not. I was in my depressive to manic shift, I lacked control and
craved it, I needed a good thing to focus on. And thus I spent five dollars on
this wonderful little clown. The start of my collection, maybe, or the
beginning of my downfall. Depends how you look at it.
I bought another one a few months later because it was identical to the
first one. I was somewhere else, and the same clown decided to show its
painted face, and I felt the same swell of emotion. Maybe it’s because I crave
consistency? Maybe it’s because I look for symbols in things, like how I dig
through my horoscope for any sort of shallow meaning and generalized
guidance. This seemed like a pretty good sign from the universe. And hey,
I’ll take it. Whatever it meant is beyond me. So now I own two clowns that
spin around together, but play “Send In The Clowns,” at different tempos. I
don’t love them equally, which is probably rude to them, as I consider them
my kids; I love the one that’s paler blue with the more delicate face and the
taller hat. There’s a name written on the bottom, a girl’s name in scrawling
cursive, right on the leg of that one. I forget who it is because I’m in the
hospital and can’t look. Doesn’t matter much now because it belongs to me
and not her. You wouldn’t know the difference between them if you
weren’t me and couldn’t see the name. Maybe they were both meant for
me. The second clown was fifty cents less than the first.
My third clown happened by accident. I showed up to marching band
half an hour early and so did a friend of mine, who I don’t really like but
develop a crush one when we’re together and bored and sleepy. Warm. He

136
suggested we go to a yard sale that he had seen a sign for. I said sure,
because I didn’t know what else to do and I liked to drive. I would’ve rather
gotten a coffee, but having a friend is more valuable. I didn’t really know
where it was or what to expect. He bought a box cutter, an extension cord,
three joke books, chalk, and a few wrenches. I didn’t ask why. I bought a
new clown and a pack of baseball cards that were stupidly expensive, but
after I asked the older gentleman I really couldn’t say no, now could I? And I
accidentally stole a DVD of 50’s classic TV shows. Black and white.
Obviously. We won’t talk about that one. This clown was handmade - toilet
paper roll, googly eyes, craft store pom poms and with tragically, albeit
delightfully, limp limbs - and had three brothers and sisters I separated him
from. I feel kind of bad about it. I probably shouldn’t have broken them up.
They might be mad. He used to live in my locker, where he didn’t totally fit,
and I don’t know how happy he is despite the sharpie-d smile. I gave him to
my English teacher by accident when school shut down and he became
locked in the basement for months on end. I hope he’s okay out there. His
hat is a little squished, but he cost me three dollars and fifty cents less than
the first. They asked me how much I wanted to buy him for and so he
could’ve been less. Probably. All of them would’ve been six dollars.
Hindsight is always 20-20. You do the math.
Now I’m in college and notably clown-less. My friends picked up on my
hobby and got me more for birthdays, Christmas, and graduation. A nun
doll joined the collection, as did a harlequin. They all stand or slump in my
childhood bedroom. My dorm room has plenty of other things: a furby, a
mannequin head, my portrait of The Jonas Brothers, etc. Despite me writing
this entire essay about my clowns, I named them “unnecessary,” and left
them behind. Maybe it’s because they take up space, but maybe it’s because I
felt scared to be different, even in my own living space. And then I dyed my
hair green and still wonder why people glance at me a little sideways.
Listen, knock me all you want and I’ll take it. I just like my clown babies
and their eclecticism. I can handle pointed looks - reminiscent of
kindergarten - when a new teacher asks about my hobbies. I expect, “Oh
god I’m terrified of clowns.” I’ll sarcastically say yes to the, “Are you going
to clown school?”s. It’s fine in the way that people say it where it truly
means they’re fine. Call me quirky in a bad way. Dare you. Because, you
know? It’s true. I’m stuck in a constant battle between Me and Myself. Call
me what you want. I don’t know either.

Piper Kull

137

Mask of the White Death
A Modernization of Poe’s Masque of the Red Death

The White Death ravaged the country
Attacking those who were most weak
And Suffocating them six feet away from their loved ones.
Two Hundred Thousand lives fell before the disease.
But the Proud Ruler of this great land
Was not afraid, though his dominions were destroyed.
He summoned many of his light-hearted friends
And many of his silent enemies
To a party within his grand white palace.
Excess filled the halls of this place
To the point where the glittering of pleasures was blinding.
The party shone
With Beauty and Entertainment
And they were only Without the White Death
And Without any masks
There were seven beautiful rooms to go in
Each colored by the stained-glass windows
And illuminated by a light outside
The first, in blue, was filled with couches and food, and drink
Enough to gorge yourself on.
The second, in purple, was full of mounds of gold and jewels
That sat funtionlessly in their piles
The third, green, housed swords inscribed with detailed scenes of war
Muddied with dried red in their grooves
The fourth, orange, contained luxurious beds
and thick curtains to hide those under the sheets
The fifth, in white, boasted case after case of trophies,
Each bigger than the last
The sixth, in violet, held many mirrors, all posed at odd angles
So that you could see only people around you
And finally, the seventh was dark but bathed in red light,
With only a clock on the far wall
Every hour the clock would toll
Sending music throughout the white palace
And silencing everyone
Who, frozen, would harken to its song
Before returning to their conversations.
Donning on the cloak of denial

138
They would forget about the White Death lurking outside.
One night, at the height of the revelry
A stranger appeared amidst the crowd
Wearing a white full-face mask
that rivaled the lifelessness of a corpse.
The crowd became aware of this stranger’s presence
And one by one inched away
To avoid them
As the stranger coughed viciously
Towards any who came too close
The Proud Ruler of the palace,
Going from orangey to red with rage,
Cried out, “Who dares insult us!?”
But he was given no response.
In a fury, the ruler began to charge towards the figure,
Pulling out a dagger from his pocket.
“I’ll show you!”
And so the chase began,
As the Proud Ruler ran after the stranger.
Through the blue room, the ruler stumbled and crawled
Into the purple room, where he caught his balance
As he charged into the green room, raising his dagger
Before reaching out to grab the stranger in the orange room.
The Proud Ruler gasped, his pace slowing as he jogged into the white room,
And by the violet room, his walking became a staggering, coughing prowl,
Before he finally halted in the red room.
It was here that the stranger had stopped,
And so, the ruler finally stepped forward and raised his weapon.
The stranger turned, taking away their mask.
There was a sharp cry
And the dagger hit the floor
Preceding the fall of
The corpse of the Proud Ruler of the white palace
One by one, the party would fall
And the lights in the rooms die out
And Darkness
And Decay
And the White Death
Held dominion over all.

Isabella Brignola

139

Since Monday
For a moment I forgot
that I told myself
it was over.
So when I faced the sea
on that Sunday
I think I loved you.
And since Monday
I’ve been waiting
for the storm.

Matthew Hathaway

140

Sincerely St. Peter
Dear Mortals,
Here’s something that not a lot of people know about Heaven…Well,
what a thing to say. Arguably nobody knows anything about Heaven. Sure,
I bet there’s one, maybe two, wise meditative sages; or a lucky/unlucky 10year-old boy who had a near death experience, that can tell point-blank the
nature of the great beyond. But other than that, it’s mostly just conjecture.
No one’s got the exact same Heaven.
But, ya see, the world runs off archetypes. Regardless of personal belief
there is still an abundance of images and pictures that just involuntarily pop
into our heads when we think about a particular subject. Now, with
Heaven, those archetypes are – Angels, God, trumpets, wings, music,
happiness, honey in everything, you get the picture – things that constitute,
when all is said and done, a realm of fantasy. And by fantasy, I mean a
domain of magic, a world beyond simple mortal understanding where
everything that is visible or invisible works off of forces beyond simple
comprehension, waves of hand that – without explanation – can manipulate
the movement of clouds and sway the hearts of celestial beings into calm.
Yes, Heaven, to most, is simply magic.
Well, that’s bullshit. It’s all science. And I should know, I’m Saint Peter,
yes THE Saint Peter, the guardian angel of the Heavenly Gates that you’ve
likely heard of, but only because TV shows like to parody the shit out of me
relentlessly. For the record, that’s not what I’m doing, I really do sound like
this. Anyway, it’s all science. Heaven runs on science, primarily good old
Benjamin Franklinian electricity, good old Thomas Edisoninininian AC
current. Or is it DC current? I don’t know. I’d like to look it up, but
Heaven’s Google is temporarily down, as is the gates, which is the purpose
of this note I now write to all mortal men. Sorry if I’ve taken too long to
get to the point, but here it is:
Heaven is experiencing technical difficulties. Bet you never thought
you’d hear that in your life. Yep, technical difficulties. And as of now, the
switch that opens the pearly golden gates won’t do anything, no matter how
many times I flip it. On and off, on and off, makes no difference. And the IT
guy, that is, God, is taking his fine-ass time getting here. And by the way, I
can be blasphemous because I’m already dead. Yes, that is indeed how it
works. So I would just like to tell all you mortals reading this letter - Please
just keep yourselves alive.
I know this is asking a bit much. I know that with the virus locking you
all in your homes you sometimes feel like blowing your own brains out or

141
jumping off a high rise building or just going out into public and getting
coughed on. But please, for me, don’t do it, there is still so much to live for.
What about the election? If you die, who will vote against that filthy pig
Trump/Biden, and raise up the savior of the coming 4 years Trump/Biden.
You gotta stick with me! You gotta devote your time to some kind of
cause, because that is what keeps you alive…as long as you do it quietly. Ya
know, no protesting. Obviously that’s not really good for the virus, but it
just invites so much shit. Honestly, it could start a war, and yeah I know
that sounds dumb, but there have been some dumbass wars that have just
waisted entire days for me. Have you heard of “The War of the Oaken
Bucket?” About 2,000 people died because some soldiers from an Italian
city stole a bucket from another Italian city’s well. Seriously! Google that
shit! FYI the Wikipedia page will say that the bucket being the catalyst for
the conflict itself is a myth, but I know, I was there, in the sky, signing em’ all
in! And I’m Saint Fucking Peter.
Let’s see, what else? Oh! Here’s a message for any IT guys out there,
perhaps anybody that graduated from MIT specifically:
KILL YOURSELF.
I mean it. I mean, what do you have to live for anyway, a bunch of
frustrated baby-boomers calling you over to their house every two seconds
because they don’t have the mental strength or patience to figure their
Smart TV out on their own? Do you just straight live to tell the same 70year-old man for the umpteenth time what the definition of WI-FI is, as well
as how to pronounce it? Is that what your college years were spent in
preparation for?
No, because I’ll tell you what they were spent in preparation for opening Heaven’s Pearly Gates and helping me download the full list of dead
African children on my SkyPad. The list just has too many damn megabytes
or gigabytes and I don’t want to have to get a new SkyPad. It’s a pain in the
ass! So just come on up here, I’ll make sure to get you pardoned from
suicide, but it’s only gonna be for the first 20 to come up here, so get
shooting or car crashing or pill popping or whatever your preferred method
is. And I reiterate, this is only for IT people, not any joe shmo or casual
practitioner of coding or wiring, ‘cause your ass’ll get dropped STRAIGHT
TO HELL.
Seriously though, hurry, Heaven’s clouds are only so big and if we don’t
get the gate open soon, the unjudged will just start falling off the cloud. And
I don’t even know what happens if that happens. Do they die again and go
to Super Heaven? Stop existing? Fall back into their bodies so they can live

142
again or die again? (Depending on where the body’s at). Oh Edison or
Tesla or whoever, why have you forsaken me? I don’t know! And I’m Saint
Fucking Peter!
Anyway, that’s the situation up here in Heaven, you can take this letter
and toss it, worship it, build a crazy-ass cult around it for all I care. Just
don’t fucking die. You hear me?! DON’T FUCKING DIE!
Unless you’re in IT.
Sincerely,

St. Peter

Cameron Crouse

143

In the Trees

Bailey Milnik

144

What Happens After The Bee Movie?
Subject: Reconnect
Hey Ken,
It’s Vanessa.
I know it’s been a while. Last time I saw you, we were on opposing sides
of the court room. You thought I was stupid to fight by Barry’s side for the
rights of bee-kind, and it hurt. It hurt that you didn’t care about nor support
my passions, and I felt that we needed a break.
As I think you know, Barry and I got married. It was a little difficult
finding someone who would marry us, but Barry’s friend Adam finally
officiated the wedding. We bought a beautiful blue two-story house out in
the suburbs and became co-owners of the flower shop. Everything seemed
to be going so well; we even adopted a daughter. Her name is Beatrice, and
she’s the cutest thing.
But that’s not why I’m writing to you today. A few months ago, Barry
and I started fighting. I’ve caught him staring at other women – both human
and bee – but he always denies it. He’s also been going out more at night,
leaving me to care for Beatrice all by myself. But worst of all, I’ve had no sex
life since we got married. How would it even work? Regardless, it feels like
I’m back in Catholic school again.
I think I’ve been needing some human companionship lately. Would you
want to go for drinks sometime and see where it goes?
Love,
Vanessa Benson

Emily Sterner

145

Voicemail
Alex...is not available. Please leave a message at the tone. To add a
callback number, press 5.
Alex... This is the tenth call I've made to you and I don't know when
I'll be able to stop. If I'm being honest, I do it just to hear you say your
own name. I'm surprised you went that far into creating a voicemail
system. You know, you left your sweatshirt here. I did not tell you right
away because I wanted to make sure it was washed before returning and
you know how long it takes me to do a complete cycle of laundry. But it's
clean now, you can come get it. And remember that time you let me
borrow your notebook? I know it's been a few years, but I still have some
pages left if you want them back. I mean, I know how you are about
wasting paper, you'd be mad at me to know that I've kept a half-used
notebook this long and using other ones instead. "It's wasteful" is what
you always tell me.
Listen, I... just wanna understand why you did it. We were so happy,
and everything was perfect. I knew you were in a bad mood and
sometimes you just get down like that. But to up and leave me...
It's fine, you never listened to other people's advice anyway. You were
always good at hiding things and motives. Not that you were ever a liar,
but you definitely withheld the full truth. I just wanted to let you know
that I love you even if you can never respond again. Hopefully after your
funeral your family will finally cancel your phone plan and voicemails can't
be received anymore. Only then I'll be able to sleep at night.
Click.

Anonymous

146

We Are More Than What We Are Labelled
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 or 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 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
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 façade 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

147
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 every time 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 houds I used to call them,
I used to call us

Debbie Matesun

148

A Forbidden Existence
Eighteen years of silence
shakes the floor beneath us
as a fire of repugnance ignites
in the foundation of our home.
Smoke pours out of my heaving chest
as an ashy residue coats my lungs,
laboring my every breath.
You see, this is the construction of truth.
How do you carry the weight of all the lives
you lived before the one you were born to?
How do you express that the closet
is not a home without sounding unappreciative?
How do you learn to be fearless
in a world that will never accept you for you?
The expectations of mainstream womanhood
placed upon me by the world
strangles me with it’s nonexistent hands.
Life doesn’t come
with a tutorial
of how to beat
the lesbian out of yourself
Trust me, I’ve tried

Morgan Stahley

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