Inkling Creative Arts Magazine, 2020-2021

WTCHOOEVRMIKDES-D19-

POETRY

PAoSeemrisesThoaf tSTheoartcShtMoreies and

Hannah Mourino

Strength
We were taking a walk,
COVID-19 in full effect.
Mom, Matt, Emmers and Stella,
And my mom looked down.
She grabbed one of her thighs and said,
“This is my favorite part of my body because they are strong.
When I was little, I used to smush my thighs hard on
the seat so they would look bigger, and now they are.”
That’s when I knew my mom valued strength over anything.
A perfect testament to who she is as a person.
Someone who has experienced all the pain life has to offer
and comes out on top.
Tacos
COVID-19, another day, another walk.
Emily saw the taco truck.
She ran up to the driver,
“We want tacos but our money is at our house, will you wait for us?”
We ran all the way home and ate tacos on my front lawn.
70 degrees, sun shining, dog panting, sparkling ice
grapefruit flavor
The little things.
Get Over It
In my short 24 years, I’ve accepted a thing or two. There are things in life that will never go away.
Just a few are cleaning, taxes, brushing your teeth, washing your face, showering.
I don’t have to like it, but I’m going to stop complaining about it. Or I’m going to make enough money so I
can hire someone to do it.
I Didn’t Choose This
I found out my friend’s baby died unexpectedly during a nap.
As I gave her my condolences, I told her she was resilient.
She said, “Thank you for not calling me strong.
I’m not strong. Doing normal things is not strong—
It’s called, I still have to live, unfortunately.”

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POETRY

Dogs Have Baggage Too
I knew it was her that I wanted
When I saw the apprehension
The tail between her legs
The scar on her face.
I knew that we both had faced
Personal wars and pain that can’t be seen.
We didn’t have to do it alone anymore.
She knew this too
As she rode shotgun to her freedom.
What Am I Missing?
He told me he thought they should all be aborted.
Why? I asked.
Because they add nothing to society.
But they added light to my dark,
Laughter to my days,
Warmth to my coldness,
Simplicity to my complicated nature.
If you ask me, he’s missing it.
Nosy Ellen
She was known as “Nosy Ellen.”
She was in fact
Very nosy
She would ask whose car was in your driveway
And why you hadn’t received notice that the
That the truck was parked illegally.
She would know your dogs’ names and when you
Ordered pizza.
What she didn’t know was her grandkids’ names
Or the color of her daughters’ hair.
Because they never came to visit Nosy Ellen
And her nosy endeavors.

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POETRY

Everyone Deserves Their Moment
At first glance, he’s an average Joe with a peculiar grin.
Nobody knew that he never learned to read
And only had the IQ of a 4-year old.
But what we did know?
Is that when he got up on that stage to belt out “Jailhouse Rock”?
His light outshined anyone else in that auditorium.
I didn’t like that song but now it’s a favorite .
The innocent bliss of a child
Made us see ourselves in him.
Freddy knew he was loved,
And we loved Freddy.

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POETRY

Quarantine, Day 365

Rosalind Williamson

My mother makes potato leek soup for a late lunch. Vibrantly green chives,
doubtless harvested that day from the garden, are garnished lovingly
atop a creamy yellow, like a spring morning. When she sits down,
we take first bites as one. It tastes like a passing season, the afternoon’s
hour of steady, soothing rain. We’ve all been in place so long, the change
in seasons feels like a miracle. Maybe it is: who’s to say the answer
to all this isn’t religion? They make long days, these days, and I sit in the dark
watching the world get a little bit worse by the hour, giving myself migraines
from the terror. What’s real but the way the rain has begun to malinger,
to stay for minutes and then hours and then days, the way the chives
on potato leek soup combine with the fake-chicken bouillon to contrast
and work together, rich in flavor while fresh and light on the tongue?
I blink, and find hot tears in my eyes, half my mind still in another place, faraway,
verdant, and nameless. When I apologize, my mother and her boyfriend are both
unfazed. It’s good to be moved by beauty, they say. Then we talk about the rain:
its recent past, our hopes for its trajectory, how much will make the grass stay green.
I want to find movement, but all I unearth is feelings; my brain
bounces away from the bad ones so quickly, I barely remember the players.
I don’t want to talk about trauma; I live through it. Shouldn’t beauty be my reward?
Everything else feels tender to touch, to think about. Terror my familiar.
The potato leek soup, in the refrigerator, is my mother’s heart in tupperware,
each meticulous variation in texture and flavor thought through, crafted
to the temperature of an ember, sparking memory: the falling leaves, talking
around the fire after the wind has grown cold, spring so tangible I can almost taste it.

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PROSE

Like Criminals

Elizabeth Myles

I found the tin cup, dented and tarnished, buried among my grandfather’s camping gear. I’d been organizing
everything in his apartment just to pass the time. I grabbed the cup, another item from my room, and headed
out to the balcony to sit, cross-legged and barefoot, and wait. It was already late afternoon, the sun leaching color
into the sky as it melted behind the trees, so I knew it wouldn’t be too much longer.

Sure enough, a minute later, the next-door neighbor’s sliding door swished open, and I heard him stride
out for his daily break. I didn’t give myself time to think; I rattled the cup against the balcony fence, back and
forth, back and forth, and then stopped, waiting again. Hoping.

At first, there was no response to my racket, and my heart gave a silent, disappointed sigh. But then it
started: just a chuckle at first, rough as if from disuse, and then building to a startled laugh.

“Hello?” the neighbor called my way. “Someone rattling the bars of their cage over there?”
“With a tin cup,” I called back, examining the battered vessel in the dying light. “I found it today.”
“Fitting.” I thought I heard a smirk in his voice. “It is beginning to feel a bit like a prison sentence, isn’t
it?”
Relief broke over me that he understood, and I grinned to myself. “For you, too?” I called back.
“Of course. I’m working from home. Haven’t been out except to the grocery store in weeks.”
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “I never hear your front door opening in the mornings.”
He paused at that, and I screwed my eyes shut, cringing over the stalker-y nature of my comment. I’m
sure he appreciated knowing I was keeping track of his comings and goings. It didn’t make any sense, though. I
closed my eyes in embarrassment. A decorative column of bricks jutted out between the neighbor’s apartment
and mine, wide enough to hide us from each other. I glanced his direction again, toyed with the tin cup. From
next door, I heard a chair scrape aside, footsteps falling.
“I’m here by myself all day,” he said, and his voice sounded nearer, as though he’d lowered himself to
the floor, like me, and was as close to my balcony as he could get. “Just me and the occasional talking head on a
Zoom call.”
“Oh? What do you do for work?”
“Fill out TPS reports.”
I chewed my thumbnail, admitted, “I don’t know what those are.”
There seemed to be a chuckle tucked into the rich folds of his voice as he said, “That’s okay, it isn’t im-
portant.” He told me the name of the tech company where he worked, and then asked, “What do you do?”
“Waitress,” I said. “Or, I was. Making pretty incredible tips every night, too, but then…”
“Yeah.” There was a wealth of understanding in the word, and a dose of sympathy that touched my heart.
“Who are you?” he asked. “I mean, I thought Frank lived all alone over there.”
“Normally he does. I’m his granddaughter. Since the restaurant’s shut down indefinitely, I moved in
with him. Now he won’t have to quarantine by himself.”
“That was nice of you.”
I shrugged, realized again that he couldn’t see me, and said, as if it were all the explanation that were
needed, “He practically raised my brother and me.”
“You’ve been sticking close to home, then, I take it, to protect your grandpa?”
I nodded into the deepening dark. “We’re having food, medications, everything delivered. I haven’t left
the apartment in almost a month.”

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“Must be tough.”
“Eh. Things are tough all over.” I set aside the tin cup and picked up the other thing I’d brought out with
me, a square compact mirror, and flipped it open. I held it between the bars, angling it so I could see onto the
neighbor’s balcony. “Hey, check it out,” I said, and he looked over.
He laughed again. “Hey, there you are.” He pointed at my reflection, and I waved at him.
I wondered if he could see my blush, or if the light was dim enough now to hide it. Because what I could
see of the neighbor, I really liked. He was maybe five to ten years older than me—so twenty-five, thirty?—slim,
and had a square jaw. His thick hair looked as though he usually kept it cut short but, like everyone else’s since the
salons had closed their doors, it’d started to grow shaggy. A dark hank of bangs fell across his brow, shadowing
eyes whose color it was too murky and distant for me to make out.
“What’s your name?” I asked, heart thudding for no good reason.
“James.” He raked the hair back from his eyes as though he knew I’d been focusing on it. “Radford.
What’s yours?”
“Callie. Callie Hinojosa.”
His gaze, more intent than before, held mine in the mirror. “That’s a pretty name, Callie Hinojosa. And
it sure is nice to meet you.”
For weeks, this was all it was: James and I saying “hello” to one another in the evenings and chatting, with the
aid of the mirror, casually from one balcony to another. What happened in your life today? Nothing much, what
happened with you? We talked about his work sometimes, and how our families were doing. We were careful what
we said, because we never knew who might be listening from another apartment.
One afternoon, when a clump of potato parings gummed up the kitchen disposal and clogged the sink,
I felt a funny ripple of excitement in my chest; it seemed a tidbit of real news to share with James that night.
“Easy fix for that,” he told me when I’d related my dilemma. “Unscrew the elbow pipe and clear out
anything that’s stuck in there. Just make sure you put a bucket under it first.”
“Yeah, I saw that on YouTube,” I frowned. “But I can’t get the pipe off. Neither can Grandpa. Neither
of us has the torque.”
“Oh. You could try and get maintenance to come.” A pause, and then, “Or I could come over and fix it
for you.”
I curled my hand around the balcony railing, hardly breathing as I said, “I’m sure it would be safe—if we
kept our distance and wore masks.”
“I’m sure it would,” he agreed.
Minutes later, his knock fell against the door, and Grandpa hobbled over with his cane to squint out the
peephole. He swung the door open wide. “Callie,” there was mirth in his voice as he called over his shoulder at
me, “there’s a hippie at the door. Do you know him?” He backed up, and James, who’d been standing roughly
six feet away from the threshold, came in carrying a tool box. Above his face mask, his eyes were smiling.
Blue, I thought, my pulse kicking hard. His eyes, now that I could see them closer, were dark blue, glim-
mering with the light of good humor.
And yes, his hair did look long and unruly, like a hippie’s. He was wearing scruffy jeans and sneakers, a
brewery t-shirt that accentuated the whole bohemian air. I noticed he was staring at my grandpa.
“Your hair, Frank,” he said to him in awe, “it’s so…short.”
“Looks sharp, don’t it?” Grandpa pointed his cane at me for a second. “Callie cuts it for me, believe it or
not, with some clippers and a pair of barber scissors.”
James’s gaze fell on me. “You’re kidding. That’s awesome.”
“I don’t know how awesome it is.” I traced my socked foot along the carpet, demure. “But it gets the job

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done.”
James’s eyes stayed locked on mine a second longer. He finally blinked, as though a trance were breaking.

He said, “Speaking of getting jobs done…” and went into the kitchen.
It took him only minutes to clear the pipe, and afterward we decided it would be acceptable if I walked

along with him—six feet to the side of course—to his door.
“Thank you so much,” I said when he was standing on his welcome mat. “You really helped us out back

there.”
“Don’t mention it.”
We stared at one another across the gulf. Tension stretched between us, thrumming anticipation.
I glanced both ways, making sure no one was coming, and then, feeling rebellious, deliciously illicit, hur-

ried over and stroked a tuft of hair sticking out above his ear. “I could cut this for you,” I whispered, as though
someone might overhear me. “You know, as payback for the sink.” It was just an excuse to touch him and I knew
it. His sparkling eyes told me he knew it, too.

“Bless you for offering.” His mask muffled his laughing words.
“What was that?” I asked, even though I’d heard.
He ripped the cloth away from his mouth, stuffed it in a pocket. “I said, thanks for offering, that’d be
great.”
The sight of his bared face, that square jaw darkened with several days’ worth of stubble, stole my breath.
I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t move.
“Callie?” he asked, searching my eyes. “Are you smiling right now?”
I crumpled the mask away from my face so he could see that I was. He set the toolbox down. And after
that, it seemed such an easy thing to let him lean toward me and to feel his arm around my waist, to let our
mouths ease away the final inch of social distance.
The walk back to Grandpa’s felt like a gauntlet despite being so short, the air around me throbbing all
the way with danger. I felt naughty and imperiled, at risk of someone catching out the sin I’d just committed,
now secreted inside my reckless heart. I slipped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it.
“What’s going on?” Grandpa’s head was cocked to one side, his eyes shrewd.
“I’m going to cut James’s hair for him,” I sighed.
Cutting Grandpa’s hair was a rote and innocent little chore. With James in the chair, it turned sensual. An inti-
mate act it seemed, running my fingers through his mahogany waves, lifting them and snipping at them, watch-
ing them fall away and land in drifts around my sneakered feet.
I assumed James felt the charge in the air between us, too, and that this was why, when I was done, I
wound up with my back pressed against the bathroom storage cabinet, caged in by his arms, liberated by his
mouth.
After that, James was inducted into our inner circle, and it was dinner and drinks with him several nights
a week. Grandpa was elated. He had someone other than just me to watch his James Bond collection with, to
drink under the table and beat at dominoes and checkers. When James and I wanted privacy, we went to his
place.
I was there one night, sipping wine on his couch, when the text message that would change everything
agitated my phone.
“Who is it, who is it?” James asked with the teasing eagerness of a child. “Should I be jealous?”
“My boss at the restaurant,” I chuckled, but the amusement evaporated almost instantly. “She says she’s
opening up the dining room again next week. Only at fifty percent capacity, but still.”
“She wants you to come back,” he guessed.

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I nodded.
“You won’t be able to stay with Frank, if you’re in and out all the time,” he said, pointing out the obvi-
ous.
I felt my mouth turn down. “He and I’ve talked about this possibility. He says I should go back to work if
I can, look after my own life for a while.” I still had my own apartment waiting for me, thanks to the government
saying no one could be tossed out on their ear just yet for missing rent.
James said nothing, and I took a swallow of Cabernet. “I can still come over and visit, of course,” my
throat felt tight, desperately arid despite the drink I’d just taken, “as long as I keep my distance.”
James stayed quiet.
I tapped my phone against my leg. “I should be happy about this.”
“But you aren’t?”
“This whole thing”—I waved my arm, and we both knew what I meant: the virus, the fallout, the death
and multifarious destruction— “has been so hard in so many ways.”
“Lots of suffering all around,” he agreed, his tone solemn.
“And yet some parts of it haven’t been so terrible.” Guilt pressed against my ribs, constricting my airflow
just for saying it.
He edged closer on the sofa, lifted my hand and pressed it against the comforting rhythm of his heart.
“No, not so terrible,” he agreed.
We changed the subject then, both afraid, I was certain, that to keep talking about it would be to make
the changes real.
Within days I was back at my own place, working at the restaurant a few hours a day. Business was slow, the tips
crap compared to what they’d been before the pandemic, and despite all the hopeful chatter of things “going
back to normal” soon, everything still felt upended and bizarre to me. I despaired of things ever being “the same”
again.
I heard nothing from James but texted and spoke by phone with Grandpa. He said he was fine, not to
worry. He didn’t mention James, and I didn’t ask about him. I tried to keep busy and not think about how my
relationship with The Handsome Neighbor had likely been a fluke, brought on by mutual loneliness, fueled by
the thrill of transgression, and... now that it was no longer convenient, probably over for good.
My shift had ended. I was carrying myself on complaining feet to my car when I heard it, the sound of metal
clanging and reverberating, like cage bars rattling into the early night. I turned, instinctively clutching my purse
tighter against my side and saw it was a man in jeans and a sports coat bumping something along the patio fence.
Not a tin cup, just his car keys.
“James?” Behind my mask, I bit my lip.
He tucked the keys into his pocket and waved.
My nerves crackled with electricity, hummed greedily with desire. I wanted to hurl myself across the
sidewalk and into his arms but knew I shouldn’t. Who knew where he’d been keeping himself lately? Touching
him was no longer safe.
“I’ve missed you,” I thought he said. The mask garbled his voice.
“What?” I said.
“What?” he repeated.
I tilted my head to one side, he tilted his to the other.
He plucked the fabric away from his mouth and strode toward me. I did the same, meeting him halfway.
For a long moment, he simply smiled, staring down at me with twinkling sapphire eyes. Then he glanced

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at the building. “Frank told me where I could probably find you. All this time, I never made the connection that
this was the restaurant where you worked. My office building is near here. Maybe when things go back to normal,
I can walk over sometimes and have lunch.”

“You would want to?” I asked, surprised.
He looked surprised, too, eyebrows sliding up. “Wouldn’t you want me to?”
“Yes,” I answered with a nod and a grin. “I would love that.”
He clasped my hand and tugged me around the side of the building, pinning me against the wall. Dis-
comfort bit into me as the cold bricks snagged my uniform dress and snatched at my hair. But then sheer delight
took over as James’s lips began to warm my neck.
“Your hair’s been cut,” I accused, running my hands over it. The last time I’d seen him, the locks had
been curling, getting too long again.
He pulled back to look at me, eyes sheepish. “I went back to the salon where I used to go. But it wasn’t
the same.”
“As before?” I asked.
“As when you cut it,” he corrected.
I pushed my fingers through the top of his hair, where it was still lengthier and the texture like silk. “I
could cut it for you again next time,” I suggested.
“I think you should.” His voice had turned husky. “And every time after that, too, if you’re willing.”
I was willing, with all my heart I was willing, and we stayed there in the shadows for a long time, hiding
although there was no one else on the deserted streets to see us, to catch us kissing amid catastrophe, stealing
pleasure from the grip of tragedy like criminals, like thieves.

60

POETRY

Life in Quarantine

Sarah Huntsman

B. I. T. E.
And the 8 criteria
Have many things in common,
Including me.
Old friends lost,
New friends found,
Two cults in the making,
Masks worn of different kinds,
Discord down the drain.
Time is a human construct.
It hasn’t been a year
But merely a moment
In the eyes of the universe.
Toxicity is alive,
Old Craft made new,
Curses thrown
Hexing the moon,
Lovers to enemies
Coffee shop shut down,
Cheetos regime
Now wearing a frown,
Chaos now ridden,
Voices speak their truth,
They/Them now,
Birth name obfuscated.
Creativity spikes,
Homes vanish,
Seclusion imminent,
Quarantine illuminated...

61

POETRY

The Nurse

Matthew Smith

She left her car slowly, walking with dread.
She knew the day she would soon face:
The sea of sick people in hospital beds,
The silent fear she felt for each case.
They call her a hero for doing her job.
She would rather just be a nurse
Because this brings heartache and sobs.
She needs to help find a stop to this curse.
No matter what she does, some slip away.
Prayers and late nights don’t stop the killer.
The patients are here yesterday and then gone today.
This is worse than any horror story or scary thriller.
She is drowning in a deep sea of despair.
For she can’t pull them up, it’s just not fair.
“How long will this struggle last?” she asks.
“Is there no end to this endless task?”

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POETRY

The Physician

Matthew Smith

I have worked very hard to be the best I can be.
Long hours of learning and more hard work.
But this has gotten the absolute best of me.
This silent killer who no one knows where it lurks.
No medical class prepared me for this nightmare.
No medical class prepared me for so many deaths.
No one prepared me for a hidden monster so rare.
Or to watch so many struggle for their final breath.
May God give me the strength to keep up the fight.
May he help me find the end to this bad dream.
I look to him every day and every night.
I pray he has a plan for me and my team.

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POETRY

The Patient

Matthew Smith

They tell me I am one of the lucky ones who survived the bad disease.
The fear was the worse symptom, knowing my life it could seize.
I thought my life was slipping away, my chest an empty place.
My breathing was none, my head was on fire, and no one was there to embrace.
I remember the sounds of a hospital room, the smells so vivid and strong.
The thoughts in my head were of the past and things that I had done wrong.
I missed my family’s hugs, their beautiful smiles and familiar faces.
But I am heading home today and no longer hold any viral traces.
I am truly one of the very lucky ones.
My fight with the coronavirus is finally done.

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POETRY

The Quarantine

Matthew Smith

Wake up late,
Eat breakfast, take a hot steamy shower.
Mom is intensely watching TV, another corona special.
Dad is outside mowing the greening lawn.
Mom says how sad the world is—everyone is struggling.
Dad says there is no place for politics, just a place for solutions.
I say this is sad and ask when it will end.
Wake up, gaze at my reflection in the mirror.
Just some coffee this morning and a swim in the inviting pool.
Mom is reading a new Kindle book.
Dad is trimming the driveway hedges, blowing off the drive.
Mom sadly says she heard a friend of a friend died from the virus yesterday.
Dad checks to see if the golf course is still open; he wants to try and play.
I sit, another day of social distancing.
Wake up,
Eat some eggs and then take a walk with the dog.
Mom is talking on the phone to her good friend while washing dishes.
Dad is on the computer reading over his email.
Mom says someone posted something sad on Facebook.
Dad says he is going to look at the stock market again.
I text a friend and another.
I hope this will end soon.
So much struggle and pain.
Life was already a voyage to an unknown future.
Now life is a highway with nowhere for us to go.

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POETRY

The Virus

Matthew Smith

I am the virus, the killer of woman or man.
Invisible but deadly, kill I definitely can!
Fear me for I have the power to ruin you.
Inside you, my deadly sickness will brew.
I am the virus, the killer, your breath I will steal.
I am the virus, the killer, know that I am real.

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ART

ART

Cesar
Cristal Maldonado
Photography

68

ART

Lost
Awesziana Roberson
first-place art winner

69

ART

It’s Still Charcoal
Nicolas Marroquin
Charcoal on white paper

70

ART

We
Regina Roeli
Goache

71

ART

Leaf on the Wind
Sabrina Hiltscher
Pencil
Third-Place Art Winner

72

ART

Spring Frost
Sabrina Hiltscher
Photography

73

ART

Daydreamer
Awesziana Roberson

74

ART

Storm Aftermath
Amanda Black
Digital
Second-Place Art Winner

75

ART

Werifesteria
Awesziana Roberson

76

ART

Philocaly
Awesziana Roberson

77

ART

Winter of the Snow Owl
Karley Morris

78

ART

Journey
Awesziana Roberson

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ISSUE 31

POETRY

Moon Child

Bailey Stringfellow
first-place poetry winner

There’s a bright full moon
On my walk
To the glistening creek.
The silver moonlight
Shines down through the tall oak trees,
Projecting onto me.
As twinkling stars gaze down at me,
Their radiance rains down
Only to get caught in my sparkling eyes.
I love the stars too loudly
To be fearful of the night.

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Ari’s Home

Raquel Wood
first-place prose winner

“There is no way to genuinely, powerfully, truly love yourself while crafting a
mask of perfection.”
—Vironika Tugaleva

Ari Rossi was, without a doubt, grateful for her street in New York. She couldn’t imagine life without some-
where to take shelter. She was especially appreciative of the fact that just outside her windows was a truly won-
derful world: gentle greetings from a sweet, orange sun in the mornings, and the scattered ensemble of birds
chirping, their daily performance floating throughout the street, echoing among the sturdy trees. The peaceful
ringing vibrated through the leaves as they fell down to the grass, adding an invisible touch to the morning dew.
Ari also enjoyed the song of the city; business sang with the tempo of hundreds of footsteps and the blending of
car horns. The field of buildings created a faded acoustic from the neighborhood.

The best parts of the day were those spent outside. Ari living alone and inside her tan, stout home was
a different narrative. The amount of admiration that strummed her heart for the northeastern setting equaled
the uneasy weight attached to her indoor life. There was something about the way the set up crammed together,
primarily in the kitchen. Not an inch of counter space could clearly reveal what material it was made of. Thick
stacks of her Italian family’s recipes lay next to oversized dinner plates previously owned by her Nonna.

“Amore, you mustn’t be afraid of these plates. Your mother did not like them either, but I pray you don’t
find them disgustoso,” she lectured when she saw her granddaughter’s empty cabinets during a visit.

You see, Arilyn liked keeping her cabinets cleared out. The only exception was a few smaller plates she
picked up at a college dorm sale. A couple of times Ari tried leaving the enlarged dishes for the trash truck.

“You must have put these out by accident,” the young working man said, smiling at Ari as he placed the
plates on her porch. Dammit.

Ari decided to store the ugly things in her cabinets only when Nonna came to visit, so the woman would
be convinced she was using them. Nonna did not just enjoy visiting her favorite grandchild weekly for the sake
of famiglia; she took pleasure in bringing groceries for Ari. Apparently she was the hardest working of the Rossi
family—the one to pursue education.

“Your pigro sisters, thinking that marrying rich is the way of a happy woman—they have money but do
not know how to count it. Pigro, pigro, pigro,” Nonna ranted as she blazed her petite legs through the front door
with three bags of groceries in each hand. Although flattered by the praise, Ari nearly cried when she helped put
away the food. What Nonna did not know was that every Friday night the young adult would discard the grocer-
ies, either tossing it to the night-hunting raccoons and cats, or the trash. When she did not consume the little she
kept, Ari was outside, keeping herself busy one way or another. The kitchen was just one of the closeted reasons
why she avoided the one-story home.

As much as Ari enjoyed the natural cracks and scarring of bark along the trees, she did not find anything
adorable about the ones creeping through and spotting her walls. The interior sepia had a great deal of picture
frames and small tokens from childhood crafts. However, even the sweetest of elementary decorations could not
help her dull brown eyes turn to the wicked marks, making the short structure seem stretched with an ugly force.
It was very ugly to her. The cracks split along the outside of the kitchen room, then led a path to the bedroom,

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where their presence was worsened. They looked venomous, even. They peeked out of the edges of the head rest
with the glow of sleep deprivation and sadness. One would nearly swear that they saw the cracks crying—that
songs of blues seeped out. The cracks reminded Ari of her own imperfection.

“Who would want to live in this beat up place?” she mumbled to herself before attempting to sleep one
night.

As the years progressed, so did the condition of the walls. The woman felt ill, rather sick with anger as
she tried to paint over these marks. It was soothing to cover them up, so soothing that she got out the paint brush
every evening. Ari just had no tolerance for such a view.

The outdoors consisted of pleasing sights, from the green sculptures of nature to the lovely surrounding
homes of her neighbors. Envisioning smooth walls in their smooth, peachy homes, living their smooth Ameri-
can lives, Ari felt a twang in her stomach as she compared their homes to hers, which was too crowded, weighed
down. The scars on the walls defeated countless layers of paint. She could never welcome another person into
her home. They would judge. They would whisper to each other about the Italian family a few doors down. The
Rossis.

“That house could be in better shape,” they would say, exchanging the words like they were drugs under-
neath their silky morning robes.

Although the house was covered by an exterior brick, Ari had the overbearing feeling that the neighbors
could see right through to the congestion and roughness of the house. Ari was always ashamed to go inside be-
cause that meant others would be able to watch her walk out of it. They would know that the stout, discolored,
foreign, oversized girl was the owner of a stout house with a foreign family, with too much food and too many
cracks in the walls.

Ari felt the cracks start to grow on her, and she began to feel weakened in the mornings. When she
wanted to paint the walls, she found it more difficult to stand on the ladder. She leaned forward and placed
both hands in front of herself to keep balanced. Then there was a soft creak. Ari could not tell if it was from the
weight of her body on the fragile wall, or if it was the state of her tired—and alarmingly skinnier—hands. It hit
her then: a realization. Ari and her home were the same. They reflected one another. She stared at the wall like
it was a mirror; then she lifted one of her arms to look at instead. Scars: so many of them, the outlines of raised
skin defined by makeup powder. She reached down to feel her stomach and was greeted by a sharp rib instead.
She was the pantry she worked in secret to keep on a basically empty drive. She worked so meticulously to keep
her home so perfect; it drained her, as she was working to keep herself perfect as well.

There was a knock on the door. Nonna.
“Darling, the store had panettone on sale today! Your favorite.” A pause. “Ari? What are you doing with
that paint again?”
The small girl climbed down in cowardice, her head hung low, shame overcoming her.
“Nonna, this house is ugly.” She did not want to say what she meant—I am ugly.
Nonna placed the cake down and reached out for her granddaughter’s overworked hands.
“You are a Rossi. Your mother left you this house. And I left it for her. Your home is where you live. You
can go and do many things; my Lord only knows what you do with that young free time of yours. But here is
where you rest. You live in and through this house; it is beautiful.” She gently grabbed the lathered brush from
Ari. “This house has stories in its walls, and fulfillment in what it provides for you to be alive. Please, no more. I
see you trying to make perfection of it, but you are removing some of the most wonderful parts.”
It confused Ari. Not so much the speech, but the unbalanced tolerance of her own character. She fell
in love with all things natural: the sun and the blessing on land that grew beneath it, the song of the birds, and
the exciting rhythm of the people moving about themselves. She fell in love with everything natural except for
her natural self. She felt like a slowly decaying flower, her final form a plastic rose with undeniable beauty yet no

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unique scent, no softness to the petals.
Ari found herself in Nonna’s arms, sinking into the comfort of Nonna’s very real, very loving warmth.

After a minute of silence, the two women looked at each other. A grin plastered the elder’s face.
“How about a piece of panettone?” she offered lightly. Just like Nonna, the cake was very much real, very

much sweet, very much Italian, and very much one of Ari’s favorite things. They ate inside the home, through
both tears and laughter, and in conversation lasting into the moon’s awakening.

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POETRY

Pretty Doubts

Asia Solomon Scott

The birds flying out of my heart are weak, timid, and sick. Full of insecurities and doubts.
They were put there by the fears throughout my childhood. They are dying off. The home of my insecurities is
being destroyed, and they have to vacate immediately.
The bird found its song through my happiness. It disturbed them more than anything.
The bird taught me that everyone has flaws, that I’m perfect how I am. My imperfections are what
make me, me. A one of one.
I was taught to fly through my hurt. To embrace my imperfections cast on me by society.
My wings say to the sun, “Thank you.”
The home of my insecurities is being destroyed, and they have to vacate immediately.
I was taught to fly through my hurt,
my imperfections cast on me by society.
My wings say to the sun thank you.
My imperfections are what makes me, me. A one of one.
They were put there by the fears throughout my childhood.

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The Prescriptions

Asia Solomon Scott

5 pills in total:
Asia Scott
247 Fear of Heart Failure Ln.
Houston, Tx. 77020

Furosemide 20 MG
Treating fluid buildup to prevent heart failure
Once a Day

Losartan 25 MG
To make blood pressure normal instead of low. Once a day.

Sotalol 120 MG
Treats heart rhythm problems
Twice a day (well isn’t she special?)
Spironlactone 25 MG
Treats fluid retention.
Once a day
Though these prescriptions
keep my heart as normal as possible,
regardless of my irregularities,
I still feel empty.
I still wish to
find my other half in you.
To fill my emotional heart condition:
Affection,
As needed, 500 mg.
To doubt the feelings that I’m unlovable:
Loyalty,
Daily, as needed

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500 mg.
For the doubts that I’m not enough for someone to be loyal to:
Time
500 mg Daily, when available—
To doubt feeling like I’m obnoxious.

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SPealinf-tiPnogrtrait as an Abstract

Asia Solomon Scott

I’m soft-spoken and hate conflict; I hate being the center of attention, yet in this art gallery, all eyes are on me. I’m
a Leo. The main thing anyone knows about a lion is that lions love being the focus of it all. It scares me, feeling
the piercing eyes on me and knowing that everyone has a different idea of who I am, so before I can speak with
my vibrant colors of charisma and intelligence, I’m stopped. I am abstract only because I don’t know where I’m
headed or how I’m going to feel each day. When you look at me, you make me think I’m dark and gloomy like
the small black line that makes up the tree of my existence. Instead, I’m more psychedelic—my complex entity
confuses you, yet my thoughts intrigue you because my conversations are far from basic. My colors are bold: you
can’t keep your eyes off my butt; if you stare too long, your eyes blur.

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Choose Hoe, Always.

Asia Solomon Scott

It’s not a soul tie; it’s infatuation,
Attention you lacked seeping into your adolescence. Pathetic.
Infatuation, meaning intense.
Intense, meaning extreme force.
You are the extreme force that blinds your heart so badly she mistakes anything as everything.
When you should really be a H.O.E.
And choose your pleasures over everyone else’s.
Be stingy with you; be selfish.
Choose H.appiness O.ver E.verything is the message.

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Reflection

Hannah Smith

“Ding-dong!” rings the doorbell.
“Give me a sec!”
Shoving my dinner into the microwave and grabbing a hairbrush to straighten out my frizzy hair, I race

to the door. Annoyed that my precious few seconds home from work are wasted, I open the door with one hand
while my other is pulling back my hair, using my time as efficiently as possible.

“What’s up? I don’t have much time,” I say before seeing the person at my door.
I drop the hairbrush as I take in the appearance of my visitor. She looks exactly like me, but more put
together. Her hair is in place, her dress wrinkle-free and her makeup freshly done. As I bend down to pick up
the dropped brush, she does the same, standing at the exact speed I do and taking the same stance in the open
doorway.
“Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I’m really in a hurry and needed to be back at
work about five minutes ago, so you either need to tell me what you need or leave,” I say.
The visitor doesn’t say a word in response but mouths the same words I’m speaking in perfect time with
my movements and speech.
“What is this? Some kind of TV show? Am I on camera right now?” I say, reaching out to see why she’s
reflecting my every move.
Our hands connect as I touch the smooth glass of a mirror. I hear the familiar beep of my microwave and
turn at the sound, only to find another one of my reflections staring right at me.
I reach out and touch the surface of another mirror. I look to each of my sides and realize I’m closed in
by my reflections. I turn back to the open door.
“Ha-ha, very funny. You got me. Now let me go. I’m really late for work, and I just don’t have time for
this.”
My reflection smiles at me and winks. Suddenly, a hand reaches through the mirror, filling my doorway,
and grabs my wrist, pulling me towards the glass. I struggle against her grip, but she holds me fast.
Bracing myself for impact with the hard surface, I close my eyes, only to feel a soft ripple on my skin like
I’m gently gliding underwater. The feeling slowly overtakes me until I’m weightlessly suspended in the liquid.
I open my eyes to survey my surroundings. The room is full of bright colors and lights, gracefully floating
around me in smooth, easy motions, almost like the inside of a lava lamp. As I look around, I see little wisps of
gray smoke floating from my body and getting swept into the current, a physical embodiment of my stress melt-
ing away. I see my reflection watching my every move and smiling.
“Isn’t this better than your rushed life?” she asks, with a voice that sounds like my own.
Her reminder of my busy life snaps me back to reality.
“Oh my gosh! I need to get to work! I have a project due tonight, and people are counting on me. How
do I get out of here?”
“If you have to ask, then you’re not ready to leave.”
“What do you mean I’m ‘not ready to leave’? I don’t have time for this! I’m trying to beat a deadline
here!”
“This won’t do at all,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re too busy to stop and take care of yourself, and
you’ve been like this for months—always beating deadlines, choking down meals when you can, multitasking
like a madwoman. Aren’t you tired of it?”

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“Maybe a little,” I reply. “But I can’t slow down. People need me to do my job and do it well, and if that
means I’m stuck at the office most of the time, then so be it. I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” she says, turning away. “I don’t think that’s how you really feel though. I think you’re
rushing through life, trying to be everything for everyone else and not taking even a second to care for yourself.
You need a break.”

“After this project I will take a break.”
“Really? You’ve said that before, but you never do. You act as though the world is depending on you to
make it go around, when in reality it isn’t. This isn’t good for you, and I’m here to put an end to it.”
“What can you do about it? You’re just my reflection. Logically, we shouldn’t even be talking right now.
This should all be impossible.”
“Exactly. I’m your reflection and I’m telling you that you haven’t spent enough time with me recently.
You don’t need me for your outside, but when was the last time you slowed down enough to reflect on what’s
happening inside you? When was the last time you let yourself feel anything? When was the last time you took a
whole day to do something pointless, just to rest, reset, and reflect? It’s been way too long, so I’m stepping in and
making you stop. You can’t leave here until you reflect on what’s going on inside you and decide what you need
to do to stop rushing through life like the world depends completely on you.”
“I rest enough! I’m really late now. You have to let me go.”
“Do I?” she says, disappearing with a wink.
Utterly alone, I yell in frustration. I try to make my way through the thick liquid suspending me, but I
can’t make it more than a few feet without hitting a solid wall. With no way out and nothing to do, I let myself
fall to the ground and sit, worrying about the time I’m losing stuck in this void.
What if I don’t get the project done in time? I’m losing precious seconds. How many people will be
disappointed in me? My co-workers already hate me. This could just make it worse. Will I lose my job? Maybe if
I just explain the situation to my boss so he knows why I’m so late tonight... except, he won’t understand. Why
should he understand? I don’t even understand what’s going on here! This is insane. Utterly insane. I’m trapped
in some room where my reflection took me through a mirror, and then left me stuck in here. Maybe I’m going
insane...
Or maybe I really do need a break, just like my reflection said. Maybe I should just stop and think, letting
the peaceful surroundings comfort me as I deal with everything I’ve stuffed inside, telling myself I’ll deal with
later, but never really handling. Tears begin to rush down my face as I let myself feel all the pain and stress I’ve
pushed aside for the past few months: my job, my boss, my co-workers who don’t seem to like me, my breakup,
my aunt having cancer and battling it day by day, my fear of being alone, my fear of being hurt, my pain, my
anger, my fear. Gradually it all comes out in billows of smoke that float away, and I deal with my problems and
my pains, one at a time, until I feel a heavy burden lift from my shoulders. I look around at the dazzling colors
and see this gray bubble lift from my shoulders, and I become transformed until it is bright pink and floats away,
absorbing the smoke as it goes. My reflection is right. I need to spend more time reflecting on how I’m feeling
instead of just burying it under my busy schedule.
I feel hands softly playing with my hair, running gentle fingers across my forehead in a soothing manner,
just like my mom would do when I was a kid. I look up to see my reflection smiling at me, and, without saying a
word, she reaches out a hand for the hairbrush I’m still holding. I begin to tell her everything, letting out more
smoke as I talk. She just listens and brushes my hair, helping me set my worries free so the pink bubble can take
them away.

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Finally, I wipe my eyes with my sleeve and smile, feeling so much lighter than I had felt earlier. I feel my
reflection take my hand and lead me through the liquid, back into my house. Though I am no longer trapped
within a box of mirrors, I turn back to see my reflection fading away, now a perfect mirror image of my appear-
ance, with a smile and a knowing wink, like she understands exactly how I feel. I guess she does know how I feel.
After all, she is a true reflection of me.

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Self-Love Cake

Andrea Omotosho

2 cups of High Self Esteem
1 cup of Self forgiveness (More if you need it)
2 tablespoons of love from others
1 lb. of exercise (A little sweat won’t hurt)
30 teaspoons of meditation (Let the stress go)
5 oz. of gratitude (You have a lot to be thankful for)
Add in no particular order.
Bake to your perfection and ENJOY!

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The School Chronicles Part I

David Ramirez

Since the moment I stepped foot into a school, it was a challenge for me. No matter where I went or whose class
I was in, I was always bullied and tormented. I kid you not. I was bullied and called “girl” from the time I was in
pre-K to about second grade. Then that’s when things took a dark turn, and I was called “gay” for the first time.
All because I had decided to play with chalk and stopped another boy from messing with my drawings. Being
called “gay” quickly turned into “gay-boy.” From that moment on, things were solidified for me for the rest of
my days in elementary school. When fifth grade was over, I thought things would change since I was going to an-
other school away from the kids at my elementary. I would go to the school my sister went to, a so-called “better”
school than the one we were zoned to. I was so happy. I would have a second chance at making friends and being
“normal” since only a few people knew me there: my best friend, her brother, and my sister. However, on the
contrary, that year things went from being bad to unforgettably awful. I started there when I was 11, turning 12;
I slowly discovered some things about myself that were different from all the other boys. My voice never changed
pitch, and my mannerisms were different from all the boys. I quickly realized I wasn’t blending in, and people
started tormenting me again. I was suffocating in a world that I felt was not made for me, and I didn’t know what
to do. I got into a lot of trouble that year at school because all I wanted was for someone to ask me if I was okay.
But it never happened.

I didn’t have any friends in my classes, and my best friend and I never saw each other, since we were in
different grades. I used to go up to the stage in the cafeteria, where the principles ate, and ask them if I could eat
in solitary lunch detention. Lunch detention was on the stage behind some screens where the students ate on
metal chairs. You would think a kid who wasn’t assigned lunch detention and would ask to eat in solitary would
raise questions, but no.

On the occasions that I was sent to the principal, I’d ask them to give me in-school suspension or lunch
detention. That meant I would either be free from no one to sit with at lunch or being persecuted by the stu-
dents that would chase me. I screamed for help the best way I could, and no one was listening. I wrote messages
to my English teacher in my papers about a kid being tormented and abused, but she never asked me if I was
okay. Instead, she would write me up for chewing gum or messing up a computer keyboard unknowingly. That
English class was my last class of the day, and things only got worse for me when it ended. Some of the guys from
that class, and few others, would chase me after class and hit me. I ran all over the school until the bell rang for
the 7th and 8th graders to be dismissed from class and I could run to find my sister, who I hoped would help me,
but who was too soft-spoken and shy to help in the ways I know she would have liked to have been able to do.

After the first couple of times, I learned that she wasn’t going to defend me, so I ran nonstop. I used to
run until she was outside with her friends because her friends would protect me. However, there were two oc-
casions when I didn’t make it outside in time. The first occasion was when they took my backpack. A privileged
kid got one of my notebooks and put it on the water fountain and turned it on and said these exact words: “It’s
wet, just like you and your family.”

I lost it and charged at him! I remember jumping on top of this guy and hitting him until his friends
pulled me off and we were caught. We went to the principal’s office, and I told her what happened. No investi-
gation about what was done to protect me, and nothing changed; instead, I got in trouble. It wasn’t long after
that, that the worst thing imaginable happened.

One day, one of the older kids chased me chased me into a restroom and cornered me into a stall. He
threw me against a wall, and my head hit the brick wall. I crumpled to the floor, and at that moment, I figured

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he was satisfied with how much he’d embarrassed me, so if I just sat there, he would leave me alone. The horrible
truth was that it was just the beginning of one of my life’s darkest and coldest memories. As the tears ran down
my face and the sound was trapped in my mouth, he sexually abused me. My voice was drowning in my tears, and
after a certain point I just laid there without even trying to make a sound. In that moment, there was no fighting
back. I had surrendered to the pain, and my innocence was shattered.

When he left, I sat there for what seemed like forever. My life had been shattered into pieces so small I
didn’t think they could be put back together. I was exhausted from crying for help and became numb to asking
for it. I was tired of life and tired of waiting for help that would never come. So, I never asked anyone for help or
came forward. He left me there in the stall, broken down and hopeless. I thought no one would care to listen to
me or help me, and I know most people would say, “why didn’t you tell your parents?”

Well, I couldn’t because I thought it would open up a can of worms that I didn’t want to open. Homo-
sexuality was considered taboo in my family, and I felt like I would be shamed and that it would humiliate my
family.

After that day, that guy stopped chasing me after school. I heard he moved, and I’ve never seen him since.
He had crushed the pieces of me that were already broken and disintegrated the fragments into an unrecogniz-
able waste of emotions. I was cold and hollow on the inside, pretending on the outside that nothing had ever
happened.

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Puppet

Francesca Bocchini

Unable to express my thoughts,
I wander through life as a puppet
to my own mind.
I walk with a smile plastered on my face,
the puppet-master controlling
every move I make.
As a ghost, I wander.
Forgettable puppet,
vanishing away.

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SIHtti’s,oTpNhAoistsAkPibonoegumt HisimTitPleleda: sNeo,

Jessica Saul

I wanted to write about real ghosts.
It’s so much easier to write about real ghosts.
The ghost I saw turning the faucet on and off in the hotel bathroom when I was three years old.
The ghost of Cheryl, who haunted my high school’s auditorium.
The ghost of my dad, who is watching me while I type this.
Real ghosts are fun.
They’re spooky and otherworldly.
Ghosts of people who aren’t dead yet are not fun.
It isn’t fun when a ghost texts you, out of the blue, at 10:00 P.M.
It is even less fun when the ghost stops replying the next day.
It is excruciatingly not fun when you fall asleep looking at old pictures of you and the ghost,
Pictures from before they were a ghost.
You never really mourned their loss.
You held onto them, praying that deep down some part of them was still breathing.
Maybe that’s the part of the ghost that texts you at 10:00 P.M.

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Blue Days, Black Nights

Jessica Saul

Turning the radio on is always a gamble. Twisting the dial is akin to putting coins in a slot machine or taking a
dime to a scratch-off purchased from a shady gas station.

He used to buy scratch-offs religiously. The door would open, and in he’d walk, back from the gym and
a detour at a convenience store for the sole purpose of acquiring a lottery ticket. He said one day he’d win, and
when he did he would move to Hawaii and buy a coconut farm. It was never mentioned if he’d bring us along
with him, and no one ever asked. I think we’d be left behind. Not with any sinister intent, just because he was
such a solitary man. A solitary man who found himself in a not-so-solitary lifestyle.

Switching on my car radio and shuffling through the stations was just asking for trouble. Any number of
songs could come on, and in an instant, the world would melt around me. If I avoided the oldies station, I was
usually fine. One click too far, and I’d be tuning in to “107.5, The Eagle, Houston’s Only Classic Rock Station.”
I’d be sitting in the back of his company car on my way home from school. I never sat in the passenger seat; his
laptop rested there along with a stack of papers. Silence would have consumed us both if not for the classic rock
coming through his car speakers.

“How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“You heard from your mom?”
“No.”
Sometimes, most of the time, he’d sing along to the radio. I’d feign annoyance as all pre-teens and teens
do. Before the strain and the charade, there was light and love. A contrast as stark as day and night. Two different
songs playing on two very different days, years apart.
I have a record framed on my wall. It’s beat to hell, and I paid all of eight dollars for it. I don’t even own
a record player.
Both songs, on both of those days, were by the same band. A band whose record is now encased in glass
and hanging from my bedroom wall. Whether I act out of guilt or memoriam, I’ll never know. It’s probably
both, intertwined and tangled and mixed and stirred until they formed a whole new feeling. They’re such happy
songs too, not the type that would usually make you cry while stuck in traffic.
When I remember being in the back of his car, with my mom in the passenger seat, and the brightest sun
you’ve ever seen looking down on us, I’m not sure how old I was, just that it was within the first nine years of my
life. Sun is shinin’ in the sky, There ain’t a cloud in sight.
And there truly wasn’t.

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WOnaxFrail Wings of Vanity and

Jessica Saul

The dripping wax hit the waves
before his body did
foretelling the sea
of the displacement to come.
The feathers landed next
gently on top of the foam.
The sun looked beautiful in the sky
and deadly up close.
He longed for her—
to feel her warmth.
She did not burn him.
She just forgot to catch him.

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Painter’s Block

Tristan Sharrosh

The pain was almost unbearable now. Try as I may, as I had been, I just couldn’t block it out anymore. Shooting
through my body, the pain was demanding recognition. I was fast approaching my limit; the cramps that began
as an inconvenience had since graduated to fully-fledged knots. I could feel the muscles in my legs and back mov-
ing on their own, collecting and twisting, pushing and pulling, contorting—conspiring to punish me for the ab-
surdity of my predicament. The veins in my neck bulged as it strained to support the weight of my head. Gritting
my teeth, I tried to refocus the mounting pain, making it all the more difficult. Still, I wouldn’t budge, my resolve
solidifying to almost petulant defiance after nearly an hour of sitting tensed, laboring, nearing the edge. And I
had gotten nowhere. But the pain was a part of the process, supposedly, wasn’t it? Always they’ll preach about
how “you should suffer for your art.” But “they” never tell you how much suffering art demands because “they”
have never had to—contented, drowned in mediocrity as they were, “they” were observers—or worse, critics.

If only the landmark had been posted with a large sign. Maybe it was a gauge: lock your foot in a bear
trap, bite, cripple it, then watch the meter climb until it reaches the blood-red line, and then bells ring and con-
fetti flies, and an authentic piece of creation drops out some hatch and into your lap. What better description of
inspiration is there? Because after all these years of practice, heartache, and dedication—still, I hadn’t yet reached
that appropriate measure of suffering. Maybe I should invest in a bear trap.

Focus! I need to focus. This is no time for daydreams. I absolutely needed to focus.
Joining me now in my masochistic vigil, dubbed self-expression, was a sound. Rising in pitch, it cut
through the silence of my misery. Vibrating the air around me, a dull droning came from nowhere and every-
where at once. Minutes slogged past, accompanied by that strange noise. It dragged on, shucking my attentions.
But I couldn’t dare look away. I needed to stay focused. This beehive that had made its home between my ears
buzzed and hummed. Buzzed and hummed along, dragging on for an eternity, for so long that it finally cracked
my stony composure. The concrete facade that I had maintained for so long crumbled, starting with just a mo-
mentary shift, then a shudder and all my focus and determination collapsed in a landslide. I slid from the stool
and slouched on the floor. That’s when I realized it, what that annoying, persistent noise was. It was me. Sitting
there perched painfully on a stool for so long, I had started groaning without even realizing it. This realization
did me in. With a frustrated sigh, I buried my face in my hands and accepted that this attempt at a creative ven-
ture had failed.
“Oh well,” I exhaled.
Honestly, I had expected as much. It had been years since I’d successfully painted, no, created, anything
for myself, and as much as I’d dreamed, I knew it was foolish to believe that it was possible to just jump right back
in. How many attempts was this now, though? I had been testing the waters, running my toe across, but other-
wise unable to break the surface. I wasn’t sure what kept me from diving in, exploring the black, from getting
wet, and I’m not sure which frustrated me more, not being able to or not knowing why I couldn’t.
I picked myself up off the floor, stretched my legs, back, and with one hand, massaged life back into my
cricked neck. Savoring the relief of movement flooding through me, I gazed down at the painfully blank canvas
on the easel in front of me, thick with uncountable layers of primer. I had ritually primed and re-primed that
canvas every day for the past month. If someone looked hard enough, I imagine they could have made out every
mark my eyes had smeared across that canvas.
Sitting off to the side on a small wooden table was my old tackle box of oil paints. The Plano green-and-
grey box mottled with years of paint splatter still wore the cloak of dust left from its excavation from amid the

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