2010

Rambunctious
2010


1




Dear
Students
and
Staff
of
Jamesville‐DeWitt
High
School,



 The
Creative
Writing
Club
is
honored
to
present
Rambunctious,
a
collection

of
poems
and
short
fiction
by
students
and
staff
members.
The
majority
of
the

fiction
and
poetry
has
been
taken
from
students
in
Mrs.
Shelton’s
Creative
Writing

Class
and
submitted
from
those
acting
on
their
own
initiative.
It
was
an
absolute

pleasure
to
work
with
the
wonderful
writing
of
the
students
and
staff
of
Jamesville

DeWitt
High
School;
the
talent
in
this
school
is
absolutely
breathtaking
and
we
look

forward
to
sharing
the
contents
of
this
literary
journal
with
our
Jamesville
Dewitt

family.


We
would
like
to
take
the
opportunity
to
remind
you
that
the
speaker
or

narrator
of
a
poem
or
story
is
not
necessarily
the
same
as
the
person
who
wrote

the
piece.
In
this
respect,
we
have
showcased
many
different
voices,
perspectives

and
styles
in
Rambunctious.
In
addition,
the
order
in
which
these
pieces
appear
is

solely
to
the
purpose
of
the
structural
aesthetics
of
this
collection
and
is
in
no
way,

shape,
or
form
a
reflection
of
rank
or
personal
preference.


The
Creative
Writing
Club
would
also
like
to
extend
a
warm
thank
you
to

Mrs.
Shelton,
our
club
advisor,
whose
exceptional
creative
talents
and
professional

opinions
helped
Rambunctious
take
flight.
We
would
also
like
to
thank
Mr.
Paul

Gaspirini
and
Jamesville‐DeWitt
High
School—this
publication
would
not
be

possible
without
them.


Without
further
ado,
we
invite
you
to
explore
Rambunctious
for
yourself.

Enjoy!


Sincerely,


The
2010
Creative
Writing
Club






2




Further
Away


Andrew
Lee



If
only
the
moon


Hadn’t
felt
like
setting
that
night

The
wordless
beauty

Would
have
been
transfixed
forever

Frozen

Glazed
with
the
yearning

To
seek
those
hands

Under
the
fading
cover



Instead

The
blackened
fibers

Stretched
taut

And
brought
the
moon
to
its
knees







Recipe
for
Bittersweet


Kathryn
Hu



Try
this...

A
handful
of
sugar
cubes


A
soft
petal
of
compassion

The
crisp
wind
of
autumn

Some
delicate
pencil
shavings


A
pinch
of
sea
salt


10
thorns
of
dead
roses

3
cups
of
finely
grated
misery

1/2
cup
of
regret
(mix
well)

And
don't
forget
the
branch
of
a
weeping
willow,
the
lips
of
one
who
won't
reveal
a
basest
love,

the
echo
whose
advice
we
scorned

Remember
the
nice,
rich
chocolate,
your
sweetest
valentine,
a
few
burning
embers
from
the

campfire


Bring
me
your
fake
plastic
feeling,
the
scent
of
lavender,
and
tissues
would
be
nice,
the
wishbone

left
in
your
pocket,
or
maybe
in
the
washing
machine...

Now
let
it
end:
toss
in
some
missed
calls,
your
bottled
up
irritation
and
the
desire
to
run

But
don't
forget
how
we
yearned
to
love



Refrigerate
and
sleep
on
it.



It
should
taste
bittersweet.







3




Unnecessary
Information
 
4


Brianna
Suslovic



You
don’t
need
to
know



that
the
paint’s
chipping
away,

slowly
peeling,

curling
down
the
wall…



It’s
crackling
further
away
from
reality.



You
don’t
need
to
know


that
the
gap’s
widening.

The
crack
isn’t
a
crack
anymore.



It’s
a
gaping
hole.



You
don’t
need
to
know

that
it’s
sliding
through
the
spaces

in
between
my
fingertips.

It’s
here
now,
but
not
for
long.



It’s
slipping
away.



You
don’t
need
to
know


that
flashes
of
blackness


cloud
my
vision,

creeping
their
way


inside.



They’re
invading.



I’m
letting
you
catch
glimpses

of
my
world,

but
nothing
more,

nothing
less…



You
don’t
need
to
know


anyways.













Christina
Oaster



 “Wake
up!
Time
for
school!”
Mother
shouts.
I
roll
over
in
bed,
allowing
me
to
soak
up

every
ounce
of
warmth
I
have
produced.
Just
another
day
of
school,
just
another
day
to
live,
just

another
day
to
struggle
through.
Every
morning
I
wake
up
and
put
on
what
I
like
to
call
my
"happy

face".
The
ugly,
fake,
materialistic
face.
It
disgusts
me
every
time
I
see
it.
I
am
no
proud
of
what
it

hides,
but
I
know
what
lingers
below
it.
A
sad
young
girl
that
wants
to
be
happy.
A
girl
who
wants

each
morning
when
she
opens
her
eyes
to
say
to
herself,
“I,
not
events,
have
the
power
to
make

me
happy
or
unhappy
today.
I
can
choose
which
it
shall
be.
Yesterday
is
dead,
tomorrow
hasn’t

arrived
yet.
I
have
just
one
day,
today,
and
I’m
going
to
be
happy
in
it.”
Yet
that
face
tends
to

reveal
itself
without
me
knowing
for
all
the
others
to
see.
Today,
I
must
put
on
an
extra
shield
for

the
misfortunes
that
took
place
yesterday.



 School
was
more
difficult
than
it
has
ever
been.
As
if
some
imaginary
person
were
shouting

my
life
story
to
the
whole
school.
Somehow,
they
knew
something
was
wrong,
even
with
my
years

of
experience
hiding
my
life.
Yet
a
couple
"I’m
ok"s
and
a
different
story
were
all
it
took
to
sculpt

their
minds;
everything
was
fine
in
their
eyes.
As
well
as
mine,
fight
is
another
day;
I
become

accustomed
to
those
events.
Each
punch
that
is
thrown,
every
word
that
is
pounded
into
my
mind,

and
every
heart
that
is
black,
I
have
had
a
piece
of
mine
chipped
away.
Each
piece
of
mine
is
left
at

that
moment
in
life
that
will
never
be
resolved,
so
my
heart
will
never
be
fixed.
I
speak
to
my

counselor
an
occasion
about
smaller
ordeals,
tricking
him
to
think
that
I
am
talking
about
my

problems,
just
another
set
of
eyes
I
have
fooled.
So
I
carry
throughout
my
day,
accomplished.



 I
walk
home
that
day,
taking
each
second
to
remember
what
had
happened
and
the
future

that
follows.
I
began
to
get
worked
up
about
it;
the
memory
breaks
into
my
emotions,
a
door
that

will
forever
be
shut.
An
inhale
from
a
cigarette
will
lock
that
door
again
for
me
now.



 He
slammed
the
door
in
his
face.
Pushed
with
such
anger
that
I
swear
it
would
have

snapped
in
half.
My
heart
and
body
shakes
as
I
yell
for
them
to
stop,
yet
my
words
didn’t
persuade

his
drunken
haze.
The
bottle
still
in
his
grasp
he
shoves
my
father
through
the
weak
door.
I
tried
to

separate
them
and
got
caught
in
the
midst
as
a
tightened
anger
filled
fist
impounds
my
body.
His

drink
shatters
on
the
floors
as
my
feet
step
on
top
of
the
glass,
still
trying
to
stop
the
fight.
I
hear

my
father
scream
from
his
smoke
filled
lungs,
“You’re
hurting
me!
Stop!
Stop!
Please
stop!”
Yet
he

continues
to
hurt
him.
I
try
to
rip
him
off
my
father,
but
my
punches
and
screaming
didn’t
faze
him.

Authority
finally
showed
up
and
my
father
is
on
the
ground,
an
old
work‐worn
man
begging
for
the

air
my
brother
once
stole.
I
see
my
brother
standing
with
his
ripped
jeans
and
face
beet
red.
His

body
sways
in
a
circle;
in
his
world,
it’s
spinning.
He
obviously
can’t
see
my
tears
through
his
blood

shot
eyes.
I
run
and
hide
inside,
getting
out
of
the
sight
of
my
neighbor’s
staring
eyes;
they
are

curious
and
I
am
ashamed
and
embarrassed
of
my
own
family.
I
try
to
calm
myself
as
I
clean
the

shattered
broken
glass
and
beer
I
once
stepped
upon.
The
officer
steps
inside
as
I’m
cleaning
the

mess.
He
asks,
“Are
you
alright?”
I
stand
up
and
he
reaches
his
arms
around
me,
giving
me
a
sense

of
hope
that
everything
will
be
alright,
“I’m
so
sorry.”
He
whispered.







5





 From
that
day
on,
all
I
could
hope
for
was
that
everything
would
truly
be
okay.
But
I
guess

that
was
too
much
to
ask
for,
I
can’t
stand
to
look
at
my
brother
and
cried
when
I
saw
my
father.


My
father
up
and
left
and
I
haven’t
seen
him
since.
Not
once
could
understand
the
sight
I
saw
that

day.
A
monster,
a
true
monster.
Throughout
time
I
spoke
to
my
father.


 “Will
you
ever
come
back
home?”
I
asked,
my
lip
quivering.



 “It’s
not
a
home,
not
my
home.”
he
said
sternly.


 “Okay,
well,
I
miss
you.”
My
eyes
drowned
in
tears.


 “Miss
you
too.”
Quietly
said.



 “Dad,
what
will
happen
when
I
get
married
one
day?
Will
you
be
there
to
walk
me
down

the
aisle,
even
if
he
is
there?”
I
said
out
of
curiosity.


 “No,”
was
all
he
said.





 Those
were
the
words
that
set
off
my
emotions.
Did
he
really
mean
that?
Will
he
really

leave
me?
His
only
daughter?
Only
time
could
tell
that.



 The
house
was
quiet
for
the
next
couple
of
days.
It
didn’t
feel
right.
I
felt
uncomfortable
in

my
own
house.
I
know
neither
one
of
them
would
apologize.
This
was
something
that
I
couldn’t
fix.

I
just
had
to
put
on
that
face
for
school
and
get
through
the
day.
That’s
all
I
needed
now.
I
didn’t


need
or
want
any
"help"
from
anyone.
I
thought
that
I
was
strong
enough
to
deal
with
it
myself

and
motivate
me
to
see
another
day.
I
obviously
motivate
myself
each
day
to
even
get
up,
but

dealing
with
this
was
nowhere
near
what
I
could
handle.
I
didn’t
want
to
be
seen
as
the
girl
with


the
issues
and
the
problems.


 Then
I
thought
that
happiness
is
an
emotion,
a
part
of
my
mind
that
I
lock
up
for
no
one
to


see.
I
have
often
heard
that
happiness
often
sneaks
in
through
a
door
you
didn’t
know
you
left

open.
So
if
I
allow
myself
to
open
up
that
locked
door,
will
I
be
happy?





My
Earth



 
 Alexis
Wilson




I
think
of
you
while
dazing
into
the
colors
of
the
sun
at
six
in
the
morning.

Thinking
about
our
past,
present,
and
future
composed
into
a
work
of
art.


I
watch
time
pass,

As
waves
crash
and
bangs
against
stones
of
gray
and
granite.

I
feel
the
bitter
wind
brush
against
my
skin
and
caught
between
creases.

I
feel
the
waves
of
wonder
given
by
God
himself
rushing
in
like
day
turning
into
the
night.


The
patterns
of
my
dreams
put
into
clouds
for
all
to
see.

Waiting
for
a
child
to
find
something
within.


I
notice
the
consistent
framework
of
night
and
everything
it
must
keep
secret.

My
eyes
see
the
black,
hollow
frame
of
the
sky.

Even
when
I
know,

There
is
so
much
more
than
what
meets
the
eye.

And
you
wonder
why
I
think
of
you.



6





 
 Across
And
Over


Matt
Kelly



This
forwarding
sense
of
silence


And
a
stranded
path
of
longing


What
has
gone


Has
died


And
has
brushed
along
the
shore


What
is
fair
to
say


As
you
drown
in
the
sea?


You
have
no
one
left
to
hear





No
boat


No
leave


Counted
moments,
wasted
time


A
distance
stretched
by
oceans


You
will
never
reach
me






Three
Simple
Words


Alex
Lesser




I
walked
through
the
dimly
lit
halls
towards
my
classroom.
The
shouts
of
students
pulled

me
away
from
my
destination.
I
watched
a
new
teacher
struggle
to
break
up
a
fight.
“Hey!”
I

shouted,
“Get
to
class.”
The
students
jumped
at
the
sound
of
my
voice
and
nonchalantly
walked
to

homeroom,
except
the
two
boys
who
were
in
the
fight.
“You
two,
what
was
this
about?”


“Nothing,”
the
smaller
of
the
two
answered,
“I’m
sorry."
I
looked
into
his
big
brown
eyes.

They
looked
innocent,
but
he
was
hiding
something.


“To
the
office,
the
both
of
you.”
I
continued
my
long
walk
to
my
classroom.


I
heard
the
rushing
steps
of
someone's
shoes
trying
to
catch
up
to
me.
“Hey,
thanks
for

helping
me
back
there.
Is
it
always
this
hectic?”



7




“Welcome
to
Walter
J.
Brooks.
Its
name
is
synonymous
with
chaos.”

“I
guess
I’ll
be
in
for
one
heck
of
a
year.”

And
with
that,
the
bell
rang,
so
we
both
went
to
our
classes.


♦
♦
♦
♦

“Good
morning,
class,"
I
said
as
I
entered
the
room.
“My
name
is
Mr.
Vogel,
and
I
am
going

to
be
your
English
teacher
this
year.”
I
began
to
write
my
name
on
the
old
black
chalkboard.
“Now,

kids,
if
you
need
anything,
I’m
here
for
you.
I
can
give
you
rides
to
school
if
you
need.
So
just
see

me
after
class.”
I
began
reading
the
names
off
the
attendance
list.


There
were
the
normal
unenthusiastic
“here’s”.


“Keyon
Hayes?
Are
you
here,
Mr.
Hayes?”


It
was
the
small
boy
from
the
fight.
He
burst
in
out
of
breath.


“Can
I
help
you?”

“Sorry
I’m
late,
Mr…”
he
said.
He
seemed
embarrassed
that
all
eyes
were
on
him.

“Vogel.”

“It
won’t
happen
again.”

“What’s
your
name?”
I
asked.

“Keyon
Hayes.”


♦
♦
♦
♦

It
was
my
turn
for
detention
duty.
It
was
a
relatively
small
crowd
compared
to
normal.
The

usual
miscreants
were
there,
and
I
saw
Keyon
Hayes.
He
looked
out
of
place.
I
could
tell
that
he

wasn’t
a
usual
in
detention.


After
the
bell
rang,
I
said,
“Keyon,
can
I
talk
to
you?”


He
walked
over
to
my
desk,
dragging
his
feet
with
each
step.

“Have
you
ever
been
in
detention
before?”
I
asked.

“No,
sir.
I’m
sorry.
It
won’t
happen
again.”

“Why
were
you
in
the
fight?
I
could
be
wrong,
but
you
don’t
seem
like
the
type
of
guy
to

get
in
fights.”

“He
has
it
in
for
me.
The
bully,
I
mean.
He
started
when
I
was
walking
to
school.
I
don’t

know
why.
I
guess
I’m
an
easy
target.”

“Then
walk
around
with
more
confidence.
Walk
with
your
friends.
Bullies
tend
to
target

people
who
aren’t
self‐confident
and
who
are
alone.
And
if
you
need
help,
you
can
always
give
me

a
call.”
I
wrote
my
number
on
a
piece
of
paper
and
handed
it
to
him.


“Thanks,
Mr.
V.”

“One
more
thing,
Keyon.”

“Yeah,
Mr.
V?”


“Keep
your
eyes
open.”

“I
will.”


♦
♦
♦
♦







8




“Good
morning,
class.
Today
we’re
going
to
begin
one
of
the
most
important
assignments

of
the
year.”



A
series
of
grunts
and
groans
arose.


“You
can
learn
a
lot
about
yourself
from
it.
You
have
to
tell
a
story.
Your
story.
I
will
be
at

my
desk
if
anyone
wants
to
conference.
Please
get
started
on
a
free
write,
and
feel
free
to
ask
me

any
questions.”

Keyon
approached
my
desk.
“Uh…
Mr.
V.
Can
you
help
me?”

“Of
course,
Keyon.
Do
you
have
any
ideas?”

“No.
I
don’t
really
know
what
to
do.
My
life
isn’t
that
interesting;
I’m
just
another
person.
I

was
thinkin’
about
what
you
told
me
yesterday.
And
I
don’t
really
have
a
purpose.”


“Everyone
has
a
purpose.
You
just
have
to
look
deep
enough.
What’s
your
life
about?”

He
thought
about
it
for
a
minute.
“Survivin’,”
Keyon
answered.
“I
wanna
live
to
see

tomorrow.”

“Okay,
is
there
anything
else?”

“Nope,”
he
said
flatly.

“Are
you
sure?”

“I
guess
so.”

“Don’t
you
have
a
younger
sister?”

“Yeah.
I
got
Kiesha.”

“So
as
each
day
goes
by,
your
only
goal
is
to
live
to
see
the
next
day.
What
about
your

younger
sister,
Keisha?”


Keyon
stood
there
like
a
statue.


“You
don’t
have
to
be
ashamed
to
admit
that
you
love
her.
She’s
your
sister.
It’s
your
job

to
take
care
of
her.
She
needs
you.
Where
would
she
be
without
you?”

“Gone.
She
wouldn’t
have
nobody.
She’d
be
stuck
at
home
with
my
ma,
who’s...”

“See,
she
needs
you.
She
needs
you
more
than
you
think.”

“I
guess
I’ve
never
really
thought
about
that.”

“Do
you
tell
her
that
you
love
her?”
I
queried.

“What?”
Keyon
said.
He
was
thrown
off
guard
by
my
question.

“Do
you
tell
her
that
you
love
her?”
I
repeated.
“Before
you
leave
the
house
to
go
to

school,
do
you
say
‘Goodbye,
I
love
you?'”

“No,"
he
answered,
ashamed.
His
eyes
were
fixed
on
the
floor.

“They’re
only
four
simple
words,
but
they
will
make
a
difference.
It’s
not
a
crime
to
love

your
family.
How
would
you
live
if
your
sister
was
gone?
What
if
you
never
told
her
how
you
felt?

You
would
carry
an
incredible
burden
of
guilt.
I
know
from
personal
experience
that
the
guilt
will

never
go
away.
I
admit
I’ve
made
mistakes,
and
the
consequences
of
my
actions
still
follow
me

today.”

“Mr.
V,
what
happened?”





9




“My
grandfather
was
dying.
He
had
cancer
and
was
losing
the
battle.
I
was
alone
and

afraid.
I
was
in
denial,
so
I
didn’t
go
and
visit
him.
I
wasn’t
there
on
his
last
day.
I
never
said,

‘Thanks
for
everything’
or
‘I
love
you’
Do
you
know
how
much
it
hurts
to
think
about
it?


Do
you
want
to
live
your
life
in
pain?”


“No.
I
don’t,
Mr.
V.
No,
I
don’t.”

♦
♦
♦
♦


I
listened
through
the
open
door
of
his
house
as
I
waited
to
give
Keyon
a
ride
to
school.
He

lived
in
an
old,
rundown,
yellow
house.
The
paint
was
chipping,
and
most
of
the
windows
were

broken.
I
knew
I
had
to
do
something
for
this
kid.


“Goodbye,
Kiesha.
I
gotta
go
to
school.”

“Don’t
go,”
a
soft
voice
cried.


“What’s
the
matter,
Kiesh?”

“I
don’t
want
you
to
go.”

"Don’t
cry.
Come
here.
Everything
will
be
alright,”
Keyon
whispered.
“I
love
you.”

I
watched
the
tall
silhouette
of
Keyon
pull
his
sister
into
a
loving
embrace.
Yes,
Keyon.
You

did
it!
You
did
it!
You
don’t
know
how
proud
I
am
of
you.
Trust
me;
it
will
make
all
the
difference
in

both
of
your
lives
later
on.
This
touching
scene
brought
tears
to
my
eyes
and
a
smile
to
my
face,

because
I
knew
that
I
had
already
helped
him.
And
that
he
would
be
able
to
continue
to
help

himself.

Keyon
exited
the
house
and
locked
the
door.
He
waved
the
pair
of
sad
eyes
that
looked
out

the
window
a
last
goodbye.
As
Keyon
approached
me,
he
said,
“Sorry
about
the
wait,
Mr.
V.
I
just

had
to
say
goodbye
to
my
little
sister.”







The
Dare
Queen



 
 Nicole
Tanquary





 “Hey,
Izzy!”
Christina
called,
rushing
to
catch
up
with
the
other
girl.


Izzy
noticed
that
Christina
was
wearing
heavy
mascara
and
that
she
had
coated
her
face


with
a
foundation
that
was
a
little
too
shiny
to
be
natural,
making
her
look
almost
exactly
like
a

Barbie
doll.
Izzy
tried
not
to
stare.



“So,
what’s
up?”
Christina
said,
as
they
pushed
their
way
through
the
crowded
hallways.

“The
ceiling,”
Izzy
automatically
replied.


Christina
rolled
her
eyes.
“Besides
that.”


Izzy
shrugged.

Ignoring
the
quiet,
I‐want‐to
be‐alone
mood
that
the
other
girl
had
slipped
into,
Christina

pressed
on
with
the
conversation
she
had
already
planned
out
in
her
head.
“So,
this
morning,
the

bus
passed
the
elementary
school
and
I
remembered
how
back
in
the
fourth
grade
everybody
used

to
call
you
the
Dare
Queen.”




10




Izzy
winced.
She
just
managed
to
forget
that
section
of
her
childhood,
but
Christina’s
voice

brought
back
hazy
images
of
faces
and
laughter
and
all
the
Dares
she
had
ever
done.




“And
I
was
remembering
the
best
ones,
like
how
you
stayed
inside
the
boy’s
bathroom
for

five
minutes
and
how
you
ate
three
worms
in
under
twenty
seconds
and
when
you
stole
that
piece

of
chocolate
from
Wegmans…”


“Hey,
not
so
loud!”
Izzy
hissed.
A
crowd
of
sophomores
gave
them
a
strange
look.
Izzy

looked
distinctly
uncomfortable.
The
guilt
for
that
piece
of
chocolate
still
lurked
in
the
deepest

confines
of
her
consciousness.
It
sometimes
showed
up
in
her
nightmares.
Except
that
it
usually

had
teeth.


She
was,
by
nature,
a
quiet,
shadowy
sort
of
person
who
knew
in
her
heart
that
she
was
a

follower
and
didn’t
seem
to
mind
it
very
much.
Izzy
just
automatically
did
what
other
people
told

her
to
do.
Which
made
her
so
hilarious
to
tell
a
Dare
to,
back
in
the
elementary‐school
days.


It
had
also
put
her
into
the
‘popular
girl’
category.
Everyone
liked
Izzy.
But
something

about
Christina
was
just…well…
unlikeable.
Up
until
high
school,
she
had
always
been
one
of
the

"weirdos".
And
she
wasn’t
the
sort
of
person
to
easily
forgive.


Christina
forced
her
expression
into
an
encouraging
smile.
“Anyway,
I
was
thinking
that
it

would
be
sweet
if
we
could…
I
dunno…
recapture
the
past
or
whatever?”



Izzy
made
a
face.
“Recapturing
the
past
is
for
old
people.
Or
people
going
through
their

midlife
crisis.
And,
FYI,
we’re
sixteen…”


 Christina
shrugged.
“Call
it
a
midhigh‐school
crisis,
then.”



Izzy
said
nothing.


When
Cristina
spoke
again,
her
voice
changed
to
a
low‐pitched
whine.
“Come
ON.
At
least

listen
to
my
Dare?”


Izzy
hesitated.
She
had
a
bad
feeling
about
this
whole
conversation.
“…Okay,
fine.
What
is

it?”


Christina
sucked
in
a
deep
breath,
to
make
room
for
a
dramatic
pause.
“Go
say
‘Robert

Pattinson
is
ugly’
in
from
of
the
Twilight
Fan
Club.”


Izzy
stopped
in
her
tracks,
eyes
wide
and
frozen
in
a
look
of
horror.


“You
know,
Robert
Pattinson,
Edward
Cullen’s
actor
in
the
mov‐“


 “I’m
not
doing
that!”
Izzy
snapped.
“That
club
is
LOCO.
They’d
probably
tie
me
to
a
stake

and
burn
me
alive!”


Christina
rolled
her
eyes
again.
She
was
very
good
at
it.
“Come
on,
what
have
you
got
to

lose?”
Christina’s
sentence
hung
in
the
silence
between
them,
hinting
that
Izzy
would
be
a
total

nerd
if
she
ignored
it.


Izzy
groaned
inwardly
to
herself.
That
was
the
same
tone…
the
same
line,
practically…
that

made
her
go
into
the
boy’s
bathroom
and
eat
those
worms
and
steal
that
danged
piece
of

chocolate.



 But
the
problem
was
it
always
worked.


 “Alright,
alright,
fine,”
Izzy
found
herself
grumbling,
just
to
make
Christina
go
away.




11




Christina
was
surprised.
She
hadn’t
even
needed
to
use
bribes,
stuff
like
money,
juicy
who‐
likes‐who
info…
or
chocolates.
Christina
snickered
inside
her
head.
Oh,
that
one
never
got
old.


“Great!
Meet
me
by
the
main
door
after
school.
I’m
pretty
sure
the
Twilight
club
is
meeting
today.”


Izzy
let
out
a
sigh.
“Alright.
See
you
there,”
she
muttered.



 Christina
headed
off
to
math
class,
feeling
unusually
proud
of
herself.



 Of
course,
Izzy
felt
the
opposite.


 The
buses
pulled
away
from
the
curb,
the
hiss
from
their
exhaust
pipes
fading
into
the

wintry
sky.
Christina
frowned,
glanced
at
her
watch,
and
let
her
foot
tap
on
the
sidewalk.



 Moments
later,
Izzy
hurried
up
from
behind,
red
in
the
face
and
panting
haggardly.



 “Where
have
you
been?”
Christina
said.
“I
almost
thought
you
weren’t
coming.”



An
embarrassed
blush
spread
across
Izzy’s
cheeks,
but
Christina
hurried
on
before
she


could
apologize.


“Alright,
let’s
go,
Dare
Queen.”
Christina
put
her
hands
on
Izzy’s
shoulders,
propelling
her


through
the
entrance,
down
the
main
hallway
and
into
the
green
hall,
whose
locker‐covered
sides


seemed
to
stretch
on
into
oblivion.
“Room
G23,”
Christina
called
after
her,
waving
her
farewell.

“They’re
having
a
costume
party
today.
You
can’t
miss
it!”


Izzy
stood
there
awkwardly,
feeling
suddenly
very
alone.
She
walked
with
small,
slow


steps,
practicing
the
words
in
her
head.
‘Robert
Pattinson
is
ugly.
Robert
Pattinson
is
ugly.
Robert

Pattinson
is
ugly.
Robert
Pattinson
is
ugly.’
A
slight
flutter
of
confidence
lit
inside
her
mind.
This

wasn’t
so
bad.
She
had
done
worse
Dares…



 When
she
thought
she
reached
the
right
room,
she
squeezed
her
eyes
shut,
threw
the

door
open,
and
began
to
say,
“Robert
Pattinson
is
ug‐“
Her
sentence
trailed
away
into
nothingness,


as
she
opened
her
eyes
and
gazed
in
at
a
room
that
she
didn’t
entirely
recognize.


 Several
tall,
slightly‐paler‐than‐normal
high
schoolers
sat
around,
leaning
against
the
walls,

sitting
on
top
of
desks
and
staring
at
her
with
slightly
amused
expressions.



 One
of
them
opened
his
mouth,
exposing
two
very
sharp
fangs.


 “Wrong
club,”
he
said.







Argyle
Style


Rebecca
Bergman




A
Sock
suffocating
the
floor
tile

Pressing
and
pushing
past
the
definite
hardness

The
Toes
inside
fantasizing
an
indent
on
the
linoleum

Heel
grinding
in
resistance

Sock
pattern
warped

And
spiraled
across
the
neat
square
tiles








12




If
only,
If
only
 
13



 Dan
LaClair




If
only
we
knew

What
happened
behind,

These
cameras
on
our
bodies,

Everything
would
be
different

We
would
know
when
to
control

And
when
to
let
go



But
instead,

We
don’t
know
when
to
control,

When
not
to
let
go

It
seems
what’s
at
the
base,

Of
these
so
called
cameras

Powers
us
through
the
day,

Like
a
server
to
a
computer

Running,
Energizing,
Transferring

Behind
these
shielded
eyes







Headache



 
 Sarah
Lesser



I
store
things
in
the
cavities
near
my
brain

Like
pomegranate
lollipops

And
popcorn
for
when
things
are
funny

My
worries
dangle
from
barbed‐wire
bows

And
sometimes
box
with
my
dreams
that
don’t
seem
to
fit
inside

Dreams
are
ice
cream
that
melts
fast

Chocolate
that
drips
from
my
ears

And
then
there
is
stress
who
is
an
elephant
dancing
the
polka

Not
to
forget
all
those
things
I
forgot

They’re
in
there
somewhere,
I
think
in
a
box

Bliss,
the
green
balloon,
is
floating
somewhere
near
the
ceiling

Every
wrong
step,
every
wrong
word

And
every
cut,
scrape
and
bruise
are
filed
away
in
a
lead
cabinet

Making
me
madder
than
the
maddest
of
hatters

Writing
unoriginal
lines
with
no
time

My
head
is
too
heavy
to
carry
high

When
I
slog
through
the
streets
I
drag
it
on
the
ground

I’d
need
a
periscope
to
see
the
sky










Reality
at
Its
Finest
 
14



 
 Madeline
Schepis




Is
it
real,
wrong?

Does
the
chaos
that
ensues

Get
under
your
skin?

One
can
only
help
but
wonder

Tick

Tock

Tick

If
a
clock
is
melting,
does
it
make
a
sound?






The
Finale



 J.J.
Davis




Death
is
a
choreographed
dance

Organized
turmoil

Rehearsed
once

Or
twice



A
reluctant
or
willing
dancer
takes
the
stage

Audience
of
few
or
many

Witness
and
observe



A
passionate
fight
against
fate

Or
a
quiet
submission

Expressed
in
human
form



A
final
bow

Leaves
the
audience
wanting
more






The
Lake



 Lucas
Phillips





Water
tightens

The
boy’s
lungs

He
gasps
for
air,

Cannot
reach
it.

His
head
pounds‐

Life
escapes
his
body.










Fires
cure
the
ache
 Cast
Away



Of
these
words
repeated
 Caroline
Jones

These
words
repeated
 



An
irretrievable
meaning
 



You
brought
home
those
sorrows

And
fire
forgives.




Schizophrenic



 
 Emily
Higgins






 Abigail
is
honey
poured
all
over
my
brain.

Her
voice
is
liquid—
thick
and
warm.
When
I


hear
whispers,
watch
eyes
dart
past
mine,
and
feel
bodies
gently
flinch
as
I
brush
up
against
them


in
the
crowded
hallways,
she
reassures
me.
“You’re
not
crazy



 I’m
not
crazy.
The
first
time
I
was
examined
by
Dr.
Hargrove,
she
asked
me
how
long
I’d


been
having
the
“episodes”
in
which
I
heard
people
talking
to
me.
“Voices
in
my
head,”
she’d
said.


I
told
her
that
I’ve
never
had
an
episode
and
that
I
don’t
hear
people
talking
to
me.
Abigail’s
voice


is
the
only
one,
and
hers
does
not
go
away.
It
doesn’t
have
an
off‐switch;
it’s
not
a
television
show.


She’s
not
an
“episode”.
At
that,
Dr.
Hargrove
had
peered
over
her
tortoiseshell
rims
at
me,


seemingly
trying
to
peel
away
my
layers
with
her
pupils.
In
silence,
she’d
squinted
her
eyes
at
me


for
what
felt
like
years,
and
when
she
had
either
given
up
trying
to
scrape
pieces
of
me
away
or


succeeded
and
found
whatever
she
was
searching
for
in
my
face—
I
could
never
tell
exactly
what


she
was
thinking—she
looked
down
at
her
notepad,
picking
up
wither
her
pen
where
she
had
left


off.
She
thinks
I’m
crazy.



 Dr.
Hargrove
wears
sweaters.
All
the
time,
sweaters.
She
usually
wears
shades
of
red
that


contrast
with
her
bluntly
cut
salt
and
pepper
hair.
You’d
think
the
woman’s
personality
would
be


warmer,
considering
her
wardrobe.
She’s
not
cold,
exactly—she
just
isn’t
fuzzy.
I
don’t
mind
her
as


a
person,
I
guess,
but
the
idea
of
cuddling
up
to
her
and
baring
my
soul
doesn’t
thrill
me.
The


whole
shrink
thing?
Not
my
thing.
Mom’s
thing.



 Since
I’m
not
eighteen
yet,
I
can’t
refuse
therapy
sessions—psychiatric
examinations,


whatever
you
want
to
call
them.
Neither
name
gives
the
doctor
precisely
the
right
kind
of
credit:


she
can’t
get
anything
out
of
me.
I’m
careful
not
to
tell
her
anything
substantial
about
Abigail
to


prove
that
there’s
something
wrong
with
me.
I
don’t
want
medicine
that
will
push
her
voice
out
of


my
head.

I
want
her
to
stay—I
want
her
honey
to
stick.



15





 In
the
beginning,
I
decided
to
record
Abigail
–
through
writing,
of
course;
if
only
I
could

record
the
texture
of
her
sound.
If
I
hadn’t
started
and
kept
the
journal,
Mom
never
would
have

known
about
her,
and
I
never
would’ve
had
to
meet
Dr.
Hargrove
and
her
sweaters.
There

wouldn’t
have
been
anything
tempting
for
my
gossip
queen
mother
to
stick
her
nose
into
–
she’s

always
loved
a
good
piece
of
conversation.
If
there’s
a
chance
she’ll
find
one
in
her
daughter’s

diary,
all
the
better
to
look,
right?
I
guess
it
was
a
bad
idea
to
begin
with—keeping
a
journal,
that

is.
But
Abigail?
She’s
a
writer.
A
poet.
She
says
the
most
beautiful
things,
tells
me
the
most

intricately
woven
stories.
Had
I
not
written
them
down,
it
would’ve
been
a
crime.


 I
repeated
all
of
my
conversations
with
Abigail
in
that
leather‐bound
notebook,
all
of
the

secrets
that
had
oozed
out
of
her
voice,
all
of
her
encouragements.
It’s
delicious,
the
mixture
of

her
voice
and
my
brain.
Plain
old
thoughts
mulled
over
in
my
plain
old
voice
are
nothing
to
her

syrupy
sound
in
my
head.
She
breaks
me
down,
every
experience
I’ve
ever
had,
and
makes
them
all

seem
more
worthwhile.
My
memories
of
the
Jersey
shore
as
a
five‐year‐old
are
nothing
to
how
she

describes
the
ocean—I
can
practically
hear
the
waves
crashing
through
her
liquid
voice.
Abigail’s
a

brain,
too—even
helps
me
with
my
Physics
homework.


 That’s
why
I
had
to
burn
the
journal.
I
couldn’t
have
Mom
showing
it
to
Dr.
Hargrove—she

can
gab
all
she
wants
about
it,
but
there’s
no
proof
to
medically
examine
in
the
sessions.
The
only

thing
the
doctor
has
on
me
is
her
eyes,
peering
over
the
tortoiseshell
rims,
bearing
into
mine
a

million
times
over.
It
was
difficult
to
do—the
burning
I
mean.
Mom
had
been
puttering
around
in

the
kitchen
while
I
searched
through
her
big
businesswoman
desk
for
the
journal.
I’d
felt

impossibly
panicked,
worried
she
would
walk
up
the
stairs
any
second
to
find
me
raking
through

her
drawers.
Abigail
soothed
me.
“You’ll
find
it.
Keep
quiet,
but
go
quick.”


 I
ended
up
tossing
the
journal
into
the
fireplace
that
same
night,
on
one
hand
horrified

that
all
of
my
written‐down‐Abigail
was
scorching
into
embers
before
my
eyes.
On
the
other,
by

getting
rid
of
it,
I’ve
been
able
to
keep
Abigail
in
my
head.
My
thoughts
are
hers,
hers
mine.
No

matter
what
mom
tells
her
and
no
matter
what
she
scribbles
on
her
pad,
Dr.
Hargrove
can’t
force

Abigail
from
my
brain.
She
thinks
I’m
crazy,
but
she
can’t
officially
diagnose
me.
She
only
has
what
I

tell
her,
and
I
haven’t
told
her
anything.


 I
haven’t
told
her
that
Abigail’s
voice
is
honey.
The
flinching
bodies
and
the
nervous
eyes

that
avoid
me
in
the
hallways
know
nothing—the
girl
that
hears
voices,
the
schizophrenic?
She’s

not
crazy.


 “You’re
not
crazy.”


 I
am
not
crazy.
















16




My
Shoulders
are
Secrets
 
17


Talia
Harrison



You
cried
from
the
bathroom
stall

But


I
swore

Crossed
my
heart
and
hoped
to
die

The
deafening
hisses


Of
the
bitter
tongue,
burn
my
ears.

The
eyes
constantly
prying

Attempting
to
penetrate
my
mind

The
weight
becoming
unbearable


Pushing
down
on
the
shoulders
until
the
knees

Buckle

The
minds
race

As
the
ears
ring



Suddenly,

An
earsplitting
scream
erupts
from
within

No
one
notices…

My
shoulders
keep
the
secrets






True
Passion


SeQuoia
Kemp



Of
only
you
possessed


The
same
fuel

That
ignited
the
light

Which
burns
in
me

You
could
uncover
and
discover

The
treasure
of
your
inner
being

A
flicker
of
imagination

A
yearning
desire
to
have
freedom

To
burst
through
the
seams

Of
acceptance

To
feel
the
surge
of
forgiveness

Explore
every
avenue

Of
love


Let
peace
tranquilize
your
life

Let
your
dreams
bombard
your
failures

Let
the
thoughts
that
swirl
in
your
mind

Cry
out
with
a
ferocious
roar








Disaster
Photo


Niki
Crosby




Light
is
dimmed

Room
is
a
disaster

Things
destroyed

In
my
rapture

Wall
is
cracked

The
floor
is
creaking

Mixed
emotions

Life’s
deceiving

Can’t
control
the
way
I’m
breathing

Tears
filled
my
eyes

Thoughts
are
blind

Almost
as
if
I’m
losing
my
mind

In
this
chaos

My
mind
goes
blank

I
just
want
out
of
this
place






Stylus


Kathryn
Hu




 "It
was
cold
on
top
of
the
mountain."



 It
was
a
mountain
where
angels
came
in
war
and
demons
came
in
peace.



"It
was
cold
on
top
of
the
mountain.
The
fire
rocks
froze
her
nerves
as
her
flesh
turned

black.
The
fractured
glacial
obsidian
grew
faces.
The
Earth
exhaled
tremulously.
Her
soul
rose
and

dissipated
like
smoke.
Her
fingers
stretched
for
the
Sky.
Her
children
grumbled
on
the
climb
until

peace
fell
through
the
strainer,
and
the
chasm
swallowed
it
in
black
ink.
She
scraped
some
out

stained
ever
green
with
envy.
She
left
some
washed
a
faded
blue."



 Love
came
in
mismatched
coins,
one
hundred
breadcrumbs
each.


"She
followed
the
water
when
tapestries
of
huntsmen
and
mermaids
and
silver
fish
rose

from
its
mirror
surface.
Inspiration
seeped
from
marble
pedestals,
coated
with
incense
and
olive

leaves
and
lily
pad
prayers.
The
Voice
sang
her
own
beauty.
Their
ears
never
heard
her
praise,

stuffed
full
of
bull
fat,
mouths
choked
with
sacrificial
lamb.




"We
read
her
lips
and
were
blinded
by
light.
The
wrinkled
sheaves
spoke
depraved
reality.

Society
knew
right
from
good,
but
sanity
abandoned
hope.
Hopeless
abandon
rolled
open
the

parchment
and
melted
wax
tablets
in
our
hands.
Scratches
didn't
make
her
bleed.
Her
blood
ran

through
our
brains.



"We
could
only
run
ahead,
but
the
Sun
hurried
home.
The
wrath
of
knowledge
gauged
out

our
eyes.
Grace
hid
the
tower
upside
down,
so
our
fruit
fell
up
from
below.
Nectar
hieroglyphs

tattooed
our
skin,
and
addiction
never
adjourned."


Volcano
hung
from
paper
drapes
and
pens
hung
from
the
War
Lord's
waist.




18





 "Whistles
pulverized
the
cavern
walls
and
made
cave
art
of
treasure
troves.
The
Earth's

breath
stilled
to
consol
his
empty
forge.
Her
inner
fires
burned
and
flamed
while
his
bellows

melted
in
magma,
and
the
black
glass
cracked
to
murmur
prophecies
and
call
the
rest
for
mourning

tea.
He
must
have
cried
for
mercy
in
his
sleep.
Despair
must
have
convinced
him
there
were
no

rewards
to
reap.
Beauty
must
have
punctured
wounds
too
deep."


And
Art
hung
from
dead
men's
lips,
worthless
as
a
gilded
leaf.




 "She
gave
her
essence
in
staccato
tempests
after
long
droughts,
thought‐less
bouts
of
pain.

Crystals
sullied
the
dirt
and
birthed
a
court
of
glittering
fey.
They
danced
and
sang
until
they
raved

and
wasted
away
to
be
painfully
preserved
in
fossils.
Academic
vultures
picked
at
their
remains

and
sold
plaster
models,
only
they
fell
apart
at
the
first
sign
of
snow
to
a
collector's
dismay.
Their

grief
never
reached
her.
Her
glory
transcended
their
pain."






The
Muse
was
drunk
on
whimsical
dreams.

Will
you
make‐believe
something
to
be
had?




What
a
Girl
Wants



 
 Shakera
Kemp





 Jessica
was
the
flyest
girl
walking
the
streets
of
Syracuse.
She
always
had
the
newest
pair

of
shoes
or
the
most
expensive
outfit.
In
addition
to
Jessica’s
fly‐ness,
she
was
a
brat
at
times.


 While
at
Carousel
mall,
the
Saturday
before
Christmas,
Jessica
spotted
a
purple
leather

jacket
in
Soho’s
Leathers.


 “Ma!
Look!!”
screamed
Jessica.


 What
does
this
child
want
now!
“Yes,
baby
girl?”


 “Look
at
this
Sean
John
leather
jacket!
It’s
purple!”
Her
sixteen‐year‐old
daughter
was

twirling
around
like
she
was
in
a
fashion
show.


 “That
jacket
is
hot!”


 “Mom,
don’t
ever
say
that
again!”


 Diana
chuckled.
“I’m
just
trying
to
stay
hip.”


 “Yeah…
I
know.”
Jessica
hated
when
her
mother
did
that.
“Well,
since
you
think
the
jacket

is
‘hot’,
how
about
we
invest
in
it?”
Jessica
smiled.


 “We?
Who
are
we?
Because
last
I
checked,
I’m
the
one
with
the
job
‘round
here.”



Jessica’s
smile
hit
the
ground.
“But
mommy,
you
know
what
I
mean,”
she
whined.


 “Girl,
take
that
silly
look
off
ya
face
before
I
smack
it
off!
How
much
is
the
jacket?”



Jessica’s
voice
grew
quiet
as
she
mumbled
a
number.


“What
you
say?!
Speak
up
child!
Open
ya
mouth!”

her
mother
hollered.


 “I
said
225.”


 “Well
you
better
start
putting
in
applications
while
we’re
at
this
mall,
girly.”


Jessica
sulked
out
of
the
store.


When
she
left,
Diana
asked
the
cashier,
“How
long
can
you
hold
this?”


“Three
days,
ma’am,”
replied
the
cashier
in
a
thick
Jamaican
accent.


Diana
made
sure
that
her
daughter
at
any
means
necessary.
This
meant
that
the
house

phone
wouldn’t
get
paid
or
her
cell
phone
would
get
cut
off.
Diana
worked
hard
to
support
her

only
daughter.


 “You
hungry?”
asked
Diana.



19





 Jessica
didn’t
answer.


 “I’m
talking
to
you,
Miss
Thang.”


 Jessica
shook
her
head
no.


 “No,
no,
no,
I’m
using
words
so
you
need
to
use
them
too.”


 “No,
Mom,
I
am
not
hungry.”


 “What’s
the
matter
with
you?!
You
almost
never
turn
down
food.”


 “Nothing’s
wrong.
I’m
perfectly
fine.”


 “Mhmmm.
That’s
what
ya
mouth
is
saying,
but
I
know
otherwise…
but
anyways,
I
put
that

jacket
on
layaway.”


 Jessica
tried
to
hide
her
excitement.
“You
didn’t
have
to,
Ma.”


 “Girl,
please.
You
think
I
want
to
look
at
your
pitiful
sourpuss
face
all
day?”
Diana
chuckled.



Jessica
laughed
too.
She
turned
up
the
music
in
the
car
and
started
jamming.
Diana
looked

at
how
happy
her
child
was.
This
made
her
sad
because
she
didn’t
how
she
was
going
to
pay
the

electric
bill.


 Diana
wrapped
Jessica’s
jacket
and
placed
it
under
the
tree
along
with
the
many
other

presents
Jessica
had.
Diana
stood
up
and
took
in
the
sight
of
the
lighted
Christmas
tree.
She
sighed.

She
walked
over
to
the
dining
table.
She
eyed
the
yellow
disconnection
slip.
She
shook
her
head.

She
turned
off
the
light
and
went
to
bed.
The
tree
filled
the
room
with
light.


 “Wake
up
Ma!
It’s
Christmas!”


 “I’m
up,
I’m
up,”
said
Diana
groggily.


 “Heyyyy,
how
come
the
tree
isn’t
lit?”
She
flipped
the
light
switch.
“What
the
heck?!
Ma?”


 “Why
are
you
hollering?!
I’m
right
here.”


 “How
come
the
tree
isn’t
on?
It
was
on
last
night.”
Jessica
walked
into
the
dining
room.

She
eyed
the
yellow
disconnection
slip.
She
looked
at
her
mother.
The
overdue
balance
read:

224.98.






As
Darkness
Eats
Away
Our
Air


Mariya
Dmytrk



The
stopping
pace

And
the
unraveling
life

For
when
the
sky
turns
black

Fear
strikes
our
minds.

Before
our
eyes

Deformed
shapes
come
close

Above
our
heads

Abnormal
faces
appear

The
noise
twists
and
makes
a
noise

The
heart
stops
as
each
tick
adds
onto
the
next

Clashes
of
shapes
stand
on
top
of
another

As
the
darkness
eats
away
our
air

Into
nothing.






20




Bead
of
Thoughts


Rebecca
Bergman




A
single
drop
of
DNA

Rolls
down
her
cheek

An
individual
pinprick


Of
emotion



Secrets
of
a
person


Held
inside



Holder
of
a
set
of
prints

Lines
and
grooves

Snaking
across
a
fingertip

Covering
regretted
scars

Unwanted
wrinkles

Indented
forever



A
tear
is
a
thumbprint




Rolling
down
her
cheek
























All
Along
the
Watchtower


Caitlin
Manley






 Math
class
was
boring.
Mr.
Right
was
going
on
and
on
about
petit
square
again.
I
don’t


understand
why
someone
would
be
so
infatuated
with
petit
square
of
all
things.
I
shifted
my
focus


to
something
else.
A
small
blue
bird
softly
landed
on
a
branch
near
the
window;
its
blue
hues


shimmered
in
the
early
summer
sun.
It
is
amazing
the
way
birds
can
fly
to
where
ever
they
want.
I


wish
I
were
that
bird.
The
best
thing
about
summer
was
the
sun;
it
always
put
me
in
a
good
mood


after
no
matter
what
was
going
on
around
me.
I
kept
thinking
about
the
blue
after
it
floated
away.


I
slid
my
hand
into
my
pocket
and
wrapped
it
abound
a
Marlboro
100s
box,
my
cigarette
of
choice.


Ten
more
minutes,
I
thought,
staring
at
the
clock.


“Hey,”
someone
whispered
over
my
shoulder.



I
looked
back
to
see
who
it
was.
“Oh,
hey
Jamie,”
I
said
back.
This
must
have
been


important.
Jamie
was
one
of
my
best
friends
but
a
good
student.
She
never
talks
during
class,
ever,


I
thought,
staring
at
the
clock.


“So
are
you
going
to
the
party
tonight?”
she
asked.


“Yeah,
I
can
get
you
around
9:30‐ish
if
you
want.”


“Sounds
good,
who
else
are
you
bringing?”
she
asked,
looking
at
me
with
this
smug
smile.


“I
don’t
know,
probably
just
you,
me,
Cole
and
Beth,
why?”



21




“Oh!
What
about
Rusk?”

“What?!”

“DUDE!”

“HEY,
you
two!
STOP
TALKING,”
Mr.
Right
yelled.
“Harmony,
what
was
I
just
talking

about?”
He
asked
in
a
perturbed
tone.

“Punnett
squares,”
I
said
sarcastically.

“Yes,
very
good,
at
least
someone
is
listening.”

The
bell
rang.

“Rusk,
Rusk,
Rusk,”
Jamie
kept
saying
down
the
hall
way.

“Shut
up,
dude,”
I
said,
annoyed.

“Chill,
I
know
you
like
him.”

“Goodbye,
Jamie,”
I
said.
The
whole
talk
about
Rusk
made
my
hands
clammy.
I
just
wanted

to
leave
and
get
to
the
senior
parking
lot
as
fast
as
possible.

I
saw
Rusk
speed
walking
down
the
hallway
like
one
of
those
soccer
mothers
that
walk

around
the
block,
all
fast
like.

“Rusk!”
I
yelled.

He
did
not
turn
around.
Was
he
ignoring
me?
Had
Cole
told
him?

“Rusk!”

I
yelled
again.


I
grabbed
his
arm,
and
whipped
him
around.

“Hey,
I
was
trying
to
get
you.”
I
cocked
my
head
to
one
side,
confused
like.



“Oh,
umm,
hi,
Harmony.
Thought
you
were
Miss
Sao,
sorry.”

“It’s
all
good,”
I
said,
tossing
back
my
brown
hair.
Trying
to
get
him
to
look
at
me
that
way
I

wanted
him
to.


“Why
would
Miss
Sao
be
looking
for
you
anyways?”
I
asked.

“Long
story,
don’t
worry
about
it.”
He
smiled
at
me,
I
loved
his
smile.

“I
dig
it,
so
are
you
going
to
the
party
tonight?”
I
asked
enthusiastically.

“Ummm
I
don’t
think
so,”
he
said,
looking
away,
embarrassed.


“Lame,
dude,
why
not?”
I
asked
in
a
curious
tone.

“You
know,
I
have
a
prior
engagement
–
some
people
will
be
highly
perturbed
if
I
don’t

show.”

I
just
looked
at
him,
I
loved
when
he
used
big
words
I
didn’t
understand
–
it’s
hot
in
a
way.


“Oh,
right.”
I
nodded
my
head.
I
did
not
know
what
to
say
back.

“Well,
I
must
be
going,”
he
said,
walking
quickly
away.

“Oh,
okay,
bye,
Rusk.”

“Rusk,
Rusk,
Rusk,”
whispered
in
my
ear.

“Shut
up,
Jamie.”

“Hey,
bring
me
home
please.”
She
smiled
at
me
like
a
puppy
dog.

“Haha,
sure
with
that
money
maker,
how
can
I
not,”
I
said
back.

“Haha,
don’t
be
mad,
I
have
the
looks
in
this
friendship!”



22




“Jamie,
come
on,
I
want
to
get
out
of
here.”

“Okay,
I
just
have
to
go
see
Miss
Sao
for
some
summer
reading.”

“Okay,
but
be
quick
about
it.”

I
waited
outside
Miss
Sao’s
room
for
Jamie.
I
could
not
stop
thinking
about
him
though.
I

wanted
to
see
him
before
the
weekend.
Cole
and
me
still
hadn’t
told
anyone
about
us
yet,
how
we

weren’t
dating.

“Okay,
ready.”
Jamie
had
a
stack
of
books
on
her
arm
that
towered
over
her
face.

“That’s
the
summer
reading?”
I
asked.

“No,
this
is
the
AP
reading,
dude.”

“God,
I’m
glad
I
am
stupid!”

“Let’s
get
out
of
here.”

The
summer
breeze
felt
so
nice
on
my
face
as
we
walked
out
of
school.
Jamie
brought
her

buttload
of
books
to
the
back
seat
of
my
car.

Rusk,
Rusk,
Rusk.

I
looked
up
from
trying
to
find
my
lighter.

“Dude,
really
again
with
this
shit.”

“Look,”
she
pointed.

“Stop
pointing,
Jamie.”

“He
is
staring
at
you
like
he’s
in
puppy
love.”

“Really?!”
I
got
too
excited.

“I
mean,
ew,
stalker
much?”

“Shut
up,
Harmony,
I
know
you
love
him.”

“Well,
I
have
to
go
talk
to
Cole.
He
has
my
lighter.”

The
breeze
was
heavier
as
I
walked
over/
it
was
messing
up
my
hair
big
time.

“Hey,
Harmony,”
he
said,
smiling
at
me.

I
was
hoping
he
wouldn’t
have
said
anything
–
I
didn’t
want
Cole
to
come
over.

“Hey,
Rusk,
what’s
up?”

“I
have
been
meaning
to
tell
you
something,
and
now
I
can
so.”

Oh,
please
tell
me
you
like
me,
tell
me,
tell
me,
tell
me,
no
don’t,
no
yes,
tell
me.

I
looked
around
him,
Cole
was
coming
over,
I
wanted
to
scream.

“Well,
what
is
it?”
I
looked
at
him.
Smiling.

“I
like
you
Harmony.
You’re
perfect
in
every
way.”

I
just
looked
at
him.
I
wanted
to
say,
"Me,
too,"
but
Cole
was
too
close
now.

The
awkward
eye
contact
was
too
much
for
me
to
bear.

“Say
something,”
he
whispered.

“I
like
you
too…
but,
I
can’t.”
My
face
grew
sad.

He
lifted
my
chin
with
his
finger.


“Don’t
be
sad,”
he
said.
“It’s
okay.
I
knew
you
would
never
like
me.”

“No,
it’s
not
like
that.”


Cole
called
my
name.
I
looked
over.



23




Rusk
was
looking
down
at
the
ground.
I
did
not
know
how
to
tell
him
this.
He
looked
up
at


my
face
again.


“What’s
going
on
here?”
Cole
asked.


“Nothing,
Cole,
don’t
worry.
I’ll
be
at
the
car
in
a
sec,”
Rusk
said
to
Cole.


I
looked
at
Cole’s
face
and
he
looked
back
at
mine.
He
was
not
happy.
I
could
see
it
in
his


eyes.
He
was
going
to
tell
him
now.
“Well,
now
that
you
have
been
introduced,
this
is
Harmony.”


Cole
was
smiling.


“I
know,
dude,”
he
said
back.


Oh,
no,
he
does
get
it,
oh
crap.
I
wanted
to
cry.
I
felt
like
someone
just
told
me
Santa
was


not
real
for
the
first
time.


“No,
like
this
is
Harmony,
dude!”


He
looked
at
me
intensely.
I
whispered
“sorry”
through
my
fake
smile.


Cole
was
going
in
for
a
kiss,
I
didn’t
want
it;
I
wanted
Rusk,
but
now
that
was
never
going


to
happen.
I
looked
at
his
face
but
he
was
not
in
there,
he
looked
vacant.








The
Scape‐goat



 
 Caroline
Jones



What
if

The
teddy
bear

Grew
into
a
monster

Darkness
shapes
a
soft
glow

Of
comfort

And
the
beast
of
my
dream,

A
wish



Paws
that
once
grasped
to
love

Bitterly
turn
to
torn
claws



Lonely
sorrow

Is
a
charmed
silence



Shallow
nightmare,
innermost
fear

Is
but
a
dream,
ravenous
as
a
wolf.



Could
claws
be

Soft
caresses

Darkness
become

Only
a
hope

And
a
nightmare
into

Perfection?






24




Zach
Kaufman




Lost
in
a
dream,
he
sleeps.
It
seems
he
has
lost
control
of
all
his
actions.
One
thirty
in
the

morning,
he
lays
in
bed
shivering
and
seeing
pictures
controlled
without
thought.
The
dreams

torture
his
eyes,
forcing
them
to
stay
closed.
Terrified
of
what
he
sees.
He
sees
the
future.
He

screams
as
he
views
the
world,
as
near
as
tomorrow,
coming
to
an
end.
He
sweats
as
his
body

temperature
begins
to
rise.
And
as
he
fears
tomorrow
being
never,
it
stops.
He's
awake.
Out
of

breath,
he
reaches
for
a
glass
of
water
to
calm
his
nerves
and
end
his
fear.
But
as
quickly
as
he
falls

asleep,
the
dreams
begin
again.
Twisting
and
turning,
rolling
and
kicking,
he
prays
for
this
madness

to
end.
Four
in
the
morning,
and
he
awakens
to
the
calming
voice
saying,
“Gabriel.
Wake
up,

Gabriel,
you're
having
a
bad
dream.”
Gabriel's
mother
lies
in
bed
next
to
him
until
sunrise.
Gabriel

peers
at
the
shining
sun
of
the
next
day
and
releases
a
sigh
too
vicious
to
describe.





A
Goddess's
Favor


Taylor
Williams



Alexander's
strategic
eyes
swept
over
the
grand
hall,
unabashed
by
its
state.
It
was

Bacchanalia,
so
it
was
not
as
if
such
lewd
displays
were
uncommon.
From
his
cushion
next
to
the

young
lord,
as
the
honored
guest,
he
watched
the
festivities
continue
with
his
regal
decorum

untarnished.
And
this
was
despite
the
more
than
questionable
activities
occurring.
Even
the
young

lord
presiding
over
this
party,
was
currently
trying
to
fondle
a
nameless
girl
sitting
near
him.

“Come
'ere
sweet
one.
Just
one
try?”
the
young
lord
slurred
beside
him.


“I
am
one
of
Athena's
priestesses!
You
will
not
defile
her
image
with
your
hands!”
she
said

in
outrage.

“I
care
not.
Athena
has
no
place
nor
power
at
a
festival
of
Bacchus!”
he
said
hooting
with

laughter.


Alexander
saw
the
girl's
face
contort
with
disgust
and
so
he
assumed
she
smelled
the
many

cups
of
wine
laced
in
his
breath.
After
that,
his
attempts
to
grasp
her
became
more
fervent.
Her

feeble
limbs
attempted
to
shove
him
away
and
failed
miserably.
He
wondered
to
himself
why
she

fought
with
such
futility
since
it
was
obvious
how
unmatched
she
was
to
him.
And
this
was
when

he
was
too
deep
in
his
cups
to
walk
in
a
straight
line.
Let
alone
to
his
own
quarters,
where
she

might
have
no
hope
of
escaping.


At
the
rate
she
was
going,
she
was
only
wasting
energy
now
when
she
would
need
it
much

more
desperately
later
on.
He
knew
because
the
young
lord
would
no
doubt
remember
this

evening
and
return
here
searching
for
her,
when
he
was
in
a
better
state
of
mind.
Acquiring
a
title

at
his
young
age
made
him
eager
to
prove
himself
to
his
peers.
In
fact,
that
was
the
reason
he

invited
Alexander
tonight.
A
young
one
was
always
eager
to
show
his
worth
and
searched
for
the

newest
conquest
or
challenge
to
do
it.
She
would
be
treated
no
differently.
He
ignored
them
both

and
continued
to
watch
the
dancers
and
their
provocative
choreography.





25




“I
have
already
refused.
Remove
your
hands
from
me
at
once!”
the
girl's
voice
said
more

firmly.
Then
she
jerked
her
arm
away
from
him.
Yet
in
the
process,
knocked
a
pitcher
of
wine
off
of

the
table
and
into
Alexander's
lap.



“How
dare
you...”
he
seethed
through
gritted
teeth.
The
entire
room
halted
in
fear
of
his

next
reaction.
Even
the
young
lord
and
the
girl
froze
to
see
what
he
would
do
next.
Many
feared

that
Alexander
had
inherited
either
one
of
his
parents'
erratic
temperaments.
He
stood
up
quickly

before
the
wine
ruined
his
robes
and
glared.


“Look
at
what
you've
done
girl.
You've
ruined
his
robes!
Now
you
must
remove
them
and

take
them
to
be
cleansed!
Go
on!
Do
it!”
the
lord
barked
out.
The
girl
made
no
moves
to
do

anything,
and
looked
to
him
mirroring
the
imperious
eyes
he
held
earlier.


“I
blame
you
for
this
ruination!
She
did
not
invite
your
advances
from
the
beginning

meaning
you
had
already
cursed
yourself
by
inviting
such
ire
into
a
night
given
to
Dionysus!”
he

said
turning
to
the
young
lord
instead.
The
said
lord
turn
red
with
either
anger
or
embarrassment.

He
could
not
tell
which,
nor
did
he
care.


“Curse
you.
Alexander.
I
invite
you
into
my
house
and
this
is
how
you
treat
me?
Fine
then!

The
exit
is
there.
Begone
if
you
want,
and
take
that
witch
with
you.
But
remember
if
you
leave
that

door,
the
next
time
you
see
me...it
will
be
from
the
flat
of
your
back
with
my
sword
in
your

abdomen!”


“Hah!
You
dare
threaten
this
Alexander?
Then
I
will
take
my
leave.
Come,
girl”
he
said

throwing
his
head
back
in
laughter.
The
girl
followed
his
orders
and
got
up.
This
time
meekly
since

she
did
not
expect
Alexander
to
react
in
such
a
way.
As
the
exited
the
hallway
she
spoke
for
only

his
ears
to
hear.


“Thank
you
my
lord.
You
have
saved
the
virtues
of
one
of
Athena's
priestesses
on
this
day.

And
for
that
you
have
gained
her
favor.
I
have
heard
her
voice.
She
calls
you
the
Great
Alexander.

You
may
return
to
your
home
tonight
knowing
you
have
earned
her
as
an
ally.”




Time



 
 
 Phoenix
Robertson


A
lone
puzzle
piece


Floats
in
the
center
of
nothing

Casting
backwards
shadows

Giving
the
illusion

Of
three
dimensions



A
long,
white
piece
of
soul
swims

Toward
a
yellow
brick
road

Which
folds
and
gives
way

To
faded
sunlight



Above
it
hangs
time,
defeated,

Numbers
all
sweated
away



Bits
of
memories

Cling
to
broken
tree
branches



26




Move
 
27


Aliyah
Green



Let
the
rhythm
carry
you
to
distant
lands
where
the
wolves
run
free


wagging
their
tails
on
the
key,
stepping
in
beats
of
three



Let
the
beat
take
you
to
a
far
away
place


where
the
wolves
howl
as
the
clarinet
speaks



Let
every
note
linger
on
ear


every
word
imbedded
in
your
brain




begin
to
move
your
feet


as
the
guitar
starts
its
piece






#1

















































































Jewell
Williams



Walking
alone

above
hate

above
defeat

I
stand
tall



no
shadows
before
me,
because
there
is
no
light

all
this
darkness

my
eyes
see
rain

my
heart
is
soaked
with
pain

is
it
because
I
have
failed?

is
it
because
I
am
not
free?



dark
thoughts
see
no
smiles

only
disfigured
faces

engulfed
with
emotions

only
released
in
the
energy
of

Anger.

this
thing
has
transformed
ME



something
I
never
was

or
wanted
to
be

maybe
I
am
not
free…

maybe
I
have
failed…

walking
alone

cause
all
I
have
is
myself.







Vanessa



 
 SeQuoia
Kemp





 Vanessa
slumped
into
her
black
suede
chair,
letting
out
a
long
sigh.
She
wiped
her
eyes
and

crinkled
her
nose,
fighting
the
tingling
sensation.
Vanessa’s
interest
turned
towards
the
storm
that

was
in
a
fury
outside
her
window.
She
gazed
outside,
paying
more
attention
to
the
rain
that

showered
down
and
hit
the
lamppost
on
her
street.
Her
eyes
began
to
sting
as
she
thought
about

the
day’s
events.
How
could
Collin
just
leave
her
like
that,
alone
with
no
one
to
turn
to?
Vanessa

silently
swore
to
herself.
It
was
the
last
day
of
summer
and
she’d
have
to
return
to
college
and
try

to
move
on
as
this
situation
grew
on
her.
She’d
try
to
forget
that
the
love
of
her
life
had
left
her
at

the
time
in
which
she
needed
him
most.
They
needed
him.
Vanessa
got
up
to
turn
her
lights
off,
so

she
could
sulk
comfortably
in
her
misery.
She
heard
a
soft
knock
on
the
door.
She
figured
it
was

probably
her
mother
checking
in
on
her.


 “Mom,
I
want
to
be
left
alone,”
Vanessa
hollered,
without
trying
to
be
rude.


 “Uh,
hey,
Nessa,
it’s
Collin.”


 Vanessa
sat
back
in
her
chair,
ignoring
the
fact
that
there
was
someone
at
her
door.
“Well,

in
that
case,
I
really
want
to
be
left
alone,”
she
mumbled
to
herself.
She
knew
that
it
would
be

absolutely
interesting
to
hear
what
he
had
to
say,
so
she
told
him
to
come
in.


 “I’m
sorry
about
what
happened
today,
I
don’t
know
what
came
over
me.
I
never
would

ever
disregard
my
responsibility
as
a
f‐f‐father,”
Collin
stuttered.


 “Well
you
should
be,”
muttered
Vanessa.


 “And
I
truly
am.
I
let
my
anger
get
the
best
of
me
and
I
ignored
the
fact
that
I
promised
to

love
you
unconditionally,”
Collin
continued
to
babble
on
about
how
he
hoped
he
didn’t
break
her

heart
and
that
he
was
so
sorry.



Vanessa
watched
him
with
a
blank
expression
on
her
face.
In
her
mind,
she
kept
replaying

over
and
over
how
he
said
earlier
that
she
wasn’t
worth
that
much
to
him,
that
he
wouldn’t

change
his
whole
future
so
she
could
be
happy.
She
never
expected
him
in
a
million
years
to
speak

to
her
that
way,
and
now
his
sorry
self
was
standing
there,
apologizing.
Collin
had
shown
his
true

colors
earlier,
and
Vanessa
didn’t
know
if
she
should
believe
anything
he
was
saying
right
now.

Vanessa
chuckled
to
herself.
She
stood
up,
looked
Collin
directly
in
his
eyes
and
said,
“Ill
forgive

you
when
the
storm
is
over.”
She
closed
her
door
and
left
him
feeling
worthless
in
return.


 Early
in
the
morning
as
the
sunlight
crept
through
her
window,
Vanessa
rolled
her
blue

comforter
over
her
head.
She
moaned
as
the
rays
of
the
sun
were
awakening
her
from
a
peaceful

sleep.
Rubbing
her
stomach,
Vanessa
felt
an
uneasy
sensation
in
her
belly,
causing
her
to
leap
out

of
bed.
As
she
did
this,
she
tripped
over
her
oversized
psychology
book
she
had
been
studying
and

reading
the
night
before.
She
quickly
stumbled
to
her
feet,
desperately
trying
to
make
it
to
her

bathroom.
Vanessa
fumbled
to
open
the
door
and
fell
to
her
knees;
she
began
to
throw
up

yesterday’s
lunch.
With
her
hands
on
her
head,
she
curled
into
a
ball
besides
the
toilet
and
started

to
cry
loudly,
feeling
a
rush
of
fear
from
the
child
inside
of
her.



28





 Vanessa’s
mom
was
in
her
master
bedroom.
She
picked
up
a
yellow
shirt
from
the
laundry

basket,
folding
it
neatly
and
placing
it
on
her
bed.
She
reached
for
the
cream
blouse
slipping
out
of

the
laundry
basket
but
hesitated
to
fold
it.
She
turned
her
head;
she
heard
faint
sobs
coming
from

her
daughter’s
bathroom.
She
dropped
the
blouse
on
her
bedspread
and
rushed
to
her
daughter’s

aid.
“Vanessa?
Sweetie,
are
you
all
right?”
She
knocked
on
the
door.


 Vanessa
tried
to
hide
the
panic
in
her
voice.
“Yes,
Mom,
I’m
fine.
I’ll
be
out
in
a
sec.”


 “Nessa,
are
you
sure?
From
my
bedroom,
it
sounded
like
you
were
crying.
Let
me
come
in,

sweetheart.”
Her
mom
had
an
uncomfortable
feeling.
It
was
five
in
the
morning
and
Vanessa
never

got
up
this
early.


 Vanessa
rolled
her
eyes.
“Mom,
I
am
alright!”
she
snapped.
She
put
force
on
the
toilet

handle,
signaling
to
her
mother
to
leave
at
the
sound
of
the
flush.
Vanessa
knew
her
mom
would

have
a
million
questions
or
more
about
why
she
was
up
so
early.
In
addition,
her
mother
would

absolutely
go
into
frenzy
if
she
knew
that
Vanessa
was
sick,
let
alone
pregnant
on
this
morning.

However,
Vanessa,
emotionally,
physically,
and
mentally
did
not
feel
like
dealing
with
that
whole

ordeal,
not
until
later
in
the
day.
Vanessa
reached
out,
grabbed
the
knob
of
the
cabinet
door
and

opened
it,
taking
out
a
bottle
of
disinfectant
spray.
She
griped
the
rim
of
the
sink,
pulled
herself
up

and
began
spraying
down
the
toilet
until
it
sparkled.
Once
she
was
done,
she
washed
her
hands

five
times
just
to
make
sure
that
every
possible
germ
had
found
its
way
down
the
drain.
She
then

grabbed
a
sky
blue
washcloth
from
the
wooden
linen
closet.
Vanessa
dragged
her
feet
across
the

bathroom
floor
and
drew
back
the
dolphin
decorated
shower
curtain.
With
three
twists
of
the

knob,
the
shower
sprayed
on,
startling
Vanessa.
Vanessa
took
a
long
steaming
hot
shower,
saying
a

silent
prayer
every
few
minutes,
so
that
by
the
end
of
the
day
she
would
be
at
peace
with
her

situation.
She
didn’t
want
to
raise
this
baby
out
of
regret
but
out
of
love
and
a
sound
mind.

Vanessa
turned
the
shower
off
and
stepped
out
onto
the
cold
turquoise
tiled
floor.
She
grabbed

two
towels
from
the
linen
closet,
wrapped
one
around
her
body
and
the
other
around
her
head.

Vanessa
stood
in
front
of
her
bathroom
mirror,
trying
to
see
if
she
really
appeared
like
a
mother
to

be.




Cast
Away


Caroline
Jones





Fires
cure
the
ache



Of
these
words
repeated

These
words
repeated



An
irretrievable
meaning



You
brought
home
those
sorrows

And
fire
forgives.



29




Unspoken
Words


Andrew
Lee





 The
beat
of
feet
on
treadmill
gave
Gary
a
great
rhythm
to
work
to.
His
muscles
strained
as

he
struggled
with
the
last
few
pull‐ups,
pushing
himself
to
exhaustion
before
dropping
limply
to

the
floor.
He
sat
on
the
padded
bench,
breathing
heavily
and
flexing
his
wrists.
A
rush
of
warm

blood
pumped
through
his
arms
and
he
rested
them
on
his
knees.



 Radio
music
played
in
the
background,
covered
by
quiet
chatter
and
grunts
exertion.
There

was
a
certain
gritty
feel
to
the
room
that
made
Gary
feel
his
best.
He
inhaled
deeply
and
relished

the
almost
earthy
smell.
He
couldn't
quite
put
his
finger
on
it,
the
way
the
room
smelled.

Something
about
the
metallic
machinery
and
gray
stone
floors
in
the
weight
room
made
him
think

of
a
garden.


 Out
of
the
corner
of
his
eye,
he
scanned
the
room
quickly,
ignoring
the
bunch
of
guys

lounging
around
the
bench
press,
sifting
through
his
peers
on
the
stretching
mats,
and
finally

resting
his
eyes
on
her.
Gary
contented
himself
with
watching
her
run
on
the
treadmill
that
she

seemed
to
bound
on
so
effortlessly.
Her
hair,
tied
up
in
a
neat
ponytail,
hooked
his
attention
as
it

swayed
back
and
forth
in
rhythm
with
her
running.
Gary
admired
her
toned
legs.
Definitely
a
soccer

player,
thought
Gary.
I
wonder
why
I
haven't
seen
her
play
on
the
school
team.


 He
raised
his
gaze
back
up
her
ponytail,
following
her
hair
up
to
her
ears,
and
his
eyes

rested
there,
where
light
green
ear
buds
were
pumping
music.
A
thin
strand
of
brown
hair

remained
untucked.



 Gary
stood,
faltered,
and
sat
back
down.
It
was
a
shame
one
of
her
friends
was
occupying

the
treadmill
beside
her.
He
looked
sullenly
down
at
his
homework,
which
he
had
scribbled
on
and

erased
sloppily
to
make
it
seem
as
if
he
was
struggling.
He
looked
down
at
the
homework.
Then
he

looked
back
at
her.
His
plans
never
seemed
to
work
out.



 A
strong
palm
slapped
across
his
back
and
Gary
jumped
in
surprise.



"What's
this?
Doing
schoolwork
while
you're
supposed
to
be
working
out?"
Mike
Fender

grinned
broadly
at
Gary's
startled
expression.
"Man,
are
you
all
right?"


 Gary
smiled
and
threw
a
friendly
punch.
"Yeah,
but
scare
me
like
that
again
and
I
just

might
kill
you."



 Mike
scooped
the
homework
aside
and
sat
down
on
the
bend,
gazing
at
Gary.
"Change
of

workout?
I
thought
soccer
players
didn't
need
to
have
buff
arms."


 "Well,
you
know,"
said
Gary,
nodding
his
head
at
the
treadmills.
"I—"


 "Oh,"
said
Mike.
"You
have
to
get
here
real
early
if
you
want
a
spot
on
those."



 "Yeah,"
mumbled
Gary.
"I
was—you—yeah."



 "Well,
listen,
I
got
basketball
practice
in
a
while.
I'd
stay
and
do
some
pull‐ups
with
you,

but
I'm
gonna
go
outside
to
catch
a
drink
first."




 "Give
me
a
minute
and
I'll
be
right
out.
I
want
to
finish
another
set."


 "How
many
can
you
do
per
set?"


 "Fifteen
and
climbing."


 "Looking
to
impress
the
ladies,
eh?"


 Gary
grinned.
"Oh,
shut
up."



 Darkness
engulfed
his
arms
as
Gary
worked
through
fifteen
more
pull‐ups.
He
shrugged
his

shoulders
and
stretched
his
arms
out
a
bit,
staring
intently
at
the
floor.
He
cleared
his
throat,
then

started
to
mutter
phrases
under
his
breath
while
he
collected
his
schoolwork.



30





 He
had
been
practicing
just
that
morning,
too.
Ever
since
he
was
tongue‐tied
that
one
time

he
passed
her
after
school,
he
knew
he
just
hat
to
practice
out
loud
a
few
times.
He
had
even

practiced
with
his
mom
that
morning.


 "Just
be
natural,"
she
had
said.
"Girls
like
guys
with
some
confidence."


 Gary
chuckled.
This
was
the
one
thing
he
actually
trusted
his
mom
on.



 He
maneuvered
his
way
through
the
room
and
sidestepped
as
a
runaway
exercise
ball

careened
past
him.
He
ignored
the
owner
chasing
the
ball
and
felt
his
steps
move
in
time
with
his

rapid
heartbeat.



 He
had
already
planned
this
route
minutes
ago
and
tried
to
take
a
deep
breath.
He
used

his
left
hand
to
ruffle
through
his
hair
as
he
took
the
last
few
steps
towards
the
treadmills,
wishing

that
he
wasn't
sweating
so
much.
His
toes
tightened
in
his
shoe
as
he
paused
casually
and
looked

up,
mouth
opening
but
forgetting
form
syllables.


 Gary
stopped
abruptly
as
she
looked
up.
Her
face
lit
up
and
she
pulled
one
of
the
ear
buds

away.
Gary
felt
his
tongue
dry
out,
unable
to
pronounce
words,
and
instead
gave
a
timid
flick
of
his

head.



 "Grace!"



 The
girl
behind
Gary
bumped
into
him
as
she
ran
up
to
the
treadmill
and
waved
frantically.



 "How
are
you?"
the
girl
asked.
"I
haven't
seen
you
in
forever!"



 "Good,
what
are
you
doing
here?"


 "The
usual.
You
know,
the
past
few
weeks
have
been
so
busy—"


 The
conversation
faded
numbly
from
Gary's
mind
as
he
walked
away,
not
even
bothering

to
hear
the
last
few
words
of
the
encounter.
The
clock
seemed
to
leer
at
him
before
he
exited

through
the
doorway,
laughing
at
his
cowardice.
A
current
of
cool
air
hit
him
directly
in
the
face

and
stung
his
eyes.



 Gary
headed
over
to
the
concession
stand,
spotted
Mike
immediately,
and
plopped
down

in
a
chair.


 Mike
paused
and
looked
up
at
Gary's
sunken
face.
"Hard
work‐out?"



 Gary
managed
to
laugh
mirthlessly
but
nodded.
"I've
had
better,"
he
sighed,
and
kicked

angrily
underneath
the
table.







Death



Starr
Sobon



Death
lurks
in
every
room


It’s
closer
each
day;
I
know
it’s
true.


Death
waits
to
seize
us
in
its
grip,


And
rip
out
our
souls,
making
us
dip


Into
the
pitch‐black
waters.


The
dark
is
waiting.



31




Fridays
at
8


Taylor
Williams



 
32

I
watch
you

longingly

from
my
place.

Because
of
this
barrier.



This
sheet
of
glass

that
separates
us.

You
feel
miles
away
from
me.

Probably
unaware
that
I
exist.



But
I
do.

Can
you
tell?

Can
you
feel

my
eyes
on
you?



I
am
here,
every
week.

Watching.

Rooting.

Wanting.



I
want
to
feel


those
long
brown
tresses

the
ones
you
flip


as
you
saunter
inside.



I
want
to
feel
your
jacket

the
warmth

the
smell

the
Essence
of
you.



But
alas,

the
clock
has
struck
10.

this
sheet
of
glass

turns
back
into
a
stone
wall.



A
wall


that
won’t
turn
back

into
a
window
again

until
next
Friday
at
8.











Memory


Leah
Chamberlin




Children
of
trees


Leaving
home





Spiraling
down
toward
my
open
palms


Red,
orange,
yellow
dancing





Death
could
never
be
so
brilliant



In
a
young
girl’s
eyes





An
Unknown
Heaven



 Dan
LaClair




The
Ocean
is
an
open
road

There’s
nothing
there

But
still
a
sound

An
emotion
buried

In
this
nothingness
of
a
place

And
yet
we
sit
and
stare

Because
it’s
pure
amazement

Water
crashing,

Leaves
running,

People
standing
and
watching

The
Ocean
is



An
open
road






Haiku



 
 Jeremy
Wallace




A
man
leaves
the
world

A
baby
enters
the
world

The
world
keeps
spinning








33





If
Only
We
Were
Birds


Mariya
Dmytrk




Soaring
in
the
sky

Moving
our
hands

Weightlessly
with
no
worries

Like
flying
to
heaven

Illuminating
the
light
of
the
wings.

Careless
about
rules

Piercing
clouds
with
our
feathery
bodies

Undressing
our
souls
in
the
sky

Floating
down
the
wind







Night
Senses



 
 Ebere
Joseph






 Everywhere
was
dark;
it
looked
like
the
light
just
tripped
off,
or
maybe
because
it
was
one


a.m.
or
two
a.m.,
maybe
even
midnight.
He
did
not
care
whether
it
was
dark
or
what
time
it
was.


He
just
wanted
to
go
to
that
room,
the
room
he'd
started
missing
every
second
after
Dan
had


gone.
He
tiptoed
out
of
his
room
and
tried
not
to
hit
something,
so
he
would
not
wake
his
wife
up.



 As
he
opened
the
door,
he
could
hear,
“What
is
it,
Dad?”
He
went
inside,
touched
the
wall


and
books
and
remembered
when
they
both
would
try
to
wrestle
and
pin
each
other
to
the
wall
or


study
for
the
Bio
test.
He
breathed
in
deeply,
and
it
smelled
like
the
cologne
he'd
bought
for
Dan

on
his
13th
birthday.


 He
looked
at
the
pictures
around
and
remembered
his
son’s
8th
grade
graduation,
when
he


broke
the
state
high
school
track
record,
and
even
when
they
went
fishing
when
he
was
just
five.


He
kissed
the
drawers
and
remembered
when
they
would
fight
about
how
he
should
dress
and


types
of
clothes
he
was
supposed
to
wear.



 He
went
to
the
bed;
he
smelled,
saw,
heard
and
thought
of
nothing.
He
could
feel
anger,


depression,
and
sadness
rise
to
his
neck.
He
decided
to
lie
on
the
bed;
after
a
couple
of
minutes,
he


decided
to
go
back
to
bed.
When
he
stood
up,
he
saw
the
gun.



 He
immediately
put
his
hands
up
and
knelt
down.
He
started
to
cry.
I
know
I
should
have


been
a
better
dad;
I
should
have
spent
more
time
with
you
than
just
giving
you
rules.
The
way
you


behaved
showed
that
you
were
mature
and
did
not
need
much
of
me
anymore.
I
am
sorry,
he


thought.



 He
came
out
of
the
room
and
went
to
his
room.
He
snuck
back
to
bed.
He
continued
to
do


these
things
every
night
for
two
years,
after
Dan
was
gone.












34




One
Step


Caitlin
Manley



One
step
will
get
you
to
the
red
house
of
horror

The
next
step
will
drown
you
in
the
sea
of
forgotten
dreams

Where
only
the
blue
bird
hears
your
screams

Life
is
but
a
dream






So
Perfectly
Unperfected


Matt
Kelly



We
search
for
our
truths


Laying
on
a
bed
of
lies


There
is
no
way
to
know


There
is
no
way
to
see


Blinded
by
time
and
all
of
our
words


So
perfectly
locked
inside


So
perfectly
functioning


These
words
are
chains






Carmine
 


Sarah
Lesser




The
boy
sat
alone
in
the
small
office.
His
legs
dangled
from
the
cold
metal
examination

table.
He
clutched
an
arm
awkwardly
to
his
chest,
cradling
it
to
his
body—shielding
it
from
view.

He
swung
his
legs
back
and
forth,
waiting.
With
each
movement
of
his
legs,
his
shorts
would
ride

up,
revealing
a
peppering
of
bruises
and
cuts.


 The
door
creaked
open.
The
boy
looked
up,
his
brown
eyes
widening.
The
doctor
strode
in,

dressed
in
a
pristine
white
coat.
A
silk
tie
and
newly
ironed
shirt
peeked
out
from
underneath
the

perfect
white
folds.
The
boy
felt
naked
in
comparison
with
his
worn
tee
shirt
and
shorts.


 “How
have
you
been
doing?”
the
doctor
said
with
a
pleasant
tone.


 “Fine,”
the
boy
mumbled.


 The
doctor’s
arched
brows
furrowed
for
a
moment
and
he
adjusted
his
glasses.
Then
the

smile
returned
as
he
beamed
radiantly.
“That’s
good
to
hear,
kiddo.
Now
what
can
I
do
for
you

today?”


 The
boy
muttered
something;
the
doctor
strained
to
hear.



35





 With
a
sigh,
the
boy
slowly
unfurled
his
arm.
He
held
it
out
as
far
as
he
could,
as
if
he
were

trying
to
discard
the
offending
limb.
He
closed
his
eyes
and
let
the
doctor
take
in
the
ghastly
sight,

perhaps
waiting
for
him
to
make
it
disappear.


 The
first
thing
the
doctor
would
see
would
be
the
inflicted
skin.
The
red
scaly
skin,
the

cracked
skin,
the
dead
blackened
skin.
His
eye
would
travel
up
and
down
the
arm,
gaping
at
the

horrifying
color
changes
that
some
demonic
artist
had
decided
to
paint.
Fire
always
painted
with
a

rough
hand
and
dark
colors.
With
his
mouth
still
open,
the
doctor’s
eyes
would
finally
travel
down

to
his
hand,
or
the
piece
of
mangled
flesh
that
only
slightly
resembled
one.
His
fingers
were

blackened
and
sticking
out
at
odd
angles,
a
few
white
bones
gleamed
from
the
wreckage.
The
nails

were
black
as
well,
like
stained
chips
of
shattered
glass.
His
bottom
lip
trembled
as
the
doctor

looked.
His
eyes
remained
shut,
for
he
already
knew
what
the
doctor
would
see.
Not
looking
at
it

might
make
it
go
away.


 “What
happened?”
the
doctor
asked,
his
fingers
reaching
out
to
meet
the
charred
skin.


 The
boy
yelped
and
opened
his
eyes.
He
was
startled
to
meet
the
doctor’s
clouded
blue

eyes
with
his
own.
They
were
usually
as
clear
as
the
open
sky;
it
unnerved
him
to
see
the
tempest

in
the
doctor’s
gaze.


 “My
arm…”
the
boy
began
as
he
curled
his
ruined
arm
to
his
chest.
He
paused
and
looked

out
the
window.
There
was
a
man
in
a
shiny
new
Silverado
outside
in
the
parking
lot.
The
windows

of
the
truck
were
open
wide
and
the
faint
sound
of
Metallica
wafted
into
the
room.
“My
arm…
my

arm
got
stuck
in
the
oven,”
the
boy
said,
looking
down
to
his
left,
staring
at
the
silver
garbage
can.


 The
doctor
didn’t
remove
his
gaze
from
the
man
in
the
pick‐up
truck.
“Was
it
…”
his
voice

trailed
off
uncertainly.


 The
boy
said
nothing.
He
started
to
swing
his
feet
again.


 “Does
it
hurt
a
lot?”


 The
boy
nodded.


 “May
I
see
it
again?”
the
doctor
asked,
his
tone
gentle.
“We’re
going
to
have
to
do
a
lot
of

work
to
fix
it
up.”


 The
boy
hesitated
a
moment
before
nodding.
He

offered
his
arm
to
the
doctor,
flinching
as

the
cool
air
accosted
his
ruined
skin.
He
frowned
as
the
doctor
exited
the
room
and
almost

withdrew
his
arm,
but
he
stopped
himself.
He
forced
himself
to
stare
at
the
red
scales,
the
blisters

and
the
burns.
He
swiftly
wiped
his
eyes
with
his
good
arm.
Boys
weren’t
supposed
to
cry.




 The
doctor
returned,
a
camera
in
hand.
“I
need
to
take
some
pictures
before
we
patch

everything
up.”


 The
doctor
took
one
picture
of
the
boy.
One
of
the
arm.
A
close
up
of
the
burns.
One
of
the

ruined
hand.
And
one
of
the
blackened
fingernails.
He
shot
from
all
angles,
leaving
no
stone

overturned.


 “Alright,”
he
said
smiling.
“Let’s
fix
you
up!”


 The
boy
averted
his
eyes.
“My
dad
says
if
it’s
expensive,
he
won’t
pay
for
it.”


 The
doctor
looked
out
at
the
navy
blue
Silverado;
it
gleamed
in
the
sunlight.


 “Is
it
expensive?”
the
boy
asked
with
wide,
innocent
eyes.


 “Not
at
all,”
the
doctor
said
with
a
smile.
“Let’s
go
get
some
things
for
your
burns
and
we’ll

see
about
some
x‐rays
for
those
broken
fingers
of
yours.
I’m
going
to
patch
you
up.”


 The
boy
smiled—or
rather
tried
to.
His
lips
quirked
up,
twitching
fitfully
as
he
tried
to

imitate
the
doctor’s
earlier
expression.


 “What
were
you
doing
when
you
hurt
yourself
anyways?”



36





 “Cooking,”
the
boy
replied.
The
doctor
didn’t
question
the
boy
as
he
slid
down
from
the

table.
They
both
knew
that
the
only
thing
cooking
that
day
had
been
flesh.


Outside,
the
man
in
the
pickup
truck
lit
up
a
cigarette
and
drove
away.
Only
dissipating

smoke
and
a
puddle
of
multi‐colored
oil
on
the
pavement
marked
that
he
was
ever
there
at
all.







Evening
Prayers



 Emily
Higgins






I
am
chemical

A
sting
in
my
smile
and
steel
in
my
spine

A
war
between
matter
and
mind



My
being
awake
is
my
body
alone

My
pupils
are
wary
but
wide

Nightmares
will
nest
if
I
blow
out
the
light



The
mind
is
a
battlefield

Thoughts
that
seek
solitude
under
my
skull

Attack
as
my
eyes
finally
close



When
bones
flow
and
blood
breaks

I
hope
to
God
that
I
am
dreaming







Naked



 
 Shakera
Kemp




What
happened
to
the
inspiration?

Does
my
creativity
and
talent
need
necessitation?



My
flow
was
so
cold
that
it
was
arctic,

With
metaphors
that
were
deep
like
the
sea.

But
now
I
feel
like
my
gift
is
leaving
me.



What
happened
to
the
ambition?



Like
Double
007,
when
I
write
I’m
on
a
mission.



I
want
to
be
in
the
poetic
bloodline
like
my
dude
Gemineye

Like
him
also,
I
would
like
to
offer
you
a
penny
for
your
thoughts…



What
happens
when
your
drive
has
been
bought?






37




Dante


Jennifer
Keeler




 The
first
thing
I
noticed
about
Dante
Adams
was
the
deep
white
scar
above
his
left

eyebrow.
He
had
gotten
the
scar
in
a
skiing
accident
when
he
was
only
seven
years
old.
Every
now

and
then,
I
trace
my
finger
over
it.
It
reminds
me
of
the
day
we
first
met.


“Dante…Dante
what
happened?!
Who
did
this
to
you?!”

I
knelt
beside
his
limp
body,
the
night
swallowing
every
bit
of
light
left.
My
sobs
echoed

throughout
the
cool
summer
air,
and
frightened
Dante.
With
every
one
of
my
cries,
the
muscles
in

his
body
tightened,
and
his
shaking
became
uncontrollable.

“I’m
calling
an
ambulance!”

I
don’t
remember
actually
falling
in
love
with
Dante
Adams,
at
least
until
I
realized
how

alike
we
really
were.
I
became
obsessed
with
his
occasional
toothy
smile,
and
his
long
black
hair

that
he
threw
in
a
ponytail
a
couple
times
a
week.
Dante
was
not
exactly
what
you’d
call
a

heartbreaker,
but
he
was
unlike
any
guy
I
had
ever
known.
He
transformed
me.

I
was
no
longer
the
perfect
daughter,
the
pure
church
girl,
the
straight
A
student,
and
the

upper
class
snob
when
I
was
with
him.
I
became
everything
I
had
only
daydreamed
about.
I
started

skipping
class
to
smoke
under
the
bleachers
on
the
football
field.
I
would
attend
mass
with
my

family
on
Sundays
hung‐over
and
feeling
like
crap.
My
grades
began
dropping.
I
lost
some
friends,

and
respect
from
my
family,
but
I
was
enjoying
life
more
than
ever,
and
actually
looking
forward
to

my
future.


I
brushed
his
hair
from
his
swollen
eyes
and
leaned
so
close
to
his
face
that
he
could
feel

my
hot
breath
on
his
ear.

“Dante,”
I
whispered.
“They’ll
be
here
soon.
It’s
going
to
be
okay.”

The
wind
started
blowing
harder,
and
I
listened
to
the
chiming
of
the
swing
set
chains
in

the
distance.
I
took
Dante’s
hand
and
brought
his
fingertips
to
my
lips.
I
kissed
each
finger
tasting

the
saltiness
of
the
damp
blood
that
was
present
on
each
one.



We
met
on
a
church
retreat,
and
judging
on
appearance,
and
the
fact
that
we
were
at
a

Catholic
retreat,
I
hardly
noticed
him.
By
the
evening
mass
I
was
so
ready
to
head
home
that
I

decided
to
head
for
the
shade
of
the
oak
tree
on
the
edge
of
the
garden
instead.
I
was
surprised
to

find
that
Dante
had
chosen
my
retreat
spot
as
well.

We
talked
about
everything.
Dante
talked
mostly.
He
talked
about
his
family
and
how
they

were
pushing
him
to
be
someone
he
was
not.
He
was
starting
to
rebel,
and
I
liked
how
he
was
able

to
make
his
decisions
so
freely,
without
having
a
care
in
the
world.

We
started
meeting
up
on
weekends
and
even
throughout
the
week
after
school.

Eventually
we
started
skipping
school
entirely.
We
smoked
pot
for
the
first
time
together.
We

stayed
out
until
dawn
on
school
nights.
He
taught
me
guitar.
I
taught
him
to
dance.
We
both
fell
in

love.

But
Dante
was
trouble.
He
had
community
service
hours
to
finish
for
the
State,
and
he

hadn’t
paid
his
dealer
back
in
over
a
month.
He
was
getting
threatening
phone
calls,
and
was
being

followed
on
his
way
home
from
school.
It
was
starting
to
scare
me.

Dante’s
body
eased
and
his
fast
breaths
became
slower.
I
lay
on
the
grass
next
to
him,

inched
my
body
closer,
and
wrapped
my
arms
around
his
waist.
Sirens
were
howling
in
the

distance.



38




“It’s
going
to
be
okay,”
I
said.
“I
can
see
them.
They’re
going
to
be
here
soon.”

Dante
turned
his
body
over
so
he
was
lying
on
his
back.
His
face
turned
towards
mine,
his

black
hair
falling
over
his
deep
blue
eyes,
and
his
cracked
lips
curling
into
a
smile.

“I
love
you,”
he
said.

I
kissed
his
dry
lips,
then
took
my
finger
and
traced
the
deep
white
scar
above
his
left

eyebrow,
up
and
down,
until
his
body
relaxed.






Untitled


Chris
Yu





It
was
the
eve
after
I
had
strode
confidently
across
that
stage,
diploma
proudly
in
hand,

and
a
little
contented
was
I.
The
sense
of
relief,
the
desire
to
be
out
celebrating,
they
all
paled
in

comparison
to
one
lingering,
quietly
overwhelming
feeling.
A
vague
sense
of
regret—but
not
that;

more
a
sense
of
wistfulness—closer,
perhaps,
but
not
accurate
either.
Mere
words
failed
me;
this

was
not
something
I’d
ever
known
before.


It
was
very
nearly
midnight,
which
stirred
an
ancient
memory
in
me.
Many
a
secret
outing

I’d
made
at
midnight,
long
ago.
It
seemed
to
me,
now,
so
ludicrous,
yet
so
perfect,
as
if
out
of
a

fairy
tale.
And
I
found
myself
rummaging
through
my
closet,
through
those
mementos
of
a
younger

time
carelessly
put
away
once
outgrown.
Curled
up
on
the
floor
was
what
I’d
been
searching
for—a

worn
rope,
carefully
and
evenly
knotted
for
climbing.
Like
instinct
reawakening
after
years
of

dormancy,
I
tied
one
end
of
the
knot
to
a
table
leg,
threw
the
other
end
out
of
my
open
second‐
story
window,
and
hearing
it
hit
the
grass
below,
climbed
my
way
out
the
window
to
the
ground.


Quite
a
bit
more
difficult
than
I
remembered
–
I’d
certainly
grown
in
the
perhaps
four

years
since
I’d
last
made
such
an
escapade—but
it
was
second
nature.
The
melancholy
that

afflicted
me
became
ever
more
apparent;
I
felt
it
weighing
heavily,
displacing
all
else
on
my
mind.

As
if
I
were
being
directed,
I
meandered
down
the
street,
into
the
city.


Signs
at
each
storefront,
brightly
glowing,
beckoned
to
me
all
around,
but
I
paid
them
no

mind.
Their
fluorescent
rays
shone
upon
the
eyes
of
vagrants
in
the
alleys;
I
moved
on,
though
I

could
see
their
neon‐lit
eyes
looking
back
at
me.
The
few
cars
that
passed
drove
slowly,
solemnly.

The
odd
passerby
and
I
would
exchange
a
look
of
mutual
understanding,
a
silent
recognition
of
our

reasons.
I
knew
my
destination
well,
and
the
rest
of
the
world
followed.


One
image
of
one
person
focused
in
my
mind,
the
only
reason
I’d
ever
had
for
these
little

night
journeys.
The
idea
of
trust
was
perhaps
new
to
us,
as
children.
And
so,
a
promise
was
made:

that
if
we
truly
trusted
each
other,
we’d
meet
a
certain
café
at
midnight.
And
so,
we
did.


How
intimidating
the
city
had
been
at
that
young
age!
The
very
signs,
the
very
strangers
I

passed
by
without
a
thought
now,
had
seemed
so
foreign,
so
imposing.
And
every
time,
what’d

kept
me
from
turning
back
was
the
unbreakable
promise
that
we’d
both
made
there,
at
the
end
of

the
road.



39




I
glanced
upward
at
the
night
sky—somewhere
up
there
were
stars,
though
here
it
was
too

bright
to
see.

One
night,
much
like
this
one,
we’d
walked
out
to
a
field,
far
from
the
lights
of
the

city;
we’d
lain
lazily
on
the
grass,
counting
the
stars
together.
Memory
after
memory
resurged;
my

wistfulness
grew
even
heavier.



And
fittingly,
that
eve
four
years
back,
we’d
agreed;
that
night’s
escape
would
be
our
last.

Over
all
those
years,
we’d
grown
to
be
the
best
of
friends,
and
we
would
stay
as
such,
we
both

judged.
The
escapades
were
thus
retired,
outgrown
just
like
everything
else.
The
closest
friends,

childhood
friends
we
remained,
but
we
both
knew
that
nothing
could
compare.
Never
a
day

passed
when
we
didn’t
fondly
remember
the
time
of
those
midnight
rendezvous.


Then,
what
was
it
I
felt
now?
I
should
be
glad,
yet
I
felt
as
though,
perhaps,
something
had

been
left
unfulfilled.
Perhaps,
something
had
been
precluded
from
the
start,
not
by
any
outside

force,
but
by
us,
ourselves.
Perhaps
there
had
been
something
more
to
our
trust,
something
more

that
we’d
both
agreed
upon,
without
either
of
us
knowing
it…


For
she
was
a
remarkable
person,
remarkably
intelligent,
thoughtful,
understanding.
She

knew
as
well
as
I
did
that
there
was
nothing
good
that
could
come
of
hiding
our
thoughts
from

each
other,
as
close
as
we
were.
But
there
was
one
thing
we’d
both
been
hiding,
without
a
choice,

without
even
a
realization.


I
stopped;
I’d
arrived.
I
looked
up
at
that
familiar
sign
in
the
window,
proclaiming
simply

“Café”;
it
was
now
marred
by
a
mournful
little
addendum
to
the
bottom:
“Going
out
of
business.”

This
was
to
be
their
last
night
open.


The
old
wooden
door
opened
just
as
easily
as
always,
and
I
walked
in
casually.
The

manager
at
once
recognized
me,
though
I’d
changed
over
the
years.
He
welcomed
me
warmly,
as

usual;
I
nodded
appreciatively,
taking
a
seat
a
little
table
for
two
at
the
window.
The
shop
was

empty
of
customers;
I
could
see
things
had
taken
a
turn
for
the
worse.


“A
few
years
past,
but
still.
Glad
you
could
come
here,
one
last
time.”
He
approached
my

table,
pad
in
hand.
“On
the
house.
Anything
I
can
get
you?”


“The
usual,
I
suppose.”

He
smiled
fondly
and
nodded,
jotting
down
a
note
and
returning
to
the
counter.

I
sat
in
silence
for
a
few
minutes,
staring
out
the
window.
I
shouldn’t
have
expected

anything,
I
supposed.
This
was
a
time
long
gone…
to
relive
it
would
only
be
a
dream
out
of
reach,

I
heard
the
door
open
tentatively
behind
me,
but
I
didn’t
turn,
lost
in
thought
as
I
was.

Only
when
I
heard
the
chair
opposite
of
me
being
pulled
out,
and
someone
taking
a
seat,
did
I

notice.
There
she
was,
staring
affectionately
into
my
eyes.

“I
thought
I
might
find
you
here.”
Her
voice
was
breathless;
she’d
been
hurrying.

For
a
moment,
I
was
speechless.
Then,
there
was
only
one
thing
I
could
say.
“All
this
time,

there’s
been
something
I’ve
been
meaning
to
tell
you…”

She
put
her
hand
over
mine.
“Me
too…
I
know…
I
know.”








40




Between
Then
and
Now
and
Soon
 
41


Phoenix
Robertson



Through
half—closed
eyes:
Death,
clinging
to
unfeeling
white
walls

Hospital
robes
that
don’t
cover
enough

Tubes
they
used
to
feed
her
dying
lungs
air,
snaking
into
her
mouth
and
nose.



Unwanted
memories
flicker

If
only,
if
only,

If
only
there
were
more
time
in
a
life.

She
spent
all
hers
on
lies.



Each
tick
of
the
clock
was
another
second
unlived

That
much
closer
to
the
–
paradise,
or
nothingness

Waiting,
wanting,
Dreading



She
reached
for
sunlight,

Found
cold,
empty
dusk

Never
let
go,
was
dragged
from
her
nightmare


Pushed
into
the
unknown






Three
Musicians



 Niki
Crosby



Thinking
about
it

The
world
is
so
strange

The
way
people
live

Everything’s
changed

Coming
together

Keeps
things
in
motion

The
power
of
music

Brings
people
closer

Sharing
a
task

Don’t
know
where
to
start

Before
you
know
it

The
end
is
in
sight

We
work
together

We’ve
accomplished
a
goal

Our
music
is
finished

It’s
done
and
it’s
over













Zack
Kaufman



“Now
perhaps
you
will
give
up
this
wild
idea
and
stay
home.”


Her
husband
John
and
his
buddies
Rick
and
Chris
have
always
had
the
idea
of
a
trip
to

Vegas.
“A
trip
that
will
go
down
in
the
history
of
all
mankind,”
says
John.


But
she
knows
the
true
meaning
of
this
trip.
This
trip
is
the
one
opportunity
for
them
to

have
some
time
away
from
their
families.
“I
can
read
John
like
a
book,”
she
says
to
herself.
‘Don't

the
boys
ever
think
of
us?
We
may
not
work
all
day
at
a
desk,
but
as
women
in
the
house,
we're
the

reason
for
order
to
be
held
amongst
our
families
day
in
and
day
out’.
“It's
such
a
dumb
decision,”

she
says.
“It's
a
waste
of
our
money
and
I
can't
handle
the
kids
on
my
own.”


As
expected,
John
and
his
buddies
pay
no
attention
to
their
wives
and
hit
the
road
to

Vegas.
With
no
information
of
where
they're
staying
or
phones
they
can
be
reached
at,
they're

caught
up
in
the
never‐ending
road
to
Vegas.
They
comment
on
how
stressful
their
lives
are
with

families
to
support.
The
trip
lasts
about
five
days.
And
it
seems
as
soon
as
the
trip
begins,
it
comes

to
an
end
with
thoughts
of
how
much
they
missed
their
families.
Stating
that
Vegas
is
no
match

compared
to
their
families.
Finally
home,
they
are
so
excited
to
see
their
family's
smiling
faces.
Rick

and
Chris
apologize
to
their
wives
and
swear
never
to
disobey
them
again,
and
their
lives
return
to

normal
as
if
nothing
ever
happened.


John,
the
most
excited
of
them
all
to
be
back
home,
walks
into
an
empty
house
with
a
note

on
the
floor.
In
Clair's
handwriting
it
states:
“hope
you
had
lots
of
fun
in
Vegas,
because
we
are

through”.






Asymptote



Jeremy
Wallace




I
wish
I
weren’t
an
asymptote


Trav’ling
so
far
and
coming
so
close


Reaching
that
point
of
joy
is
what
I
lack


Not
accepting
failure
or
turning
back





But
every
day
I
seem
to
find



Myself
wishing
I
was
a
line


A
line
that
travels
through
X’s
and
Y’s


That
stays
strong
and
never
dies



42





 
43


If
I
was
a
line
I’d
run
through
routes


That
asymptotes
can
only
dream
about


Running
through
worlds
of
infinity


Whilst
watching
asymptote’s
stupidity


I
would
break
out
and
become
unglued


And
my
sense
of
life
would
be
renewed





Yet
I
come
to
terms
and
face
that
fact


That
I
am
an
asymptote
and
what
I
lack


Is
the
ability
to
reach
that
spot


That
spot
where
lines
roam
free
but
I
cannot





So
every
day
I
sit
and
wait


I
wait
for
fate
to
set
me
straight


I
wait
for
that
one
point
in
time


When
I’ll
be
set
free
and
become
a
line






Forever
Shattered


Alexis
Kilpatrick



An
amazing
adrenaline
rush.



Doesn’t
smell
bad,
it
smells
like
life.

The
sea
life,
living
together
in
perfect
harmony

Soothing
sounds
of
the
waves
crashing
against
the
rocks.

I
feel
the
cool
water
touch
me.



My
night
shatters
and
I
lay
there
terrified.










The
Baby



 
 Talia
Harrison





 Silence
filled
the
car.
I
held
the
steering
wheel
with
two
hands
and
was
looking
back
and

forth
from
the
road
to
Maggie.
She
had
yellow
paint
remains
splattered
on
her
fingers
and
on
the

side
of
her
neck.


 She
had
been
up
all
night,
painting
the
nursery.
I
found
her
asleep
this
morning
in
the

rocking
chair.
It
had
green
satin
cushions.
It
was
the
first
thing
we
bought
when
we'd
found
out
the

good
news.


 The
road
was
empty,
so
I
looked
at
her
again.
She
was
looking
down,
her
eyes
locked
on

her
stomach.
Her
hands
were
slowly
caressing
up
and
down
the
little
bump
that
had
formed.
She

had
been
this
way
ever
since
the
sonogram.
She
didn’t
even
realize
we
had
made
it
home
until
I

opened
her
car
door
and
put
my
hand
on
her
shoulder.


 “Mags,”
I
said.
“We’re
home
now.
Here,
let
me
help
you
out.”
I
reached
over
her
and

carefully
unbuckled
her,
and
then
I
took
her
by
the
arm
with
my
left
hand
and
slid
the
other

around
her
back.
We
walked
slowly
up
the
front
walkway.
A
sheet
of
ice
covered
the
ground,
but
I

was
careful
not
to
let
her
fall.
The
house
and
yard
were
also
suffocated
in
a
thick
layer
of
ice.
I

unlocked
the
door
and
followed
her
into
the
house.
She
took
off
her
coat
and
dropped
it
to
the

ground.
With
her
wet
boots
still
on,
she
then
turned
to
the
left
and
walked
right
up
the
stairs.
I

pulled
my
coat
off,
threw
it
on
the
chair
beside
the
door,
kicked
off
my
boots
and
quickly
followed

after
her.
I
found
her
in
the
freshly
painted
nursery,
kneeling
over
the
green
cushioned
rocking

chair
with
her
face
buried
in
her
arms.


 “Maggie,”
I
said,
kneeling
beside
her
and
rubbing
my
hand
up
and
down
her
back.
“Honey,

don’t
worry,
we
can
try
again.
Everything
will
be
fine.”
She
didn’t
even
turn
around.
She
just
kept

crying
into
the
satin
green
cushions.


 “You
know,
maybe
this
was
for
the
best.
We
did
just
move
in
and
we
are
still
young.
We

have
plenty
of
time
to
start
a
family.
Maybe
it’s
just
a
sign
that
we
should
wait
a
bit
longer
and
get

situated
first.”
I
ran
my
fingers
through
her
soft
strawberry
blond
hair
once
before
she
pulled

away,
getting
up
and
walking
towards
the
empty
paint
can
on
the
opposite
side
of
the
room.
She

was
shaking,
but
the
tears
had
stopped.
I
took
a
few
steps
towards
her
when
she
whipped
around

in
a
furious
rage.


 “You
weren’t
ready!
You’re
relieved
this
happened!”
she
growled
at
me.


 “No!
Of
course
not!
I
am
sad,
but
we
are
young.
I
am
just
trying
to
look
for
the
brightside,”

I
said,
backing
up.


 “Yeah
right,
John.
I’m
sure
you’re
really
upset
that
you
can
still
go
hang
out
for
hours
with

the
guys
every
other
night
and
you
don’t
have
any
responsibility!”
she
said,
moving
towards
me,

looking
like
she
was
winding
up
for
a
hit.


 “Mags,
you
don’t
have
to
get
upset
with
me.
I
agreed.
I
said,
‘Let’s
have
a
baby!’
I
was
all

for
it!”


 “Oh!
So
now
it’s
my
fault!
I
can’t
even
carry
a
child
properly!
I
killed
our
baby!”

Then
she

collapsed
into
my
arms.


 “Shhh,”
I
said,
squeezing
her
tight.
“It’s
not
your
fault.
It’s
not
anybody’s
fault.
These
things

happen
and
there
is
just
no
way
to
control
it.”


 “I’m
sorry,
I’m
so
sorry,”
she
sobbed
into
my
chest.
“I
didn’t
mean
the
things
I
said
to
you.”






44




“I
know,
Mags,
it’s
alright,”
I
held
her
tight
and
covered
her
head
with
kisses.


 “It’s
just
my
mother
had
me
when
she
was
22,
and
I
am
going
to
be
28
next
week,
and
I

have
always
dreamed
of
my
own
family
ever
since
I
got
my
first
doll
as
a
child,
and
if
we
wait
much

longer
it
could
be
too
late
and
I
‐”


 “Baby,
Baby,
you
are
still
very
young.
We
have
time!
Lots
of
people
wait
until
they
are
in

their
30s
to
have
kids.
We
will
have
kids,
lots
of
them,
as
many
as
you’d
like!”
I
tipped
her
face

towards
mine
and
looked
her
in
the
eyes.
Her
eyes
were
red
and
she
had
mascara
running
down

her
cheeks.
I
wiped
it
away
with
my
thumbs
and
then
kissed
her
forehead.


 “What
is
if
happens
again?
What
if
there
is
something
wrong
with
me?”
she
whispered.


 “No.
There’s
not,
and
it’s
not
going
to
happen
again,”
I
said,
brushing
back
her
curls.
I
could

see
the
sun
poking
through
the
clouds
and
into
the
yellow
room.


 “How
do
you
know?”


 “Mags,
you
are
going
to
be
a
great
mom.”


 “It’s
just
that.”


 “You
don’t
need
to
worry.”


 “But.”


 “Maggie,
I
may
not
know
what
I
am
doing,
but
you
certainly
do.
And
I
am
going
to
be
right

next
to
you
holding
your
hand
every
step
of
the
way.”
Then
I
kissed
her
and
all
that
could
be
heard

were
the
icicles,
hanging
from
the
root,
dripping
onto
the
softening
ground.






Vermilion


J.J.
Davis



There
are
few
things
more
horrid
than
the
sound
of
flesh
hitting
linoleum.



“Emo‐freak!”
screamed
one
boy
and
his
friend
gave
him
a
high‐five.

“Looo‐seeer,”
jeered
a
girl,
thrusting
her
pointy
toe
into
the
side
of
the
victim.

“Sketchball!”
taunted
another.


The
people
nearest
to
him
gave
him
looks
of
approval.


The
less
vehement
members
of
the
surrounding
crowd
hissed,
“Sksksksksksksk,”
to
prove

that
they
were
cool
enough
to
contribute.

This
is
what
happens
when
authority
leaves.
This
was
a
regular
occurrence.
He
was
a

regular
victim.

The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
had
been
ogling
the
boy
she
had
always
loved
in
the
class

she
absolutely
hated.
She
was
visually
drunk
on
his
every
feature:
the
sapphire
of
his
eyes,
the

shine
of
his
ebony
hair,
the
perfect
curve
of
his
jaw,
the
gentle
hand
that
rested
upon
his
chin,
the

relaxed
position
in
which
he
managed
to
fill
all
of
the
available
space
of
his
chair
with
his

unnaturally
skinny
body.
All
these
attributes
labeled
him
as
different,
and
his
definite
personality

labeled
him
as
different.

The
torturers
called
him
“emo”
and
hated
him
for
it.
The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
called

him
interesting
and
loved
him
for
it.

The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
had
been
merely
observing
when
a
spark,
a
remark,
lit
the

fuse.
It
burned,
exploding
into
a
malicious
ring
of
people
encircling
the
boy
she
had
always
loved.



45




The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
choked
on
her
words
that
could
end
this
scene.
Her
only

movement
was
her
body
involuntarily
trembling,
not
the
gesture
to
stop
for
averting
of
her
eyes.


Kick,
words,
laughter.
No,
stop,
she
thought.

The
boy
she
had
always
loved
attempted
to
get
up.
Shove,
words,
more
laughter.
No,

STOP,
she
thought
again.

His
azure
eyes
stabbed
her
soul
with
one
glance,
begging
her
to
help.
“STOP!!!”
she
finally

screamed.

Silence.

Everything
stood
still.

The
torturers
and
the
audience
members
blinked,
awakened
from
the
trance
of
the
mob

mentality.
They
wandered
back
to
their
seats,
as
if
they
were
unsure
of
what
had
moved
them
in

the
first
place.
The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
helped
up
the
boy
she
had
always
loved.
One
glance,

one
glimpse
into
his
tortured
soul
through
his
eyes
said,
Thank
you.
Her
shy
smile
in
return
said,

You’re
welcome.
A
look
of
concern
asked,
Are
you
okay?
Sure,
he
lied
with
a
shrug.

It
meant
everything.




[Later]

The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
sat
on
a
dirty
bench
in
the
subway,
waiting
for
her
train.

Using
the
fancy
pen
her
grandmother
gave
her,
she
wrote
a
poem
about
the
boy
she
had
always

loved,
even
though
he
would
never
read
the
poem.

As
she
wrote
the
poem
he
would
never
read,
the
boy
she
had
always
loved
came
down
the

steps
of
the
subway
and
halted
at
the
last
step,
gripping
the
metal
railing
to
keep
himself
standing.

His
own
brain
even
hated
him
for
it,
tortured
him
by
playing
flashbacks
of
the
day.
The
usual

routine
of
torment,
the
acidic
words
intended
to
burn
his
soul,
the
laughter,
all
this
hatred
toward

him
he
hadn’t
understood
for
the
longest
time.

Original
conclusion:
They
hated
him
because
he
was
different.
He
hated
them
because

they
were
all
the
same.

Yet
that
wouldn’t
be
enough,
right?
But
the
past
few
weeks
had
begun
to
figure
it
out.

Final
conclusion:
there
was
something
wrong
with
him.

It
only
made
sense,
and
if
so,
why
shouldn’t
he
hate
himself,
too?
He’d
given
up
waiting
for

a
savior
or
even
fighting
back;
he
accepted
their
torture
because
he
deserved
it.

Yet
it
killed
him
that
it
had
taken
so
long
for
someone
to
break
the
routine.
He
couldn’t

stand
it.

The
boy
she
had
always
loved
saw
the
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair,
hesitated
and
stopped

to
talk
to
her.
He
stood
in
front
of
her
a
few
seconds,
but
when
she
didn’t
notice
him,
he
crouched

in
front
of
her
and
said
her
name.

The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
was
so
surprised
that
she
dropped
the
fancy
pen
her

grandmother
had
given
her.
The
boy
she
had
always
loved
lightly
put
his
hand
on
her
face,
said
her

name
again
and
kissed
her.

The
world
fell,
became
none,
and
only
emotion
and
their
lips
existed
to
the
girl
with
the

vermilion
hair
and
the
boy
she
had
always
loved.
Love,
need,
anger,
passion,
and
for
her,
hope,
all

of
that
was
in
that
kiss—that
long‐waited‐for
kiss.

It
meant
so
much
more
than
everything.

Too
soon,
it
was
over
and
the
boy
she
had
always
loved
pulled
away.

He
said,
“You
have
always
been
the
most
wonderful
thing
in
my
life.”



46




He
smiled
at
her.
He
spoke
again.

“But
I
have
to
go
because
my
train
is
going
to
be
here
soon.”

He
stroked
her
face
once
more,
finally
bringing
her
enough
out
of
shock
to
smile
and
then

he
headed
to
the
platform.

The
girl
with
the
vermilion
hair
watched
him
go,
incredibly
happy
but
also
melancholy

since
her
train
wasn’t
the
same
as
his.
She
was
about
to
return
to
the
poem
he
would
never
read

when
she
noticed
something
odd.
The
boy
she
had
always
loved
was
walking
towards
the

platform,
but
he
didn’t

stop
at
the
edge.
In
fact,
he
kept
walking
until
he
was
on
the
tracks.
Before

she
realized
what
was
happening,
the
train
came
rushing
into
the
station,
not
stopping
for
him.

NO,
STOP!

She
screamed,
clutching
the
poem
her
would
never
read
to
her
chest
in
anguish,
as
the

blood
of
the
heart
that
had
been
hers
splattered
on
the
subway
walls.

It
all
ruined
that
triumph
of
the
kiss—the
kiss
that
had
been
her
first,
the
kiss
that
had

been
his
last.







Our
Destined
Path


Rachel
Teitelbaum




If
it
is
so,

And
it
is.

Then
death
awaits
the
two
of
us.

But
if
it
takes
you
before
me,

Don’t
be
frightened
and
do
not
cry,

For
I
will
follow
you
into
the
darkness

And
I
will
hold
you
tightly
against
the
blackness
and
the
emptiness.

And
with
quivering
bodies
and
hopeful
eyes,

We
will
find
our
way
to
the
light.






Pluto’s
Kiss


Peter
Alaimo








Look
at
the
scorched
broken


field.




Burning
with
the
sight
of
floating


strings
of
character




A
sad
fantasy
wretched
with
numerics,

“1001101110.”

Stands
a
tree.

A
tree
with
golden
apples.




Apples
with
open
orvaces
and
the

worms
that
swim
out
of
the
hole.



47





 
48






To
continue
a
feast
of
the
decaying


tree.




Hops
an
egg
to
the
tree,


thousands
behind
him,

in
unison
they
chant

“Burn
the
tree”

“Burn
the
tree”




Hellfire
struck
the
tree

“The
tree
is
burned”

“The
tree
is
burned”




It’s
the
beginning
of
the
end

This
is
Pluto’s
Kiss.




 
 I




Glowing
golden
bracelet
holds
the
phase

killer




Told
to
travel
through
the
chaos
gate.




To
find
the
fragments
of
Aura,
in
the

abandoned
church
where
silence
sings
it’s

sad
hymn.




Shown
the
chained
statue
of
the
sad

vagrant,
bound
by
the
phase,
controlled
by

Morganna.




Eternally
asleep
before
birth,
Aura
sleeps

on
air.




Alone
to
save
her,
Tuskasa
corrupted
by

guardian
cannot
save
himself.




 
 II




Release
your
grip
Cubia!

He
cannot
be
killed
by
your
hands

alone.





The
bracelet
holds
the
power
of
life


and
death.




You
and
him
are
connected.

Grip
your
blade
young
warrior.




Run
Blackrose,
it
is
your
time
to
prove

your
shadowed
heroism.




Strike
with
the
heavy
blade
to
break

the
tentacles
that
hold
the
savior.





Strike
the
bracelet
kill
the


Beast








 
49




 
 III



Corrupt
fields
of
aromatic
grass
only


she
can
smell.




Insignificant
in
use
though
it
means


everything.




A
fondness
for
the
cat
wrought
with


virus.




She
spoke
in
tongues,
speaking
of
a

prophecy.




Seemingly
drunk
she
screams
your


name
in
hopes
of
the
cure.




As
if
you,
timid
young
warlock
can


perform
miracles.




Were
you
tainted?




Or
just
blinded
with
love?




What
was
your
attraction?




What
did
she
do
to
you…Elk?




 
 IV

I
sit
upon
a
chair
with
broken
legs.




As
I
search
The
World
for
answers.




I
stand
in
silence
in
the
empty
white

room
with
the
echo
of
a
father
to
his




daughter.

His
regretful
words
are
spoken
in




fragment,

As
The
World
began
to
unfold.

I
push
to
enter
the
protected
field.

I
run
around
searching
an
inverted




Castle.

Ruined
pillars
point
down
at
the





clouds.

Inside
this
desolate
castle
lies
a
room
of




broken
code.

Raw
data
burns
through
the
walls.

A
broken
man
speaks
in
a
loop,
never





ending
until
death.

Told
to
prophesize
the
apoptosis
of





The
World

















 
 Christina
Oaster




“Hello?”
My
voice
echoed
through
the
cold
empty
house.
No
response.
Just
a
simple

greeting
from
my
dog.
I
guess
that
is
the
best
I
can
get.
What
a
home,
I
think
to
myself.
Dark,
quiet,

not
even
anyone
to
come
welcome
me
home.
So
I
do
what
I
normally
do:
I
leave.
Being
alone

allows
me
to
think,
something
I
detest.
As
I
walk
down
the
cracked
and
weather
torn
driveway,
I

look
back
to
see
the
place
I
call
home
and
also
catch
a
glimpse
of
my
dog,
crying
for
me
to
come

back.
What
a
sweet,
sweet
face.
She
will
never
yell
at
me
or
fight,
yet
I
keep
walking,
but
I
cannot

trick
her
eyes.
She
knows
something’s
wrong,
just
wants
to
help
with
her
comfort.
Yet
I
turn
my

back
and
walk
away,
and
her
cries
pierce
through
my
ears,
just
another
thing
I
have
turned
my

back
on.



 I
finally
reach
my
friend
Michael’s
house.
I’m
always
welcomed
there.
Every
day,
I
get
that

greeting
that
I
so
long
for.
Each
day
that
comes,
I
find
myself
at
Michael’s.
Sitting
on
the
couch,

playing
video
games
and
smoking
like
a
chimney.
What
a
lifestyle.
It
will
have
to
do
for
now.
I
join

them
on
the
couch
and
help
myself
to
his
Camel
lights.
Such
a
sweet
toxin
that
fills
my
lungs
and

drains
my
stress.
I
sit
back,
breath
in
and
out
and
let
time
pass.



 5
o’clock
comes
by
very
quickly.
My
mother
will
come
to
get
me
from
her
work.
She
knows

that
I
always
leave
the
house
to
go
to
Mike’s.
She
doesn’t
mind
'cause
she
doesn’t
know
what
we

do.
I
don’t
want
to
disappoint
her
and
let
her
down
more
than
everyone
else
has.
Her
red
SUV

pulls
up.
Two
honks
are
all
it
takes
for
me
to
know
that
she
is
there.
I
walk
out
the
door
with
a

smile
on
my
face,
that
fake,
fake
smile.
I
open
the
door
and
the
squeak
from
the
hinges
break
the

silence.



“Hey,
Ma,”
I
say,
excited
to
see
her
once
again.
“How
was
work?”


”Oh
same
old,
same
old.
Chris
is
all
worked
up
about
an
order
I
didn’t
get
out
on
time.”
She

sighed.
“Nothing
I
do
is
good
enough.”


My
smile
turned
to
a
concerned
face.
I
have
been
there
and
feel
the
same
way
she
does.

“Don’t
worry
Ma.”
It
was
the
only
thing
I
could
say.


 We
arrived
home.
I
step
on
the
cracked
driveway
I
always
leave.
My
mother
holds
the

door.
That
old
weak
door.
I
pause
as
the
flashback
appears.
‘Damn
the
door,’
I
think
to
myself
as
I

fight
away
the
flashback.
“Oh,
sorry,
Ma,
I
thought
I
left
something
in
the
car.”


She
smiles,
a
fake
smile.
The
smile
that
hides
my
life,
I
see
it
in
her
now
too.
Inside,
I
see

the
two
movie
tickets
that
I
had
purchased
for
mom
and
dad
as
an
early
Christmas
gift
sitting
on

the
table.


“Hey
are
you
going
to
the
movies
tonight
with
Dad?”
I
was
hoping
it
would
brighten
her

day.
She
loves
going
to
the
movies
with
him.


“Well
we
were
supposed
to.”
Her
voice
lowered.
“I
called
him
up.”

She
said.
I
already

knew
what
was
to
come.
“He’s
been
drinking.
Drinking
so
much
that
he
could
barely
hold
the

phone
to
his
ear
and
speak
to
me.”




50