Uproar 2020 Literary Arts Magazine

UPROAR

Volume 8 Spring 2020

Uproar is the literary/arts magazine of Lone Star College-University Park. Any
LSC-University Park student may submit work or join the staff. See the submis-
sion requirements and form at the back of the magazine for more information.

Faculty Advisors: Greg Oaks
David Miller
Kari Breitigam

Advisory Board: Chelsea Davis-Bibb Paula Khalaf
Sarah Ray Amy Young
Steffie Moy
Student Editors: Viviana Camarilla
Crystal Roza Viviana Camarilla
Keilynd Easter
Selection Committee: Hannah Beach Lauryn Juvinall
Chelsea Davis-Bibb Steffie Moy
Tony Handel Rachel Romero
James Kahla
Thomeka Ramirez Paula Khalaf
Crystal Roza Greg Oaks
Roger Rodriguez
Contest Judges: Chelsea Davis-Bibb
David Miller Margaux Burleson
Brian Reeves

Art Judge: Kari Breitigam

Student Proofreader: Maryam Khan

Cover Art: “Galaxy Girl”

Table of Contents 1
2
Roar by Kimberly Santos (Winner of UP Pride Contest) 6
Embers in Winter by Vanessa Perales (First Place Prose) 7
Whispers of Winter by Gage Cole (First Place Poetry) 8
Mama’s Cuisine by Vickie Fleming 9
Aftermath by Jacob Laroche 10
Worrier Poet by Sonny Patel 14
The Trouble with Cats by Calista DuPont 15
Gone by Jacob Laroche 19
Thicker than Water by Keilynd Easter (Second Place Prose) 20
To Be Free by Alise Copeland 22
Plates by James Kahla 23
Botticelli by Astra Rodriguez (Third Place Poetry) 28
Thieves by Lauryn Juvinall 29
Ode to a Baby Blanket by Crystal Roza 35
Burn Your Life to the Ground by Viviana Camarillo 36
Ambiguous Roar by Tefenet Banos 37
Pita by Alexandria Castro 38
Creative Eye Alone Walk by Shaikh MohammadTalal 39
Day’s Work Done by Deborah Tritico 40
Daydreaming by Brianne Gette 41
Walking on the Sun by Dayeong Kang 42
Balloons by Maria Isabel Gomez 43
My Brother’s Keeper by Helen Wilson 44
Always Remember by Yadhira Jaimes 45
Stop! A Plea for Planet Earth by Susan Norman 46
Pink and Blue by Oliver Soderberg 47
Ancient Roots by Amber Tyler 48
Slow Hand by Samantha Ferron 49
Vinyards by Edna Corona 50
Mole by Vanessa Perales 56
Velas by Rachel Romero 57
Girl vs. Illness by Perri Jenkins 60
Holy Mother by Crystal Roza 61
Would You Remember by Racheal Perrier 62
Letting Go of Lyndia by Keilynd Easter 67
The Beautiful Liar by Racheal Perrier 68
Vespiary by Sonny Patel 70
To My Mother, Charlotte by Steffie Moy (Second Place Poetry) 73
Anniversary by Gage Cole 74
Burned Skin by Janeria Perry 78
Letting Jason Pick by Shelby Wisdom (Third Place Prose) 79
Christmas Hypocrites by Erin Fancher 80
Banned by C. M. Csiszer 82
Lids by James Kahla
My Hereditary Song by Vickie Fleming

ROAR
Kimberly Santos

The skybridge opens a vision of possibilities and its windows cast reflections of aspiring future seekers.
Down the hall and past the greetable conversations of “good morning”, “good afternoon”, and “have a great
day”.
Through a crowd of faces walking with you and past you are worlds within one world, each world containing
its own story either told, untold, or in the making.
Your ears grab attention to the muse of Brazilian rhythms. The jovial sound of Bossa Nova’s accompanied
by the enriching aroma that infuses your every five senses, the freshly-brewed, sweet yet bitter spice that
comforts like a warm blanket.
Past the aroma of temptation and into the teeming elevators, you arrive to your designated class,
a classroom where your mind is challenged and channeled to a new subject. There pencils are broken, erasers
stain paper, and when listening closely you can hear the faint scream of the marker kissing the white board.
Minds thrive amid all challenging material, and hands launch to the inquiry of any misunderstandings,
where professors use their wit to study your mind closely. It is their character and love for teaching that
guides students to the vessel of knowledge.
Here, there is never a dull moment because the passion of students is shown.
The gleaming lights of a stage lights up a crowd and the unapologetic sound of a drumline burst into flames.
Yes, there is never a dull moment here because there is always a club, event, or performance to attend.
There is always a conversation to start and a world to meet.
Our pride comes through our students, faculty, and staff.
Our pride comes from the authenticity captured inside and outside the classroom.
Most importantly, our pride comes from our spirit we have as Lions, and yes, you will hear us ROAR.

Winner of the UP Pride Contest for a Poem Celebrating LSC-University Park

Embers in Winter
Vanessa Perales

The biting wind wisps around my cheeks and whistles loudly in my ears, picking up leaves and tum-
bling them across the forest floor. They crunch beneath my quick steps as I make my way deeper into the
forest, the aroma of fresh rain still clinging to the thin branches that stretch over my path. My breath escapes
in small puffs of white steam and disappears into the thick blanket of fog hovering over the forest, the tower-
ing trees trapping the mist between their half-naked branches as the wind picks up again and blows intensely,
carrying with it newly fallen leaves. I can feel my threadbare shoes getting wet from the mud and almost slip
on a hidden root woven into the earth, my footsteps turning into a dash. The mist floats away as I run, only
letting me see a few yards in front of me. The forest is quiet. Not a single noise disrupts the winter except the
howls of the frigid wind. I lick my cracked lips and continue to follow the trail hidden under dying plants, a
house covered in lifeless vines coming into view.

It’s a small home with boarded windows and white paint chipping off its walls, exposing old planks
of blackened wood. It hides against a small hill in a jungle of dead bushes and trees, the thick vines hanging
over the makeshift roof and clinging to one side of the house, as if it’s being pulled into the forest. I pick up
the pace and sprint towards it and put my bag next to the door, the old porch creaking under my weight. I pull
out my necklace from inside my shirt and wrestle the key in the rusty doorknob, my body shivering and my
mouth completely dry. When I finally open the door, I rush in and slam it shut, the house shaking slightly,
causing dust to fall from the ceiling.

“Aiden,” I call out, panting heavily as I look into the living room.
The house is shrouded in darkness. Small candles and old oil lamps are scattered around the living
room and kitchen. The boarded windows let a few rays of light come in and the logs in the fire place glow a
fading orange. I put my bag on a dirty green sofa and walk down the dark hallway to the bathroom, wiping
the dust off my head.
“I’m back,” I say, opening the door slowly and feeling a wave of intense heat hit my face.
Aiden is sitting on the bathroom floor against the rusting bathtub, his head bowed. I go to him quick-
ly and kneel in front of him, his head rising slowly. He’s naked, arms to his sides with his palms open. His
body soaks up the light coming from the dim oil lamp on the sink, the shadows from the dancing flame mak-
ing the patches of dark skin on his chest look like holes. I hold his face in my hands and look at him closely,
ignoring the burning sensation on my palms from his fever. His glassy eyes search my face, and he gives me
a quick smile before looking away in pain. His breathing is soft but erratic.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”
“Water didn’t stay cold for long,” he says, moving his face to the side to let out a deep cough. I can
feel the specks of wet ash on my hands as I look over his shoulder and into the bathtub, the once clear water a
black abyss with grey flakes from his falling skin floating around.
“I tried to get out,” he continues, wiping his mouth with his blackened hand. His pale skin only co-
vers his arms up until his elbows. “But then I couldn’t stop coughing. I couldn’t breathe.”
I trail my eyes over his neck and face, clenching my hands together in my lap. The dark patch that
once started on his collarbone now trails up the side of his neck and stops just under his jaw, and I can see it
starting to chip away at his cheek. His shoulders are gone too.
“Sorry I took so long,” I say quietly.
I feel Aiden bump the side of my leg with his thigh, and I look at him, the extreme heat radiating
from his body making me feel dizzy. He gives me a small smile.
“We’re a long way from town, so no worries,” he says, eyes blinking slowly as he lets out a deep
sigh. I put my hand to his forehead and pull it back quickly, his burning skin stinging the tips of my fingers.

2

Aiden shakes his head and looks to the side, panting.
“It’s not getting any better,” he says, voice low as he tries to stay conscious. “It won’t be long before

I start burning.”
A lump starts to form in my throat, light streams of sweat running down my neck as I help him off

the floor and into the bedroom, his body leaning on mine as we stumble across the creaking floorboards. The
small bedroom is cool and only has one candle flickering in the darkness on a small table in the far corner,
but as Aiden and I go further into the room the candle’s small flame expands and shifts furiously from side to
side, illuminating the room. Aiden slips from my side and falls into the bed, coughing into the sheets. I move
his body so that his back is against the mattress and rush to the bathroom to collect his clothes.

When I come back I see his hands clutching the sheets beneath him, his chest rising and falling as
more of his skin is replaced with blackness. The edges of his pale skin glow softly like the ridges of a burning
log, small embers rising from his body. The skin on his jaw crackles and burns slowly up to his cheek, an
ember floating up to me and stinging my eyelid. His eyes are closed shut and scrunched together in pain, a
groan erupting from clenched lips as a new spot opens above his eyebrow. I can already feel the cold air in
the room starting to warm up.

I dress Aiden carefully and flinch whenever I see more of his skin burn off and try to keep my
coughing from waking him up, the smell of smoke melting my once freezing lungs. I walk out of the room
and fetch a pail of cold water from outside the house and a tattered rag from the kitchen, stopping to look at
all the candles and oil lamps that surround me. They’re brighter, long strings of fire reaching into the winter.

He’s getting worse.
I carry the pail to the bedroom and place it next to the bed along with a small chair from the kitchen,
dipping the rag until it’s heavy with cold water. I dab it lightly on Aiden’s forehead, moving it to pat down on
the edges of where his skin disappears. I can hear echoes of sizzling water and watch his skin fly away in
small flames. A trace of smoke begins to fill the room.
Aiden moves his head and opens his eyes, a pair of black dots with a spark deep inside of them, wait-
ing to be unleashed.
“It’s not always this bad,” he whispers, his voice raspy. “Promise.”
I give him a quick smile before concentrating on his skin again, dipping the rag in the pail of cold
water.
“What is it?” he asks.
I press over the new patch gingerly, lingering for a few seconds to watch his coal-like skin glint
against the orange glow of the candle. I take the rag away from his face and look at the thin flakes of skin
sticking to the fabric, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“I talked to a friend while I was in town. She’s coming here to look at you when the sun goes down.”
I look up at Aiden and see him looking at me in confusion, wrinkles forming between his eyebrows.
“A friend? Who is it?”
“Orenda,” I say, holding his gaze. “She’s a mage.”
Aiden immediately looks away and lets out an exasperated sigh, moving his head to look at the ceil-
ing, his jaw clenching. I put my hands in my lap, watching Aiden’s face twist into frustration.
“She’s the only person in town who won’t turn you in,” I say, my voice firm. “She’s knows a lot
about phoenixes and –”
“A damn mage,” he says under his breath, coughing right after. “A fucking witch that can’t wait to
have a chunk of my ashes.”
The splinters of the cold chair prick into the back of my knees as I lean forward and place my elbows
on my thighs, feeling them dig into my skin as I breathe out. I push my hands through my hair, my fingers
getting caught in the tangles. I grab the rag from my lap and drape it over Aiden’s blackened hand, putting
my hand on top of it. I feel the coolness of the fabric slowly warm up and squeeze it.
“It’s not like I’m going to leave you alone with her,” I say. “She’s just going to help slow down the
process so you won’t burst into flames and have the entire kingdom after you.”
Aiden doesn’t say anything else and looks up at the ceiling again, eyes shifting as if looking for an

3

answer. I keep my hand on his and stay silent for a while, the warmness of the room melting the stiff sensa-
tion out of my bones. I can hear his rough breathing in my ears and the cracking of his skin, the small em-
bers flying and disappearing into the room.

Aiden’s voice shakes when he speaks again, his fingers wrapping around mine and closing tightly.
“I’ll burn her to a crisp if she tries anything funny.”
I give him a smile. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”
I squeeze his hand and he looks at me, a painful look in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He breathes in deeply and stays quiet for a while, his thumb caressing the top of my hand.
When he finally speaks, his voice comes out tired, as if the weight of everything has finally caught
up to him.
“I’m scared,” he says, “of what they’ll do to you if they find us.”
Instead of saying anything, I look down at our hands, the heat from his skin slowly turning the fab-
ric black.
“The guards will take you away. The entire town will turn against you. Everyone…just for helping
me.”
“I’m fine with that,” I say strongly, looking up at him. “If it means that you’ll make it out alive, then
I’ll do anything.”
“Don’t,” Aiden says, shaking his head. “Don’t die for me.”
“I won’t,” I say, offering him a small smile. “But you’re not dying either.”
I let go of Aiden’s hand and dip it into the pail, the cold water draining his warmth. I take my wet
hand and run it across his forehead, pushing his tangled black hair out of the way. I lean over him and kiss
the pale skin that still clings to his face, feeling the heat stick to my lips.
“I’m not leaving,” I say. “I’ll never leave you.”

When the small openings from the jagged planks of wood on the windows stop letting thin rays of
sunlight shine through, I find myself pacing around the bedroom, listening for a loud knock. I pick at the
skin on my lips and focus my eyes on the floor, Orenda’s potential visit hanging over me.

I look at Aiden in bed, more skin burning off his body and turning into small embers. His groaning
has turned into painful moans and sharp gasps for air, his eyes closed shut. I do my best to keep him cool,
but the room has turned into a furnace the longer we wait for Orenda to show up, the heavy smell of smoke
clinging to the walls. Aiden’s neck is now completely black, his nose and lips covered in darkness. Every
now and then I’ll see blue flames spark around his feet and hands, scorching the sheets under him and burn-
ing holes in his clothes. The cold water makes him scream and I can’t do anything else for him. I watch him
struggle, a deep pain pushing down on my chest.

There’s a loud banging from the other side of the house and I immediately run to it, swinging the
door open and feel winter spill on the groaning wood under me. Orenda is covered in flakes of white, her
hood caging her curly hair around her face. She wastes no time walking in and closes the door behind her,
eyes a frantic shade of blue.

“I think someone followed me,” she says quickly, pulling down her hood so that her blonde curls
puff out over her shoulders. “We need to hurry. Where is he?”

“Someone followed you?” I ask.
Orenda holds me at arm’s length and speaks slowly. “Yes, but let’s worry about the phoenix first.
Where is he?”
I take her to the bedroom, and she starts to work quickly, pulling jars and a large book from her bag
and placing them on the floor next to the bed. She rubs something in her hands and murmurs under her
breath, lifting Aiden’s burnt shirt to expose a black stomach. He screams as soon as her hands touch his skin,
chilling cries of pain that freeze me in place at the threshold of the room. Aiden starts to thrash around as
Orenda runs her hands over his body, her wild whispering heightening my anxiety.
Orenda has her hand over his face when he screams my name helplessly, terror laced into his

4

shrieks. Before I can go to him and tell him that I’m here, a rough frozen hand snakes around my mouth and
pulls me back from entering the room. I try to shake out of the guard’s grip and scream, kicking and swinging
my hands against his chest. A man sneaks his way around us and approaches the room, his pristine white uni-
form soaking up the orange glow from the growing flame of the candle.

I hear Orenda yell as the guard behind me pulls me to the entrance of the house. I fight against the
guard’s hold on me and manage to wiggle out of his grasp for a split second, screaming Aiden’s name into
the cold air as the wind from the forest whips around my face. Orenda’s voice echoes as the other guard drags
her through the living room, candles falling down as her limbs kick, her fists pounding into the guard’s hands
around her waist. I run pass the door and fight with her, hitting the guard with everything I have. His partner
comes up behind me and grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling me outside the old house as I scream in pain.

“Idiots!” Orenda screams as she’s thrown into the ground that’s now lightly covered in snow. “He’s
going to start burning!”

Her voice rings in my ears as I try to run to the house again, the guard’s fingers clawing at my hand
to pull me away. I don’t get far before pieces of the old building start to catch on fire, wood falling from the
roof and windows shattering as Aiden’s fire consumes it. All I can do is watch, but before I make up my mind
to run in there, the house explodes, pushing wood and glass outside of itself, the blast carrying me off my feet
and launching me backward. The world spins until I land on the cold ground, my vision blurring. I see the
large red flames consume the house and watch the embers rise into the sky, burning snowflakes as they go.
The wind wails in my ears as a pair of large wings rise from the flames, the black night turning into an infer-
no.

Darkness starts to flood my vision, but before I lose consciousness I hear screams erupt around me,
the flames twisting to burn flesh instead of wood.

First Place Prose

5

Whispers of Winter
Gage Cole

The chilling air of winter recedes in February
to the March of spring and summer,
The last cold evenings where the sun shivers, signaling
That the season of death ends, not back
For another nine months, before November births
A new fall, brief here in Houston.
Summer doesn’t know how to share, selfishly
Listening to the singing of souls signaling for
Solar heat, scorching the city in sunlight rays.
The people love it, for it brings life,
The end of school and shining days to play.
I prefer you, though, and every October and November
I sit in silence, waiting for whispers of winter.
Then the love of outdoors fades
From people, now snuggled in bed, believing
Forty degrees is too cold for comfort.
Then I go outdoors, when little life is left
And it’s just you and me, alone and alive,
Filling a now empty stadium with stunning silhouettes
Of silly dreams, soft memories, of days soon over.
For summer will return, her hot and humid Hell,
But I will wait, for the whispers of winter.

First Place Poetry

6

Mama’s Cuisine
Vickie Fleming

My Mama never held a vanilla latte
in her hand or smelled Chai tea.
She would rather drink the pot liquor
from her lima beans flavored with ham.
Her heart seasons the cornbread dressing,
the reason none of her kids can reproduce it.
Quiche is not one of her recipes but eggs
sunny-side-up describes her personality,
although she prefers over-easy or poached.
She’s a roast-and-potatoes kind
of lady with a root beer smile and bacon legs
from open heart surgery, then a knee replacement
and hip surgery which only helped her lose
the weight she had carried from giving birth
to all her babies. We were nearly grown
when we were born. Formula with
karo syrup made us thrive. Why, I’ve seen her
boil oatmeal in a huge pot while she
packed six lunches in brown sacks,
picked out socks and skirts that matched
before sending six kids off
who arrived on time after
hiking five city blocks. She could
wring a chicken’s neck, pluck it, and
cook it up, possibly the same
chicks with the pink and purple down
we picked up at the feed store before Easter,
sweet and cuddly as chicks, chasing and
biting us later. No chicken meal ever made us
mourn those pets. Maybe that is why
ee didn’t cry over the crabs boiling,
blue shells turning red as gumbo
ingredients. With newspaper applied
to the tabletop, we cracked the
menacing claws of crabs we had
caught ourselves, with chicken necks
and a net with Mama’s help, of course.
A mess of crawdads my brother collected
from mudholes became a meal when
Mama said the blessing. I remember
lunches of bread and honey and
suppers of beans and rice that kept us alive
when ready cash was rare, but
there was never a scarcity of caring.
Without frozen sausage biscuits or waffles,
without chicken nuggets, without
ever dining out, we survived.
What Mama serves up is
compassion on a platter, and
a Caffè Latte Grande would appear
out of place on it.

7

Aftermath
Jacob Laroche

The scratched-up handcuffs chafed against my swollen wrists as the bailiff escorted me through the old
courthouse. Lining the decorated vintage walls, paintings of judges and justices in billowing black robes eyed me
as I sauntered past, alongside the dozens of people idling around the hallway. They stood outside bathrooms and
near water fountains, sparing quick glances and assessing me with brief expressions of resentment and unease. A
few scanned over my tattered skirt, its red plaid pattern scarred and ripped to reveal my bare pale legs, stained
brown with dried mud. There was a set of doors set firmly at the far end, but the bailiff marched hastily and thor-
oughly, paying no attention to the bystanders. When we reached the doors, a pair of chubby officers took my
arms. The bailiff gave them each a nod, tucked in his blue uniform, and spun around back the way we came. He
didn’t look back.

As my new escorts creaked open the doors, the packed courtroom fell silent. The heavy footsteps from
my black leather boots thundered around the rafters of the towering ceiling, the delicate frays of my untied laces
whipping against my ankles in tempo with the booming echoes. Most of the room stood as I was walked down
the aisle, hushed whispers wafting up from the crowds as I passed by. Halfway down the gallery, I spotted my
parents. They straightened as I approached, obviously giving their best effort to hold their composure. However,
as I was lugged past, Mother locked her puffy eyes with mine, and hers began to leak. She hurriedly buried her
teary face into my father’s chest and refused to look at me any longer. Father didn’t meet my glance. He kept his
focus on the judge’s bench, leaving an arm wrapped around Mother’s frail, trembling shoulders.

Just as I reached the defendant’s table, the judge stumbled out of her chamber and dashed over to the
bench, reaching the podium in four long strides. Her black robes were creased, and her fritzy dark hair was lined
with loose dreads. She hastily took her position as I was placed into mine. The scattered murmurs of the room fell
short as she reached for the gavel, the rabble shifting anxiously as the mallet cracked on the sound block. I peered
over my shoulder at the crowd, who were avoiding my gaze as it panned over them. They already knew what
would happen next, and they knew I did too. Whatever happened today, wherever I ended up, nothing could
make them forget. I wouldn’t let them. So, I turned towards the judge once more and, drumming my fingers on
the table, I smiled.

8

Worrier Poet
Sunny Patel

my mother raised a warrior all the octopi. octopus..es. run
and a worrier, and both of in fear from my pen. may the
them are me. i have been wren in my blood-muscle always
trying for years to earn have another song. may
my own trust; i'll let you the wrongs not conquer
know when anyone else gets me. may the oblong way i love
a chance. god and all the reach another person some
pure things have been dead day. may the way i am going
in my heart for a long be clear, and may it lead to the
time. you water the flowers right place. may the place i am
you want, but mine have going be good. may it be
always been parched, stems good. may it have joy. may i
wrinkled and frail, bending spread it like mayonnaise or
towards the little light i have marmalade or butter. may it be
left. if i go, know i didn't that filling. may i be that full. may
go quietly. remember all the the dead gods in my soul yet
flood it took to swallow me. live, though i have not watered
may i always be too much them. may i yet give. may i cry.
for it. may i always peek weep, when need be. may
my breathing-straw a little i grieve the good things gone
over the water line. may my bad. may i light a candle for
heart beat a little too strong those yet to come. may there be
in my chest. may it rest only when i'm... many to come. may there be
a lot still to come. every withered
may that be a long, long while fruit and every bruised sweet
from now. may it be a long thing in my hands, may i eat
while from now. may there anyways. here are all the things i
always be fight in my pocket. may am thankful for: today, i was not
i sock it to another day. week. happy, but i lived anyways. today,
month. year. decade. century! i lived anyways. because tomorrow
may i live a century! may my life comes, and my momma raised a
be so full of experience that the lot of things in me, but she didn't raise
universe runs out of ink. may a fuckin quitter.

9

The Trouble with Cats
Calista DuPont

I stared up at my sock covered feet, my legs being supported up by the bright yellow bedroom wall.
The paint was already slightly chipping towards the bottom of the wall, revealing the old floral wallpaper that
my parents had painted over as soon as they forced me into the old house and had yet to paint over it again. I
peeled a piece of paint away, revealing more of the wallpaper, white daisies wrapping themselves throughout
the wall. I decided that the wallpaper was more appealing than the obnoxious yellow that it was hidden be-
neath.

I set the strip of yellow paint on the wood floor next to me and looked back at my feet, which
seemed to be towering above me for miles. I watched my feet as I moved them back and forth as if they had
minds of their own and were performing an elaborate dance routine they had been practicing for months, in-
stead of being mindlessly thrown about in no apparent pattern. I watched as my pink-cat-socked foot twirled
above my bright-yellow-sunflower-socked foot.

This only mildly distracted me from the ever-present boredom that had plagued me ever since arriv-
ing at the large, dreadful house.

The only sounds that filled the room were the creaking of the old wood floors and the quiet mum-
blings of my little sister, Carson, who sat comfortably on the large bed in the middle of the room. I leaned my
head back to see the upside down figure of Carson, who looked comically small on the large bed, its bright,
yellow floral bed sheets just as obnoxious as the painted walls.

I rolled my feet over my head in an attempt to get up from my position on the floor, which not only
made me dizzy, but I could tell that my hair looked like a rat’s nest rather than a mop of little girl’s hair.

“Oh man,” muttered Carson who was intensely flipping through the pages of a rather large book she
was holding upside down.

“You can’t read it like that, you goof,” I said, standing up from my spot on the ground and leaning
my body onto the bed, my knees supported by the armoire at the end of it.

“I know that,” she said, looking up from the book but not flipping it over. “I can already read it that
way. What if I happen to be suspended over a volcano, hanging upside down, my feet suspended above me
and I want to read a book? What will I do then?”

“Flip the book over,” I said with a small smile, taking the book out of her hands and placing it back,
this time right side up. I laughed a little when Carson turned the book back around with a frown and contin-
ued to struggle with her reading. “There’s nothing to do in this silly house,” I groaned, flopping my back onto
the bed, my legs hanging haphazard off the side.

“Read a book,” Carson said, not taking her eyes off of the book in her hands.
This caused me to frown. For a seven year old, she sure was a downright stick-in-the-mud.
Carson closed the book in her hands and plopped onto the bed, her short arms outstretched over her
head. “I wish Mom would get us a cat,” she said with a sigh.
I looked at her. “I know right.” I sat up and scratched my head, the short, brown locks getting even
more tangled and messy with every scratch. “Maybe,” I started. “Maybe we should go get one ourselves.
Why do we need Mom to get one?”
Carson’s face scrunched up as she thought. She looked as if she had just eaten something sour. “Can
we do that?” she asked, sitting up from her lying position on the bed.
“Why not? If there’s anything I’ve learned in my twelve years of living, it’s that you can’t always
rely on adults to get you what you want,” I said, jumping from the bed onto the wood floor. My socked feet
slid a bit on the faded wood floor. Thankfully, my feet stayed on the ground where they belonged, which I
was extremely grateful for. Otherwise, my crashing to the ground would have woken our parents and that
would've been the end of our little coup.

10

Carson stood up on the bed and leaped off of the side of it, her long mess of curly brown hair flow-
ing behind her. She hit the floor with a thud. She stood up to wipe off her burnt orange t shirt and Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtle pajama pants, before leading me out the bedroom and to the back door.

I put on my old, light-brown oxfords and pulled my light-grey messenger bag from the coat rack,
placing it over my head so it hung from my left shoulder and across my body. I looked over at Carson, who
had given up on her sneakers and had instead decided on a pair of olive-green rain boots.

“Where are we going to find our cat?” she asked, pulling on the rainboots.
I shrugged, looking out the small window in the back door. “Out there somewhere.” I looked back at
Carson, who was now taking a bright red coat off of the coat rack as well as a feathery bowler hat that had
two particularly large feathers sticking up higher than all the rest. “You ready?”
“Yep,” she said, opening the door. “The world is our oyster.”
“Our oyster full of cats.”
So we ventured into the unknown with only the dim light of our flashlight guiding us, off to find our
cat. The air was cold and the wind sang as it flew around us. Our backyard seemed much larger in the dark-
ness. The branches of the large climbing tree rustled in the wind and its branches winded towards the pollu-
tion filled sky, leaving no star in sight.
“Prue?” Carson began, grabbing onto the back of my greyish-blue coat with her small hands. “Do
you really think this is a good idea? It’s dark. We probably won’t even see a cat if we were to stumble upon
one anyway.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t back out now. We’re already outside anyway. Just focus on what type of cat
you want.”
“Okay,” she said with a nod. “Should we get a Siamese?”
“I want an orange one,” I said assuredly continuing on into the woods pushing a low hanging branch
out of my face. The loud crunching of the recently fallen leaves and sticks filled the air as we stepped on
them. I pulled my coat tighter around me.
We made our way over to the gate that caged in our backyard, its white paint chipping. I opened it,
causing a slight screech to come from the rusty hinges.
“Prue, you idiot!” Carson whispered, grabbing my arm with a firm grip. “We can’t leave the back-
yard. Who knows what dangers are out there?”
I continued to open the gate. “You wanted a cat, didn’t you?” I asked. “This is how you get it, but
you gotta leave the backyard.”
“I want to get a cat, not mauled,” she said.
“You dumb goose. What’s gonna maul you in the middle of nowhere?”
“Well, coyotes for one,” she said crossing her arms.
“There aren’t any Coyotes on our street,” I laughed. “You can stay here if you want to but I am go-
ing to go and get my cat.”
“I thought it was our cat?” she said, her eyes widening.
“It was,” I said with a smirk. “Until you quit the mission.”
She glared at me before uncrossing her arms and sighing. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll come.”
“Perfect,” I said closing the gate behind her as we walked out onto the empty street.
“No sidewalk?” Carson muttered to herself as she looked down at her boot-covered feet. “They real-
ly need to invest in that.”
“Carson,” I said, causing her to look over at me with squinted eyes. “Focus.”
“All right,” she spat, holding her arms away from her body on either side in offense. “You know, I
think we need to develop a codeword just in case we get separated or something bad happens.”
“Why don’t we just yell ‘help’?” I asked, pointing my flashlight in every direction, looking for even
a sign of what could’ve been the answer to our problem.
“Because then the perpetrator will panic and kill us both,” she said. “The codeword needs to be
something only we could associate with disaster.”
“How about ‘cardboard boxes’?”

11

“Ew, no!” she exclaimed. “It has to be something good. Like ‘berries.’”
“Berries? That’s what you associate with disaster?” I ask with a laugh.
“Yeah, they are nasty and squishy. Plus, no one would ever guess.” She said this extremely sure
about her plan, but I definitely had my doubts about the silly codeword, although I didn’t argue with her
about it any longer.
“Whatever.”
We continued on our trek, passing the other large houses on our street. All of them had their lights
off as would only be right at the time of night, although I had no idea what time it was. The flashlight seemed
to only become dimmer as time went on, but I guess that’s what we get since our parents didn’t buy Energiz-
er.
“Do you think the cats know we’re here?” Carson asked. “Cause I don’t see any. Are they hiding?
Rude creatures, don’t they know it’s cold out?”
“They aren’t gonna be easy to find, Carson. Cats have minds of their own, the darn creatures.”
“Well, it’s cold, wet, and dark. Can’t they just get over themselves and get out of hiding?”
I thought for a moment before shrugging. I continued walking, finding myself knee deep in a pile of
brush that had dried up.
Good grief.
“Maybe if you called them they’d come out,” I said, trying to get her to stop complaining. I was on a
mission and I wasn’t going to go home until I had completed that mission.
“I don’t think it works like that,” she said.
Soon, I had begun to forget about everything except the task at hand. I had stopped keeping track of
where we were and where we had come from, which would soon prove to be a very bad move on my part.
Another large gust of wind filled the air, causing my jacket to sway slightly.
“Dag nabbit!” Carson yelled. “I almost lost my hat. That coulda been disastrous.”
“Could it now?” I asked quietly, not entirely paying attention to what she said. “Keep your eyes
peeled, man. Our new furry friend could be nearby.”
All of the houses faded into one big blur, looking exactly the same. They had the same freshly-
painted, white picket fence, the same red door and blue shutters, the same nice flower garden, and the same
towering, freshly trimmed climbing tree. Except for one.
The tree was not freshly trimmed, the flower garden, if you could even call it that, was dying and
overgrown with weeds, the picket fence was chipping and missing the gate, the red door was faded, one of
the blue shutters was hanging on by a single loose screw, and the lights were on, revealing a fat orange and
black spotted cat that was peering at us through the dusty glass window.
“Carson!” I yelled, holding my arm out in front of her, which she ran into.
“What?!” she exclaimed, looking at me.
“Look,” I said, pointing the light of my flashlight in the direction of the squinting cat.
“Oh my gracious beans,” Carson whispered. “He’s beautiful.”
“Come on, let's get a good look at him,” I said, walking through the opening where the gate
should’ve been. Carson walked quickly behind me as we made our way over to the window.
The cat looked down at us as if he were the king and us his loyal subjects, and boy, was he fat.
“Look at him, Prue.” Carson smiled. “He’s perfect. How are we gonna get him?”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking down at my feet to find any object that could help us in our cat bur-
glary. “It doesn’t look like anything here will help us,” I sighed.
“What about this?” she asked, leaning down to pick up a pebble and chucking it at the dusty glass.
The pebble hit the window with a soft tap before falling back onto the ground. The cat continued to stare
down at us. He looked almost judgmental, as if he knew our efforts were in vain. “Nevermind,” Carson said.
“That won’t work.”
“What are you girls doing?” a shrill, high pitched voice asked, causing me to jump and grab onto
Carson’s hand tightly.
“Berries!” Carson yelled, flinching as I did so.

12

We both looked over to the front porch of the run-down house where an extremely short, older wom-
an now stood, wearing a gown that seemed extremely unfit for the time and the place. Her hair was neatly
placed in a grey bun that sat on the tip-top of her round head. The dress was long and a bright shimmering
pink and a long feathery boa sat around her neck, almost looking like a scarf. Feathers from the boa detached
themselves and flew away in the gusting wind. Her makeup-covered face scrunched in confusion as she
stared down at us.

“Berries?” she asked in her shrill voice, squinting down at us. “You won’t be finding any down
there. Why don’t you try the house next door? Feel free to jump over my fence to get there. Now shoo.” She
waved her hands at us, urging us to leave.

“We aren’t looking for berries,” Carson said, crossing her arms. “We’re looking for tools.”
I kicked her lightly, not looking away from the woman who I had given a large, toothy smile.
“Tools for what?” the woman asked, crossing her arms.
“We were looking at your cat,” I said quickly, hoping to stop this whole bizarre conversation.
“We’ve been looking for one and we saw yours.”
“Oh, you mean Quincy?” she asked with a loud obnoxious laugh. “If you want, you girls can come in
and see her.”
Carson moved before I could even ask her and before I could object thinking of all those stranger
danger talks they give us at school.
The inside of the woman's house looked almost as chaotic as the outside. The floral wallpaper was
peeling, overgrown plants were basically falling out of their pots, records were everywhere, the hanging pic-
ture frames were crooked, and by the window was the large fat cat.
Carson ran over to her and immediately started petting her, “I love her!” she shouted, causing the
woman to laugh.
I walked over to Carson and took a seat next to her on the fading wood floor. I stared at the cat, who
was purring in delight. The more I looked at it the more I loved it.
“What’s the plan?” Carson whispered. “Take the cat and run?”
I stared down at the cat. I wanted to say yes so bad, but I knew that wasn’t right. I couldn’t take this
woman’s cat. Her life was in shambles. The cat gave her exactly what we wanted a cat to give us.
“No Carson,” I said. “This isn’t the cat for us. We’ll find one though.” I stood up, wiping dust off of my
pants. “Let’s go home.”

13

Gone
Jacob Laroche

A house on the bend, the windows are dry.
A tree in the street, the squirrels are away.
A park in the creek, the swings are black.
The day is gone, but I’m still here.
A man on the curb, his body is cold.
A cloud in the grey, it lingers low.
A light on the hill, it absorbs the Moon.
The night is gone, but I’m still here.
A car in the school, the metal is torn.
A hole in the wall, the bricks are ash.
A wind in the hall, the rooms are bare.
The world is gone, but I’m still here.
A dove on the skull, it flocks alone.
A roach on the rose, the petals are gold.
A town in the lake, the towers are silent.
I’m still here.

14

Thicker Than Water
Keilynd Easter

“Can you believe that Ms. Werner’s not rescheduling the test?” Kyle asks, tearing off a piece of his
waffle and dragging it through the lake of syrup he’s made behind a dam of two out of the three chicken ten-
ders he hasn’t devoured yet. “I mean, really? A timed essay right after prom weekend?” He scoffs, sending a
quick bout of air through his nostrils as he shakes his head, the front of his dark hair limply falling over his
face from where he’d sweat out his hair gel. “As if we’re not all still gonna be hung over by then.”

I stick a finger between the collar of my shirt and my dampening neck, wishing that I’d gone for a
clip-on tie instead of the trial and tribulation of tying an actual one. My gaze falls from the backlit sign of the
logo of the diner that hangs just above the bar to my pancakes that have been sitting for so long, they’d ab-
sorbed all the syrup I’d drenched them in in an attempt to convince myself I was hungry. Instead, my appe-
tite continues to be welded shut like my mouth, which feels drier than the desert, tongue resting uncomforta-
bly in my mouth.

Luckily, Kyle finds comfort in the sound of his own voice, as my silence has forced him to for the
past couple of minutes. “I get it, like, she wants to be there for the test before the baby comes,” he continues,
unbothered by the one-sided conversation he’s holding with himself, “but nobody told her to get pregnant.”
He reaches out and yanks a stiff napkin from the metal holder that sat between us on the fake wood of the
tabletop, some of it sticking to him as he roughly passes it over his hands. Afterwards, he discards it to the
side of his plate and grabs the half-empty glass of orange juice, pausing just before he brings it to his mouth.
“I know I didn’t. Poor bastard’s gonna have a psycho of a mother. Ten dollars says she’ll criticize the diction
he uses when he cries.”

The corner of my mouth involuntarily begins to rise at his comment, and I take my own mug of cold
coffee off of the table to hide my approval of the joke, finding relief in the bitter brown liquid lubricating my
throat.

“Hey.” He sets his glass down and gives a slight upward nod at me. “You, uh.” He swallows, bring-
ing his index finger under his nose and sliding it across his cupid’s bow, holding out his used napkin to me
with his other hand.

I raise my eyebrow, accepting his offer, and pat the suggested area, not at all surprised when I pull
the cloth away from my face to find a dime-sized red stain has taken up residence in the crinkled center. I
crumple it back up and secure it in my fist, noticing the sight of the purple splotches that decorate my knuck-
les. I settle that hand into my lap, sniffing up the rest of the blood in a sharp inhale that has me tasting cop-
per.

The waiter, a cute blonde with a butt-chin and spider-leg lashes named Judy, makes a pit stop by our
table, cheek bones raised in a peppy smile. “Are you boys alright? Food’s good?”

Kyle returns the favor, smiling just enough so that the dimple on the side of his cheek comes out to
play as he rests his hand under his chin, the shift making the dim yellow light of the diner catch the nasty
blackening situated between the side of the bridge of his nose and the inside corner of his left eye. My hand
throbs as he answers, the natural gravel of his voice suddenly paved over, smooth as the hot syrup Judy had
first brought us. “Food’s great.” He reaches over to pat her arm, and the white of his dress shirt peeks out
from where the threads had torn on the shoulder seam of his tuxedo jacket. “We’re fine, though. Aren’t we,
Jamie?”

I manage a nod, going back to my suddenly sour-tasting coffee to save me a verbal response.
“Awesome,” Judy says, the gloss of her lipstick glistening as her lips move. She clasps her hands
together, chipped black nail polish on either hand contrasting against her pale skin. “If you need anything,
just holler.” She turns on her heel and departs from us, bouncing everywhere with every step she makes on
the dull linoleum.
Kyle’s eyes follow her until she’s safely back in the kitchen. “Oh, I’ll holler, alright,” he comments
as he swivels his head back to the table, smirking when he catches me mid-eyeroll. “What? I’m allowed to
look.” He idly pushes around a nugget of a chicken tender with his finger before putting it out of its misery
and picking it up with his fork. “S’not like I’m with anyone.” The bitterness in his voice rivals my coffee as
he shoves the fried meat into his mouth.
“Whose fault is that?” I mutter to my pancakes, finally lifting my knife and fork off the table, begin-
ning to saw through the soggy, saturated mound.
It’s his turn to roll his eyes as he rests both of his hands on the table, the prongs of his fork in his left

15

hand sticking upward, and for a split second, I think he might lunge at me. “I didn’t know, Jamie.”
I forgo the task at hand to look him in the eye, and he meets my gaze with an unsettling ease. “How

could you not have known?”
“How could I have – ” He starts to throw back with a rising voice, but gives a quick glance around

the room at the sudden eyes we seem to have gained the attention of. The next time he speaks, he’s decibels
lower, leaning forward over the remnants of his meal. “How could I have known? You sent me novels of how
miserable you two were over texts almost every day since March. You could barely stand to be in the same
room as her. Hell, you ignored three of her calls in a row just last week. Forgive me for thinking you finally
had the balls to dump her and put yourself out of your own misery.”

I open my mouth, but the retort I had planned dissolves in midair with the breath that I inhaled on,
knowing good and well that he’s right. I’m quick to close it back, pursing my lips together as heat creeps up
my neck. Kyle and I look away from each other simultaneously, and I’m grateful to find a distraction in the
bright, bold lettering of the dessert menu propped up behind the black plastic of the salt and pepper shaker
holder.

Some oldies song with a raspy-voiced guy yelling about a girl named Gina floats through the crack-
ling speakers of the diner, just a hair louder than the low mumble of patrons having their own milder conver-
sations, probably oblivious to the chaos that is erupting at our table. Either that, or they just don’t care. I hook
a finger over my tie, pulling downwards to loosen the knot that is slowly becoming less secure as the night
goes on, the edge of it distressed with wrinkled and torn threads from where Kyle had yanked it on the dance
floor just three hours ago.

I glance up at him to find that he’s drawing nonsense shapes with the tip of his knife into the thin
layer of syrup he’d left behind on his plate, briefly exposing the white of the plate in a thin trail before the
sticky brown liquid consumes the space again. He pauses in his activities and our eyes meet for a split second
before his drop back down to his dinner. He lays the knife down then, letting the serrated side rest in the syr-
up while the handle hangs suspended over the table top and blows air through his nostrils.

A cyclone of nausea twists around in my stomach, and I reach for my untouched, perspiring glass of
ice water that’s more water than ice at this point, opting to take small, careful sips instead of chugging it
down like it’s the Modelo I wish I was drinking instead. Senior year is turning out to be a blast – a blast of
hot shit straight to the face.

Kyle leans back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee and gripping his shin with both hands,
taking a slow breath in. “When she kissed me—”

I’m quick to swallow, placing my glass down with a sharp enough “clank” that it cuts him off before
I can, holding my hand up soon after. “Don’t.”

“I thought you guys—”
“Stop.” The colored lights of the dance floor flash behind my eyelids as I squeeze my eyes shut,
pressing two fingers into my left temple as if it’ll erase the memory of the betrayal. “Shut Up and Dance” by
Walk the Moon had been blasting over the tower speakers that flanked the DJ on either side. It used to be my
favorite song. It was our song. If I heard it now, I couldn’t guarantee that I would hesitate to deck him again.
I hear him sigh. “Jamie, you’re –”
I shake my head. “Kyle, I don’t want to hear –”
“You’re bleeding over your pancakes.”
“I – ” I look down, seeing the red soak into the bread. “Ew.” My appetite departs from me once
more.
“Here.” He rips a napkin from the container, frowning something awful, and holds it out to me.
When I reach to grab it, however, he yanks it out of my range. “Ah, what do we say?”
I glare at him. “Fuck you.” A white-haired woman shoots me a dirty look from two tables over.
A ghost of a dimple forms on his left cheek, but he’s otherwise void of emotion, extending his hand
once more as I snatch the napkin from him successfully. He shrugs. “Eh, you got half the words right, so I’ll
give you partial credit.”
I snort, immediately regretting it as a jolt of pain shoots up my nose and my neck tenses in response.
“Asshole.”
“Love you, too.”
I throw my bloodied napkin at him in retaliation, and he bats it away effortlessly with a wave of his
hand, but still partially flinches away from the attempt, laughing as he does so. “Hey, hey, keep your blood
on your side of the table.”
“I’m trying to keep it in me,” I say, bringing the back of my hand up to test if I’m still leaking. My
hand comes back clean, so I scoot my chair back to look for wherever the napkin landed on the floor to

16

properly discard of it.
From under the table, I see the neon pink of Judy’s sneaker laces and soon her voice follows her and

asks if we’re done, or would we like to order dessert?
I sit up from my quest and Kyle raises his eyebrows at me in question. I take a last look at my forgot-

ten meal, only a jagged sliver cut through the radius of the stack of pancakes and a drop of blood to show for.
My stomach feels solid, and a wave of guilt washes over me due to the lack of food I managed to eat. I hate
for it to all go to waste, but there is no use in keeping something I don’t want. “I’m finished.”

“Same here,” Kyle says, dumping the remnants of his plate onto mine and stacking mine atop his,
handing it off to Judy who gracefully accepts it like it’s a million dollars and not garbage. “Thank you.
Would you mind bringing the check ‘round, please?”

“No problem,” Judy nods, scooping up Kyle’s separated orange juice and my stale coffee as if she
had an extra three hands and not just two, balancing the plates on her forearm and the cups in either hand.
“Will it be separate tabs?” her line of sight shifts from me to Kyle.

“Just put it all on mine,” Kyle answers for both of us, not phased in the slightest when I frown at
him. Before I can even begin to contest, though, Judy swiftly accepts his proposal and is bouncing all the way
back to the kitchen.

I fold my arms over the table top, staring pointedly at the idiot across the table. “Kyle, I’ll kill you.”
He pulls at a loop in his tie, sliding it out of the knot and wrangling it from around his neck. “Hey,
you tried that earlier, and it didn’t work, remember?” At the way my shoulders drop, something in his face
softens as he folds the tie up into quarters and stuffs it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Really, Jay, it’s no
big deal.”
I place a hand on the back of my neck, now hot with embarrassment, remembering all the times he’d
covered me in the past when I had come up short, and I had yet to pay him back – hell, that same last week I
had been ignoring Haley’s calls, I was adamantly reminding him how I was going to pay him back for the
ninety-dollar prom ticket whether he liked it or not, but he kept waving me off as if it wasn’t a big deal.
“Look.” He lets out a breath, putting a hand on the table with his fingers spread. “Let me do this,
Jamie, alright? It’s…it’s the least I can do.”
If he weren’t so stubborn and I didn’t know that he was going to fight me tooth and nail for this, I
wouldn’t let him. I’d fight him right back until we were both blue in the face and then some. I’d take his card
and swap it for mine when he would pull it out to pay. If it were any other night, and we hadn’t just thrown
hands on prom night over a stupid mistake, I absolutely would not let him.
Yet, I can’t find the energy to argue, much like I couldn’t find the energy to eat. Instead, I wipe my
mouth with my hand and settle it on my hip, staring into the table top as if it had any answers that I wanted.
“Okay, Kyle.”
“”Preciate it,” he whispers after some time.
I nod in response, letting our silence be drowned out by the faint guitar twang of a country song
whose artist is melodically monologuing about dirt roads and a girl he met last night at a bonfire. I want to
tell the singer that girls are no use and to stick to the dirt road, because at least it’ll take you somewhere even-
tually, but it’s no use because he can’t hear me.
I want to tell Kyle that he’s an asshole, but he’s also a patient asshole that dealt with my rants about
Haley for all of those months without going crazy. I want to thank him for calling me out about how unfair I
was being in the relationship. I want to thank him for only breaking my nose even though I started it and
probably deserved much worse. I want to thank him for paying for dinner, because even though he’s never
verbally apologized to me after the age of eight, he’s never had to, either.
Instead, I lean back into the chair, interlocking my fingers and dropping them on top of my head, the
events of the night rushing up to me in a forming headache. “Fuck, man…” I release, glancing out the win-
dow into the black of the night, watering trails of headlights zooming by the parking lot of the diner. I shake
my head, watching a silver hatchback turn into the main road, only to be stopped by the red light looming
above the intersection. “I – fuck.”
Kyle huffs out a humorless laugh, biting the practically nonexistent nail of his thumb. “Yeah.” He
shakes the hand out, then running both hands down the front of his pants. “Yeah, you know, I don’t even real-
ly…” He plants his elbow onto the table where his plate used to be, resting his chin on the back of his hand
that’s formed into a lazy fist. “I don’t even like her,” he says to the empty space in the booth next to me,
voice tight. “She just…I don’t know, man, she – like she just…she did it. I was in the middle of knocking
back my, like, third cup of Hawaiian Punch, because that’s what the ‘kids’ drink, right?” He rolls his eyes,
muttering something about how in touch our school administration was not, before sombering back up with a
sigh. “And I saw you, and I was gonna tell you how awful your dancing is when you’re sober, but she just

17

grabbed me, practically spun me around, and…” He twists his mouth to the side, sparing me a recap of what I
had already witnessed. He blinks. “Then I was on the floor.”

I close my eyes, remembering how easily his flesh gave way to my fist, and how resistant the bone
underneath was that ended up bruising both of us after the dust had settled. Once I open them back, the hatch-
back is gone, the traffic light now ceaselessly green. I repeat the phrase, continuing the chain of events.
“Then I was on the floor,” I recall.

Kyle only manages a flash of a raise of his brow as a reply.
I slide my hands off of my head, the grime of the sweat that had yet to dry from the denser sections
of my hair clinging to them as I situate them into my lap. The green light stares back at me, now. “I guess I
don’t really like her all that much, either,” I say. When our eyes meet this time around, the dark brown of his
are swimming in unreleased tears, fighting to stay afloat, yet flawlessly holding my gaze. My own vision
goes blurry in response, the weight of the sudden emotion clogging my throat, making me swallow it back
down with the load of spit I’d gathered in my ever-drying mouth and surrender my line of sight to the table
top, pale ring-shaped stains left behind from our sweating drinks.
He reaches for another napkin so naturally, with a simple swoop of his hand that doesn’t disturb his
posture in the slightest, that you would think I just had constant nosebleeds and that it was another wordless
routine we had fallen into. He doesn’t hand it off right away, though, and waits until I’m looking back at him
to reanimate himself.
“So tell her, then.” He carefully reaches across the table, the water in his voice carrying his exhaus-
tion that had further settled in him with the night. “She needs to know.”
A drop of blood meets the table with a quiet “pat,” and I feel the warmth of it starting to trail down
my top lip. I accept his offer, and if he notices the minute tremble of my fingers as they close around the
frayed edge of the napkin, he doesn’t mention it.
“I will.” I nod, securing the napkin just under my nose, turning to the window just in time to see the
traffic light warningly transition from that persistent green to an amber yellow as a black pickup truck speeds
through the intersection, the growling of the engine decrescendoing as it zooms past the diner. “It’s the least I
could do.”

Second Place Prose

18

To be Free
Alise Copeland

Braids were better
Than letting my hair be free.
Big and brave, my curls
Caught the attention of many.

Seemed that people didn’t understand
That saying you were exotic,
Or asking what you were,
Were things better given to
Proud pet parents.

Thoughtless words hurt my head,
Almost as much as the woman
Who pulled and puffed my hair
With her cat-like claws
Hurt me, as she told me she
Just couldn’t not touch me.

As I reached out
And did to her as she had done to me
the look of surprise that
sank in slowly was soon replaced with outrage.
Fiery words flew through her mind,

But every word seemed
To die on her tongue as
She considered them.
Understanding flashed across her face.
She pursed her lips, pausing
To let go of my mane.

19

Plates
James Kahla

Cotton-balls rained from the sky that night and I could feel the impact of each landing softly onto
the roof of her car. We hadn’t spoken in person for six months, and I didn’t dare break that silence when I’d
sunk into the passenger seat of her car around 8:00 that night. Even though we’d been best friends for two-
thirds of my life, anything beyond sparse chatter back and forth on Tumblr after breaking up felt like talking
to the sun from arm’s length.

She looked at me once, though, when she turned her car from our neighborhood’s main street onto
the dirt road that separated her side of the neighborhood from mine. She quickly moved her eyes back to the
road that continued to fill with white, fuzzy snow blurring the barren December landscape.

Her rickety Honda Civic’s heating filled my ears with the overworked fan’s white noise as the radio
sat in standby mode, a little digital snake winding its way across the display. The road followed the snake
and winded a bit as we got closer to the trash heap in the middle of the neighborhood. Syd tapped the brakes
overzealously as the road turned away from us, making my body rock along with the loose suspension.

She slowly pulled the car to the left, careful not to drag the undercarriage as the dirt dipped between
the road and the pullout. The fraying, faded, floral loveseat we’d sat on opposite ends of the night of our last
argument was still there. It sat crooked about ten feet in front of the solitary brick wall that we’d used to
teach each other Morse code back in the 5th grade. Now, after 12 years of riding bikes, walking, or driving
to the trash heap with Syd and the past six months of avoiding her confrontation like leprosy, it all felt
quaint.

Syd slowed the car to a gentle halt, serenaded by the soft squeak of fresh snow as she parked across
the lot from the loveseat. She paused for a moment, looking through her window at the wall before turning
the car off, bringing a swift chill through the edges of the passenger side door and window.

“When did the weather strips come off?” I asked, running my right hand along the sticky area on the
window where the soft, black plastic used to be.

Syd didn’t say anything, didn’t even look over, just turned and opened her door revealing intact
weather strips down the side of her door as she got out. She walked around to the trunk of the car, the sound
of her feet meeting the gravel softened by the snow, as I pulled my beanie down to cover my ears. I started to
get out when I heard her key ratcheting back and forth on the trunk lock, trying to knock ice loose.

I stood up out of the car, looking across the windblown grass field filled with darkness and chilly,
white pointillism that obscured the fence at the far end. You could still see the immense light cast by the
houses that steadily rose up the hill past the fence on Syd's side of the neighborhood. I turned around to start
helping get the plates out of the trunk, but I turned right into her staring at me. I shot my head down as soon
as I could. I still didn’t feel like I knew how to see her.

“You gonna help?” she asked, as cold as the air between us.
I nodded, brushing snow off my beanie as I started walking over to the trunk to grab a set of the ce-
ramic plates we’d been storing in her car for six months and five days now.
The summer prior, after we both missed out on lead roles in our last summer musical theater pro-
duction before college, we both needed a release. So, the next day we went to the thrift store in town and
bought four sets of large ceramic plates for $12.49 total, and said we’d both write down every broken thing
in our lives on the plates, then go smash them against the brick-wall the next day. One hundred and ninety-
seven days, three jaded arguments and six months of avoiding her later, the dinnerware still sat wholly un-
broken in the back of Syd’s car. But Syd still messaged me saying that she wanted to do this tonight. That
she wanted it to be over.
She picked up the first stack from the trunk, grabbing the plates by the clear tape Goodwill had used
to keep the set together and placed them on the ground five feet in front of the wall while shielding her glass-
es from the sticky, wet snowflakes. I followed, picking up the second stack and walking it out to the spot
she’d chosen, soft weight falling slowly on my wool sweater before my body heat dispersed it into liquid.
When I was on my way back with fourth and final set, Syd had already started to unravel the trans-
lucent tape prison that contained the plates, unwrapping and peeling each strip of adhesive off with such care
that you might’ve thought she was going to eat off them at some point.
Once she’d collected all the tape into a ball by her foot, Syd picked up the first plate of her stack and
chucked it at the wall. Sharp ceramic shards cascaded down from where it collided with the brick a couple

20

paces in front of me, but with how the thick, damp snow absorbed the sound, it might as well have happened
200 feet away.

I threw the next one, tossing the plate like a baseball pitcher would, closing my eyes as I let go of the
plate. I waited for the muted sound of crashing ceramic but only heard a faint whistle and a soft, distant thud.
I opened my eyes and heard Syd snicker a bit before throwing another plate against the wall. One of the
shards from that throw, shaped kind of like an anatomical heart, landed right in front of me.

The rest of the time, I threw the plates like a dad trying to teach his son to play catch, letting the wall
do the work of breaking. Every once and awhile, I’d glance over to Syd’s plates before she threw them, hop-
ing to catch a glimpse of something she’d written on them. But each time I checked, her’s were just as blank
as mine and looked just as untouched.

After I’d arced my last plate into the wall, I looked over at Syd to see how many plates she had left.
She didn’t have any in her hands as she stood there, shoulders relaxed and mouth slightly agape while she
stared at the wall. One plate lay next to her left foot, with a piece of scotch tape in the middle that had wet
enough for me to make out a couple of dit’s and dah’s: the written form of Morse code.

“Remember right before Thanksgiving break, sophomore year?” she asked, more to the wall than
me.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice croaking in the middle. My memory was all too clear: the bright yellow
flower crown of dandelions loosely clinging to her frizzy blonde hair as she lay atop the brick wall with her
legs dangling on either side. The prickly ring of tied up crabgrass I kept adjusting, moving it up and down on
the ring finger I wasn’t sure it fit on. “Young, Wild, and Free” echoing out from my Dad’s Jetta as dusk be-
gan to set into the foothills.

“I said I hoped you wouldn’t be the one to let me down.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” she said, bending down to grab the last ceramic plate, carefully stripping off the scotch tape
to reveal “this” written in the dots and lines of our code. “What a sucker,” she said, throwing the plate harder
than I’d ever seen her throw something. The impact left no discernible sound or shard of the plate, no clean
breaks, just dissipation, like the plate was made of ash as it hit the wall.
She took a step towards me, reaching over to grab the pile of tape that I’d peeled from the plates and
placed by my feet, and added it to her ball of tape before sliding it into her jean pockets. Probably the closest
she’d come to touching me all night.
“Need a ride home?” she asked, fiddling with her keys in her jacket pocket.
I shook my head, fixated on the dry, white ceramic dust left in the middle of the brown, wet brick.
Each step she took to the car squeaked on the snow before being punctuated by the driver side door
slamming shut. The cars lights flickered on and flooded the lot with LED blue, so I turned around and walked
to the loveseat, half-heartedly waving at her as the headlights pulled out.
I sat down, holding the sides of my face in the palms of my hands, and could still see the lettering of
her license plate as she eased down the increasingly slick dirt road. I waited until I couldn’t see anything but
the faint red glow of her tail lights against her cracked bumper going back the way we came, then buried my
head in my hands, comforted by the fact that I couldn’t tell melting snow from tears.

21

Botticelli
Astra Rodriguez

Fleshy meat suits so gathered and collected in ease
Venus calls no man. For she demands the chubby addiction,
No real care, only dancing. In the air, she is not a fashionista.
For the chick is in many sizes, colors, lengths, and tempers.
Disco drums scream out to her divas and light the inner fire.
No hairless cats here. Prominence hides no feminine shame,
Clouded but not delicate. For women and warriors are one,
Riddled above more than childbirth, cooking, and cat fighting.
Aphrodite, the pomegranate, the pear herself, poetic in cinema.
Lipstick stained journals, no longer making money off insecurity.
Venus shrieks into your void, her rolls perfect and baked soft.
Fat, the misunderstood art form, the abstract woman finally shown.
Midnight in her glory will never be polite. She owes no explanation.
Our bodies were made for the land of plenty, not meant to be hated.
You, like Venus, are beautiful. For you have always been Venus.

Third Place Poetry

22

Thieves
Lauryn Juvinall

He pulls up in front of our target house in his old, beaten down truck. It wheezes as it comes to a
halt. The house’s red front door stands out against the light beige exterior and the windows, the one at the top
of the house circular. It looks in at a light fixture hanging down from the high ceiling, but the light is off, the
house consumed in darkness. I look up at the sky and notice the lack of stars. It isn’t unusual. Light pollution
drowns out all the beautiful things around here. There’s almost no difference between night and day.

“We don’t have all night. Come on,” Bruce says next to me as he struggles to take off his seatbelt. I
notice his hands shaking, but he tries to hide his nervousness by cursing. “Fuck, man, this stupid seatbelt!”
He finally manages to break off the belt from its holster. He sits there for a moment, basking in his victory,
before he realizes he looks stupid and quickly yanks open his truck door. He piles out, grabbing his duffle bag
from the backseat on the way. The rusty door creaks as it’s slammed shut.

Bruce says he has done this several times, but seeing him struggle with the seatbelt and slam the door
makes me wonder if he’s really confident or really stupid, though I suppose he could be both. It’s my first
time robbing a house. I’m not the kind of person who would do this kind of stuff. Hell, before this, the worst
thing I’ve ever done was run a red light, accidentally. But I lost my job recently and have been struggling to
pay the bills. My wife doesn’t know I’ve lost my job yet, but I’m afraid if she learns I have it will ruin the
perfectly uneventful life we have together. We never go anywhere or do anything. The last trip we went on
was to the trashy beach two years ago, and we didn’t even go in the water because Alyssa was too afraid of
the nonexistent sharks. When I met Bruce and noticed that he always had a positive attitude about everything,
I wanted to learn his secrets. Apparently his secrets are robbery. But I’m desperate for anything to spice up
my boring life. Bruce and I hang out at bars. He’s always been more on the wealthy side, though it doesn’t
show when he drives around in this old truck. When he offered me an adrenaline rush, I couldn’t refuse.

“Hey, you big idiot, keep it down,” I whisper, though I’m not sure he hears me from inside the truck
because he doesn’t react to my words. I let out a soft sigh before I unbuckle and step out of the truck, shutting
the door as quietly as I can. I’m sure it had a color once, but now it’s only orange-red rust. Not the best vehi-
cle to use for a fast getaway, but Bruce didn’t give me a choice. I shrug it off.

“I think this is a bad idea,” I say. He sighs and shakes his head.
“Not even in the house and you’re already trying to chicken out.” He starts up towards the front
door.
“Bruce, seriously. Wait,” I whisper. He either doesn’t hear me or ignores me as he continues to walk.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath as I storm after him with my hands clenching into fists. He’s crouching
down in front of the door rustling through his large, black duffle bag. He pulls out what appears to be some
sort of lockpick before he throws me something.
“Put that on,” he says as he pulls his own black ski mask over his face and slides on the gloves. I
groan in disgust but pull the mask on over my head and pull on the gloves as well.
“Is this necessary? If you’re so confident why do we need to wear this shit?” I say as I tug at the
itchy mask. It’s a hot night, and because Bruce’s truck doesn’t have air conditioning, I’m already sweating.
The heat from the mask makes my face grow hotter.
“Better safe than sorry,” he says, not even giving me a glance. “You should always expect the unex-
pected when you’re doing this kind of stuff”
“And your worst case scenario is them seeing your face?”
“It’s one of them, but if they somehow still manage to identify me, I’ve got measures to take care of
that too,” he says as he starts to mess with the lock on the door.
“They probably have an alarm system,” I say as I watch him. “We should just turn around and plan

23

this out better.”
“Believe it or not,” he starts, “I’m not a complete idiot, Danny. I know for a fact this house doesn’t

have an alarm. They’re just asking to be robbed. Now if you don’t mind, do your job.”
“Fuck, man,” I say, “I’m telling you this is a bad idea.” I turn away from the house and look out

towards the street and the other houses. The houses on this street are family-friendly, not over-the-top rich,
but nice. The sidewalk isn’t cracked or discolored. The grass in the front lawns are a healthy green and fresh-
ly cut. The lamp posts are a bright white instead of a dim yellow. Cars outside these houses are new, sporting
colors like black, white, or gray, and don’t look like they’ve been abused for years like Bruce’s truck. One
car is parked in the driveway of the house we stand in front of, a black Sedan. Minutes pass and I let out an-
other sigh before turning back to Bruce.

“How long is this going to take?” I ask, tugging on my mask now drenched in sweat.
“Almost got it...and...there.” There’s a click and he places his lockpick back in his bag before turn-
ing the doorknob. The door opens quietly, and a waft of cold air hits my face. Bruce stands up, picking up
his duffle bag quietly, and steps into the house. He stands in the entrance, looking around at the interior.
“We should leave now before it’s too late,” I say, stepping in after him and quietly closing the door
behind me. Bruce swivels around on his feet and faces me.
“What’s your deal? Seriously? You agreed to do this and now it seems like you’re just making ex-
cuses to leave. I’m tired of hearing you whine like a child.” He gestures with his hand towards the door be-
fore turning away again and walking deeper into the dark house. He pulls out a flashlight from his bag and
turns it on as he moves into a room and disappears out of my view. I hear him mumbling to himself. I stand
still in front of the door, watching where he walks off. I stare down the hallway. Next to it are stairs. The
only light comes from the backyard, flooding in through the French doors. I watch as Bruce moves from one
room to another, the flashlight he holds shining down towards his feet.
I follow him, turning into the room he disappeared into. I stand in the doorway to a kitchen, lit from
the backyard. It has a gas, stainless steel stove and a large island made of granite in the middle. Bruce is
rummaging through drawers and cabinets, throwing what he thinks to be worthy in his duffle bag.
“Be careful. Don’t break anything. You’ll wake up the people who live here,” I say. He jumps at the
sound of my voice, the decorated plate he’s examining slipping loose from his gloved grip. I watch as he
desperately tries to grab for it, unsuccessfully. It hits the ground and shatters loudly, the pieces scattering
across the kitchen. I close my eyes and rest my hand on my face.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and shoots me an icy glare as he stands completely still, listen-
ing. All is silent in the house.
“We need to get out, now,” I whisper. He puts his index finger over his mouth. I return his icy glare.
For a long moment we both stand still, but no movement comes from upstairs. Bruce smiles and I shake my
head. He ignores me and continues rummaging through the cabinets with his flashlight, crouching down be-
hind the island.
“See? Everything is fine. They’re not even home,” he whispers as he puts something in his bag that
appears to be some sort of juicer.
“Just because we didn’t hear anything doesn’t mean no one heard us,” I say with my arms crossed.
“This is getting too dangerous. What if they have a weapon? This isn’t worth it. Bruce, we need to leave,
now.” Bruce lets out a sharp breath and stops rummaging through the cabinets and drawers, shining his
flashlight on me, temporarily blinding me.
“I swear to god, Danny, if you don’t stop complaining I will send you to him myself.” He reaches
into the duffle bag next to him and pulls out a pistol. My body stiffens and I take a step back away from him.
“You see this? If they have a weapon, I can deal with it. Now shut the fuck up, you damned baby.” He trails
off as he shoves the piece back into his bag.
“You’re not seriously going to shoot someone, are you? You don’t even know who lives here! They
could have kids or-” A bright light suddenly illuminates the hallway outside the kitchen. I watch as Bruce
turns off his flashlight and scurries out of view of the doorway on the other side of the island. I go to do the
same, but I react too late. The hall light helps me to make out the features of the person standing in the door-

24

way in front of me.
“Stupid cat...” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes, drowsy from being woken up in the middle of the

night. It’s a woman, barefoot, and in her pajamas, her messy blonde hair running down her shoulders. I open
my mouth to speak but no words come out. She finally looks up, blinking a few times in the darkness as she
sees me standing there in the kitchen. She looks more confused than startled.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” she asks, her eyes wandering around the kitchen
frantically for a quick weapon to grab. She reaches out to the knife block on the edge of the counter and
grabs the biggest knife, a large butcher knife. She points it at me with both of her shaking hands. “Get out
now!” Her eyes squint as she tries to see in the dark. She reaches over and turns on the kitchen lights so she
can see better. The sudden rush of the light makes me wince, blinding me. I shield my eyes. The best I can
do now is keep Bruce from being caught. I worry about what he will do. It’s likely someone will end up get-
ting hurt. Now that I know Bruce is dangerous, the last thing I need is panic.

“Look lady, I-” I start to say, trying to keep her calm.
“Get out before I call the cops!” she shouts again. Her hand shoots out and she points towards the
front door. I would love to just walk out right now, but I’m not the only one in her house. She will definitely
start searching the second I leave to see if anything is gone. There’s no way Bruce will be able to not get
caught then. She looks me up and down, maybe trying to see if I have any noticeable features. Thank god for
this mask. “What the hell are you wearing anyway?” she asks. Her tone suddenly shifting.
“I’m sorry, I...” My words fall flat. No excuse comes to mind.
“I don’t understand,” she says as she starts to step into the kitchen. “How did you even get in here?”
As she gets closer I step back slightly, blocking her view. I don’t want her to see Bruce. I’m scared of what
he might do if she sees him.
“Wait, stop! Don’t come in here. There’s broken glass everywhere. I dropped a plate,” I say step-
ping towards her, away from the island and away from Bruce’s hiding place. She freezes in place, the knife
wavering in her hand before she lowers it to her side.
“S-stay back!” she shouts, the fear returning as she remembers the situation. She steps away and
points the knife at me like she’s holding a gun. “Why are you in my house? Maybe I won’t get the cops in-
volved.”
“Look, I need the money. I know this is not the right way to do things but I’m low on options.” I
scratch the back of my head. “I’m sorry, alright?” I say, stepping back again and glancing towards the front
door. “If you just let me go and go back upstairs I won’t do it again.” I open my arms and spin around slow-
ly. “I don’t even have anything on me. I didn’t take anything,” I say, trying to keep her attention on me,
thinking I’m the only one who broke in.
“Don’t lie,” she says, letting out a deep sigh. She looks me up and down slowly before lowering the
knife again. “Fine, whatever. Get out of my house and don’t ever come back. I will use this if I see you
again. I don’t want cops around here anyway.” She mumbles the last part while waving the knife around in
the air but I manage to hear it.
I let out my breath and nod as I start to back away slowly towards the front door. “All right, all right.
Deal,” I say. She slightly steps aside so I can walk past her towards the door. I face her in case she tries to
attack me from behind. I wanted the money but I’m not willing to die for it. My hand reaches behind me to
grab the doorknob. Suddenly there’s a loud crash in the kitchen, the sound of metal pots hitting hard tile. She
directs her eyes to the kitchen once more.
“What the hell?” she asks as she looks back at me. I open my mouth to speak but don’t respond fast
enough. She turns and starts to walk back to the kitchen before I can stop her, the knife raised once more. I
take off after her back into the kitchen.
“Hold on! I-It's a rat! It scared me earlier that’s how I broke the plate, sorry…” I say. Hoping to at
least stop her. She ignores me this time as she rounds the island. “Wait!” I shout. She gasps, stumbling back
against the sink behind her. She drops her knife to floor and puts her hands up. Bruce stands up slowly, gun
in hand pointing at her.
“Who are you people!” she shouts. I can see the terror on her face, her hands shaking as she holds

25

them up.
“You don’t know him,” Bruce says. “I just needed his help. But god, do you know me,” Bruce says

as he suddenly pulls the mask from his face. I stare at him confused.
“What are you-” I start to say, but the woman talks before me.
“Bruce? What the fuck! Why are you in my house?” she shouts at him, but doesn’t move from her

spot, keeping her hands up. I watch as a smile spreads across Bruce’s face. He sighs and adjusts the grip of
the gun in his hand.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Gloria? I’m robbing you,” he says as he leans over and picks up
the duffle bag next to him, keeping the gun pointed at her.

“What the fuck is going on!” I shout. They both turn to look at me. After a moment, Bruce laughs.
“Sorry for getting you involved in this mess. I did tell you to leave,” he says with a shrug. “This is
my beautiful ex-wife Gloria who hasn’t aged a day since I last saw her. I think you met her already.” He ges-
tures towards her with the gun. “Gloria, this is Danny. Danny, this is Gloria.” He uses the gun to gesture be-
tween us, making me flinch as it’s pointed at me.
“You fucking bastard,” Gloria says between grit teeth, her head shaking as she glares at him. Bruce
starts to laugh again. He reaches out to her with his free hand and grabs her jaw roughly.
“This is what happens when I walk in on you cheating on me with the neighbor, you call for a di-
vorce, and then take everything from me,” Bruce says. I start to back away when Gloria spits on Bruce’s face.
He pulls his hand away from her and wipes his face.
“You bitch,” he says as he lifts the gun and points it at her head. They both glare at each other.
“You won’t do it,” Gloria says. She scoffs, her gaze not breaking his.
“Maybe not. But I can certainly threaten you with it,” Bruce says with a smile. “I’m taking Mr. Mit-
tens too.” He kicks the knife away from her towards me with his foot. “Take that. Come on,” he says to me as
he turns away from her to leave the kitchen. She laughs and follows after him.
“You’re taking my fucking cat? You’re deranged!” she shouts, shoving him from behind as he leaves
the kitchen.
“I’m only taking what’s mine. He likes me better anyway,” he says as he starts to look around the
house. “Mr. Mittens! It’s me! Come on out now!” he shouts.
I watch them both as they walk out, standing there at a complete loss. The knife lays forgotten at my
feet. I don’t know if I should stay or leave, though I worry that if I leave something bad might happen. I leave
the kitchen and stand by the front door as I watch them both disappear upstairs, Gloria following right behind
Bruce wherever he went yelling at him and Bruce ignoring her. I remember that Bruce is my ride and plop
down in a nearby chair. Listening to the fiery passion between the bickering of ex-lovers makes my loving
marriage seem not as loving as it used to be. No matter how dysfunctional their relationship might be it’s
more interesting than mine. My wife and I never fight. We never do anything other than sit in our house
watching antique auction shows and drinking cheap red wine. We hardly even talk to each other. I always
figured that is what love is supposed to be. But seeing these two fight makes me think otherwise. After a few
minutes both of them come back down the stairs and I stand again, Bruce now holding a large, long-haired,
black and white cat, and Gloria still in hot pursuit.
“I’m gonna call the fucking cops on you!” she shouts.
“Go ahead. I’ll tell them about the drugs,” he says. “You won’t be able to keep your perfect little job
with that on your record, will you?” He makes his way to me at the front door, a smirk on his face. “We’re
leaving. Take him,” he says to me as he opens the front door and hands me the cat. I’m not quite sure what to
do with it. Gloria stops on the bottom of the staircase, glaring at him.
“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” she says.
“I really fucking would,” Bruce says, the smirk still on his face as I head out the door walking past
Bruce while he stands in front of the door. “In all honesty, Gloria, I love you. And you’re going down a very
slippery slope. Say no to drugs. You won’t be able to come back up.” He smiles and steps closer towards her
on the staircase, grabbing her face with both hands and kissing her hard on the lips. I can hear her gasp in
shock and possibly disgust as he hurriedly steps away and out the front door.

26

I hear Gloria shout from the front porch as Bruce and I walk to the truck. “You’re lucky you’re sexy
as fuck!” she shouts before slamming the front door.

He takes Mr. Mittens back from me and puts him in the front seat before throwing the duffle bag,
jam-packed with stuff it seems, in the back of the truck. I get in the passenger seat as he jumps in the driver’s
seat. The cat meows once more as it climbs onto his lap. Bruce pets its head.

“What the fuck did I just witness, Bruce?” I ask as I look at him. I rip the mask off, freeing my hot
face. Bruce chuckles as he starts the truck.

“Sorry to drag you into that mess. You can have the stuff in the duffle bag,” he says, gesturing be-
hind himself towards the bed of the truck. “I just wanted Mr. Mittens.” The cat meows hearing his name and
snuggles up in Bruce’s lap, purring loudly. Bruce starts to drive off down the road.

I sit there in silence for awhile as Bruce cruises down the road, not sure what to say. The only sounds
are coming from the truck’s noisy engine and the purring of the cat, seeming just as loud. When we finally
make it out of the neighborhood, I open my mouth to speak, but then shut it again. Bruce glances in my direc-
tion.

“Got something to say?” He asks before returning his attention to the road.
“Can...can you pull in here?” I ask as I look out the window at an upcoming gas station.
“Uh, okay sure. Look, I’m sorry about all this. My wife is batshit crazy but I still love her, you
know? Love is crazy like that,” he says as he pulls into the gas station and the truck comes to a wheezing halt
once more.
“I guess I don’t, but thanks,” I say as I open the door and step out of the truck. I grab the duffle bag
from the back and swing it over my shoulder. “See you at Tony’s friday?” I ask as I adjust the straps of the
duffle bag over my shoulder. Bruce gives me a single head nod before pulling out back onto the road. I watch
him until his truck can no longer be seen or heard.
I drop the duffle bag to the ground with a thud, some of the contents inside clanging against each
other. I reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone, dialing my wife. The roads around me are silent,
not a car in sight. I listen as the phone rings, ringing four times before someone picks up.
“Hello?” I hear my wife say drowsily on the other end of the phone.
“Hey Alyssa, it’s Danny,” I say, fiddling with the strap of the duffle bag and looking down towards
the pavement.
“Danny? You’re not home?” she asks. I can hear the sound of our favorite auction show in the back-
ground.
“I think we should get a divorce,” I say.

27

Ode to Baby Blanket
Crystal Roza

Over and under your colors blend,
interlocking and weaving complex roads of thread.
Cotton thinned and woefully bare
splitting at the edges. Frayed ends
all lovingly held in place by knotted loops.
Loops that Mama spun, twisted, and fastened with
quick hands that made magic come to life.
Magic hands
that revived anything Mama touched
and brought back from devastation.
From pink cosmos
to yellow suns
to blue and green oceans
before splitting and morphing
into the deep tans and
browns of earth. Browns like the soil
on the farm after plowing and readying seeds for sowing.
Of harvesting yellow corn
to sell at the market and
to feed the cows.
Of summers spent in the coast collecting
gleaming pink pebbles and sparkling green stones to
fishing crabs out of choppy waters.
Once a month
you come out from hiding
out from the box
that keeps you guarded so selfishly
to grace my hands.
Hands that don’t spin
and weave magic
or create miracles
like Mama’s
but can hold you gently and softly,
loop after loop of
threadbare, raggedy cotton
fastened ends converging in the middle
by complex roads of yarn
faded after thirty years.
I hope to see
another thirty years of thread
held lovingly together
by Mama’s magic.

28

Burn Your Life to the Ground
Viviana Camarillo

The fluorescent Guinness sign glowed unnaturally bright from across the room. The space on the
worn-out leather couch was limited, and I could feel a rough patch of duct tape rub against the back of my
thigh every time I shifted away from the sweaty bodies surrounding me. The heavy bass pulsed through the
garage, pumping life into the party.

It grew even louder in the room when some guys dressed up as Freddy Kruger, Caesar, and Snow
White started to chug down their beers. They gulped down the alcohol like it was the last of the oxygen on
earth and they were dying of asphyxiation. A stream of foam slithered down the side of Snow White’s throat,
and I imagined the gypsy make-up on my face melting off just as swiftly in the heat. I continued to observe
the chaos around me as my fingers roamed over the frilled seams of my purple skirt, combing through the
faces, only really interested in finding one.

“Jess, get your ass over here and take a shot with us,” Steph shouted from the other side of the table
that sat in center of the room. Her bright pink ensemble almost resembled the Iconic Jackie Kennedy outfit,
except for the missing fabric around the chest, midriff, and lower thigh area. “You’re too sober and that is
just not acceptable.” She raised the liquor-filled bottle and advertised it using her French manicured hand.
She added a few “oohs” and “ahhs” for dramatic effect. I laughed at her and shook my head in disapproval
but decided to get up and join the fun. Steph cheered as I made my way closer to the group of drunk teenagers
crowding around the table.

“All right, I’m down,” I said, reaching for the prefilled shot glass on the table below me, but Steph
quickly slid between me and the table, blocking my hand with her body.

“Not so fast,” she said, shaking her head rapidly. I looked at her in confusion. “Keys. Now,” she said
holding her hand out. Protesting proved to be pointless whenever Steph was on the other side of the conversa-
tion. So, with a huff and a roll of my eyes, I placed my car keys in her sweaty palm. She turned as gracefully
as any half-intoxicated person could and handed my keys off to the designated driver of the night.

“All right, now that we got that taken care of,” Steph said, turning back to the table. “Let’s drink.”
We all laughed and picked up our glasses, trying very hard not to spill any of the liquor as we toasted to the
unknown.

I lagged behind by a couple of seconds, hoping that the liquor would go down easy. The pinched
eyes and hissing noises that erupted from around the circle assured me that it wouldn’t. I shrugged it off and
threw the shot of tequila straight back, not feeling the burn until I drew in a deep breath. Steph handed me an
unevenly cut lime and I bit it between my teeth and sucked on it until I tasted the juice.

The heat intensified as every ounce of alcohol started to fully enter my system. All my worries and
insecurities disappeared along with the tequila and the last of my make-up. By the time we downed our third
shot, me and Steph were thrashing and flailing our damp bodies without a single care. Steph grabbed my
hand and twirled me into her and then back out again. The movement allowed me to catch a glimpse of my-
self in the tall mirror that hung behind the worn-out couch. Between the shots and awkward dance moves,
the intricate makeup I had spent hours applying had almost completely sweated off.

Me and all the other girls at the party started screaming out the lyrics at the top of our lungs. When
the familiar chords from “Party in the U.S.A” started playing, Steph and me were using her Heineken bottle
as a microphone to sing while we swayed out of sync with each other.

When the song finally ended, I stumbled gracefully towards the lifted garage door where the cooler
sat. I lowered myself in front of the big blue box and pried it open with my small hands. The freezing ice bit
at my skin until I found a bottle of water to soothe my aching throat. I slammed the lid shut and used it to
push myself up quickly. When I finally stood all the way up, my eyes met with warm familiar ones.

“Have you considered auditioning for The Voice?” Josh said smiling. “You’d give Miley a run for

29

her money.”
“You’re here,” I said loudly as I reached over the cooler to pull him into a hug. I felt the denim of his

jacket slightly rub against my face as he pulled me closer to his body when he returned the hug.
“Told you I would be,” he said as we finally released each other, re-adjusting his rounded glasses on

the bridge of his lightly freckled nose. “Smells like you beat me to the booze.”
I smiled sheepishly as I twisted the cap off of the cold bottle. “I learned from the best,” I said, raising

my bottle to him, before taking a quick swig of water. “There’s a lot more if you want some.”
I went through most of high school without ever being fully drunk, but Josh made damn sure to fix

that on my birthday last June. He taught me the basics like, “Beer before liquor, never sicker,” and he assured
me that the only thing that can really sober you up is time. I quickly got the hang of all the games and how to
take a proper shot, but he was the king of cups and could outdrink me any day.

“Nah, it’s cool,” he said waving me off. “I really shouldn’t.”
We moved out of the garage and into the open space of the driveway. I leaned back on the hood of
someone’s red Ford F-150 for support.
“I like the costume. What are you? A fairy?” he said as he scanned my body for visual confirmation.
“No,” I said, shaking my head rapidly. “I’m a gypsy”
“Nice,” he said with an appreciative nod.
“What about you?” I said, pointing at his chest. Under the denim jacket, he wore a black turtle neck.
“I’m digging the whole Steve Job thing you got going on.”
“Oh.” He looked down at what he was wearing. “That was not intentional,” he said as he opened up
his jacket. “But you’re right, thanks.” He smiled back at me. There were uneven patches of hair on his face
and down his chin. It made him look a lot older than I was used to, but he looked handsome regardless. “So,
how’ve you been?”
“Good, not great,” I said in a pout. “I missed you.” I felt my eyes widen with my candor. I hoped it
didn’t sound as weird out loud as it did in my head. I guess it didn’t because he just smiled back at me and
laughed.
“I missed you too, dude,” he said, digging his hands further into his jean pockets. It had only been a
month, but we were used to seeing each other pretty regularly.
“So how was it?” I said, taking another sip of water.
“Pretty fun actually. I met a lot of cool people,” he said scratching his neck. “But I discovered that I
don’t like the great outdoors all that much”
I laughed at his confession but stopped as my stomach growled out and interrupted us. “Shh,” I
looked down at my stomach, holding up my pointer finger to my lips. I could hear Josh laugh at my childish
antics.
“You hungry?”
“Yeah, but all they have is cookies and veggie platters,” I said, rubbing my stomach, trying to calm it
down. “Whataburger sounds good, but Steph took my keys.” I frowned and crossed my arms in front of my-
self.
“I’ll take you,” Josh said with his hands in his pockets.
“Really?” I gasped and stared at him.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling at my sudden excitement.
“Yay, thank you,” I said with a smile.
“Come on,” he said, pulling his keys out from his jacket pocket.
I ran over to Steph to let her know that I would be back, then ran back to meet Josh by his dad’s
white Grand Cherokee. He stuck the key into the ignition and turned the key until the engine roared to life.
Meanwhile, I secured myself and my excitement with the seatbelt. He shifted the gear to drive and we pulled
away from the crowded house. The houses all blurred in and out of my view, one by one, as we passed them.
“Did they give you a chip?” I finally said, turning my head towards him while he concentrated on the
road ahead. “Like in the movies? They always give people chips”
“As a matter of fact, they did,” he said, reaching his hand towards the inside of his jacket and pulled

30

out a thick bronze coin and handed it over to me. “Thirty days clean.” The corners of his mouth rose slightly.
It wasn’t a poker chip like I had imagined. This was much nicer. I flipped the cold coin between my fingers
and traced the engraved lettering.

“To thy own self be true?” I read the words out loud as I looked back up at him.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he turned it all the way to the right. He spoke confident-
ly without looking at me. “This above all: to thine own self be true, and it follows, as the night does the day,
thou cannot then be false to any man.” We began to decelerate when the green light glowed yellow. He wait-
ed for me to respond like I understood what the hell he just said.
“Please don’t make me analyze Shakespeare right now.” I pouted as I handed him back the coin. He
snickered as he accepted it and tucked it back into his inside pocket.
“It just means that ultimately, you should be honest with yourself,” he said as he started driving
again. “Then the rest falls into place and you don’t have to lie to anyone.”
“What do you have to lie about?” I asked, leaning closer to the center console.
“Just trying to convince everyone I was okay,” he said with a sigh. “But I wasn’t, and I finally had to
give up and admit it.” His voice cracked slightly with confession.
“Well, Joshua Daniel, the first step is admitting it,” I said, patting his right shoulder lightly. “So,
you’re off to a good start.” I flashed a smile at him.
“Thanks,” he said mirroring my smile. “I just hope it stays that way. But enough of this sad shit.
Let’s listen to some bops,” he said snapping out of his melancholy.

Josh rolled down the windows when we reached another stoplight and he quickly scrolled trough his
phone. His face lit up when he finally found what he was looking for.

“This is perfect,” he said tapping on the screen and turning the dial to the volume up.
The melody for “Gypsy” began to blare through the speakers.
“Oh My God,” I shrieked and banged on the dashboard. “YES.”
He laughed and refocused on the road when the light turned green and we continued towards our
destination. I leaned my head out of the window and let the cool October breeze kiss my face and twirl my
hair. The orange sign of the promiseland came into view as the song neared its end.
“What’s the plan, Stan? You want to eat in or take it to go?” Josh asked as we pulled into through the
parking lot. I sat up and looked in to the crowded restaurant and scrunched up my nose at all the familiar fac-
es.
“Let’s take it to go,” I said. “There’s too many kids from school inside.
“All right,” he said, pulling into the drive-thru. “Cool.”
“Welcome to Whataburger,” a deep male voice rung out of the intercom. “What can I get y’all to-
night?”
I quickly took off my seatbelt and reached over the center console and Josh’s legs. The bright menu
nearly blinding me.
“Hi, yes, can I get the chicken strip meal, please?” I said to the disembodied voice.
“Okay, and what to drink?” the voice asked again.
“Dr. Pepper, please.” I asked Josh if he wanted anything, but he declined.
“That’ll be $6.54 at the first window,” the voice said as I returned to my seat.
We drove through the line and paid for the food. I tried to give him my card, but he just tossed it into
the cup holder and gave his debit card to the employee instead. “I got you,” he said simply. The young boy
handed Josh back his card and my food soon after. He handed me the paper bag and placed the soda in the
open cup holder. The bag was warm in my lap and the smell of freshly salted fries took over my senses. It
was impossible not to start eating the fries immediately. I stuffed three in my mouth all at once and tilted the
carton to Josh. He took a few without hesitation.
We thanked the employee and made our way out of the drive-thru and onto the road, back the way
we came.
“Ob-La- Di, Ob- La-Da” by The Beatles played next on the queue.

31

We bobbed our heads along to the song and sang along.
“John Lennon was a goddamn genius,” Josh said, hitting his steering wheel.
I stopped singing and looked him in disbelief.
“He was not a genius.” I shook my head furiously from side to side. Before I continued, I took a long
sip from my Dr. Pepper. “He was a pretentious, talentless prick.”
“TALENTLESS? Come on, Jess. Are you freaking crazy?” Josh looked at me with his eyes bulging.
“He made some of the most influential music in history.”
“No, he helped make some of the most influential music in history,” I said. “Paul McCartney and
George Martin were the main creative forces behind The Beatles. John just wrote nonsense because he knew
he could get away with it,” I said, popping another fry into my mouth and chewed quickly.
“He wrote ‘Imagine’ without either of them, and that song is iconic,” he said as he turned back onto
the street of the party.
I jumped a little in my seat and turned slightly to face him. “I bet you that is the only song you can
name from his solo career,” my voice sounding even louder in the small space of his dad’s Jeep. “That song
was all about peace and love and living without possessions. Meanwhile he was living it up in his million-
dollar apartment in New York and beating Yoko like a freaking snare drum,” I said slumping back in my seat,
exhausted with my argument.
“Do you want me to change the song?” he asked, amused with my impatience.
“No, I love this song,” I said and turned up the volume.
“Chill out there.” Josh hurriedly turned down the volume. “You can’t play music that loud in a
neighborhood.” I just giggled and kept dancing to the silenced music. The song got me thinking about the
first time Josh and I met.
In the tenth grade, I’d sat behind him in geometry, but I never really talked to him. It wasn’t until
during one of our work periods that I even acknowledged his existence. Ms. Lowry, our teacher, was pretty
cool and would let us listen to music while we worked. He had his headphones in and was jamming pretty
hard. Naturally, my curiosity got the best of me. Looking back, it was kind of rude, but I just needed to know
what he was listening to. So, I reached over his shoulder to where his phone sat on his desk and turned it on.
The title flashed on the screen. He was listening to The Beatles’ “Come Together”. I’m sure my intrusion
weirded him out, but he was cool about it. After that day, I found myself wanting to know more about him. I
wanted to know about his family, what he feared and what he loved. I just wanted to know him. Sitting here
with him now, so many years later. I couldn’t help but smile because I did know him, I knew him better than
anyone. I knew that he feared the dark and dying alone. I knew that he always orders a Patty Melt and a Coke
when he goes to Whataburger. I knew that he adores his mother and misses his brother and that nothing
brought him as much joy as Paul McCartney’s “Ram” album. I also knew that I loved him since that cold day
in March when we went down to the beach. The water was too cold for me but he was fearless and he let the
ocean swallow up the bottom half of his body. I watched him from the shore and saw how the sunlight kissed
his body. I knew then that he would be the beginning and the end of me.
The memory reminded me of an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. McSteamy was lying in a hospital bed,
recovering from a near death experience while the love of his life had died. Only she didn’t know she was the
love of his life, because he’d never told her. So, he sat there, devastated, and gave his friend a monologue
about telling the people you love that you love them. McSteamy’s voice echoed in my head, “If you love
someone, you tell them.”
The house finally came into sight and we settled down.
“Thanks for taking me to get food,” I said, squeezing the bag closed with my hand.
“No worries.” He laughed as he put the car in park. I tried to exit the car, but I only got as far as tak-
ing off my seatbelt. My hand tightly held the plastic handle but refused to actually pull it back and push it
open. The alcohol made my lips loose, but I couldn’t stop myself once I had started.
“I realized something,” I said, letting go of the door handle. I didn’t look at him. Instead I just stared
down at my lap and concentrated on the white and orange bag. “And I’ve tried to fight it but I- I can’t, so I’m
just gonna say it.” I finally looked up to see him giving me his full attention. The words I had waited so long

32

to share with him finally spilled out of me. “You’re like the kindest, most interesting person I’ve ever met
and you’re the one person who I can always be myself with and I just care about you so much and I’m sorry
if this weirds you out, and I hope this doesn’t ruin our friendship but I’m pretty conviced that I’m in love with
you.” The words had to be pulled from my mouth like a dentist pulls teeth but somehow, they made it out,
rushed and rambled, but they were finally out. The Novocain must have kicked in because my body went
numb with every silent second that passed. He sat, almost catatonic, as he looked straight ahead through the
front of the windshield. His face didn’t give away what he was thinking but his bouncing leg and low breath-
ing let me know he was at least conscious. My chest tightened with every shallow breath I took but I pushed
forward.

“Josh?” I said and he snapped back to reality.
“Sorry, wow.” He avoided my glance and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “That’s just a lot to take
in.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But I had to get that off of my chest, so please say something.”
He waited a few seconds more but finally looked over at me.
“It’s not gonna ruin our friendship, Jess,” he said slowly. “I’m glad you trust me enough to share that
with me, but I should tell you, I made things official with Libby last night.”
The air caught in my throat and nausea took over my body. The image of the petite girl holding a
bible in one hand and Josh’s hand in the other making me sick. I only talked to her a few times, but she
seemed pretty cool. I didn’t really know her, so I couldn’t hate her and that pissed me off even more.
“Oh,” I muttered silently. “She’s really nice.”
“Yeah, I really like her,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “She makes me happy and she’s
helped me so much.”
“Well, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere.
“I am, but I do care about you, Jess. You’re my best friend. That will never change.”
I took in his words slowly and thought it over
“Yes, it will,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness from poisoning my tone. “Everything is going to
change. And that’s fine but it is going to change.”
“It doesn’t have to,” he said, quietly leaning closer to me.
“But. It. Will,” I said again. “She will become your priority because she’s your girlfriend, which is
how it should be, but it won’t be appropriate for us to hang out like we’re used to,” I said turning to look out
the window next to me.
“She knows you are my best friend, Jess. She’s not gonna tell me not to hang out with you.”
“Of course she won’t. No one wants to be the crazy overcontrolling girlfriend,” I said, looking back
over at him. “Only, she won’t be crazy because she’d have a good reason to want me gone because I love
you,” I said increasing my volume.
“So, what do we do?” he said still quiet.
“We don’t do anything,” I said. “We’re gonna let this friendship take its course.”
It was dark in the car, so dark that I nearly missed the tears that were streaming down his face.
“Why are you crying?” I asked, my voice quiet now.
“Because I know you’re special and I feel like I’m losing you,” he said, digging his nails into the
side of his right arm.
I didn’t know what I could possibly say, so I just pulled him into my chest and held him instead.
Knowing this would be the last moment I could touch him without guilt, I raised my hand and snaked it
through his soft brown hair. We sat there for a long while until I broke the silence.
“I’m not leaving you, dummy,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to go.”
He released himself from my grasp to look at me.
“I’m so confused right now,” he said, finally returning to his side of the car.
“Me too,” I said, releasing a deep breath. “But we’ll get through it.”
“Yeah,” he said with doubt in his voice. “I guess so.”
“God, our relationship is so fucked up,” I said with a laugh.

33

“Well, some of the best relationships are fucked up.”
“Well, let’s hope that’s true,” I said, scooping up my now cold food in my hand. “But this has been
sufficiently awkward, so I’ll let you go.”
“Can I give you a hug?” he said, already turning in his seat.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said and reached over to hug him. I tried to enjoy it and take the time to re-
member his scent and how his arms felt around me, but it felt wrong now, almost dirty. Nothing would be the
same now that he belonged to someone else. I released myself from his grasp as quickly as I could and stum-
bled out of the car and onto the grass covered curb.
“Goodnight, Josh.”
“Goodnight.”
“Drive safe, text me when you make it home.”
“I will.”
I smiled weakly and shut the door. He pulled away and I walked off the edge of the curb towards the
street. The wind was cold against my skin, but the fresh tears and embarrassment kept my face warm. I curs-
ed myself for not being what he wanted, regretting all of the cuss words that ever fell from my lips and all the
Sunday masses I missed. She was small and delicate and loved by him. She was everything I wasn’t and eve-
rything I would never be.
The party raged on, there were probably more people now than when I left. Luckily, there was still a
full bottle of Irish whiskey on the table. No one noticed me scoop it up as I walked by. They were too busy
indulging themselves. The crowded couch I sat in before was now empty and looked more inviting. I let my-
self fall onto the torn cushions and struggled to unscrew the lid on the whiskey. When I finally got it off, I
made a toast.
“To Josh and Libby.” I lifted the bottle above my head and brought it down to my lips.
That night, I drank the whole damn bottle.

34

Ambiguous Roar Tefenet Banos

35

Pita Alexandria Castro

36

Creative Eye Alone Walk Shaikh Mohammad Talal

37

Day’s Work Done Deborah Tritico

38

Daydreaming Brianne Gette

39

Walking on the Sun Dayeong Kang

40

Balloons Maria Isabel Gomez

41

My Brother’s Keeper Helen Wilson

42

Always Remember Yadhira Jaimes

43

Stop! A Plea for Planet Earth Susan Norman

44

Pink and Blue Ben Soderberg

45

Ancient Roots Amber Tyler

46