Uproar 2020 Literary Arts Magazine

Slow Hand Samantha Ferron

47

Vinyards Edna Corona

48

Mole
Vanessa Perales

The mole on your shoulder is
a black smear of shame and shyness,
a bundle of uneven skin that sits on top
of a mountain like a black tower looming
over a slick landscape of brown earth.
The mole on your shoulder doesn’t
like to be seen, so you create shade with
a long braid to cover it from the loud
and cooking sun. It sizzles and burns into
the eyes of passing bodies, onlookers that make
you shrink and wear sweaters.
The mole on your shoulder means
that there aren’t any dresses in your
closet. It means that your knees look
like dried up patches of mud with large
cracks running across barren dirt.
That mole on your shoulder means
that you’re different. It means that out
of a line of Barbie dolls, you are a canvas
with a story to tell.

49

Velas
Rachel Romero

It was late when I arrived at the old cemetery. I had promised Holly yesterday that I would get here
earlier this time, but as I left my home, I stopped in front of the large bay window in our living room and
watched my grandmother light her candles. I watched as her shaky time-stained hands drew each match out
of its cardboard home and brought them to life in one strike from the side of the box. Each time she lit a new
one the initial flame made her paper-thin skin look almost translucent. Her delicate, slender fingers carefully
lit each candle until she was finished. The room glowed. She grabbed her rosario from the small, wooden box
that stayed on the mantel. In one hand, she clutched her rosary as the other helped her down onto her knees to
pray.

I ran as quickly as I could, but I’d still be at least fifteen minutes late. If I had a gift, being late
would be it. I had never been any good at being where I was supposed to be exactly when I was supposed to
be there.

“You’re meant to be wherever you are, corazón,” my dad said whenever a teacher or my mother
made me cry about it. “Just fly a little faster… for your mother’s sake,” he’d say smiling, wiping away my
tears with his thumb. I was thirteen when he passed. A car accident. He was helping someone change a flat
tire when another vehicle came and hit him. Everyone called it an accident. It was late. The pavement was
wet from the heavy rain that hadn’t stopped for a week. I didn’t care. Accident or not, my dad was gone for-
ever. I cried the nights away with my little sister, Christina. She came into my bedroom once our mother had
left to her second job. I’d hear her little footsteps and would move to make space for her. She’d climb in bed,
and as soon as her skinny little arms hugged me, she’d let out some of her pain. I held her, brushing her soft,
wispy curls away from her face. We’d stay that way until the tears lulled her to sleep. Then it was my turn to
miss our dad.

His absence only made the fights with my mother worse. That was when my grandmother moved in.
She and Christina were all I had left of the man who made me feel like I was fine just as I was. Sometimes
even my grandmother couldn’t save us. She couldn’t be everywhere at once, and on that night, she went to
mass with her friend, Lupe. That night, the last time I had spoken to any of them, my mother and I had one of
our worst fights. She had been outside watering the azaleas when she caught me sneaking out through my
bedroom window to go to a party. The green water hose fell from her gloved hand as she marched towards
me. Her words eviscerated me as the spectators grew in numbers. Exhausted from listening to her and the
stares from our nosey neighbors, I decided to go back into the house and get some sleep.

“Don’t walk away from me!” my mother yelled, slamming the front door shut.
“Why not? You never let me explain anyway!” I yelled back at her.
“I want you to tell me where you were going!”
“Just out,” I said as I reached and grabbed the doorknob that was once a shiny gold but was now dull
and worn. As I began to twist it, I felt a hand tighten around my arm. My mother forcefully pulled me away
from my bedroom door and then let go, sending me crashing against the adjacent wall. I collapsed to the
ground as did the family pictures that had been hanging on the wall. The frames broke and the glass shattered
around me.
“Look what you did!” my mother yelled at me.
“What the hell,” I said, lightly rubbing the sore spot on back of my head. My mother fell to her
knees, making sure to avoid the glass, and carefully began to separate the photographs from the shattered
frames. I looked away from her and noticed Christina, slightly hidden behind the door to her bedroom. How
much had she seen? She stood there, her hand squeezing part of the door as she stared at us. Her brown, tear-
filled eyes overwhelmed me with shame and guilt for exposing her to the dark side of our mother that only I
seemed able to provoke. I decided then that I wouldn’t keep doing this to her and left while she and my
grandmother slept, and my mother was at work.

50

I thought about Christina and the days since then. How, before anyone else was awake, I’d climb
into the house through her window and just sit next to her, crying. I kept thinking about her until I sighted the
cemetery. Then my thoughts shifted to Holly. A promise was a promise to Holly, and she was going to be
pissed that I was late. Luckily, disappointing people was nothing new. The cold, dry air carried the faint scent
of the climbing roses that decorated the entrance of the cemetery. The dew on the grass underneath my feet
made me feel off-balance, but I ran across it and towards the fence anyway. Since it was after seven, the gates
would be locked and I’d have to climb it. I scaled it easily. My hands gripped the cold steel and my long legs
moved nimbly. I felt like a thief in the night. Once I was over the fence, I jumped down and startled a cat that
had been watching me. It shot straight up and let out an accusatory yowl.

“Sorry, gatito,” I whispered, watching the cat run. It stopped and looked back to make sure it wasn’t
being followed. Its sleek, white coat shined in the moonlight. I smiled at the cat and said, “Yowling cat, full
moon, cemetery—maybe I’m the one who should be running away.” Unamused, it turned its back to me and
skittered off, its paws lightly kicking up the gravel from the driveway at the entrance. It felt weird to be no-
ticed, but my grandmother had always said cats were special.

I made my way deeper into the cemetery where the older tombstones and mausoleums were. I had
visited the cemetery often enough to know that full moons usually brought out the typical teen witches that
had seen The Craft or some witchy movie one too many times. They tried to prove their magical gifts in its
light, but always ended up scurrying off faster than that cat had. That’s probably where I’d find Holly today.

Every time I visited, I tried to read a new headstone, one that looked forgotten by the living. Tonight,
I crouched down in front of an old one and cleared off the dead leaves that had fallen from the oak trees near-
by. The dirt and leaves engulfed most of the tombstone. They were mostly dry and crunched or fell apart as I
moved them. However, the leaves on the bottom were wet. I read aloud, “Isabella Martin. Born: December 8,
1839. Died: August 16, 1853. She burned her candle at both ends, but it made a lovely light.”

“You’re late,” Holly said. I turned around, surprised, but quickly controlled myself.
“Sorry, I lost track of the time,” I blurted out, still shaken. I focused on my hands and started to peel
the remnants of the leaves that had stuck to them, but I quickly gave up and wiped them on my jeans. Now I
knew how that startled cat felt.
“Let’s go,” she said, turning away and marching off, still wearing the navy-blue blazer, plaid skirt,
and knee highs that had been part of her school uniform. Her long, straight hair swayed in the wind. Her
porcelain skin and green, deep-set eyes stood out against her obsidian black hair color. She reminded me of
the dolls my mother collected that scared me as a child. I had only known her for two weeks, and what she
didn’t openly fill in, I learned from being around her every night. She was obnoxious, bossy, vain, and cyni-
cal, but because she was the only one I could really talk to, we were friends.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I feel like lying by the weeping willows tonight.”
“I thought the willows were depressing?”
“The wannabe witch losers by the mausoleums are even more pathetic.”
“So, what’s by the will—” I paused and stared at Holly.
She stopped suddenly, and her shoulders slumped as she sighed. She looked up but the snarky words
that typically accompanied her sighs never came. I gazed up at the star-filled sky. I remembered lying in the
backyard with my dad and Christina. He’d point out the constellations and recited the myths that accompa-
nied them, the ones he had loved reading about in school. When he was gone Christina and I would lay out
there trying to find them and I’d tell her the stories. One time, our abuela tried to teach us the stories she had
been told as a young girl, the stories she said that were in our dad’s blood and now ran through our veins, but
because we could never pronounce the names correctly or forgot which story went with which constellation,
our grandmother gave up.
“I like dad’s stories better anyway,” said Christina.
“Yeah, me too,” I said smiling at her. Inside I had felt another void that would never be filled begin-
ning to grow inside of me. Maybe dad would have taught us grandma’s stories, our stories, if he would have
had the chance.

51

“They found my body today,” Holly said, bringing me out from my memories.
“What?”
“The police called my parents and told them they found my body!” she said as she turned around to
face me. She looked even more pale, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the moonlight or the look of ter-
ror in her eyes.
I still remember the first time I saw Holly. I had been watching a woman who had left a bouquet of
daisies at a headstone but had suffered the rain enough and headed to the entrance. Holly was walking along
the fence of the cemetery, her hand lightly grazing it as she walked. She saw the woman and ran towards her
yelling something I couldn’t make out. Holly reached for the woman’s arm but couldn’t grab her. She even-
tually gave up and sat at a bench, her arms wrapped around her legs. There was never an easy way to tell
someone that they were dead. This was still new to me too, but the way she tried so hard with that woman
told me it was newer to her.
“Hey, girl on the bench,” I yelled. Her head popped up and when she saw me her eyes widened. She
quickly untangled her limbs and got off the bench and ran towards me.
“Holy shit, can you see me?” she asked, placing her hands on my face. “I can touch you!” she
yelled, jumping backwards, cupping her hands over her mouth. By the time I’m done explaining everything
I’ve learned since the day I died, the rain had stopped and Holly stared at me. She opened her mouth to
speak, then looked away gazing into the distance. She pressed her index finger against her lips, then looked
back at me and asked, “So I’m dead?”
“Yes,” I replied, looking away from her.
Holly stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of me. She started biting her lower lip and
pressed her palms against her temples, then faced me and said, “But I can’t walk through walls. I can feel
stuff, and smell things. This makes no sense, Cass!” Her pacing and gesticulating quickened. “Why can we
only see the other dead people that are stuck here like us in a cemetery?” I took a deep breath and Holly im-
mediately motioned towards me and said, “You literally just took a breath. Dead people don’t have to
breathe. What if we’re both in comas?” She started nodding and motioning with her hands. “Yes, that’s it!
We’re in comas and need to have like an epiphany or some shit.”
I wrapped my arms around myself and looked down at the grass. I moved my foot to cover a patch
that had gone bare then said, “Holly, I’ve explained how everyone I’ve met like us has moved on once their
bodies are recovered and laid to rest.” The words left a bitter taste in my mouth. I glanced over at Holly. Her
arms were crossed as she tapped one of her oxford heels against the ground.
“So, nobody knows I’m dead and I can’t even remember how I died?” she asked.
I replied, “I think that’s how it works. Everything I’ve found out about myself was because of my
family.”
“This is so pathetic,” she said as she rolled her eyes and looked to the side, rubbing the back of her
neck and walking away.
“Hello? Cass?” she said, walking towards me, snapping her fingers. The snaps bring me out from
my recollections.
“What?” I asked, looking at her. My mind searched for something to say.
“Cass, stop it! Your silence is freaking me out!” she said, gritting her teeth.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I said, breaking her hold on me and taking a step back. I raised my hand to my
ear and tucked my hair behind it.
“So, like what happens now?” she said. She clasped her hands and started pacing.
“I’m not completely sure. Your family will have a funeral and you’ll go somewhere else. Some-
where that isn’t here,” I said, looking across the cemetery. I had been here the longest. The others had come
and gone and now even Holly would leave. We didn’t remember exactly how or when we died, but we’d
watch our families and learn about it through them. I knew of my disappearance and how my family waited
on my return. What they didn’t know was that I hadn’t just disappeared. I was dead. “Come on,” I said and
grabbed her small hand, rescuing it from the other one that had been squeezing it too tightly.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice shaky and her fingers tightening around my hand.

52

“We’re going to the willows and look at the stars,” I said, moving faster. “I’ll show you the constel-
lations.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she said, pulling her hand back and staring at me, confused. “Any moron knows
about constellations and mythology and I’ve attended the best private schools since I was three. Who taught
you, the back of a cereal box?”

“My dad,” I told her, my voice trailing off. I stared down at my hands. They looked the same. I
looked the same. The only difference was now everyone who was alive couldn’t see me and all I could feel
were the changes within the things that were cold. All of the degrees that separated something from being
cold or freezing. I only vaguely remembered the feeling of warmth now.

“You got along with your parents?” she asked. “You’re lucky. Mine have always hated each other so
much I had started to believe that I was adopted for sure.” She kept shifting her weight from one foot to the
other.

“Just my dad. My mother and I never got along,” I said almost whispering.
“I bet he misses you,” she said, looking away.
“He died when I was thirteen.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, so much for the whole going into the light and seeing your loved ones theory.”
“That theory is such bullshit. It all is.”
“Then where do they go? Why did the others never come back?”
“Hey! So, weeping willows,” she said, changing the subject and pointed towards the trees, smiling.
The frigid fall wind blew through the trees, making their delicate branches look as if they were shivering in
the moonlight.
We lay down and looked at the stars. Holly let me talk about the constellations but made sure to cor-
rect any mistakes I made while discussing the names of the stars or the stories of their origins.
“Oh my God,” she said almost laughing. “Tell me Cass isn’t short for Cassiopeia?” She couldn’t
help herself and started shaking wildly with laughter.
“No, I’m named Cassandra after my grandmother, my mother’s mother that died when she was six.”
My eyes were still fixed on the specks of light so far from us. I wondered if my dad was among them some-
where, like the heroes from his favorite stories.
“Do you want to know how it happened, how I died?” she asked, slightly rising up from the grassy
spot and resting her weight on her elbows. “I heard them talking about it.” She shifted onto one side and tilted
her head down to stare me in the eyes. A look of complete and utter disbelief took over face. Her emerald
eyes widened like I’m certain they used to back in her soul-crushing, gossip-spreading days. “Like, my par-
ents were actually in a room, together talking about me, and it was about how everyone thinks I...” Her words
trailed off. The smug mask she had worn to tell her story came off and I could see the guilt and sadness be-
hind it. In death, she had brought her parents together again and would never be there to enjoy it. She pushed
the memories away with a deep sigh. “Being dead sucks, Cass. I can’t even tell a joke at my own expense
anymore,” she said, sighing and fell back down. She turned her head away from me attempting to conceal her
tears.
“I can’t imagine you ever telling a joke where you’re the butt of it,” I said looking, over at her, smil-
ing.
She scoffed and turned her head towards me. “Well, what do you know? You’re just some poor,
dead girl stuck between whatever this is and where you’re supposed to be.” Her eyes narrowed, her gaze
turned icy and her jagged words cut through old wounds within me. “Even your own family doesn’t know
you’re dead yet. They probably haven’t even noticed you’re gone, or maybe they just enjoy the peace your
absence brought them a little too much. Even in death, you’re stuck here instead of with that father you loved
so much.”
I started getting up and used my hands to get onto my feet. God, I had tried to be kind to her, and she
didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve this. I rushed away in anger and wouldn’t give her the pleasure of seeing
the tears building up in my eyes. I heard her calling after me, but I didn’t care what Holly had to say. I had

53

made it to the other side of the cemetery before I let the weight of her words completely sink inside of me,
pieces of the truth floating to the surface. Holly was right. I could have done things differently. I didn’t make
anything easier on Christina, grandma, or my mother. Once time faded the parts of me from their memories
they could be happier.

I started to hear Holly approaching. The sound of crunching leaves getting closer and louder an-
nounced her arrival. I felt her cold, skinny fingers dig into my shoulders and I tried to wrestle myself free, but
she just held on tighter.

“Fuck! Stop it, Cass! I’m sorry, just listen, okay?” she said, breathing heavily. She loosened her grip
and I turned around to face her. She stared at me, her eyes pleading for absolution. She broke her gaze and
started looking down at her plaid skirt. “Cass, I told you I’m not the nicest person,” she said, fixing the pleats
in the skirt and then meeting my eyes. The tone in her voice changed, her words starting to crack around their
edges. “I had to be mean and life just picked a weird time for me to realize a lot of shit, okay?”

“You mean death,” I said with a scowl.
“What?” she asked perplexed.
“You said life picked a weird time,” I said. “You meant death. You’re a dead girl, too.” The thought
made her pause and she sighed.
“Fine, yes, death,” she said sarcastically. “You’re right. Happy, bitch?” She tilted her head, raised an
eyebrow, and smiled at me.
“Some things don’t feel real until we say them out loud,” I told her.
“I say you’re right one time and you letting it go to your head,” she said, laughing loudly. She was
expecting her sarcasm and laughter to change the subject for her the same way they had always saved her
before. The subject that left a side of her uncovered, the part of her that was just beneath the exterior she had
constructed to shield herself. It sat there, opened and exposed like a live wire and I couldn’t ignore it.
“No, Holly,” I said carefully. She had given us a way out from this, but I couldn’t let her leave me
without touching it. “I meant about how you reacted earlier. Sometimes we don’t realize how we really feel
about some things until we say them out loud.”
“Okay, keep it together, Dr. Phil,” she said, rolling her eyes. She started to turn away and I lunged
forward and held her in my arms. She stood there frozen.
I held her and it reminded me of the nights Christina cried herself to sleep hugging me. I started cry-
ing and strands of her hair started to cling to my face. Through my tears, I said, “It does suck that you’re
dead. It sucks that life moves on and we’re here in some limbo where time only moves around us. I’m sorry
no one met the real you. You’re allowed to feel angry and sad, but you don’t have to hide anymore, not from
me.” Her hands reached up to mine, and as I prepared to hold her back from pulling away, she rested them on
top of mine. I felt her chest rise and fall faster as her breath quickened, until the sadness she had worked so
hard to avoid through laughter, sarcasm, and rage started coming back. She let out a howl that sounded wild
and primal and collapsed to her knees. She let herself cry, and that said more than anything she had vocalized
during the past two weeks.
We sat there in silence until the first signs that dawn was approaching. The dark sky started to bright-
en. This was when we’d usually say our goodbyes and make plans to meet later, but now we were both terri-
fied.
“I don’t want to disappear or fade away like I was never even here,” she said through her cries. “Stay
with me please?”
“I don’t want you to go,” I cried. “I don’t want to be alone again.” The words were painful and had
been stuck inside me. It sucked to be dead and to still feel pain. I hated fearing the loneliness so much that I
had secretly wished Holly wouldn’t go anywhere, that she’d stay stuck here with me, but it wasn’t right. She
deserved any semblance of peace the afterlife was supposed to bring. I stared into her sad face and told her,
“Holly, in case we’re wrong about that theory and you don’t disappear, I promise I will be on time, waiting
for you.” I held back my sadness in fear of keeping her here for my own selfish reasons.
“Okay, so we keep the hug short and then we just leave in opposite directions, not looking back?”

54

she said, pressing the tips of her fingers together, her vacant eyes lost in her own thoughts.
“Okay,” I said, staring up at her and smiled. I uncrossed my legs and stood up in front of her. Even

though she was dead, her perfect skin still managed to get blotchy and red as she cried, swallowing hard to
keep the deep sobs within her chest from escaping.

“I’m counting to three,” she said, stifling a cry and breathing in deeply.
“Just hurry up. As pretty as you are, I swear you have the ugliest crying face,” I said, my voice
breaking and the tears I could no longer fight back streamed down my face.
“Did you just compliment me?” she asked and chuckled.
“One,” I started.
“Two,” she said. The tears had stopped. The sadness that had overtaken her eyes was replaced with
intensity.
“Three,” we both said in unison. We hugged and I wondered what awaited her. The sun had risen,
and it bathed everything I could see in warm shades of gold, orange, and yellow. I watched her walk away,
towards the side of town she used to live on. She had vowed to haunt any of her friends that dared to not
show up or showed up wearing anything other than Dior or Chanel.
After watching her leave, I walked back to the house. I jumped and reached out for the ledge of
Christina’s bedroom window. I looked inside and saw that her bed was made. She must have already left for
school. I pulled myself up and climbed into her bedroom. It still looked the same as the night I had left, ex-
cept for the vase holding the white flowers next to a candle and a picture of me. I walked out of her room and
glanced over at my mother’s room. I knew she wasn’t there. She had been working two jobs since my dad
passed away. I’m sorry, mom. I tried walking towards it, but instead I went into my grandmother’s room. I
could smell the incense and the wax from the candles she kept in her room. She sat in an old, mahogany rock-
ing chair that Dad bought her before I was born. A gentle breeze flowed through the window. It brought the
smell of roses with it. As I started to leave to check out my old room, my grandmother turned her head to-
wards the entrance to her room.
“Cassandra?” she mumbled.
“Abuelita?” I said.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” she said. Her eyes began to get watery. She slowly moved her head and looked
around the room. “My old eyes and ears may not see or hear you, but I can feel you in my soul.” My grand-
mother had always felt a connection to the departed souls of our family. That was one of the reasons she
prayed so much. I had thought it was creepy, but my dad said it was a gift. There was power in her words. “I
know what still keeps you here, corazón. Cassandra, let me tell you what has happened since you left.”

55

Girl vs Illness
Perri Jenkins

Pepper sprinkled pebbles lie lodged
in my throat. Splinters seep into my
scribbled spine, imprinting a permanent
good riddance to my posture.
If it were Christmas, my face would
Be the eroded ornaments covered
in dust and the distaste of expired
eggnog. Searing oil drips from my
nose, simmering stains across the
frame of my fried lips.
I lie in a pile of factory formed cotton,
filled with remnants of fresh paint and
saliva. My body is fed the warmth of
electrical wires and cutthroat currents.
Pills push past my punctured tonsils,
my brain placing bets that the one
made with chamomile does the trick,
so that the words I construct
confront not only the wars that
exist in the presence of our
time, but also the ones that
Are buried deep in the crevices
Of my mind.

56

Holy Mother
Crystal Roza

My father doesn’t get up from his chair to greet us. He just merely nods, then glances to the chairs in
front of him. His metal cane hangs on the edge of the wobbly table, and he adjusts it when I bump my ankle
on the table’s leg, rattling everything. I drop into my seat with a deep sigh, eyes bloodshot and head aching.

My husband is quick to greet him, his words stumbling in his eagerness to make a good impression,
voice raising in pitch when the chatter from the restaurant drowns his voice. “Good afternoon, Manuel,” he
winces as he holds his right hand out to shake the seated man’s in greeting. “Crap. I mean, Don Manuel.”

The old man just stares at the outstretched hand with serious blue eyes, his hands resting on the wob-
bly table. My husband slowly sits down in a chair adjacent to mine and wipes his right hand across his fore-
head instead.

My father has forgone grooming his wild wiry beard since my grandmother’s passing several years
ago. It has almost reached the top of his collarbone, and along with his thick grey frizzy hair, it makes him
look like a criminal from a 1970’s cheesy mobster movie. The expensive gold chains, garish studded rings,
and heavy-set frown do not help either. For me, seeing my father solemn and ridiculously dressed is a normal
sight, but my husband, who grew up in a household of wearing your Sunday best of button-down dress shirts,
pressed slacks, and neatly gelled hair, is having an internal meltdown of epic proportions, especially after that
lackluster greeting.

“Babe, is—” my husband disguises a kiss to my cheek to mumble under his breath, and speak in my
ear, “your dad involved with the cartels or something?”

I cough into my shoulder to hide my smile, and the old man raises an eyebrow when my husband
flushes in embarrassment. He is about to apologize, but a waitress comes by asking for our orders, with voice
sweet as honey and an easy grin to match. Her chocolate brown eyes dart to my husband and then me, nod-
ding her head along as she hastily writes down the dishes requested, and she grows confused when it’s my
dad’s turn. I have to translate for him. His accent is so thick you can cut it with an axe. You would think that
after nearly thirty years living in this country away from the little village in Mexico, he would be able to order
without his daughter helping.

“Your Mami?” he asks, nodding to the waitress who drops our drinks off, and reaches over for the
sugar packets to add to his steaming coffee.

I shrug. “Beats me, Apá. She doesn’t really call, and I don’t bother. You know how she is.”
He nods slowly. “Hmm, maybe you should try, Mija. She’s your Mami. You only have one.”
I don’t respond, quick to anger when the subject of my mother is brought up, and instead just stare
into the glass of mimosa in front of me. I might only have one mother, but she is certainly not one I want nor
care for. I still remember the cigarette smoke reeking from her clothes and the stumbles she took coming late
home with different strangers helping her into the bedroom while my father stayed away for work.
“What are you looking at, babosa?” she would screech while still wearing the clothes from the party,
soaked in booze and vomit. The mascara smeared under her sunken eyes always stained her skin for hours.
“Too early for booze, no?” The old man changes the subject, hand scratching at his beard. The ruby
nestled on one of the rings snags in his beard and he frowns when he pulls hard, thick grey hair wrapped and
stuck around the stone. Fingering the ring slowly causes it to spin and then he meticulously pulls at the hair
snagged on the stone. He used to spin his wedding ring with his thumb, and I would watch him as a girl,
thinking it was magic how fast it would go.
I shake my head. “Never too early for booze, Apá,” I reply, following with a loud sip and smacking
my lips.
My husband is squirming beside me as I trace the sweat on the glass cup with my index finger. My
finger follows the drops down to the table’s surface, and I tap on the pooled water. He quickly puts in an or-
der for an extra-large cup of black coffee for me when the bubbly waitress brings out the food we ordered.

57

We eat our food in silence and let the noises from the restaurant, voices chattering and dishes clanking, wash
over us.

The waitress returns with refills for our drinks and a large cup of black coffee. She clears the table of
empty dishes, stacking them into a tower on her arm and asking us about dessert to end the meal. My husband
takes the opportunity to order dessert and the confirmation on the order by the waitress is interrupted by a
toddler crying in the restaurant.

The wailing from the red-faced toddler two tables down has reached a pitch I’m sure dogs can hear
miles away. It’s bordering on glass shattering levels. I feel bad for the older couple sitting adjacent to what I
can only assume is the tantrum of the century, glaring as the toddler proceeds to kick her glittery shoe off
onto the table and into their lunch. The mother watches tiredly as she bottle feeds the swaddled infant in her
arms while simultaneously trying to sooth the screaming toddler into a decent human being instead of the
raging monster she is. The mother is disheveled and helpless in a way that speaks of sleepless nights of a cry-
ing infant on a two-hour feeding schedule. I can only mentally applaud her in her efforts of juggling mother-
hood to two children under the age of two and wonder where the hell the father is.

My father ignores the screaming from the toddler to drink from his cold coffee. It makes me realize
that the few moments we shared as a family were usually spent with his silence at my mother’s rage while I,
ignored and forgotten, watched hungry from the door. She normally blew through the grocery allowance he
gave her to spend on the weekends and I had to wait until Mondays at school to eat my first meal.

I wince at the toddler’s tantrum and turn back to stare at our table. It’s not that I don’t like kids, be-
cause I do, but I mostly like them far away and out of my hearing range. My husband thinks I’m grieving,
something he assumes from my sour moods after family dinners at his parent’s house. Their house is usually
cluttered with toys and invaded by grandchildren too young to be on their own after school. I don’t have the
heart to tell him that I was a little relieved when the results came back from the doctor’s clinic. If my preg-
nancies never come to term and are just considered a cluster of cells by medical professionals, then what is
there to grieve?

He nudges the coffee and sugar towards me when the slice of cake is dropped off and gently moves
the mimosa away from me. He sets the half-finished alcoholic beverage on his left side and with his right
hand gives me a spoon.

The chatter from the restaurant has ebbed off as customers stare at the weeping toddler on the floor.
The older couple leave in a huff after the manager comes in to defuse the situation and assists the stressed
mother instead of the disgruntled couple. I stir the coffee harder when I notice my husband’s attention has
gone from our table to the mother sweeping the crying toddler off the floor after settling the infant in the baby
carrier. The manager apologizes and helps set the heavy diaper bag from the floor to the chair closest to her
before quickly departing.

My husband stares longingly at the mother with her crying child and then chuckles when his eyes
find the older couple at the entrance of the restaurant arguing with each other and with the manager. The
sound of his laugh echoes in my chest, vibrates through my ribcage and flows in my blood. He’s a part of me,
like the rib God plucked from Adam to create the perfect companion that he could hold near his heart as his
beloved. I too hope I am a part of him, but I don’t recall if God ever took a rib from Eve to replace the one he
took from Adam in creating her. If he brings me joy with his laughter, then what the hell do I bring to this
marriage? Certainly not children.

The arguing couple and manager are forgotten the moment the bill is dropped off at the table by the
brown eyed waitress. I stab the cake with the spoon, smearing the frosting all over the plate and mushing the
chunky fruit filling. The squinting of his eyes in my direction doesn’t change the fact he is anxiously switch-
ing his gaze between me and my father, who pays him no mind. The old man is too busy checking the receipt,
pulling it away, then bringing it back close to his face to make the numbers on the grease stained bill appear
clear. My father insists in paying, but refuses to wear his glasses to read the total even if they hang from his
shirt’s pocket. I thought age made you wiser, not stubborn, and I certainly hope it won’t be the case for me as
I get older.

From the corner of my eye I can see the mother hugging her crying toddler, not wailing, thank God

58

for that, but silently crying while rubbing her eyes raw with her pudgy little hands. The glittery shoe is still
missing, which is not surprising considering the force in which she kicked it off, but the mother looks in no
hurry to get it and the toddler is not aware that it is missing from her socked foot. She bends down to nuzzle
the toddler, who is steadily falling asleep in her lap with a tight grip in her mother’s blouse, wisps of honey
blonde strands of hair escaping her messy pigtails.

The gleaming rays of the noon sun peak through the restaurant’s large glass windows blinding a cou-
ple of the customers who grumble and shift to avoid the light. The sun lighting the mother’s content face and
sleeping toddler brings a memory to mind.

It is of the painting of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus my husband had pointed out during our
summer trip to the fine arts museum downtown. He was ecstatic to find out we had made it on time for the
museum’s grand opening of the Renaissance wing and, unfortunately to his embarrassment, scared a couple
of tourists when he whooped in delight. Awed and a little breathless from excitement, he explained the histo-
ry of the painting and of the artist, who tragically had died penniless and alone, but had produced one of the
most famous paintings of his time.

We held hands as we stared at the portrait, frozen in our shoes and overwhelmed as we looked at
every detail from the brush strokes. Holy Mary was painted to only have eyes for the son of God nestled in
the protective hold of her arms. She was no ordinary woman as she sat upon a throne made of clouds, a crown
of blooming blood roses on her head, and engulfed in celestial light. The painting almost seemed to come to
life.

And just like the painting of the Holy Mother from the museum, my husband and I watch the young
mother rock her child tenderly in rapt attention in this bustling restaurant. She represents all I ever wanted in
life in a mother and everything I cannot achieve as a wife. Feeling the creeping heat on my cheeks and burn-
ing behind my eyes, I turn away from them. My husband quietly sighs, gives my damp hand a quick squeeze,
smiling sadly at me, and goes back to watching my father pay for lunch with a wad of crisp one hundred dol-
lar bills secured in a glinting gold money clip.

59

Would You Remember?
Rachael Perrier

The slithering sights of siblings, the good
times with friends and family, or the sickly
passion and scorching light behind brown eyes.
Would you smell the air of the aircraft, or
the passing memories? The smell of your
mother’s meringue and melons,
or the smell of the body’s blisters from blasts?
Would you hear the children’s call for their
mother, or the bike bells ringing and ringing?
The voices of your favorite artists, the scraping
of knives against plates, or the sweet moan
that your boyfriend let out at your first time?
Would you feel the gravitational push of the
ship, or the soft fur of the Yorkie that
Is long gone? The wetness of the
sweat in your pits, or the drops of rain
that trickle down your shirt,
and into your favorite sneaks?
Would you even remember my name?

60

Letting Go of Lyndia
Keilynd Easter

No more unbearable beeping or heavy bounding
on the Clorox-ed floor, fixated on fixing. Now just
settled silence, a dead deer in a forest brush,
meatless bones forgotten by content predators. No more
high pitched, eardrum strangling alarms when beds were
breached. No more late clutched coffee or exhausting coins
for junked treats that deplete your appetite so no
time is lost manufacturing an ample meal. A merciful head
shot stops suffering and quicks the climax, but the found
dead still impact the lost living. Still skin, cold
and giving, stiff hand, never to squeeze my mourning
bones again, heart boarded up behind the ruthlessness
of rigor mortis, yet I squeeze it, the indents
of my ignorance pressed deep like memory foam
into the retired appendage. Her suffering silenced yet mine
amplified by her absence. Survivor’s guilt for people never
put in danger. We all promised to jump but
she was the only one who fell. White Coats wander
by the glass, transparent in their need for
the ever-growing vacancy, wishing to rush us, caught
between the fine line of career and compassion,
waiting for the floods of our dissatisfaction to settle
into quiet dread to appropriately ask for the hospital bed.
Ungrateful for her release, reeling from her demise,
She left this rotting soil of a soul only to be barricaded
six feet under it. How to be happy when this washes
over? I shouldn’t be selfish. She’s in a better place now.
I’m in a bitter space.

61

The Beautiful Liar
Rachael Perrier

The running water. The strawberry scent that mesmerizes every cell of your body. The glistening
bubbles, soft to the touch, crackling under your fingers. You sip the ice-cold water and your warm breath
forces a cold swirl of air to rise up from the glass and past your eyes. You softly hum along to the “bubble
bath playlist” you created on your laptop. There is some type of serenity that only a perfect bubble
bath can give you. Serenity that is ruined by the front door unlocking. The shoes left in the middle of the
walkway that you know you will trip over tomorrow morning while you clean the rooms.

Ruby is home. Your girlfriend, or your long-term roommate, your mom likes to call her. She is an
eight in Houston but a ten in Atlanta, and a two in New York.

Coming home from her shift as a security guard in the club on Street Side, she disappears behind
you, into the closet. She already has her pants unbuttoned and has one arm out of her black t-shirt with it half-
way over her head. Mumbling through her shirt, Ruby says, “Jay called me into his office and asked -.”

You try to revive any shred of calmness by concentrating on the running water splashing over and
between your toes, your pruney toes.

Walking by the bath Ruby turns both knobs to shut off the water, and your last hope of having a
peaceful night diminishes as soon as the water slows and becomes still. Without skipping a beat, Ruby jumps
up and sits on the bathroom counter, dressed in a sports bra with a tear under the left armpit that travels under
the boob and stops in the front, under her chin that is topped with a smile. The bra is yours. Ruby just likes to
wear it as her prize to taunt you. You guess it is to show she isn’t scared of your threats to leave her.

She leans against the mirror with an arched back so she won’t touch the cold glass. In the mirror re-
flection, you can see her scar that travels up her left side under her shoulder blade. You remember running
your fingers over the bumps one afternoon in the first week that you met Ruby and her telling you that the
scar was from being pushed into the corner of her childhood kitchen table. You remember how she held you
secure in her arms as you lay in bed together. Her eyes were bright above her smile as she looked down at
you laying in her arms.

The mirror is clean at eye level, but the lower fourth is speckled with water spots from Ruby shaking
out her dreads after her showers. Ruby’s left leg hangs over the counter and she kicks the cupboard with her
bare heel while her long socks hang off of her toes. You always hate when she wears her socks like that.

You sit in the bath with a measly amount of bubbles leftover, watching the accumulation of one drop
of water from the silver spout covered in the white residue of water dribbles. Drip. You stay in the bath so
you don’t have to lay up in bed with Ruby. All of the bubbles that created your euphoria disintegrated upon
Ruby’s arrival home. She was on time. Drip. You watch as Ruby pulls her right leg up on to the counter and
in doing so, something falls out of her pocket. You peel your back off of the cream ceramic tub and lean for-
ward to see what it is and Ruby loops her pinky through a key ring and jingles two unfamiliar keys in your
direction, teasingly, and then shoves the keys to the bottom of her pocket in her mesh shorts. Drip.

You turn and gaze upon the window above your feet, covered in bars on the outside, feeling envious
of the bar’s experiences, the cool breeze, the rain, and the sun. All things you miss out on. Bitter of the roach-
es with their ability to come and go. Even the quarter-sized spider makes you green-eyed. The same spider
that has its house destroyed week after week by two free-range neighbor kids, but always rebuilds its home in
the same top left corner nook of the window seal. You imagine that maybe the spider doesn’t leave because it
doesn’t have anywhere or anyone to go to.

Ruby’s voice rumbles and makes you flinch back into her one-sided conversation. Drip. She says,
“Hey, you fixing to get out?” She hops off the counter and you can see out of the corner of your eye that she
starts inching towards the white stool in the corner that holds the laptop, playing Shakira’s song “Beautiful
Liar” in the background. Ruby bends over and slams the laptop shut to cut off the music. “Get out. Come to
bed.” Ruby’s voice travels through your ears and swallows up your heart.

62

You quickly come to your feet without giving the leftover bubbles enough time to rinse off of your
bare body. You look toward Ruby, who holds out the cold damp towel she left on the floor earlier that day.
You hesitate to grab it and she pushes the towel into your chest and lets go. You wrap your hair up and over
your head without drying your body and Ruby grabs you by the small of your back and quickly leads you into
bed. Ruby tosses the black and white decorative pillows to the wall, the tassels of beads clink the wall, just
like the champagne glasses you once had before Ruby threw them after a tough day at work. Ruby pulls
down the comforter and then the sheets and smacks you on the ass to get up into bed.

As you climb into the bed, Ruby takes off her remaining clothes and you hear them land on the bath-
room tile behind you. She walks around the edge of the bed, combing her fingers through her hair and then
gets into bed, laying on her back.

You turn away from her, clear your throat, and push the words out, “Whose keys are those?”
“Not yours.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” You let out a sigh, pull the comforter over your shoulder, and hold your legs
closed.
Ruby forces her hand under your arm and grabs a handful of stretch marks. “Baby, come here. Let
me show you how sorry I am.”
You lie still, like the spider in the nook of the window after it has finished rebuilding its house, its
serenity. And like a mole, Ruby ducks under the blankets and makes her way to between your legs, prying
them open and forcing you on to your back. You look up at the fan’s bright lights, staring into the light until
everything is white, white like glistening bubbles. You force yourself to think about the rushing, moving wa-
ter as your body goes numb for fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes that you allow Ruby to sexually use your
body so she can get off and sleep soundly.
As soon as Ruby satisfies herself, she moles her way back to her side of the bed and her self-
confidence takes up the room, even in her dream state. You shrivel up onto your left side, holding your closed
legs to your chest, suppressed in your own bed. You can hear her scratching her stomach and humming her-
self to sleep, while you lay in the cold, wet reminder of what you just allowed to happen. You lift your legs so
that the blankets wrap underneath you like a sleeping bag and you hold your body to try and comfort yourself
to sleep. She wasn’t always like this. Your first time together in Ruby’s bed you could not keep your
hands off of each other and after you both finished, the two of you laid together and talked for hours about
how Toto’s song, Africa, is the best song ever made.
Ruby hums and says, “We are gonna meet Cece at the club tomorrow night. She got a section all set
up for us.” Cece is Ruby’s friend, a friend that used to sleep in the spot you lay in right now. You re-
placed Cece, but the last time Ruby and you went to one of Cece’s functions, Cece’s hands lingered a tad too
long up and down Ruby’s legs.
“What about Dad’s dinner?” you say. “At Carrabba’s?”
“It’s not even an important year.”
You release a hot huff of air and say, “You agreed to attend. Three weeks ago.”
Ruby continues, “He turning sixty-three. Who cares about sixty-three?”
“Ruby, you promised.”
“We will talk in the morning. No need to go to sleep angry. Good night, babe.”
“Fine,” you say, but you’re already fuming.

You wake up to Ruby pushing a few of your strands of hair back behind your ears and kissing you on
the forehead. You gaze upon her moving lips, not really paying attention to the words coming out. You look
up and meet Ruby’s widening eyes, fishing for a response. “Babe, eggs or waffles?”

“Oh, eggs please. Sunny side.”
Ruby gives you a peck on the lips and turns around to head to the kitchen, wearing the same sports
bra and mesh shorts from last night. You sit up in bed and catch a glimpse of your oily forehead in the vanity
mirror just past the foot of the bed. You grab the shirt that hangs on the headboard and you stretch the collar
out while getting it over all of your hair. You wake up your body by walking to the kitchen, stretching your

63

arms all over like a starfish, while your spine crackles like Pop Rocks. You stand behind Ruby as she flips an
egg and give her neck a kiss while softly putting your hands into the mesh pockets, palming the unfamiliar
keys. As Ruby turns away from the stove to locate a plate, you retreat your fisted hands and fold your arms.
Ruby slides the egg onto a red and white paper plate and scurries to the fridge to get the mint and basil gar-
nishes. Closing the fridge, Ruby says, “I’ll put some toast down and then its ready.”

With the keys still in your fist tightly tucked in your armpit, you reply, “I’m gonna wash up. Then
I’ll come sit.”

“All right, sugar butt.”
Now in the bathroom, you open your palm, white with the imprint of the keys, and study them. You
recognize the silver key as a key to your front door, but the second key is brass and has four letters etched
into the key head. C-E-C-E. Immediately, you toss the keys in the toilet. Droplets of water splash up onto the
seat. The splash of the keys makes your bladder pinch with a call from Mother Nature, and you decide to just
piss over the keys, getting rid of two birds with one flush.
Strolling back out to the kitchen table, you swing your arms and flip your hair around. “Thanks for
breakfast. Can we please go to dinner with my dad?” you ask in an innocent childlike voice. “I know it would
mean a lot to him.”
“No, we going to the club tonight. With Cece,” Ruby says with a mouth full of yellow egg and a
spoon coming in fast with another shovel of food. “Wear the yellow dress, you know the one with the—” She
cups her own tits and pushes them towards her chin, creating two small mountains.
“Yeah, I know the one,” you say, shaking your head. “What time?”
“Pre-game at 6.”
Pre-game means that you’re DD for the night. Usually, being the DD means that you squish your
way behind a line of drunk females in the club, trying to dismiss any possible fights. But tonight is going to
be different.
As Ruby scrapes the last bite off her plate, you ask, “What are you doing til then?”
“Going out. I’ll be back to pick you up.”

You close the tube of mascara and finger-curl your lashes, pushing them up towards your eyebrows.
You rub the wet mascara excess between your index finger and thumb until it is only black smudges. You
rummage through your drawer to pull out a toothpaste-covered, coral-orange liquid lipstick tube. You run the
filthy tube under some warm water and then apply a thin line around your lips and then fill in the remainder
of your lips, wiggling them together to evenly distribute the product. You adjust your boobs in your nude
strapless bra and run your thumbs through the waistline of your thong, spinning around to check out the slim-
thick booty that you are proud of. Once happy with your look, you pick up your phone, hold down the home
button, and say, “Call Daddy Bill.”

Siri responds, “You want to call Daddy Bill, red-heart emoji?”
Chuckling to yourself, you say, “Yes, call him.”
“Calling Daddy Bill, red-heart emoji.”
Dad’s low voice echoes through your phone, “Hello?”
“Hey, Pops! Happy twenty-ninth birthday, you old lug.”
“Thank you, sugar plum, but I don’t think I can pass for twenty-nine anymore, not since my crow’s
feet came in.”
“You think the crow’s feet is what did you in for your age?” Pulling all your curls to one side, you
finish your thought, “Dad, you’ve had a cane for a good while now and have been graying for ten years now.
I love you, but you are old.”
“Okay, okay no need to shout it for the world to hear. We still on for tonight?”
“Yes, sir. I just wanted to ask if we could push reservations back to seven. Is that okay?”
“I’ll call to make the change. Everything okay?”
“Should be. Hey, how full is my old room?”

64

“Not bad. I just have two or three boxes on the floor.” You hear him clear his throat. “I don’t mind
moving them to the workroom.”

“You sure, dad?”
“I’ll go move them now.”
“Thank you.” You exhale with relief. “Sorry for the reservation change. See you soon.” And you end
the call with the traditional, “Smooch on your cheek.”
Even though he’s old, he still responds with, “Smooch on your forehead.”
You check the time, 5:30, and toss your phone to the bed and conduct one final check. Lashes,
check. Lips, check. Hair, check. The yellow dress is already lying out on the bed with black heels lying next
to it, compliments of Ruby, you suppose. She probably laid them out after breakfast while you were in the
shower. You walk back through the bathroom into the closet to fish out your old backpack, a na-
vy Jansport with fringe hanging from the bottom from the four years of use. The same bag that you wore
when Ruby met you, three years prior, as her weed dealer who was trying to scrounge her way through Texas
Southern University’s tuition. It was Ruby who convinced you to drop out of law school.
You open the backpack and dump out two empty lighters and a opened tampon. You begin stuffing
the bag with a light blue pair of jeans, a plain white t-shirt, black ankle socks from Ruby’s side of the closet,
and your fave red sneakers with the silver reflective plates. You zip up your backpack while walking back
into the bedroom and toss it on the bed. You hold the yellow dress in front of you and step into the top of the
dress, pulling it up until it lays smooth over your body and nestles perfectly on top of your chest. You sit on
the edge of the bed and slide your feet into the strapless black stiletto heels, a little unsteady as you have to
breath the much thinner air four inches above your normal air. As you regain your balance and breath, you
hear Ruby come in and close the door behind her. She shouts, “You better be ready!”
“We can go as soon as you’re ready. I just put my shoes on,” you say as you sling the backpack over
your shoulder.
Ruby walks into the bedroom and speaks through her teeth, “A backpack? Why not pack a weekend
duffle?”
“Ha Ha Ha,” you say, trying to amuse Ruby. “It’s just for extra shoes. I can’t push the clutch all the
way in when I’m wearing heels.”
Ruby’s eyebrows go up. You know she has never worn heels. Ruby says, “Oh, okay. Umm,
I gotta change and then we pull off.” Ruby gives me a thumbs up.

Pulling up to the club, Ruby points out Cece next to the valet podium. Laughing through your teeth,
you think about the glow-in-the-dark batons that are used to guide in airplanes at night. That’s how Cece is
dressed, in a neon-orange mini-dress. You bring the truck to a stop on the shoulder of the road, in front of the
podium. Ruby gets out of the cab, wraps her arms around Cece, waves the valet over to you, then walks hip-
to-hip with Cece into the front of the club. You leave the truck running and step out. You shake your head to
the young man who had started to walk out from behind the valet podium as you walked in front of the bump-
er. He stops in his path and backs up to behind the podium. “Sorry, no thanks, sir.”

Ruby hears you and spins around. “Come on. Turn the truck off and give him the keys. Let’s have
fun together.” Cece puts her hand on Ruby’s stomach, almost as if to hold on to what is hers.

You smile at Cece’s hand and then turn around and walk back to the driver’s side, as you reach for
the handle to look back to Ruby and say, “You two have a wonderful night.”

“What are you t—”
You swing the door all the way open and shift you gaze to Cece. “Cece, enjoy.”
Ruby pushes Cece away. “We live together. What’s your plan here?”
Ruby stands on the curb’s edges. You stand on the truck’s step, tall between the cab of the truck and
the door, and shout to Ruby, “Not anymore. You don’t have a key to my new place, or your own for that mat-
ter.”
Ruby pats down her pockets, once and then twice. She looks up at you with one eyebrow real high
on her freckled forehead as you slide into the driver’s seat, rolling the passenger’s side window down. You

65

yell out, “You girls have a nice night!” Cece holds back Ruby as she tries to charge the passenger-side door
like a bull. You itch your cupid’s bow with your middle finger until Cece notices, and then you turn on your
left blinker and dart back into the main road traffic. You start humming the melody of Shakira’s “Beautiful
Liar” as you see Ruby yelling at Cece in the rear-view mirror. Cece already cannot control the person she
desires to hold hands with. You remember that feeling but you would rather it be her problem than yours.

You park in a space towards the back in Carrabba’s parking lot and slip out of the yellow dress and
into your jeans and red sneakers. You turn off the truck and jump out, clicking the lock button on the key fob
and then pushing the keys to the bottom of your front left pocket as you walk into the restaurant. At the front
podium, you tell a teenager, “Johnson? It should be a reservation for two.”

“Right this way ma’am. Your date has already been seated.”
“Thank you.”
Dad stands up and pulls your chair out for you. You sit and he kisses you on the cheek and says,
“Where is Ruby?”
“Moving out.”
“Fina-fucking-lly.”
“Hell yeah,” you say. “Happy Birthday, Dad.”

66

Vespiary
Sunny Patel

My heart has as many
hollows as a hornet’s
nest and just the
same, in each absence
there is buzzing. a
stinger. a tangle of thin
limbs, red, mandibles
and banded stripes of
warning. each one
guarding and feeding a
small body of hate. each
one either afraid or
angry or both. probably
both. most likely both.
my grudges serve no
higher purpose. they
do not help me survive.
it is just painful. that’s all.

67

To My Mother, Charlotte
Steffie Moy

Beyond my window, an onyx asphalt
street is slashed by lithe titan lamps
arcing long diagonals
to the frigid pavement.

Trashy neon signs reveal crushed
cigarette butts, twisting in lonely
aerial curls, amid
daily junk and food

debris. One solitary grandmother shuffles
through these Chinatown smells. No souls
traipse the entrance of the
burnt, ochre apartment

building across the way, whose paned
eyes gaze down on her lonely midnight
journey. The tinkle of
glass-shatter converses

with thunks and beer-can-bumps and the
rolling holler of trash bins blown
over. My bedroom silence
rings of a steam heating

hiss and awakened, my bones shake and
lay me out naked and small.
I look up to the city's
black heavens.

I need to step on the stars in outer
space, to walk from one celestial
pearl to an another,
this grace to fly

away from heart-twisted torture within.
Yesterday the wind scampered on

68

sneakered children's feet, where with
hands locked in a
dancing ring,
I played all afternoon. But now
cringing on the windowsill, my lonely
gaze sits leashed to
the empty parking lot
below. I watch for you everyday, inchworm,
zombie cold, silent and determined,
go out to work and
return. Your fresh cheek
sprinkled with snow kisses, smiling at
me. I snuggle you, your soft coat of
wool still cold from the Boston winter.
Greeting you is my child-heaven
and still I cry.

Second Place Poetry

69

Anniversary
Gage Cole

I walked through the front door of my house and into the snow. My shoes sunk two inches. There
was a little “crunch” every time I stepped down and a “poof” as I stepped up. The clouds above were wisps in
the air, and the pale half-moon was above, even though it was day. I trudged towards my car and opened the
driver seat’s door. The clumped snow fell off, except for some ice crusted on the window, which I brushed
off. The moment I got in, I turned the car on, and the engine hummed to life. I got the car ready and turned on
the windshield wipers, replacing the veil of white on my window with the one outside.

It was a quiet drive to the woods. No birds flew overhead, no deer crossed the road, and only a hand-
ful of cars drove past me the whole way. Every now and then I saw a clump of snow fall off of a tree, but I
wasn’t sure if that was from squirrels running around or just gravity doing its work. No one wanted to be out-
side today it seemed. I couldn’t blame them. I was in my nice car with the heaters on, yet I was still shivering,
and my shoes were damp from the melted snow that had stuck on. If it were any other day, I would be buried
in my bed at home, reading a book or watching TV. But today, the bite of the freezing wind was hardly the
most pain I was feeling.

I reached the small parking lot in front of the preserve after twenty minutes, the pristine silence now
ruined as the smooth pavement gave way to rough gravel crunching under the wheels of my car. I parked near
the entrance, next to David’s car. I looked in, but he wasn’t inside. Looking ahead, I saw him at the narrow
entrance to the forest trail, leaning against the signpost. Behind him was the massive forest, a mix of brown,
white, and the green of the pines. I turned the car off and got out with a sigh. I was wearing a jacket and
jeans, but the biting cold still hurt my hands and face. I could have worn warmer clothes, but that didn’t seem
right. Michael hadn’t had more when he had come here for the last time. I could suffer the same. It was my
penance.

David gave me a small wave as I approached but didn’t say anything. I nodded but respected the si-
lence. He was checking the time on his phone and was shivering badly from having waited, wearing no more
than me. He should have waited in his car, but I guess he wanted to punish himself more. He always had. His
hair was unkempt, his cheeks were red, and he had dark bags under his eyes. He was dressed like me and
looked up when he wasn’t checking the time, occasionally glancing at me. I did the same, and both of us
stood in the freezing cold, waiting.

Finally, the phone changed to 5:30 exactly. He groaned and pushed off of the sign, standing tall,
looking forlorn. He looked at me. I nodded. The two of us began a long walk along the frozen trail.

The forest was quiet, and as far as I could tell, we were the only people here. I could see the occa-
sional animal running through the undergrowth and heard a few bird calls. One bird, I don’t know what kind,
started chirping happily, singing to an unreceptive audience. How dare you be happy today, I thought. No-
body in this entire forest wants to hear your calls. If I could have found one, I would have thrown a rock at it
to shut it up, but I didn’t see one anywhere. Luckily it stopped after a bit, and the somber silence returned.

We were halfway there before David spoke up suddenly. “You brought anything?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Couldn’t think of anything. You?”
“Found a picture while cleaning the attic. The three of us, as boys, at your parent’s old house. Forgot
we ever took it.”
“Can I see it?”
He dug a photo out of his pocket and showed it to me. It was old and folded, but still colorful. We
were thirteen or fourteen. Michael was in the center, with David on his left and me on his right. We had our
arms slung over each other’s backs. I looked at Michael’s face, trying to see a sign, but he looked without a
care in the world. I smiled, my eyes getting damp.
“I like it,” I said simply.
We continued the rest of the walk in silence, aside from quiet sniffling and rasped breaths.
We arrived at the tree at last, a mile out from where we entered. It was a tall oak, its branches spread-
ing across a small clearing. It loomed over us but seemed otherwise unremarkable. For a moment, I saw the
rope hanging from the strongest branch, his body hanging a few feet above the ground. I rubbed my eyes and
it vanished back into my memories. It’s only a tree now, I told myself. That was three years ago.
The two of us walked to the base of the tree. David took the photo out and placed it upright against

70

one of the large roots. We both stood there for a couple of minutes in silence, the clearing growing darker as
the sun set.

Finally, I spoke. “Hey Michael. It’s been three years now. I’ve missed you. It’s been lonely lately.”
A few seconds passed, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I looked at David and he kept mouthing words,
almost speaking, then giving up. Finally, gaining confidence, he spoke up.
“Do you remember the first time we ran around here without our parents forcing us to stay on the
trails?” David asked. “We were twelve, I think, and we had always loved these woods because it was so far
out, and people never came far back here aside from a few odd backpackers, and they were usually nice. One
day you pleaded to our parents enough to convince them to drive us over and let us hang out without being
followed, and after they made us take sunscreen and water and God knows what else, we were off. We
thought we were going to be running off of the trails and charting ‘unexplored territory’ but within minutes
the thorns and bugs drove us back to the trails, and we pretended that was where the fun stuff was anyways.”
David paced back and forth a bit, wringing his hands.
“I remember the first time we came back here after our last year in college,” I said. “We had decided
this place was lame in 12th grade, but you convinced us to come and go camping here, now that we were
adults. It seemed so large now that we could explore it properly, and there was so much beyond what we
have seen. Your favorite spot was that cave along the riverbank.”
“There?” David asked, looking at me incredulously. “The place was full of bats, and we all got bit
and had to get those nasty rabies shots. I liked that one hill better, the one with a couple of giant trees fallen
over in an X shape. We pretended it was a fort, even though we were supposed to have grown out of that ten
years ago.”
“Yeah, that place was nice too,” I said. “But Michael liked that cliff area along the riverbank, with
all of the climbing and nooks and crannies. There was that one big rock that was balancing above the river,
and we took bets on when it would fall in, but it never did. I wonder if it’s still up there, waiting to be pushed
in during a bad storm.”
“Maybe it likes the view from above,” David said.
“Maybe.”
There was a lull in the conversation, and both of us stood quietly for a couple of minutes, waiting for
a third voice that would never respond.
“Do you remember what we used to say about this place, this forest?” David asked.
I wasn’t sure if that was directed at me or the tree, and I looked over to see he was wiping his eyes
with his arm. His voice was cracking now, and I was finding it harder to breathe, a feeling of heavy weight
on my chest.
“We called this place our haven because we could run away from it all here,” he said. “Here, we
could get away from school and work, and family and relationship drama, and just be ourselves. You said
that anytime we were overwhelmed and couldn’t deal with life, we should come back here for a bit and es-
cape. We all did it at times. Sometimes I invited you to come with me, sometimes I was just wanted to be
alone, but either way it helped. We always used to feel at peace here. Tell me, how long do you think it’s
been since we came here and felt peaceful, huh? How long since this was a ‘safe haven’?”
Neither of us seemed to know how to respond to that, and David kicked at the ground in a fit of frus-
tration. Another lull occurred. By now my face was freezing, and my cheeks hurt as tears fell and froze.
“After you…after you killed yourself, your parents wouldn’t leave their house for months,” David
said. “We were hurt bad too, but they were worse off. They’re better now, but they never recovered. Not real-
ly. They don’t smile much.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. David snorted. “We know that. But that’s hard to remember when your
parents are on the floor sobbing and we don’t have anything to say but ‘I’m sorry’. Or when we can never
talk anymore without feeling your absence, or when everywhere we go, we remember that time we were to-
gether there, and now the memory’s spoiled. Or when everyone talks about us as if we are lost and miserable
and say it when we aren’t looking like we aren’t really there. It’s not your fault. And yet it is. We can’t be
angry, and yet we are.”
“We don’t know what to do,” David said. “But we are trying. Isn’t that enough?”
No one answered. He sighed, putting his hands into his pockets.
“Do you think we will ever be better?” I asked, not knowing to whom.
“We’ll never be the same,” David said.
“But can we move on and recover? I will never forget you, Michael. I don’t want to. But I’m thirty-
one. How much more of my life should I spend like this? How much more can I? Everything’s wrong now,
and I’m just confused. How do I fix it?”

71

“I don’t know,” David said. “I wish I could have seen it coming. He had been doing better at the end,
or it seemed that way. I thought he was back to normal, but afterwards I realized he was just making peace
with the world. That last day, when he called me, I should have answered. Why couldn’t I have quit driving
for two minutes and check? Why didn’t he call me again, or call you, or his parents? Why couldn’t we have
done something!?”

I wilted as he shouted, not sure who he was mad at. He took in a few ragged breaths, calming down.
I let him and remained quiet until he seemed better.

“We miss you,” I said.
“We wish you were here,” David said.
With one last look at the photo on the ground, already dug into the snow, and a stare at the high
branch from my worst memory, the two of us headed back to the lot, the trail back illuminated a pale orange
from the dying sunset. The whole way back, we walked in silence, until at last we reached our cars, the sky
nearly black by now, the moon bright. David opened his door and began to sit when I suddenly felt a pang of
misery as I imagined how long it would be until I saw him, or anyone else I liked, again.
“Would you like to come back to my place?” I asked him.
He looked at me with confusion in his eyes, gripping the door.
“Why?” he asked.
“I have nothing to do tonight,” I said, “and I’m guessing neither do you.” He scowled at that a bit,
before shrugging his shoulders in admission.
“We could eat dinner,” I continued. “Catch up with each other, maybe visit his parents and see how
they’re doing.”
“I visited them earlier,” he said.
“So did I,” I said. “They didn’t mention you.”
“I arrived after. They told me you had come by but didn’t stick around for when I showed up.”
“Oh, sorry. Still, the offer stands.” I tried not to show it, but I was nervous, half of me wanting to
dash to my car and drive away before he rejected me.
“It won’t be like old times,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “But maybe we could use something new. Are you up to it?”
He stood there for a few seconds, tapping the window as he thought, then nodded slowly.
“Sure,” he said. “Can’t be worse than lying in bed. I’ll drive over.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”
He got into the car and as he backed up, I think I may have seen a hint of a smile on his face before
he drove away. Then, with one last longing glance at the now dark trail, I got into my car and drove back
home.

72

Burned Skin
Janeria Perry

A scorched imprint on my
skin, so crisp and deep that
I crinkled into a new shape and form.
I became tightened and twisted
into a different threshold.
The water was futile,
staining my house like a
strong coffee stain on an
ivory colored blouse.
The flames were sprinkled
heavy like sea salt on fries.
I watched the flames drown
the building with a sour sting
like a misty sprite.
My toes crinkled in my tight
shoes in awe of the heat.
I flung more gasoline onto
the grass. Some of the fluid
crept onto my arm and
spiraled through the tiny
hair follicles on my skin.

73

Letting Jason Pick
Shelby Wisdom

“Right now, I don’t know if I want to thank you or shove you off a bridge,” I said clenching my
fists.

“Can I pick?” Jason said, hands in his pockets.
We were walking down to the subway station on the way to Bray’s house. The stairway lights
were shining on the linoleum tile as we walked through the mobs of people trying to make their way
home for the day. We wordlessly scanned our subway passes and entered one of the subway cars.
Jason and I both sat on the worn plastic seats, which took our weight with some protest. We sat
in silence as Jason picked at his fingernails while sliding back in his seat, his dark hair glistening from
the summer heat. I could see his switchblade peeking out and shining from the waistline of his jeans,
which was obscured by his leather jacket. He always wore that old jacket, even when it was a good 85
degrees and so sticky even the mosquitoes complained.
“Because if you let me pick, maybe I wouldn’t be so insecure,” he pressed, nudging me with his
elbow.
“Insecure, my ass.” I pushed him away. “I’m not dealing with your big head.”
“You’re no fun, y’know that Maisie? I get you ice cream and now I’m arrogant.”
“You are, now quit fooling around,” I huffed, brushing my curls out of my face.
We stayed silent while Jason slid back to his original spot. He put his left hand in his jacket
pocket and put his right arm around my shoulders. The contact made me tense, but I allowed it. It was
only Jason after all. He was the only one I would let touch me. Boy, did he know it.
“And last I checked, you also wiped some of that ice cream on my face.”
“Aw, it was all in good fun, Maisie. Lighten up,” he said with his big toothy grin.
“Why would I lighten up? Being light-hearted is your job.”
“Fair enough.” He looked across the train to stare at a pretty brunette who had just gotten on the
train.
He quickly rose with a smirk on his face before I grabbed his jacket collar and pulled him back
into his seat as I gave him a look. His smirk quickly formed into a pout as he put his hands in his pock-
ets, his posture slouched.
“Cockblock,” he griped.
“Grease-head,” I said, sitting back in my seat. “We’ve got places to be, lover boy. We’ve still
got to go to Bray’s house,”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes.
He removed his arm from around my shoulders as he stood and extended his hand to me. I took
it and he pulled me up. I didn’t even bother to support my own weight, knowing full well he could take
it easily. We exit the subway car and quickly went up the flight of stairs. It was completely dark now,
the street lights shining brightly. I felt my body stiffen as a raindrop fell on the back of my neck, the
cold sensation going through my spine making me shiver. Jason raised a brow in my direction, and I
had to suppress a chuckle when he flinched as a fat one dropped on his head.
He gave my hand a friendly swat as he quickened his pace, leaving me to trail behind him
slightly. I didn’t match his pace, instead slowing down to enjoy the droplets that came down faster and
heavier than before. I had always enjoyed the rain, especially as a child. I remembered the days when I
would drag Jason out of his house to splash in the puddles with me.
“I always hated this weather,” I heard Jason say. He was right beside me now.
“Then why did you always follow me outside?”
“Who else was gonna keep you from going down a storm drain?” He grinned. “What with how
small you are, you probably would’ve gotten swept away by the rain and into the sewers.”
I gave him a playful shove, shaking my head and trying to contain my grin. We continued our
leisurely walk to Bray’s house, shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t long before we were standing in front of

74

Bray’s small, dingy little excuse for a house. The once beige paint had become a sickening brown color,
and it was peeling off the sides of the house. Most of the shingles on the roof were either hanging on for
dear life or had already fallen into the dirt lawn. We trudged through the yard to the porch, the dirt and
mud covering our shoes.

Jason pounded on the door with a scarred fist. We sat there for a minute or two before we heard
shuffling inside. It started out very faint before footsteps could be heard. We heard something big being
knocked over. Eventually we heard the rusty doorknob jiggle before the door finally opened, revealing
Bray in his sloppy, whiskey-scented glory. He held the door knob in one hand and a beer in the other,
his black shirt wrinkled and stained, as if he hadn't changed clothes in about a week. His dirty blond hair
was greasy and stuck up in odd places, his oily curls defying the laws of gravity. He jeans were riddled
with holes and covered in beer stains, and he was wearing some sweat stained white socks that looked
like they should've been thrown out a few weeks ago.

“You idiots going to come in or not?” Bray asked, rubbing his face with his palm, spilling a bit
of his beer onto the floor.

We quickly stepped through the doorway without a word, the strong smell of alcohol invading
our nostrils. I coughed heavily, choking a little at the scent and gagging. Jason roughly pat me on the
back before he started making his way over to the couch. It was covered in stains and the cushions were
falling apart. It looked the same as when we had picked it up from someone’s yard, except for the
scratch marks on its wooden legs. Simon was probably to blame for those. He always did that when he
was bored.

Jason cleared off all the trash that had been piled on top of the cushions before helping Bray lay
down on the couch. Bray shifted before propping his feet up on one of the arms, resting one arm over
his eyes and placing his beer onto the nearby coffee table. The coffee table was also covered in trash,
mostly snack bags that looked like they came from the small convenience store across the road from the
house.

I watched Jason walk into the nearby kitchen and search through the kitchen cabinets before
eventually finding a bottle of water and some painkillers. He made his way over to Bray and me, flash-
ing me a small smile before giving Bray a gentle nudge. He stirred slightly before looking up at Jason,
squinting. Jason wordlessly shoved the medicine and the water in front of his face. Bray rolled his eyes
and reluctantly swallowed down the painkillers but ignored the bottle of water, resting it on the coffee
table next to his beer.

Jason clicked his tongue before swiping the intoxicating beverage from the table and tossing it
into the nearby trash can before Bray could protest. “You have got to get yourself together, man. This is
ridiculous,” Jason said, with his hands on his hips.

“If you want to mother somebody, Jason, go get laid and have a damn kid, but don’t go trying to
be my mom,” Bray said, lazily waving his hand in Jason's direction.

“Someone’s got to make sure you don’t drink yourself to death,” Jason said, smirking.
“Go baby Maisie then. I don’t need it.”
“Last I checked I wasn’t drunk off my ass,” I said, huffing.
“Fair enough,” Bray said, pointing at me.
We sat in silence for a while, staring at the beige walls, listening to the rickety fan make its
rounds, trying desperately to cool off the sweltering hot room. Jason was leaning against the wall and
tapping his foot, his brow furrowed. Bray hadn’t moved an inch and was still sprawled across the couch
lazily, seeming completely at ease, except for the fact that he was picking at his fingers and refusing to
look at me. It was a good ten minutes before I broke the silence.
“How did it happen?” I asked, sitting myself on the coffee table, staring Bray down.
“He got out over the fence.” He picked at the hem of his shirt. “Some idiot in an SUV ran him
over. They were going about 60 down the street. Asshole.”
Jason clicked his tongue and crossed his arms. Bray still refused to look at us, going back and
forth between staring at his hands and staring at the ceiling. I focused on his face a little, seeing the
heavy bags under his eyes, the skin tight around his skull. He clearly hadn’t been drinking anything be-
sides beer for at least a few days. He also looked pale and thin; I was afraid he would collapse any mo-
ment.
“Where did you put him?” I said, clasping my hands together.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I turned my head. I saw Jason seating himself on the coffee

75

table next to me, our legs touching as he wrapped his arm around me, rubbing my arm with his knuckles.
I gave him a small smile before turning my attention back to Bray. He finally made eye contact with me;
a knowing smile rested on his lips.

“I put him under the willow tree.” He sat up. “The one on the edge of the park, with the tire
swing.”

“We should head there then,” Jason said as he sat up and offered Bray a hand.
Bray hesitated before taking his hand, letting Jason pull him up from the couch. Jason and I
waited at the front door while Bray stumbled up the stairs to go change his clothes and shower, at Ja-
son’s insistence. We stood shoulder to shoulder, and Jason pulled his knife out from his pant line, dig-
ging the dirt out from under his fingernails with it. I could see the nicks around his fingertips for all the
times he ended up cutting himself doing it, and I grabbed his wrist with one hand, taking the knife from
his hand and sticking it in my back pocket with the other. He looked at me sharply, but I held fast, taking
his large hand into both of my small ones.
“What’s going on, J?” I asked, rubbing his scarred knuckles.
“He’s worrying me,” he said, biting his lip.” You know how he gets when something doesn’t go
right. He’s a damn mess. I mean look at him.”
“He’s going to be fine. He has us to look after him now.”
“Still, I don’t know how he’s going to be when we’re not here to watch him.”
“Can you guys quit whispering so we can get a move on?” I heard Bray say from behind us.
Knowing him, he’d probably sat there listening for a while before he finally spoke.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jason said, swiping his knife from my back pocket as he walked ahead
of me.
He tucked it back into its hiding spot as he opened the front door, waiting for Bray and me to
walk out. We shuffled out the door as Bray clumsily locked it, before stuffing the key into his pocket.
The walk to the park was quiet, aside from Bray’s stumbling along behind us, mumbling about how
Jason and I needed some alone time. Jason just shook his head.
“We spend most of our time together, idiot,” Jason said. “If anything, we need a break from
each other.”
We all just laughed and continued our short trek. The park was only a few blocks away, about a
ten-minute walk, fifteen if you felt like being slow, which Bray decided was the best course of action.
We walked into the park, seeing the sad swing-set rusting away in the center, the slide boarded shut. The
park was deserted. Nobody really came here anymore. Mostly people just came here to get their drugs
and leave.
We made our way over to the old willow. The old tire swing was hanging from one of the thick-
er branches. Standing tall and proud, it was an old tree and had been there since I was a child. I sat my-
self down on the old swing gently, swaying back and forth. Bray pointed at a patch of dirt just under the
tree that looked like it had been dug up recently. Jason had his arm around Bray’s shoulder, trying to
console him when his shoulders started shaking.
“He was a good old Tabby. He had a long life,” Jason said, giving Bray’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Jason, you know he was an ass,” Bray said, snorting. “He even destroyed Maisie’s old prom
dress, remember? He ripped it to little pieces.”
“That thing was ugly anyway,” I said, shaking my head. “I looked like a purple marshmallow.”
“That’s what you get for buying a giant purple princess dress,” Jason said, snickering.
We sat in silence for bit before I pulled a few purple fabric scraps from my pocket and tied them
to a few loose branches. Bray looked at me with his brow quirked. Jason laughed before walking over
and tugging on them.
“That dress always was his favorite scratch post,” Jason said, giggling and rubbing the fabric
between his fingers.
Bray gave me an appreciative nod before mimicking Jason, playing with the purple strips. He
smiled a little at it, rubbing his hands over some of the scratches and tears in the fabric. I pulled one last
strip out of my pocket and tied it around Bray’s wrist, knotting it neatly with a small bow. He looked at
it and then at me, shaking his head.
“You always were one to hoard stuff, even when you couldn’t use it,” Bray said.
“Hey, it came in handy didn’t it?” I said, laughing.
He chuckled as he ruffled my hair. He took one last look at the tree before he spoke up, walking

76

ahead of us.
“Come on. I want to get to Denny’s. I need a shake.”
“Hell yeah!” Jason shouted, running ahead of us. “Maisie’s buying!”
“Not a chance,” I said. “The two of you eat enough food to feed a family of five.”
“Sorry, Maisie. I paid last time,” Bray said with a shrug.

Third Place Prose

77

Christmas Hypocrites
Erin Fancher

Sour sugar drips from my lips. Open floors,
close parishes. Dissect, ingest. Hit the spoon
on my teeth and shiver. Sweet blizzard, how your
soft scissors build my nest. The sun builds
on their ignorance, your frozen fires. How you flare
bitten noses with your shard silk, your clinging hatred.
Lead me down warm gray-yellow glows
that wash their white-puttied trails, down
to disheveled driveways and rings of evergreen hung
in your presence. Down go stabbing, golden suds,
down go bitter hugs and halfhearted banters,
down go the hours with the faces frozen with gritted teeth;
they never listen.
Take me within your white-coated wings,
or really, your writhing, red wings, your deceptive
stings that confuse scratching devils with snow angels.
Madden me. Will you? Distract me. Mottle my eyes
a deeper dark so I can bury these monogamous meetings.
I will bury myself in your wings so maybe next year,
their lips will be as raw as mine were,
and their lips’ wisps will whisper words
they should have said the year before.
Maybe next year they’ll hear me.

78

Banned
C. M. Csiszer

You wake up in the most unusual of places instead of your normal bedroom, with its painted walls
and reading lamps and color. As you stand up from what you assume is the floor, you walk around. No single
person or object to been seen. In fact, you currently find yourself in a void of white, like eggshell. You roam
around in this new void, until you spot the only other thing besides you, a single black square. As you make
your way towards it, you notice that it’s a single sheet of paper. You pick it up. It’s filled with letters that you
perceive to be Chinese or Korean; you’re really not sure which. Then you have the bright idea to flip it over,
and in glorious English it reads:

“You have been banned from existence.”
You let out a deep sigh. You decide that God is the worst administrator ever. You walk around your
new form of existing, trying to piece together what you did that was so wrong. You lie and steal sometimes,
but who doesn’t from time to time? Then you sit and try to remember if you left your oven on, or if you let
your dog out. Then your mind wonders about breeding patterns in penguins for quite some time.
Suddenly, you shoot straight up from bed and look around. You’re still not sure where you are but
you decide that pizza rolls sound really good. As you climb out of bed, your legs are like jelly and flop to the
floor like a fish that wants to walk. A nurse walks in and gasps to see you flopping on the floor.
“Oh my god. It’s a miracle!” she says as she puts her hands over her mouth.
“What is?” you ask, trying to turn yourself to face her.
You watch her legs run over to the bed next to yours. You manage to crawl and hoist yourself up
into a wheelchair left for your convenience. You see the nurse helping, talking to this older woman, who ap-
parently had been in a coma. You determine that it’s not pizza rolls and wheel yourself out of the hospital
room. You stop at the elevators. They take a while until they show up. You wheel yourself in and push the
first- floor button. The ride is smooth at first but it suddenly feels as though it’s speeding up.
You wake up in the most unusual of places instead of your normal bedroom, with its painted walls
and reading lamps and color.

79

Lids
James Kahla

“Hey! Don’t disrespect the corn’s skeleton!” I said.
“What?!” she asked, still holding up the trashcan lid while shoveling food off her plate.
“Don’t Disrespect the Corn’s Skeleton, Mom,” I said, sitting at the table, picking at the cuticles on
my left hand. “Remember? The compost?”
“Right, forgot you put that in,” she said, holding the cob back before dumping her plate in the trash.
“Are you done?” she asked, pointing at my plate before a shake of my head sent her walking across the kitch-
en to the compost bucket, which stuck out like a sore thumb. A crude construction of splintering brown pallet
wooding and rusted nails, against a background of exclusively silver, black, and white. A modernist’s dream
kitchen.
I stayed against the corner of the wall, judiciously finishing the last, fattiest piece of steak with the
dregs of my baked beans as my left thumb scraped my pinky-nail clean. Mom had her back turned, trying to
find the right top or bottom for one of the Tupperwares, so I took a glance down and saw a few navy speckles
on my nail but nothing she would be able to see. Whew.
“Any other major changes you’ve made while I was on the cruise?” Mom said, still rummaging
through what seemed like an ever-multiplying sea of Tupperware tops and bottoms that didn’t quite fit each
other.
I laughed, maybe a bit too hard. “Nope, just the compost.”
“Oh, okay,” she said, casually rising from the cupboard of Tupperwares with a mismatched top and
bottom. “Cause there was real spotty reception on the ship, but I did see one of your stories on Instagrams.”
She moved her right foot as a barrier to hold back the overflowing plastic back before throwing the door shut.
“And that in one of the videos, if I’m not mistaken, your nails were painted a bright blue.” She turned to meet
my eyes and began walking back to the table. Each step she took reverberated through my head’s cacophony
of expletives.
“Well I thin-“ I started and shifted forward to hold onto the lip of table.
“Let Me Finish,” she said, placing the Tupperware on the table and pulling out the chair across from
me. “Have you been reading along with the Bible study while I was gone?” she asked while sitting down,
carefully tucking her right leg over the left, adjusting a bit and placing her hands together.
“I think I’ve gotten through about half of it, and yeah, um, you know, Corinthians, I mean what a
mess with all the…” I said, shooting my eyes down, hoping she’d just pick it up before it got too specific.
“Well since you didn’t read it—”
“No I did, I ju—”
“Can it, Timo,” she said through pursed lips, stabbing through the lone steak left. “Wanna know
what they got a mess of? Masculinity. Men weren’t acting like men. They were being frivolous man-babies.”
I didn’t look up but heard her plop the steak into the Tupperware.
“Here it is, Corinthians 16:13,” she said, like this was as indelible a fact as gravity. “‘Be watchful,
stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong.’ And you can’t show that to the world, or your future wife,
with painted nails.”
“Maybe we just think differently,” I said, eyes focused on the white tile beneath the table.
She chuckled. “Oh, bless your heart,” she said, in the way southern women meant “you think there’s
a choice here.”
“But I’m 18,“ I said.

80

“You are, but if you’re gonna live under my roof, you better find a way to fit Jesus Christ’s definition
of a man into who you are,” she said while lining up the wrong Tupperware top. “Whether you’re at school.”
She snapped one of the sides on. “With your friends.” The plastic strained against the container, contorting
the sides. “Or at the house,” she continued, shimmying the tops third corner into place before snapping it in.
“You will be the Man You were Made to be,” she finished, bringing her palm hard down on the last open cor-
ner, which closed it, adding a crack right down the middle of the clear plastic to accompany all the stretch
marks.

“Is that understood?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

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My Hereditary Song
Vickie Fleming

You came from Mama’s mezzo soprano expressions and
Daddy’s deep baritone, ballads and hymns, sleep-inducing
tunes meant to tame all their unrestrained and restless kids.
You first came from within me in musical coos from
dissonant little ditties to rounds of “Row, row, row your boat”
until I could sing “merrily, merrily” solitarily in tune.
Countless choir rehearsals sustained you and elevated you
to audition status then solo standing with guys and girls
in formal garb in perfectly harmonious madrigals.
Out of my lips you come from a suggestion or a word
that triggers a line just to reminds me
of a lyric tender or a long forgotten song.
From deep within, you come in a transcendant descant,
melodies angels hum in my ear when I’m sensing a
sacred, serene treasured moment.
But why do you wake me with words uninterruptible
and tunes that continue when insomnial songs
become stuck, or run amok?
Yet whenever a restless baby is in my arms, you come
a lullaby. I’ll hold her close and you will comfort
and calm through my sweet remembered song.
Sleep, little one; don’t cry, child of mine, sleep.

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Contributor’s Biographies

Margaux Burleson is a Graphic Design major who does a martial arts called Ba-
hala Na.
Viviana Camarillo is a cynical romantic who loves hot chocolate and Stevie
Nicks. She doesn’t know what she’s doing but she loves writing, so let’s just go
from there.
Alexandria Castro loves the outdoors, animals, and laughing.
Gage Cole is undecided with life and loves books, dogs, and thunderstorms.
Kennedy Copeland’s Spotify told her that she likes skater punk and showtunes.
Edna Corona is a Real Estate Broker who takes art classes as a hobby.
Keilynd Easter is a Science major who still works at Walgreens and is trying her
best.
Erin Fancher is a Texas State University student who loves dancing, writing,
creating art, and watching The Office over and over.
Samantha Ferron is an optimistic work-in-progress.
Vickie Fleming is an adjunct English professor whose writing was transformed
by a Creative Writing course.
Brianne Gette is just a girl with a head full of ideas and a hunger for adventure.
Maria Isabel Gomez is a happy person who loves her family and travelling.
Yadhira Jaimes is a Social Work major. She loves God, her family, and friends.
She enjoys the outdoors.
Perri Jenkins is an aspiring storyteller who loves reading all things fiction, non-
fiction, and everything in between.
James Kahla is an Outdoor Tourism and Recreation Management major who
firmly believes in punching Nazis, radical hope, and the conservation of the envi-
ronment.

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Dayeong Kang is a sophomore Photography major who loves fashion and Ghibli.

Jacob Laroche tries to live by the rule, “Last one out, get the lights.”

Steffie Moy loves the trauma of learning. Without beauty and coffee, she would
expire.

Sunny Patel is his umpteenth year of trying to figure out his life, so the job
which both allows him to do what he loves and somehow miraculously get paid
vast sums of money should hurry up and get here. Thank you very much.

Tefenet Banos Pena is an aspiring multimedia artist with a passion for creativity
and breaching worlds.

Vanessa Perales is a quiet voice wiggling itself out of a cave who wants to write
a book one day.

Rachael Perrier has been described as the ultimate best friend, but if you ask her,
she will admit that she is just trying to collect good karma.

Janeria Perry is majoring in Chemistry at Texas Southern University.

Astra Rodriguez lives by the motto that “pens and swords are worthless, for the
mind is mightier.”

Rachel Romero is a Daenerys stan bestowed with a gift for making falling look
easier than it is.

Crystal Roza is a coffee fiend who lives to the extreme by adding extra espresso
shots to her drinks.

Kimberly Santos is a sophomore Integrated Communications major with a love
for music and dance.

Shaikh Mohammad Talal is a freshman hoping to one day earn a Bachelor of
Arts with a real love for birds.

Deborah Tritico is starting to live a life of painting again.

Amber Tyler plans to spend her whole life exploring and learning.

Helen Wilson is an artist with a love for humankind and the moments that make
up an everyday life.

Shelby Wisdom is an overachieving student with a shopping addiction and an
unhealthy obsession with wrestling.

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Acknowledgments

The faculty sponsors and student editors would like to thank Shah Ardalan, President of LSC-
University Park, for his hands-on support and encouragement, as well as Kathy Sanchez, Vice
President of Instruction, who, as a former English professor, is one of our biggest readers. As usu-
al, we’d like to thank Kari Breitigam for being the primary art judge and for encouraging her stu-
dents to submit their art pieces. Also, we have a big thanks to Paula Khalaf, who always has great
advice on adding our logo to the cover. Thanks to the faculty judges and to Sarah Ray and all the
students and staff at Student Life. Also, big thanks to the invaluable Superteam of Division 1: Jona
Anderson, Priscilla Arteaga, Carmelita Garcia, Tabitha Shanley, Blair Doerge, and Diego
Medrano, who helped in every way possible.

Submission Guidelines

Uproar, the student literary arts magazine of Lone Star College-University Park, is published every
spring. Any LSC-University Park student may submit pieces.

1. The submission deadline for the 2022 edition of Uproar is November 1st, 2021. Late submis-
sions will be saved for the following school year’s selection process.

2. Only LSC-University Park students who are enrolled in a credit course may submit. Magazine
staff members also may submit.

3. The selection process is anonymous. Authors should not put their names anywhere on written
pieces; names should only appear on the submission forms. Artists must put their names on the
back of their pieces.

4. Only original, unpublished works are accepted. Simultaneous submissions are permitted as
long as you notify us if your piece is accepted somewhere else.

5. All entries must be listed on an Uproar Submission Form. Students should use separate forms
for writing and for art. Maximum entries per person: six poems, three short stories/essays and
eight art pieces.

6. Short stories/essays should not exceed 3,500 words in length. Word count must be included on
the first page.

Contest Information: Every piece submitted will be entered into the Uproar Contest. Entries will
be judged by faculty members, who will select an art piece for the cover and first, second and third
place winners in poetry and in prose. First through third-place winners will receive gift card
awards worth $100, $75 and $50, respectively. The artist who creates the artwork selected for the
cover will receive a $100 gift card.

The Uproar advisors are Professor Amy Young, who can be reached at
[email protected], and Professor Greg Oaks, who can be reached at
[email protected].

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Uproar Submission Form

First Name: __________________________Last Name: ______________________________
Student ID Number: __________________Phone Number: ___________________________
Street Address: _________________________________________________________________
City: ______________________________State: __________ Zip: ___________________
Email Address:
____________________________________________________________________

You may submit multiple pieces on one form, but use separate forms for art and for writing. Limit:
six poems, three short stories/essays and eight art pieces. These submissions are: Art ! Writing !

Titles
1. _________________________________________________________________________
2. _________________________________________________________________________
3. _________________________________________________________________________
4.__________________________________________________________________________
5.__________________________________________________________________________
6.__________________________________________________________________________
7.__________________________________________________________________________
8.___________________________________________________________________________
9.___________________________________________________________________________

Please write a one-sentence bio to be published in the magazine if your piece is selected. (Example:
James Bond is a freshman Criminal Justice major with a love of martinis and a license to kill.)
____________________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________

Authorization

I hereby warrant that the written pieces or art submitted with this form are my original works and
that I own any copyrights that may be applicable to them. I authorize Lone Star College-University
Park and the staff of Uproar, the college literary/arts journal, to mechanically and electronically pub-
lish the above submissions and display the art pieces as they determine to be appropriate, subject
only to any additional written instructions which I may furnish.

________________________________________________________ _______________

Signature Date



Margaux Burleson
Viviana Camarillo
Alexandria Castro
Gage Cole
Kennedy Copeland
Edna Corona
Keilynd Easter
Erin Fancher
Samantha Ferron
Vickie Fleming
Brianne Gette
Maria Isabel Gomez
Yadhira Jaimes
Perri Jenkins
James Kahla
Dayeong Kang
Jacob Laroche
Steffie Moy
Sunny Patel
Tefenet Banos Pena
Vanessa Perales
Rachael Perrier
Janeria Perry
Astra Rodriguez
Rachel Romero
Crystal Roza
Kimberly Santos
Shaikh Mohammad Talal
Deborah Tritico
Amber Tyler
Helen Wilson
Shelby Wisdom