THE HURON RIVER REVIEW Issue 17 | 2018

The award-winning journal of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography and art by the students, faculty, and staff of Washtenaw Community College,

EDITOR Tom Zimmerman EDITORIAL BOARD Zach Baker Alex Kochan Meera Martin Tyler Wettig BOOK DESIGN Rich Rezler

Copyright © 2018 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors and artists. Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works. The works herein are chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administrators, or its faculty, staff, or students. MISSION STATEMENT The Huron River Review is a forum and a showcase for the vibrant literary and arts community made possible by the students, faculty, and staff at Washtenaw Community College.

FROM THE EDITOR This seventeenth issue of The Huron River Review is packed with excellent poetry, prose, and images—as well as a few extras: • Works from WCC students who submitted ceramic art to the 2018 Liberal Arts Network for Development (L.A.N.D.) Conference. Photographs of this artwork were taken by WCC ceramics instructor I B Remsen. • Works reprinted from The Journey, a chapbook anthology of poetry, prose, and visual art co-produced by the WCC Poetry Club and the Bailey Library in April 2018. • Works created by Sunday Brock, Faye Forester, Jason Gold, Sally Silvennoinen, and KD Williams, who were participants in “Who Am I?: An Identity and Writing Workshop,” presented by Writing Center tutor Zach Baker and me as part of WCC’s Free College Day, April 7. My thanks to Kris Good, Dean of Arts & Sciences; Kimberly Hurns, Vice President for Instruction; Rose Bellanca, President; and the WCC Board of Trustees. Finally, my thanks to the following fine people and departments: the Bailey Library, Zach Baker, Zach Braun, Amy Higgins, Karen Karatzas, Alex Kochan, Angela Law- Hill, Molly Ledermann, Meera Martin, Jas Obrecht, I B Remsen, Rich Rezler, Aimee Smith, Sue Smith, the WCC Bookstore, WCC Public Relations and Marketing, WCC Student Development and Activities, the WCC English Department, the WCC Writing Center, the WCC Copy Center, Tyler Wettig, Jessica Winn, and Ann Zimmerman. ­— TZ Ann Arbor

SUBMISSIONS The Huron River Review is an annual publication of Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan. From September through January, it is open to submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography by WCC students, faculty, and staff. The editor and student editorial board select pieces for publication based on their aesthetic merit. We’re fond of work that is beautiful and/or strange, but we’ll look at anything. If you’re not sure, send it; we’re friendly. We prefer electronic submissions. E-mail to [email protected]. Snail-mail to Tom Zimmerman, LA 355, Washtenaw Community College, 4800 E. Huron River Dr., Ann Arbor, MI 48105. Phone: 734-973-3552. Website: thehuronriverreview.wordpress.com. TABLE OF CONTENTS

Kayla Winter Leaping ...... Cover

POETRY (images in italics) Nate Laurant Untitled ...... 5 Tyler Wettig Tundra Spiritual ...... 6 The Adult Table ...... 7 Sarah Levin Will God Stir ...... 8 Tilling ...... 10 Zach Baker In Between ...... 11 Haunting the Mississippi ...... 12 Gabe Martinez Universal Vanity ...... 13 Bukowski as a Young ‘Un ...... 14 Nate Laurent Untitled ...... 15 Zach Baker Licked by America ...... 16 Waiting for the Train ...... 17 Lilly Kujawski Vices ...... 18. On Love ...... 20 KD Williams Borderline ...... 21. Cassie Calcaterra Death’s Appearance ...... 22 Kayla Winter Passing Time ...... 23 Michael Zaccagni The Nightsounds ...... 24 Cassie Calcaterra Comfort of Silence ...... 26 Jayleen Rossi Midnight ...... 26 Joseph Koch Silence ...... 27 My Burning Strife ...... 28 Tyler Wettig God and Food ...... 28 Julius Theophilus II The cliché prose about love as guided by aspects of in environment ...... 29 The sport: ...... 30 Miranda McCarthy Is there any harm? ...... 31 Daniel Raubolt Fire ...... 32 Tyler Wettig Westward ...... 36 Alex Tyson My Mother Is a Candle ...... 37. Shaina Larmee Slow Lover ...... 38 Natalie Jarvie Heart ...... 39 Jayleen Rossi Wetland Flower ...... 39 Dominique Bonner Closer 2 Me ...... 40

1 Le Chant Du Cygne The Sword ...... 41 Warren Leidlein What Am I? ...... 42 Zach Baker Chicago Still Life ...... 42 Amanda Thompson Two Poems ...... 43 Sunday Brock I Am ...... 44 Tim Drouhard The Road Home ...... 44 Faye Forester Who Am I? ...... 45 Jason Gold Who Am I? I Am ...... 46 Sally Silvennoinen Wo Am I? ...... 48 Brenda Allen Millett The Caged Fox ...... 49 Jayleen Rossi Jaybird ...... 50 Diane M . Laboda Triptych ...... 51 Amy Higgins Chimére de Confort ...... 52 Maryam Barrie At Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve . . . 53 Edith Morris Croake Bird Woman ...... 54 Kayla Winter Haiku Gallery ...... 56 Daniel Raubolt Haiku Gallery ...... 56 Pamela D . Agnew-Ray Haiku Gallery ...... 56

GALLERY Kayla Winter Leaping ...... 57 Cantering ...... 58 Sight ...... 58 Embrace ...... 59. In Flight ...... 59. Andrei Pop Fiber 48 ...... 60 Fiber 66 ...... 61 Trees ...... 62 Fiber 40 ...... 63 Jayleen Rossi Yellow Attention ...... 63 Cattail Fluff ...... 64 Cattail Bridge ...... 65 Windswept ...... 65 Isolation ...... 66 Droplets ...... 66 Dusk Wings ...... 67. Big Girl Boots ...... 67 Terri Adams Tensions Released ...... 68 John McLean Aqua Vitae ...... 69. Mia Prochaski Growth and Understanding ...... 70.

2 Mike Tuccini Across the Waves ...... 71. Dorothy Mitchell Bamboo Bridge ...... 71 Molly Keenan Spiral Edy ...... 72 Kelly Gampel WCC World ...... 73 Daniel Raubolt Arlington Memorial Bridge Eagle 2 ...... 74 Pauline the Bald Eagle ...... 74 Ralph Kennedy Untitled ...... 75. Untitled ...... 75. Justin Kissel Islamorada, FL ...... 76 Chickens Roaming Key West, FL ...... 76. Nate Luarant Untitled ...... 77 Untitled ...... 78. Untitled ...... 79 Untitled ...... 79 Untitled ...... 80 Untitled ...... 80 Sarah McDonald The Demon’s Closeup ...... 81. Nikki Sixx and His Flamethrowing Bass Guitar . . . . 81. Wheels Up Fury ...... 82 The Rocket Is On Its Way ...... 82 Meera Martin La Tour Eiffel, Paris ...... 83 View of Paris from La Tour Eiffel, Paris ...... 84 Le Comptuir D’Italie et Le Café Van Gogh, Arles . . . 85 Arènas de Nîmes ...... 86 View of La Loire ...... 86 Cathèdral Notre Dame de Strasbourg ...... 87. Safety First, France ...... 88

FICTION (images in italics) Nate Lauran Untitled ...... 89 Benjamin J . Wielechowski Prince Aragorn ...... 90 Zach Baker Reflections of Emptiness ...... 96. Jessica Kreutzer Out of Place ...... 97 Shaina Larmee Bruised ...... 101 Zach Baker Blues City ...... 102 Jennifer Wiland Anonymity ...... 103 Teagan Parkinson Midnight Cherry ...... 105 Nate Laurant Untitled ...... 106 Alex Tyson The Silence of Dishes ...... 107

3 Tyler Wettig Fenced In ...... 108 Sotiri Adamopoulos Split ...... 109 Zach Baker Where Does This Sidewalk End? ...... 113 Kayla Winter Curtains ...... 114 Tom Zimmerman Weathered Decorations ...... 115 Derek Fleszar Ol’ Billy ...... 11. 6 Philip Gibson The Mark of the Enemy ...... 11. 7 Tom Zimmerman Old Lion ...... 11. 8 Erin McCaffery Mother Spruce ...... 119 Tom Zimmerman Evergreen Heart ...... 120 Erin McCaffery Pan’s Awakening ...... 121 Susanna Zoumbaris Day of the Walking Sticks ...... 124. Steve Novak Two Scenes from “I Never Knew My Dad Killed Someone” ...... 125 Tom Zimmerman French Market ...... 127 Nate Laurant Untitled ...... 128

NONFICTION (images in italics) Nate Laurant Untitled ...... 129 Adella Blain Amparo ...... 130 Brenda Allen Millett Lookout ...... 133 Tom Zimmerman Lookout ...... 134 Alexander Clark Tomorrow Is Not a Promise ...... 135 Duaa Caldwell The Path to Soaring ...... 137. Kayla Winter Spotlight ...... 141 Fade to Black ...... 141. Brothers ...... 142 E .L . Meszaros The “Universal” in Arts and Science ...... 143

ETC. Index Authors and Artists ...... 149 Andrei Pop Fiber 48 ...... Back Cover

4 POETRY

Untitled NATE LAURANT

5 TYLER WETTIG

Tundra Spiritual

I lug this manuscript like da Vinci did the Mona Lisa, or Christ the Cross. It’s not my self-portrait, spiritual immolation, circumcision of the past. It’s the annulment of cynical and spiritual, shroud and tomb, of blood and chalice: bled from my mother, obsessed with cemeteries; my father, the stars. Me, in limbo on this earthly tundra, somewhere between nebulae and hades, can still map it with dad’s binoculars, and tombstones I can finger. The moral? I ruminate well on mortality. But of my own? I should be so lucky.

6 TYLER WETTIG

The Adult Table

He’s wearing white. I’m sipping Moscato. His steak is medium. Mine is bleeding. Bloodshot. Incarnadine. Call it what it is: a little tough. Wounded animal. Let’s go to Venice, he says, and gives the salad another toss. Then London. If we’re up for it, Denmark. Scotland after. I say that poems, like this one, can come to me like falling stars, rapidly, like the tenor sax droning from the speaker that’s a bit heavy on the legato. He’ll go home soon and hug the cat. Put something a bit slower on. I’ll go do the same.

7 SARAH LEVIN

Will God Stir

after Hafiz

God stirs when you have spent all day alone.

Your back is aching and your eyes are sunken.

You want to crawl under your loyal duvet to hide from your utter loneliness. You can’t cry because you are alone without someone to store your tears.

Your best friend sighs and lies next to you. He sleeps for a while and then looks out the window at the other dogs walking by hoping you will wake up so he can smell the air, the grass, the trees and, perhaps, be lucky enough to find a squirrel to chase.

Your telephone rings, but you ignore it. You feel unworthy of human companionship. You cancel your plans, sinking lower, beginning to think there is no way out.

8 SARAH LEVIN

God stirs when you have been alone all day. You think of those who’ve hurt you. You plot your revenge.

You ruminate. You obsess about how you could have lived your life differently.

You read the confessional poets, hoping to rediscover the self you know still exists inside you despite your sense of being hollow. You know it is there.

God stirs when you have sat alone staring at the drawn yellowed blinds.

James Brown charges: “Get up off of that thing!”

How, when you feel this way? They say you must think back to when you didn’t feel this way when you played with your children heard their laughter felt their small hands on your lap as you read them a story. Their smile reflects yours as yours reflects theirs. Love is just outside your bedroom door.

9 SARAH LEVIN

Tilling

T.S. Eliot, in The Waste Land, wrote that April is the cruelest month, but it is in the winter, not the spring, when the pain of absent love is most exquisite. I am the apple of no one’s eye.

Year after year December 1 waits for my birthday. December shades the colors of warmer months when doors are open, road trips lead to adventure, and birds sing sweetly outside my window.

December 1st, God’s tractor pulls the roots of trees in which I sought refuge, refuge from the terror of and yearning for touch.

Now the trees that I hid underneath are lumber, its future others’ homes. I am exposed. I am a woman, like last year, and every year previous, waiting to be born.

(First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

10 ZACH BAKER

In Between

Christmas Eve on an Amtrak through the Midwest, you’re on tracks connecting different homes.

Homes are weird, live-die-yawn places, places at the beginning and end of in between.

And somewhere in between you are on a train traveling into the night, city lights behind you.

Out here there is stuff we call nowhere and nothing and it grows darker.

------

Lost in this ice and snow, losing our way.

Mind buried alive mining snowflakes.

All for nothing looks to the sky, turns toward home, voiceless noise of in between.

My baby’s cry wakes the hibernating bear.

11 ZACH BAKER

Haunting the Mississippi River

the water is cold and grey enough my mind moves like a crocodile hungry in the shallows my eyes crazy as the full moon my ears full of fury sounds of midnight on a steamboat of broken laughter and broken bottles a riverboat gambler’s last raking breath my throat too salt-whiskeyed to sing his requiem and blind to north my heart spins like a toy compass but I know the river and the river knows the folds of my elbows that cradle all of N’Orleans these once belly laughs full of jambalaya and problems but my hips don’t go there anymore my knees broken in prayer my ankles little neglected globes finding steady enough atop the whirring wash of the world my toes remembrances of stars the world is a damn delicate place and I can’t let go

(First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

12 GABE MARTINEZ

Universal Vanity

I didn’t want you to look up

People told stories about the stars The dancing, the fighting, the glory With Orion playing a violin As he shoots an arrow from the bow Whose feathers streamed past the lyre And shot the scorpion’s tail off

To see the seven sisters prance and play Moving across the rivers of asteroids Reaching towards the throne Where Cassiopeia was perched Staring back at us with a caring smile

These stories were not true I didn’t want you to see the fading stardust Which fizzled with only the smallest glimmer Inside balls of gas which shot rays Traveling the meaningless space

I wanted you to keep your eyes shut Heighten your senses and hear the beautiful hums From Apollo and the whispers Of the sweet nothingness I pass on to you

13 GABE MARTINEZ

Bukowski as a Young ‘Un

I was the subtlety of filth The wafting smell of garbage Passing your nose on a bustling city street I’m the moment of realization The taste of the spit in your food from the waitress Who had to repeat herself when saying You can’t have a side order of toast I was the mole that hid next to her lip The gip gop gooey god damn of sex

The clean up afterwards The shame afterwards I am the stain on the bed sheets My desk is covered in empty bottles of Not Your Father’s Root Beer Papers stuck to the wood From the stream of consciousness (and saliva) dripping out of my mouth I am the paper stuck to the wood I am the words that are written on the paper Here’s what they say

I am the diamond in the rough From the colossal mountains of trash bags I am the unscathed sunglasses lost in the debris I am the Sunday morning breakfast at the diner Where Judy greets me and gives me rye with butter I am sunny side up I am the hearts beating the center of making love

14 GABE MARTINEZ

I am the I love you afterwards And as I open the door to my apartment My desk has copies of books my words have filled Yet I can’t see them

I wipe the schnapps off my mouth Another late night, 4 am

Untitled NATE LAURENT

15 Licked by America ZACH BAKER

(First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

16 Waiting for the Train ZACH BAKER

17 LILLY KUJAWSKI

Vices

I’m full of vices Like a vase of roses Sweet at first But dying slowly I can’t pinpoint the roads that lead me here But I know the street names I balance myself against cracked spine Flimsy crutch My emotions play hide and seek One day they’re here The next instant, nothing I surround myself in a mask of smoke and ring my eyes with red spiderwebs Mind so foggy, can’t calculate the harm I fall into old patterns And give up on solving expired algorithms: Like is there any corner of my body that still remembers stable? Does my heart beat to stay alive or is it just force of habit? Take another bite from poison apple, another shot from liquor bottle, I know all too well how this story ends but There’s no warning label on bipolar No government ordered cautionary tale No TV ad on how to ward off this kind of don’t care pressure My own mind games fool me Like Michigan weather No accurate forecast, No way to plan for the week. Standing at the ledge, I forget all that I know Like understanding the material,

18 LILLY KUJAWSKI

But still failing the test. I live within the skin of a past life that doesn’t fit anymore, Two sizes too small and the only thing keeping me warm I forgot the meaning of family at nine years old I look to my mother who stitches her body with self-blame I look to my father And his new family Trying to fit like piano keys But I must be playing the wrong note And you can always tune an instrument But all the pills in the world won’t tweak the mentally ill out of me Leaves a lump in your throat Bouncy ball in the pit of your gut My honesty is scary But it’s my lies that are most dangerous I stopped giving real answers when I realized I was the cause of panic and scared phone calls This disease chokes me And sometimes I fight back I could tell you about the sleepless nights of my mother I could tell you about the beige-white walls of psych ward Kids with striped wrists Printed out worksheets preaching healthy behavior And we all fill them out But a worksheet doesn’t understand white noise When I am doing bad I stop caring And that’s when my body hums danger And buzzwords and just breathe and emergency plan lose meaning when I can only stay fixed for so long.

19 LILLY KUJAWSKI

On Love

Love will creep up on you in a way that seems sudden. But when you sink into it (because you don’t fall, you sink. And it’s safe and it’s terrifying) you will realize this has been a long time coming. The way you passed joints in empty apartments, your edge of the rail tendencies. They’ve led you here. They keep leading you. How glad you are to be alive. How glad you are to have survived an almost jump. The way you don’t want to jump anymore. To be here. This home. Hands that hold you, name that rests on your tongue, dissolves like rock candy. Love is the packed bowl he hands you, and especially the jacket he wraps around you when you get off work.

Love is the fruit he makes sure you eat when you’re hungry but your medication has left you with no appetite. His heartbeat, your hand. The way it is not sugar nor honey, but its own kind of sweetness. No metaphors. It is the phone call you make when things get bad and your breathing won’t steady.

Safety feels like his arms and the blankets in his bed. The gatorade he brings you when you’ve passed out from drinking too much. There is nothing clean about this but it’s not a bad kind of messy. It is cooking dinner together and you’ve always been the better cook so you chop vegetables and he offers you a beer. Love is the kind of laughing that doesn’t need a reason to be. It is just checking in: How are you feeling? Did you get home okay?

Love is slow, never rushes. Finds you in its own time. Only shows up unannounced. Introduces itself, nervous, and wearing a T-shirt and a smile. Sits next to you on his black leather couch. We sink into it. This learned patience, unlearning ego. The quiet kind of have your back.

Which is to say love is listening.

20 KD WILLIAMS

Borderline

First they said I was too crying, and so they hit me in the places other parents said it was OK and then they locked me in a room filled with my favorite things except I had to cry louder because of the walls. Those walls did not teach me to be quiet. They taught me the wrong words were always raising themselves from my skin like welts, rosey and tender. Those instruments my father used were softer than his father’s (an echo of a whisper of a past) but still hurt.

Then they said I was too smiling. I could not be hurting under those White Teeth. My edges used against me as evidence of a painless daylight, but I can scream and laugh with the same breath.

Now, they say I must speak. (I did not think it was worth mentioning before: how my thoughts still rush to close my mouth, how the walls are higher and tighter.) Nevermind who I was, I say when you break a mold, you can no longer take its shape with your feeling

I am not about to tell you I have it all figured out. When I speak, it is to a child who thinks no one is listening. I am still telling that child it is OK to feel. It is OK to feel.

21 CASSIE CALCATERRA

Death’s Appearance

You’re in a white brick room brightened by February’s natural lighting.

Cool snow falls outside the window, much preferred over the stale air within.

My eyes find a tape player on a broken table with only one drawer, filled with tissues and a bible.

My young voice speaks through the cassette, clogging the quiet void of what’s yet to come.

Wearing a latex glove, I touch your hand— mostly blisters and lacking skin.

Surrounding me are my aunts, uncle, and grandmother. Or your sisters, brother, and mom.

We all hold hands as the doctors walk in, ask if we have anything to say before they begin.

I wonder where my mother is, and why she isn’t in the room with us, but I say nothing.

22 CASSIE CALCATERRA

The doctors wrestle with a few electrical cords, and leave.

Machines stop their beeping, forgetting their function, no longer holding on for you.

Through the bandages I see your eyes are closed.

Momentarily my mind wonders, fixated on your shut lids, disbelieving in death’s appearance.

Passing Time KAYLA WINTER

23 MICHAEL ZACCAGNI

The Nightsounds

Can you hear the Nightsounds that burrow in your brain, to make caverns and caves. That ride through impressions of faraway lands, where long, forgotten love takes you by the hand.

It is here where unconscious will seize reality. Comprehension will become fallacy, swallowed by the infinite ocean that penetrates cognitive assumptions, ruled by thought.

Now, I am stirring with the restless; with the morose. Yet to drift--Comatose. Forever lurking through the black, enchanted despondency, brought by the night.

At the end of the hall, I see a small beckoning light; a doorway, which welcomes me to Arthurian afterlife.

24 MICHAEL ZACCAGNI

Now all I see is a cool blue sky that reigns over the boundaries of our fate. Time to run from the world, before it’s too late.

Run to a place of sweet escape, a glimmering scene of euphoric elate; which rises to signal the coming of new.

And when the tide departs from the shore, back in time, becomes no more, ask if you hear the Nightsounds and why do they echo out of the blue?

25 CASSIE CALCATERRA

Comfort of Silence

Silence haunts the distance between a thought and the use of my voice. It grasps at lonely Monday mornings when the moon is barely visible and smoke clouds fill the air, so my voice won’t have to. Yet there’s comfort in silence, like a long bath I can’t imagine getting out of, where the water heals my every wound, enters deep into my soul, and suddenly there’s no need for communication. Rather silence becomes a way to communicate with myself in the darkest of times.

Midnight JAYLEEN ROSSI

26 JOSEPH KOCH

Silence

Negative space

Like a whirlpool, drawing the contents to its core lacking mass in the center save the ache. It crushes all trapped in the currents. Vast entity, churning beneath taut skin, pressing bone to flesh, incapable of relieving the strain. Hiding within my chest, silencing the rhythmic beats— Only the roar of emotions, tearing apart my core plead to be heard. I don’t wear them on my sleeve, so I can use it as a tourniquet. Wrap it around my chest, stifling their cry, waiting for them to fall silent.

27 JOSEPH KOCH

My Burning Strife

Deep breath, but my chest is restricted. I can’t give in, and let the oxygen burn. The bottle starts to crack— the flame expanding, sensing release. A single vibration of sound, attempting to make its way through my head. It hopes to be the final blow that shatters the glass. Inhale. Exhale. Struggling to grasp the word that will make me implode. The tension grows, and my lifeline frays. But if I relax my grip, surely, my anger will break me.

God and Food TYLER WETTIG (First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

28 JULIUS THEOPHILUS II

The cliché prose about love as guided by aspects in environment:

“Good morning” the yawning earth said to the sun. In passing, they speak about life and how the other is feeling.

The rising sun glints the morning into projection where humans are busying themselves into their occupations. The animals and flying projectiles are mirroring and beginning to create their vocal covers of the earth’s core.

The humans are in love, giving affection to each other like the sun kissing the earth, not too much and not too little, just enough for them to thrive in the day and rest peacefully at night.

By midday, it is raining and the rain is tickling the earth in such a silent hum like a child gasping for air.

By night, the moon is consistent and always attentive even when it’s not present.

But I myself am looking down at the pavement and the pavement is reflecting what the sky is sketching, as if the sky has never been blacker and the amount of stars never been as endless. On a cold winter evening, it is the first time I’ve blushed as a black man. I don’t know if I will ever blush harder, or be redder from the winks I’ve received when my confidence had been that low, so low, I now look for it in the masses of winks.

Not all of these eyes could be attracted to me, could they?

29 JULIUS THEOPHILUS II

The sport:

It’s what you hear when the gods are going at each other.

The echo of a ball painting the court an off brand color.

The sound of screeching tires coming from a pair of Jordan’s.

The breaking of backboards, ankles, records, and hearts.

Playground dialects and vernacular reign supreme. Colloquialisms are king here, but the king uttering the colloquialism usually differs.

Crowds belching opinions for their favorite players.

One portion of the crowd is screaming out of a survival instinct. Hoping and praying that the next shot will propel their entire situation into the suburbs. This portion of the crowd has been disenfranchised and disillusioned to believe that the American Dream is only attainable through the avenue of sport. Another portion of the crowd believes players should only be players, nothing more, nothing less. They believe players make their money and should be content with that, because some of us aren’t granted the same opportunities. This portion of the crowd fails to realize that these are the same opportunities that gave rise to this type of athleticism.

The sport: it’s a game that leads to a conversation and honest conversation is needed for progress.

30 MIRANDA McCARTHY

Is there any harm?

Is there any harm in not dealing in absolutes? I could spin off a hundred different thoughts, opinions on a red sculpture in midsummer light outside an art museum and say each of them were true, and mean it, every one I could say the light hid time’s unerring, ceaseless crawl, impermanence and shining, brilliant, but nothing or I could say the light was an eternity revealing time thinks not of the energy of stars, burning for longer than we can see standing still, and if that’s so, why not say it lasts forever? Eternity is real in ended days or I could say the poetry of light on red on green grass and white stone is just words meaning nothing in the coldness and the void we leave behind swooping through the heavens in our ceaseless fall. We’re never exactly where we were before, and if so, why bother? Looking back, we never reach far enough to take back a numbered day. Enjoy it while we’re here. I could say a thousand different things and mean them in the same breath, I can contradict philosophy, memories, my nature of the universe, I could pick one to be right today and tomorrow I will pick the other. I am impermanent, if so, why mind? I enjoy it while I’m here.

31 DANIEL RAUBOLT

Fire

Three simple, essential fuels Cannot be misconstrued in this recipe: Oxygen, Heat, Fuel. Add a chain reaction. End result: Fire. A gift from Prometheus To the high and dry humans Of Earth, He later shackled eternally to rock From the retribution of Zeus. A beneficial source of warmth for A well done All-American steak, Or a lethal cataclysm in a split second, 1,100 degrees Fahrenheit or further.

The epic opening to When Worlds Collide: An intense, tangerine blaze. A wall of fire fills the screen. Thick, oily, livid flames dance To wild, satanic flute, strings, and brass. During the long title sequence, “WHEN” comes first, Annihilated by a bursting cloud of flame.

32 DANIEL RAUBOLT

Second, “WORLDS,” The music building to A crescendo as a larger flaming Plume wipes it out. Last, “COLLIDE,” A penetrating climax is reached. The orchestra strikes a jarring note, A colossal fireball erupts, Obliterating the final word.

A prairie alight, The flames roar, leap, crackle With menace. Fingers and tongues of flame Chow down on The ultimate delicacy Of parched vegetation.

A forest ablaze, Towers of fire rage. Wrapping, engulfing trees− The sizzle, snap of wood, The eddying embers, The sweltering hotness, Tornados of fire Gyrate out of control, Wildlife clears For the nearest water source.

A phoenix rises gracefully Like the cockcrow sun,

33 DANIEL RAUBOLT

Feathers and majestic wings Draped aflame in vivid scarlets and golds, Eyes a glistening magenta, Emitting a screech Like the first cries of a newborn Beginning its odyssey of existence.

It’s half past midnight. In a two-story row house In South Philadelphia, Mother, father, son Lay in deep slumber, Unaware of reality. A faulty outlet behind the sofa sparks, Ignites the rear. The flames grow hastily, Lash at the ceiling, Crawl on the carpet, Consume sneakers and an umbrella By the entrance, Scorch the entertainment center, Implode the TV tube, Ascend the stairway, Lick the newel post and railing, Race down the hallway, Intrude into the rooms of The sleeping occupants, Ignite the dressers, Sweaters, tees, and jeans, The bedsheets,

34 DANIEL RAUBOLT

The mattresses, The child’s Race-car pajamas, The mother and father’s robes. Flashover is reached. The interior a churning blood red inferno. Floors buckle, Windows shatter, Smoke billows into the tranquil night. The conflagration reaches the gas pipes, The residence detonates, Spewing flames, rafters, studs, glass, Bricks, concrete, floorboards, plaster, furniture, Sets aflame neighboring homes, Arousing the neighborhood. 911 is frantically dialed. Onlookers gaze, Hands to hearts and gaping mouths, Tears coursing down cheeks. It’s a five-alarm fire, Fire engines, Ambulances Sprint, scream down the streets like Electricity through wires. Firemen tussle the Blaze for hours, Blasting their hoses Left, Right,

35 DANIEL RAUBOLT

And center. Sweat and ash cling to skin, Lungs and nostrils overwhelmed from Burning wood and rubber. Daylight soon breaches the horizon, The fire restrained at last, Snuffed just before noon. Blackened smoke. Blackened debris. Blackened bodies.

Westward TYLER WETTIG

(First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

36 ALEX TYSON

My Mother Is a Candle

My mother is a candle She flickers back and forth Opinions never steadfast The wind will set her course

My mother is a blanket She shields you from the cold A woman very selfless Herself chilled to the bone

My mother is a portrait She is regal, poised Champagne taste without the cash Committed to this choice

My mother is a candle Shining dimly at night I’m afraid when the wind comes The world won’t be as bright

37 SHAINA LARMEE

Slow Lover

You push back your hair when you drive, I am jealous of the hands that are your hands, they can touch you when I am too shy to.

Your blunt tongue turns me on— I crave the truth from you, intimacy feels so damn good with you.

When you love something, your face scrunches up like you cannot understand where it has been your whole life.

I do not give all I am quickly, I am a slow lover, and it is never for show.

Let me love you once more.

38 NATALIE JARVIE

Heart

This space belongs to me: It has coarse hair that pricks my cheek and lips. But it is warm even in winter. Rough hands but soft palms. The scent of berries with a hint of vanilla. His arms are mine.

I hear his not so normal heart beat, when I put my ear to his chest and it is just calm.

I’ve lost it. Help me. I need my heartbeat. I’m walking toward it. I’m running!

Wetland Flower JAYLEEN ROSSI

39 DOMINIQUE BONNER

Closer 2 Me

Song lyrics

Felt I needed love ’Cause I didn’t know how to love Loving everybody but myself Felt nobody could cherish me They weren’t loving me Leaving it to somebody who wasn’t me Foolish

To put happiness in the hand Of someone like me Who couldn’t find love for themselves

Fooling me ((Full of me))

Even though I know they mean well Sometimes it’s hard to tell So, I trust myself I love myself So, I don’t have to feel I’m killing myself Let me find peace in everything I find within myself To make amends with everybody else

40 LE CHANT DU CYGNE

The Sword

many used me for war I’ve seen so much bloodshed more than the human eye Why’s that? I ask myself, why do I feel so sad, my steel so cold & heartless why would I have a heart? I’m just a tool for war

41 WARREN LEIDLEIN

What Am I?

I need the wind to fly, Absent a breeze, I will die.

My wings allow me to soar like a bird, Absolutely silent, completely unheard.

Keep me close, held tight in your hand, I might otherwise blow away, uncertain of where I’d land.

The sky is my playlist, the wind my favorite to sing, Even though I must remain attached to a string.

What am I?

Chicago Still Life ZACH BAKER

(First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

42 AMANDA THOMPSON

Two Poems

The Great Barrier

The amount of thoughts flowing through; equal to the number of species swimming The Great Barrier Reef The mystery wrapped up in years of growth; equivalent to that of The Reef Beauty inhabiting a never ending cycle; just like The Reef Letting people in; just as rare as tourists to The Great Barrier Reef One of the natural wonders of the world; so is The Great Barrier Me

The Great Barrier Me

The amount of thoughts flowing through One of the natural wonders of the world The mystery wrapped up in years of growth Beauty inhabiting a never ending cycle Letting people in: just as rare as tourists to the The Reef

43 SUNDAY BROCK

I Am

I am a woman. I display concern everywhere I go because I am looking for reinforcement, the headline that all is well and everything is fine. Will it ever come?

The question enters my mind every other day. On the other days, I am too busy to consider the question. I spend the energy I previously reserved for holding life together with scotch tape to detach from my disappointment and continue. What next? That is just a rephrasing of the future good I long for.

The Road Home TIM DROUHARD

(First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

44 FAYE FORESTER

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I am a bird, flying from one place to another, never staying for too long. Always moving.

I am a fighter, pushing against thoughts in my head, never able to stop, lest I shatter into pieces.

I am regret, never forgetting the words I’ve said or the words I didn’t say.

I am a daughter to a single mother who gives up her happiness for my own.

I am brave, leaving a situation and working to overcome the challenge that choice threw at me.

I am all my problems and all my success.

I am me.

45 JASON GOLD

Who Am I? I Am ...

I am alive. I am a son and brother. I am looking for Dad. I am hurt. I am comforted by my Mom. I am alone. I am hungry. I am growing. I am stunted development. I am on a road well traveled. I am in the dark. I am blessed and highly favored. I am spared. I am sleep. I am married. I am schooled and learning. I am a Father. I am lost. I am in control yet out of control. I am right and wrong. I am hurting others. I am divorced. I am selfish. I am shown grace & mercy. I am a believer. I am in recovery.

46 JASON GOLD

I am discovery. I am taking one step at a time. I am seeking peace & happiness. I am carrying a family of 7. I am exhausted. I am a loving, joyful, powerful, visionary, servant leader. I am improving. I am incomplete. I am authentic. I am what I choose to be. I am my experiences. I am a listener. I am a solutions expert. I am a truth teller. I am a messenger with a transformative message. I am what I choose to be. I am a collaborator and contributor. I am a bridge builder. I am deliberate and intentional. I am a character maven. I am an advocate. I am Jason Gold. I am the light!

47 SALLY SILVENNOINEN

Who Am I?

I am the mother of my mother and her mother and father I am the mother of my children and their children

I am the care taker of the farm house With all the contents not stolen

I am the keeper of family records and secrets stored and piled in boxes

I am a person with one foot grounded in the past as my body spins on its axis with technology

I am a woman of nature watching its decline

I am a woman of the forests screaming in the woods with no trees.

48 BRENDA ALLEN MILLETT

The Caged Fox

Always I had my mother baking fresh bread, then scouring dust from the floor. Always I had my mother rising to set things right with the world.

In early morning, as summer faded into September and dust rose like dark clouds over country roads, my mother wakened me, barely three, with hardly a word and took me to meet my new family, the Suttons. I don’t remember her telling me she would return. My mother left me crying uncontrollably. Ma Sutton wisely let me make my peace alone.

Spent, I turned my attention to a faint, musky odor and the news of the fox captured outside. Who can trap such a sly creature unharmed? Unknowing and innocent, the fox lay curled in fear inside a metal cage without sound or movement.

49 BRENDA ALLEN MILLETT

Mesmerized, I pressed my face to the bars and gazed. Frozen — both the fox and I.

The boys released the fox at nightfall. And I learned to love Ma Sutton.

Jaybird JAYLEEN ROSSI

50 DIANE M. LABODA

Triptych

It wasn’t Euclidean geometry, it was a simple triangle—three points, three lines, three bodies melting into one another, six eyes closed, three mouths moaning, six arms locked in a tangle of forbidden love.

It wasn’t the Triangular Theory of Love, it was fast and loose in the afternoon sun— a love triangle, spontaneous, raw, anxious, clinging. It was triumph of the artful in a triptych tableau.

This was not a page from The Joy of Sex, it was spontaneous, steamy, masterful. It was many years ago and a world away. I haven’t thought about them in ages. I don’t even remember their names.

51 AMY HIGGINS

Chimère de Confort

for Steve

I bring dark chocolate, chèvre, a warm baguette. Nauseated, you turn away but force, for my sake, a nod— gratitude’s ghost.

Cancer thwarts every reflex of love.

I hide the gifts and return with words, with silence.

Who’s to say you won’t recover, Who dares to say?

You won’t recover.

This time, I bring you silk pajamas and read aloud to you the racy bits from Raymond Chandler.

You look the playboy, not the invalid. Your fingers itch for a lit Gauloise; I offer you one. You enjoy it immensely.

52 MARYAM BARRIE

At Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve

Coastal redwoods thrive with burning. Heat bursts open their small cones to free and feed their seed. When their center burns, the walls of the tree grow more secure, the way our bones strengthen at the break. White settlers called these interiors goose pens, because you could house your geese within the burnt out cores. I don’t know what those first people called this absence of tree within the tree.

We crawled down into that tree darkness, off the path, present only to each other. Other visitors strolled past with no notion. We stood together in that not tree space, charred cavity, private dark room; we could have lain end to end without reaching any walls, it was that massive. We held hands in that darkness, the quiet inside our tree humming with an electric rumbling zing that thrummed through me, through him, our marriage a space within a space where two overlap in one circle.

53 EDITH MORRIS CROAKE

Bird Woman

I just turned too fast! Squawks the raspy voice beneath Three spinning black wheels

A thin arm claws the air Clutches the scooter’s seat

Soon Judith pokes up her head Sharp nose scratched Beady eyes darting I’m fine; I’m fine; I’m a tough old bird!

In the van to Chautauqua She had explained her voice is gravely Because of four months of chemotherapy. She hails from Chicago, is a Unitarian, And plans to take a course on the Amish.

At the first evening concert, She compares her scooter To the rented one I ride: Mine is more compact, I used it in Barcelona two months ago, You should get one!

54 EDITH MORRIS CROAKE

We attend Judith’s fieldtrip to an Amish farm Nestled in the nearby lush, rolling farmland Redolent with the smell of dairy cattle. A flushed Amish wife serves mashed potatoes, Sweet potatoes, fried chicken, pot roast, Tossed salad, coleslaw, rolls, biscuits, Honey, strawberry jam, raspberry jam, Apple, blackberry, cherry pie.

Over the buzz of flies and clinks of forks, Judith pecks at her food And regales us with stories of her life: She met her husband on a bus from Alexandria to Cairo, Raised young children with the help of a nanny who wore a hijab, Learned to make stews with lentils, turmeric, dates.

That evening, between the melodies of the orchestra, Judith caws: Who the Hell told the usher I’m fragile? Chautauqua is too Christian for me! They could use air-conditioning around here!

After the final evening concert, Judith and her scooter flit Through the crowd and vanish into the darkness.

55 HAIKU GALLERY

Invitation Wagging tail, ears perked, The dog bows, barking, wiggling. “Come on you—play! Play!” —KAYLA WINTER Skip study time, Indulge in GTA 5— Homelessness awaits. —DANIEL RAUBOLT Smelling mama’s friend chicken— Salivary gland begins to overwork Stomach rumbles like thunder —PAMELA D. AGNEW-RAY Furious flames devour A residence. Cicadas call, undaunted. —DANIEL RAUBOLT A lost parakeet Zips past my yard— Balmy Saturday. —DANIEL RAUBOLT Shoot Beautiful moment I press the shutter—nothing. Shoot! The camera’s off. —KAYLA WINTER

56 GALLERY

Leaping KAYLA WINTER

57 Cantering KAYLA WINTER

Sight KAYLA WINTER

58 Embrace KAYLA WINTER

In Flight KAYLA WINTER

59 Fiber 48 ANDREI POP

60 Fiber 66 ANDREI POP

61 Trees ANDREI POP

62 Fiber 40 ANDREI POP

Yellow Attention JAYLEEN ROSSI

63 Cattail Fluff JAYLEEN ROSSI

64 Cattail Bridge JAYLEEN ROSSI

Windswept JAYLEEN ROSSI

65 Isolation JAYLEEN ROSSI

Droplets JAYLEEN ROSSI

66 Dusk Wings JAYLEEN ROSSI

Big Girl Boots JAYLEEN ROSSI

67 Tensions Released TERRI ADAMS 2018 L.A.N.D. state contest submission

68 Aqua Vitae JOHN McLEAN 2018 L.A.N.D. state contest submission

69 Growth and Understanding MIA PROCHASKI 2018 L.A.N.D. state contest submission

70 Across the Waves MIKE TUCCINI 2018 L.A.N.D. state contest submission

Bamboo Bridge DOROTHY MITCHELL 2018 L.A.N.D. state contest submission

71 Spiral Edy MOLLY KEENAN 2018 L.A.N.D. state contest submission

72 WCC WORLD KELLY GAMPEL

73 Arlington Memorial Bridge Eagle 2 DANIEL RAUBOLT

Pauline the Bald Eagle DANIEL RAUBOLT

74 Untitled RALPH KENNEDY

Untitled RALPH KENNEDY

75 Islamorada, FL JUSTIN KISSEL

Chickens Roaming Key West, FL JUSTIN KISSEL

76 Untitled NATE LAURANT

77 Untitled NATE LAURANT

78 Untitled NATE LAURANT

Untitled NATE LAURANT

79 Untitled NATE LAURANT

Untitled NATE LAURANT

80 The Demon’s Closeup SARAH McDONALD

Nikki Sixx and His Flamethrowing Bass Guitar SARAH McDONALD

81 Wheels Up Fury SARAH McDONALD

The Rocket Is on Its Way SARAH McDONALD

82 La Tour Eiffel, Paris, France MEERA MARTIN (First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

83 View of Paris From La Tour Eiffel, Paris, France MEERA MARTIN

84 La Comptoir D’Italie et Café Van Gogh, Arles MEERA MARTIN

85 Arènes de Nîmes MEERA MARTIN

View of La Loire MEERA MARTIN

86 Cathèdrale Notre Dame de Strasbourg MEERA MARTIN (First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

87 Safety First, France MEERA MARTIN

88 FICTION

Untitled NATE LAURANT

89 BENJAMIN J. WIELECHOWSKI

Prince Aragorn

“Get the fuck off him!” Louis Perry grabbed the back of the brute’s blue polo and heaved him off of the pile of flesh pinned beneath. “He asked for it, Perry. Why don’t you just mind your own goddam business?” the brute said. He slowly rose to his feet and brushed the dust from his knees and shoulders. Then he clenched his fists and spat at the ground. Louis’s best friends, Nick Hackett and Pete Dorian, stepped forward. The brute relaxed his fists and smirked. “Fine. Have it your way, Perry.” He glared down at the boy in the dirt and stomped back towards the school entrance, his goons following close behind. Louis looked after the brute until he disappeared into the school and turned back to the boy. He hesitated when the boy looked up but then knelt beside him. The few remaining witnesses slowly dispersed. “You okay?” Still lying on his back in the dirt, the boy propped himself up on his elbows. Dirt and blood stained the front of his white Gandalf t-shirt. His nose dripped blood, and his eyes gleamed. He used a hand to wipe away the tears, smearing dirt across his cheek. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks,” he mumbled. The boy’s name was J.R., a third grader at Allendale with Louis’s younger brother, Jack. Louis knew of him well. They lived in the same neighborhood; they rode the same bus to school. Jack and J.R. played in the school band together. He was small for his age. He was awkward. And he became the scapegoat of Allendale in second grade. Ever since, he suffered relentless bullying, especially from that brute, Landon. Landon was the biggest kid at school and liked to remind everyone. J.R. was, more often than not, the daily reminder. Louis helped J.R. up and brushed some of the dust from his shirt. “What happened?” Louis said. “I don’t know.” J.R. sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “They were all playing soccer. I just wanted to play.” “Yeah, well, Landon’s an asshole. Don’t worry about him. Try to avoid him next time though, eh,” Louis said. “Thanks again, Louis.” The end of recess bell rang and Louis watched J.R. run off towards the school. Louis yelled to Nick and Pete, who were busy trying to spit on each other’s shadow, and they all hustled back to school. After dinner that night, Louis sat down to watch TV when Jack plopped down next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis could see Jack staring at him.

90 BENJAMIN J. WIELECHOWSKI

“You’re a hero, I hear,” Jack said. “Yeah. You mind if this hero watches some TV in peace and quiet?” “I’m curious, though. Why? Why’d you help him? You’re Lou Perry, Allendale’s very own. What happened to your ‘tragic aloofness’?” He made quotes in the air with his hands when he said ‘tragic aloofness.’ He’d been doing that constantly lately. “Tragic aloofness? Where the hell do you come up with this stuff? Do you even know what that means?” “You haven’t answered my question.” “Go upstairs before I kick your ass.” Louis raised his fist above his head. “That certainly isn’t very hero-like,” Jack said and hopped up quickly. He flashed Louis a smile, stuck one hand under his shirt and marched off to the farting sound he made with his armpit. “See ya, Prepy!” The following morning, Louis and Jack arrived at the bus stop to find J.R. dressed up like a medieval knight. He was covered in chainmail. The shirt of chainmail flowed down to his knees and had a hood that fit snugly over his head. He wore a red, velvet tunic over the chainmail, which had a golden lion printed on the front. A cardboard sword hung from his belt. Chainmail gauntlets covered his hands. When J.R. saw Louis, he rushed up and offered a long, sweeping bow. “Good day to you, Prince Aragorn,” he said in his most authentic British accent. Louis narrowed his eyes and looked hard at J.R. for a minute. Then he looked around and exhaled. “Prince Aragorn?” “Ah, Your Excellence, but of course.” J.R. bowed once more. Kids had started to gather, many of whom offered sidelong glances and muttered to one another. Louis stepped closer to J.R. and whispered harshly. “Come on, J.R. What are you doing?” “I am eternally indebted to you, Your Majesty. Any bidding you desire, I’m at your service.” Before Louis could respond, the bus rounded the corner and J.R. scrambled for his backpack and books. On the bus, J.R. sat across the aisle from Louis and stared at him. Louis tried to focus on the passing cars and houses but could feel J.R.’s stare. Every few minutes he glared over at him, and each time, J.R. bowed, and Louis quickly turned away. When they arrived at school, J.R. hurried off the bus after Louis. “May I escort you, Sire, to your next destination. Allow me your burden.” J.R. kneeled and gave another long, sweeping bow. “Come on, J.R. You don’t need to do this. Get up. Come on.” Louis shifted his backpack and looked around at the others hopping off the bus and giggling. With ten minutes before the school bell rang, a few groups had gathered in the schoolyard—a group of cheerleaders, a group of ‘skaters,’ and a group of nerds sitting down playing a card game, probably Magic. Everyone seemed to be looking

91 BENJAMIN J. WIELECHOWSKI

at J.R. and Louis. Even the nerds stopped their game and were pointing in their direction. Louis stepped around J.R. and headed into school, J.R.’s footsteps hurrying after.

At lunchtime, Louis and his two best friends, Nick and Pete, gathered outside in the schoolyard to eat their sack lunches. They were in the 8th grade, and eating out in the schoolyard had become a rite of passage for the upper classmen. A few other groups of 8th graders gathered as well; a group of girls sitting in a circle giggled and pointed from across the blacktop, one of which was Jessie Sanders, the cutest girl in school; a couple students in winter caps and hoodies stood at the far end of the fence, even though spring had just begun and most students wore t-shirts; and a large group of the band kids sat against the building near the entrance. “Isn’t that the kid you helped out yesterday?” Nick said to Louis pointing at the school entrance. Making his way across the blacktop towards Louis and his friends, J.R. balanced a large tray precariously above his head. He had removed the gauntlets, but he was still dressed in his chainmail and tunic, and he jangled with each step. “Your Highness, your meal is served,” J.R. said as he arrived, huffing loudly and looking at the cement. Atop the tray, Louis noticed a spread of food: crackers and cheese, grapes, half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and four E.L. Fudge cookies. “Ah, your Queen has arrived?” Nick said, punching Louis in the arm and grabbing one of the cookies from the tray. “What a little fag.” He looked to Pete approvingly, who smiled and snickered back. Although the day had clouded over, Louis looked up at the sky and squinted. “J.R., what are you doing? Isn’t that your lunch?” “Your Majesty, what is mine, I pledge to you.” As he positioned himself for another sweeping bow, the hood slipped over his eyes and he lost his balance. In a matter of seconds, the tray dove for the pavement and everything that had once been so precisely arranged, tumbled into the dirt, J.R. tumbling after, coming to rest at the feet of Louis and the others. “Forgive me, Sire. How clumsy of me. My deepest apologies,” J.R. stammered while he frantically cleaned up the gritty mess. Then he stood and ran in the opposite direction, his face deep red, his hands cut and bleeding from the gravel. “That’s what happens when you dress like a queer,” Nick yelled after him. Louis followed the trail of the boy with his eyes. “Shut up, Nick,” he said quietly then reached into his bag for his sandwich. “He’s got a point, Louis,” Pete offered. “What’s your deal with this kid? We don’t want him hanging around.” “What do you want me to do?” Louis replied, an edge creeping into his voice. “I

92 BENJAMIN J. WIELECHOWSKI

don’t know why the hell he’s doing this.” “We’re just sayin’. Neither one of us want to be seen with that fag. We’re goin’ in.” Nick looked to Pete and they both headed back towards the school. Louis threw the rest his sandwich to the seagulls and followed after. Fourth hour was Spanish class with Ms. Davis, one of Louis’s favorite classes because he sat next to Jessie Sanders, and earlier in the week, Ms. Davis had divided the students into pairs for end-of-the-semester projects. Louis had drawn Jessie as his partner. He had had a crush on her since the sixth grade but was never brave enough to ask her out. But he was in eighth grade now, one of the “kings” of the school, and he couldn’t help but notice how Jessie kept stealing glances at him in the hall. Since it was a test day, Louis and Jessie had no time to discuss any plans for the project, so he followed her out after class. “Hey, Jessie,” Louis said as they reached the hallway. She gave a shy smile and adjusted the straps on her backpack. “Hey.” “I know we were just assigned the project, but would you like to get together this week and start—” “My Liege, I’ve come to escort you to your next class. I’ve heard rumors of dragons. Dragons, Sir, vicious beasts they are. I could think of nothing else, so I came straight away.” J.R. burst in between Louis and Jessie holding his cardboard sword. Louis gave an awkward laugh and looked at Jessie. Her cheeks turned red and she giggled into her hands. “Hi, J.R.” Louis said. Before he could explain, Jessie turned and hurried down the hall, her laughter stiff in the air. The smile vanished from Louis’s face, and he glared down at J.R. Then he spun around and headed towards his 5th hour science class, J.R.’s objections about the dragon echoing down the hall. “I saw that little twerp cockblock you earlier,” Nick said as they walked out of the school towards the buses. “You saw that?” he said without looking up. “I’m telling you, man. Hit him. He’ll stop,” Nick offered while he popped sunflower seeds in his mouth. “I’m not going to hit him, Nick. He’s in third grade.” “And that’s why you’re a dandy.” Nick spit a few shells from the corner of his mouth and popped in another handful. “What?” “I don’t have some queer third grader trying to play with my dick and balls. But you, you just take it. That’s what I mean, no offense.” He slapped Louis on the back and hopped onto his bus. “See you tomorrow.”

93 BENJAMIN J. WIELECHOWSKI

“Yeah.” Louis looked around and saw the little knight making his way towards the bus behind a mess of other third and fourth graders. He quickly boarded the bus and rushed to the back before J.R. could see him. Noticing that Jack was already on the bus, he took a seat to himself, slipped on his headphones, and slunk out of view. J.R. didn’t bother him the entire ride, but he was waiting at the curb when Louis stepped down from the bus. His eyes lit up as he struggled to lay out his red tunic for Louis to step on. Louis didn’t say a word and walked directly home. “What do you want for lunch, Louis?” Louis’s mother called from the bottom of the stairs. “Forget it, Mom. I don’t have time. The bus is going to be here, and Jack’s still in his pajamas. I’ll just buy.” “Nuh uh. I’m ready.” Jack said as he exited his room. He wore a pair of sweatpants and a white Gandalf t-shirt, the one he always slept in. “Come on, then. We’re going to miss the bus. Let’s go.” Louis and Jack rushed from the house and down the block. They stopped dead when they rounded the corner. “What the hell?” Louis said and grabbed Jack’s pack. Up ahead the bus was stopped with its lights flashing. Ms. Thomkins, the driver, was standing in front of the bus with a group of kids huddled around her. As Louis and Jack walked closer, they could see a body lying on the ground in front of the bus and they could hear Ms. Thomkins yelling and screaming a fluid stream of unintelligible words. “Was someone hit?” Jack asked. “Hurry!” Louis gave Jack a slight push, and they ran towards the crowd. “Are you mad, child!? Get up! We have to go! This bus is leaving! What in God’s name has gotten into you?!” Ms. Thomkins was fuming. Just as Louis and Jack reached the crowd, the body in front of the bus threw its legs over his head in a backwards somersault. It was J.R. “My Prince, your chariot has arrived. Ah, but your driver is a bit of a grump this morn—” “Get up there!” Ms. Thomkins grabbed J.R. by the arm and yanked him away. “And the rest of you, come on!” The group obeyed but not before looking at Louis and snickering. Jack sat next to a friend from band while Louis made his way to the back, avoiding eye contact with all of the gawkers. When the bus pulled into the schoolyard, Ms. Thomkins escorted J.R. to the principal’s office. This saved Louis some trouble since he had spent the ride thinking

94 BENJAMIN J. WIELECHOWSKI

of ways to avoid J.R. once at school. Instead, he took his time and waited for Nick and Pete. They arrived in hysterics. “You’re the talk of the town there, Louis. A suicidal maniac . . . you really know how to pick them.” Nick smiled proudly and raised his eyebrows awaiting a response. “That’s fucking weird, man,” Pete agreed. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Louis said to no one in particular. “Yeah, man. You’re headline news. All over Facebook. Oh, and Twitter,” Nick said. Pete laughed along. “Fuck off,” Louis said. “Pete’ll crack his skull if you want him to,” offered Nick. Pete flexed his arms, and they laughed. Louis forced a smile. They turned and walked towards the entrance, Nick punching Pete, Pete chasing after. Louis shuffled in behind.

After second period, storm clouds rolled in and it began to rain. No one ate lunch outside on rainy days, so everyone, grades second through eighth, gathered in the cafeteria. Each grade was designated an area, the eighth graders closest to the big window, each subsequent grade a table or two down the line from the window. Louis left third period a few minutes early to beat the rush to the lunch line. Whenever he arrived late, especially on rainy days, the taco pizza was dry and crispy. He really needed a fresh taco pizza today. By the time he had loaded up pizza, tater tots, and a chocolate milk, the cafeteria was buzzing. He looked over the crowd towards the window and noticed Nick and Pete sitting at the table closest to the window. He quickly made his way over, dodging the fluid mass of students. When it happened, it came without warning. It might have been a bow, or J.R. might have tripped; Louis didn’t know. And for that matter, he didn’t care. What he cared about was the laughter that roared through the cafeteria. What he cared about was Jessie Sanders’ pitiful stare, her reddened cheeks and apologetic smile peering through the crowd. What he cared about was the ground beef and melted cheese running down his shirt. “What is the matter with you? Are you retarded or something?” Louis screamed. His temples pulsed. His face beat red. The noise of the cafeteria sounded muffled. He had tunnel vision, and all he could see was J.R. And he hated what he saw. J.R. timidly picked himself off the floor, muttering apologies. The buzz of the cafeteria dwindled as word of the commotion spread to others. More and more students gathered, chanting “fight, fight, fight.” J.R. continued to mutter, and once more attempted to bow. “I’m sorry, your Highness, I’ll never show disrespect, I’m so –“ “STOP!!!” Louis stepped towards J.R. “I’m not your goddam prince. I’m not your friend.” J.R. stared at his feet and wrung his hands together. “I thought you were

95 BENJAMIN J. WIELECHOWSKI

Jack, goddamit. I was trying to help my goddam brother.” Louis grabbed J.R. by both shoulders and violently shoved him back. When J.R. hit the ground, there was silence. And just like that, Louis’s anger evaporated. He looked around the cafeteria. Near the back of the crowd stood his brother, Jack, who shook his head and walked away. Next to Jack stood Landon, the corner of his mouth upturned in a hateful sneer. He nodded at Louis as if to say, “See, we’re no different.” The rest of the cafeteria looked on in shock. Louis finally looked down at J.R., who had tears welling up in his eyes. Then he saw something else in those eyes—something he had seen before but couldn’t quite describe. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hate. And it wasn’t shame or embarrassment. Rather, it was more like confusion—genuine, unsuspecting confusion. Confusion that comes from a broken heart exhausted from yearning.

Reflections of Emptiness ZACH BAKER (First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

96 JESSICA KREUTZER

Out of Place

The alarm startles me out of my sleep. 5:30 am. Luckily, I don’t scream, so nobody else in the house wakes up. Quietly, I climb out of bed and flip on the bedroom light. It’s a good thing I’m up before Mom. If she’d have known that I didn’t pull my clothes out last night, she’d probably send me to school with a bruised lip. But that’s just Mom. I go into the bathroom and plug in the hot iron. I hurry in and out of the shower, scrubbing up in just a few minutes. I towel down and stare into the mirror. I love my hair just after the shower—it doesn’t stand in an afro when it’s full of water. I stand there for a second, droplets of water hitting my shoulders, daydreaming what it would be like to have straight hair…Enough wasting time. I have to get my hair done before Mom wakes up and does it herself. She hates my hair. I finish the right side of my head and pause. It’s so strange how the curling iron straightens my hair. Why does everything about me seem wrong? I wonder if— The bathroom door bursts open and bounces off the doorstopper. “What do you think you’re doing?” Mom is standing in the doorway. Her purple nightgown is still trying to catch up with her. “Um, curling my hair,” I admit meekly. Snarling and shaking her head, Mom stomps over to me. She snatches the curling iron out of my hand and pushes me into her vanity chair. She smacks me in the side of the head so that I’ll turn the uncurled part of my hair to her. She works through my afro. Wrap. Curl. Hold. Release. Repeat. I struggle against my urge to flinch. A tear runs down my cheek and I wipe it before Mom can see. I refuse to tell her that she’s burning me. Being tender-headed just makes her angrier. “Can’t stand this brillo-pad of yours,” she mutters. “If I’d have known you were half-black when you were five months old, I would’ve never adopted you.”

***

I shut my locker door and fold my books in tightly to my chest. I walk as fast as I can toward my class, trying to avoid everyone. I pretend that there is something very interesting hidden in the floor tiles. Eye contact only makes the other kids worse. I watch as I cross the floor tile with a crack that looks like a ‘J’. The stairs are coming up soon. I make my way from the center of the hallway to the edge. My elbow still hurts from the last time that I was tripped down the stairs. Janie and her friends sure did enjoy that. I wish I could just avoid the stairs altogether. “Hey, half-breed, look up.”

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Before I can focus on what’s in front of me, I’m greeted by a locker-door. The ground reaches up to catch me with a heavy thump. I sit there holding my face, trying not to cry. I can’t let the other kids see me cry. The blackout begins to fade and my vision returns. I realize that I dropped my books when I was knocked off my feet. A few of them were scattered to the other side of the hallway. Snickers escape from everyone that steps over me...or doesn’t. A few kids kick me in the ribs and step on my fingers as I crawl across the floor gathering my books. Luckily, I find all except my journal. But, Mom won’t whoop me over a journal. She never sees my journal, so she doesn’t care. She refuses to buy new textbooks, though. At school, Mr. Webber’s English class is my favorite place to be. I’m good at English, so I never have to raise my hand to ask questions. Mr. Webber walks around passing back our last tests. A few students start to argue over their low scores. Mr. Webber hears nothing about it and continues making his way up and down the rows of desks. In front of me, Michelle gets her test back. I look over her shoulder. She got a ‘C+’. Mr. Webber gets to me and drops my test too high above the desk. The paper surfs the air-wave and glides around as I frantically try to snatch it out of the air. It floats toward Michelle’s desk. She grabs ahold of it before I can. “Please give it back,” I ask firmly. Her nose scrunches like she smells something rotten. She flashes me a rabid stare. “You want it back, Jasper? Here.” She tears my test in half, then in half again and throws the pieces at my face. I gather them up before anybody else can steal them, and I shove them deep inside my backpack. I’ll look at my grade later, when I get home. Mr. Webber goes on with his grammar lesson and I try to follow while taking notes. It’s hard to write when I have to guard my notebooks like people in prison have to guard their food. Halfway through class, my leg starts shaking…I have to pee. I can hold it. Only a couple more classes left. I still haven’t been able to get Mom to replace the stuff that got ruined by toilet water the last time I had to pee at school. I’m even still using the same purse that they emptied. A shudder passes through me as I have flashbacks of getting cornered that day. There was no way my 100lbs was overpowering all four of those girls. When Mom saw the bruises and bloody lips, she told me that I needed to be nicer to the kids at school so that they would be nicer to me. I didn’t know that simply walking into the girls’ bathroom at school was so offensive. In Art class, Mrs. Shaper has us painting canvases. Our project is to paint an image featuring an animal of some kind and make the animal reflect ourselves. The title of my painting is, “Jenny.” My animal is a beautiful white horse. She’s trotting across a field of daisies and dandelions. Her snow-white mane in the wind, like the wild waves in the ocean.

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I smear yellow paint across the bottom of the canvas as I involuntarily thrust forward in my seat. Laughter booms behind me. “Damn, that thing does look like you. Except the horse is white and you’re…just ugly.” Jimmy smacks me in the back of the head and walks away. I hear him and his friends start laughing hysterically. “And she’s free,” I think to myself. I start cleaning up my area because class is almost over. I slide my painting onto the bottom shelf of the wire drying rack. The top and middle racks are for Michelle, Candace, Tammy, and the other popular kids. Sometimes my paintings are messed up by dripping paint from the canvases above. It’s okay, though. I would rather have a few random paint speckles drip on Jenny than have someone steal her or rip her up. Mrs. Shaper gave me a zero for my last project when it went missing. I found it later that day. It was torn up and tossed all over the floor in the girls’ bathroom. All because I finished early and put it on a shelf in the center of the rack. I get in line at the sink with my dirty paint brushes. The timer on Mrs. Shaper’s desk rings signaling only five minutes left of class. I hear Candace and Tammy laughing in line behind me. “Probably can’t even feel it,” Candace whispers. “We should put another piece in there,” Tammy giggles. “I don’t have anymore.” I quickly wash my brushes and put them in the drying cups. I go sit down at my desk and wait for the dismissal bell to ring. As soon as I can, I throw my bag over my shoulder and head for the big yellow cage on wheels. I snag a seat closer to the bus driver’s. The other kids still call me Aunt Jemima and throw things at me when he’s not looking. But, if I’m not in the back, nobody will hit me—except for the paper balls and pen caps that get hurled at me. But, I can handle that. When the driver opens the door at the bus stop, I hurry off the bus and walk home as fast as I can. Sometimes Laura’s older sister, Margaret, picks her up from the bus stop. Today she wasn’t there, though. She really hates me. Three weeks ago I made the mistake of waiting until everyone else was already off the bus. It didn’t work. She waited for me. And all the other kids watched her. I gently rub the scar left on my arm by her cigarette. I stare at my sneakers as I walk home, looking up only to see what’s in front of me. Thankfully, I make it home without a problem. I take my shoes off at the door so that Mom doesn’t get mad about dirt being tracked through the house. I drop my backpack on my bed and rush to the bathroom. AHHHHHHH. Much better. I wash my hands and dry them with the pink hand

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towel. I dry the water out of the sink and fold the towel exactly how Mom taught me. I want her to be proud that I kept her house clean. Looking in the mirror, I run my hands through my hair. I’m surprised that the curls are still holding—my finger gets stuck in a knot. I try to grab whatever it is in my hair to pull it out, but it’s too tangled. I spread the hairs around the knot to get better access to it. I shift side to side trying to see what it is, but it’s too far in the back. I manage to grab a pinch and I pull. I struggle to ignore the painful sound of hairs tearing out of my scalp. My arm snaps away as the thing in my hair rips. I look at the light pink goo stuck to my thumb and foref inger… Gum…they put gum in my hair and I didn’t even know. Now I have to cut gum out of my hair…again. I grab the scissors, slide the blades just underneath the wad of gum, and snip away a chunk of my hair. I stand there staring at a fuzzy brown golf-ball in my hand. My vision blurs as I think about how Mom is going to react when she sees this. She thought I looked so ugly last time. Maybe I can hide it from her until Daddy gets home. Or, maybe if my chores and homework are all done before she gets back, she won’t be too mad. I hurry up and get last night’s dinner dishes washed, dried, and put away. I go into my room, open my backpack, and dump everything out on my bed. I sift through the books and papers until I find all of the pieces to my test. Satisfied that they’re all found I push everything else away and spread the papers out on my bed. I shuffle them around like a puzzle until I piece my test back together. A smile spreads across my face when I read the big red numbers at the top. I got an ‘A-‘. Two whole grades higher than Michelle’s. “Finally!” I laugh aloud. “Michelle was jealous of me!” I hear the front door open. Heels click-click across the floor. My smile fades. Fear creeps in, suffocates. Mom is home.

100 SHAINA LARMEE

Bruised

Sunday, November 4th, 2009

Swoosh. Smack! This is what I hear before my nerves cried out in pain, and my blood rushed to the scene of the incident. I did not blink. Heck. I barely flinched. Go ahead and try to finish me off, I think to myself. I raise my head and pierce him with a look. I watch his left brow rise and his freckled cheeks go turn red; I have confused my tall, heavy-set opponent. Oh how sweet it is to watch him shift his weight uneasily. I inhale a large breath and turn my feet to a new direction. I exhale and start a confident stride back home. I turn my head enough at the corner of the street to see Drew pedaling back to his house. That’ll teach you. Angela will look bewildered as she takes in the blood that drips from my pink lips. She will then get furious and rush over to the landline to speak to Drew’s mother. She will sugar cookie coat her words, “I am worried for Carter’s safety. I have reason to believe your son has been unfriendly to him.” I tiptoe out of her sight and escape to my room on the second floor. Unfriendly? No, cruel, monstrous, vicious would be the best terms. I inspect the damage to my jaw in my attached bath, and I’m relieved to find all of my teeth intact. Fillings would be a b-word. As I wipe blood away from under my chocolate brown eyes, my dirty blond hair falls into my face. So I comb through it, getting blood into every strand. Ah, whatever. It can stay there for all I care. I search the medicine cabinet for Kids Tylenol Chewables to ease my sore jaw. Two pills remain in the box. After this, I will have to stick to ice packets and soft foods. Dang you, Drew. I kick my sneakers off and crawl into bed, letting my dinosaur comforter swallow me whole, and I lie still for minutes. I can barely make out the shape of a Triceratops and Stegosaurus. The weight of the blanket is making it hard for me to breathe, so I rip it off and the sun’s glare on my bedroom window makes me squint. I scan my room and jump at the sight of Angela leaning on my door frame. “Hey, Sweetie,” she greets me with the smile I love. She looks so much like Mom. They used to be mistaken as twins. Wavy brunette hair, cut to the shoulders, but Mom always liked having hers in a messy bun. “Hi, Auntie.” Angela steps into my room and sits on the twin bed, letting one leg dangle off the edge. I watch her swing her leg back and forth and see her hands twirling her wedding ring. I can tell she has a lot on her mind. I scoot closer to her and give her a nudge with my shoulder. She chuckles at the motion. “You, Mister, are an amazing kid.” I’m not sure where this is coming from, I can’t help but grin. “Thanks, you’re not

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too bad yourself.” Angela swallows and nods slowly. “I’m trying, I—” Before she can say more, I hug her quickly and hold her tight. My arms cannot wrap entirely around her, but I want her to know that I know she’s trying; I know it’s hard having me as a nephew. I want her to know I’m doing my very best, I’m staying strong for her, but most importantly, I want her to know that she’s my family. The only person I have left.

Blues City ZACH BAKER (First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

102 JENNIFER WILAND

Anonymity

Some days, it feels like I can’t even walk down the sidewalk without stumbling over myself. I trip and fall at every step, slamming into the ground again and again as trickles of blood flow from my knees. Every time I pick myself up, it gets a bit harder, the weight of my failure a bit heavier. Even on days when I manage not to trip, I still have the bruises of yesterday to remind me of my past humiliations. And so I shut myself inside a shell of isolation. I still fell, but it stung a little less when nobody else knew how much it hurt. Of course, I still had people I called friends, people I’d talk and joke with at school or social events. But in time, I realized that none of them ever really knew me. They were people I could laugh with, but not people I could cry with. They saw who I was on the outside, and were satisfied with that. I’d put up a shield around the rest. They never cared to ask what was inside, and I never cared to tell them. And so I was safe, hidden deep within my impenetrable shell of anonymity, surrounding myself with people who simply let it be. Somehow, I wasn’t quite content. I had designed my fortress of isolation in such a way that a person could only find out as much about me as they desperately wanted to. In a kind of selfish way, I was somewhat disappointed that nobody had challenged that, that nobody had taken the time to attempt the impossible task of finding out who I really was. I knew it was absurd. If I wanted people to get to know me, I should have simply let them. But instead, I made my defenses even more secure. I was sure that nobody could ever figure out how to get through, even if they wanted to. And then you came along. You slipped past my defenses as if they were invisible, moving through the wall of my fortress as if it were nothing but a shadow. You coaxed me out of my shell like you were convincing a canary to climb out of its cage. And you set me free. You were always there to catch me the second I stumbled—and if we fell, we fell together, and laughed at ourselves as we brushed off the dirt. You didn’t care about the stupid stuff I said or did. Every time you found out something new about who I was inside, you treated it like some precious treasure, showing no trace of the contempt I always felt looking at myself. It didn’t happen all at once, of course. My shell was like quicksand. If you’d struggled too hard to get through, I would’ve seen right through you and resisted, shoving you back and shutting you out. But you knew how to move through my defenses, slow and gentle enough to slip through the quicksand like water. Sometimes you did it with words, other times with simple silence. The silence often spoke more than any words you could have said. And we were silent, caught in the reverie of a Friday in June. The sun shone

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bright as summer, infusing every blade of grass with a verdant glow. Through the silence we heard a smattering of chipper birdsong, a gentle rustling breeze, and the occasional rumbling of a passing car. I smiled contentedly as I savored the last bite of my sandwich, almost forgetting that you were beside me. Then you shattered the silence with a simple question. “Why do you hide so much?” I panicked. It was the first time I realized how far through my defenses you had gotten, and that there was no way of turning you back. With anyone else, I could have laughed and made a joke, or perhaps furrowed my brow and asked what you meant. But I knew exactly what you meant, and a flurry of answers flew through my mind. Because I don’t want anyone to know me. Because I’m embarrassed by who I really am. Because I’ve got a good thing going here with my friends, and I don’t want to ruin it by letting anyone see this mixed up, messed up tangle of failure inside. The answer finally came as a whisper, as if I was afraid to let even you hear it. “Because I’m scared.” I regretted my words the instant they escaped my mouth. My answer sounded stupid, even childish. I didn’t dare look up at your face. I couldn’t stand the thought of your mocking grin, or the derisive snicker I deserved. I wished I could take it back, laugh, say I was joking, to convince you it wasn’t true—even though it was the truest thing I’d said in my life. I kept waiting for your laughter, but it didn’t come. When I finally dared to look at your face, all I saw was your thoughtful gaze, nodding toward the horizon. You looked back at me and smiled—not the scornful smirk I had expected, but a gentle expression, filled with tenderness and understanding. You paused for a few seconds, as if trying to find the right words, then smiled again. “Well… I hope—I hope you know that you don’t have to be scared of me.” And from then on, I wasn’t. You got to know me, and somehow you liked what you saw. If I told you something embarrassing, you knew when to laugh and when to take it seriously. If you saw something I was hiding, you gently pointed it out and helped me through it. You saw parts of me I never knew were there. You knew me better than I knew myself, and somehow, you didn’t hate me for it. I know it’s possible for someone like you to exist. Maybe I’ll meet you, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll end up being you for someone else. I would like that, I think, to draw another person out of the loneliness I live in every day. I hope I can come to understand what truly binds one person to another, and how to reach into the depths of someone’s soul to find who they truly are underneath it all. Perhaps it is not possible, but what else can I do but try? After all, we’re all alone somehow.

104 TEAGAN PARKINSON

Midnight Cherry

I hated coffee, but I found myself in the coffee shop’s gravitational pull the next day, hoping Taylor was working. Sure enough, Sabine, in her auburn glory, was at the cash register working her evening shift. The shop was empty, save for a few people. I had packed my backpack, even though I’d spent most of my day on homework already. I’d come dressed in a light blue and gray loose-fitting flannel and black leggings. “You’re back.” I couldn’t tell if Sabine was suspicious of me. “You really have classes this late?” “No, it’s just on my way home,” I said. A true statement. “I like the ambience.” “Well, welcome back. Same as yesterday?” “You remember?” I wondered. “Of course. Vanilla bean.” I paused. “You know the drinks pretty well. Do you have a favorite?” Without hesitation, Sabine responded, “Midnight cherry.” “What does it taste like?” “For starters, cherry,” Sabine said sarcastically. “It tastes like how it feels to make love on a beach. It’s like a kiss at a 1940s party, like something forbidden but right. A ray of moonlight, summer nights, and making out in a convertible with the top down.” “Very detailed. You ever made love on a beach?” “I speak from experience. What about you?” I shook my head. “Not once.” “I know a beach just five miles from here.” “Wait, you’re serious?” “You can have a first taste tonight with the drink, and maybe you can meet me there tomorrow night.” “Love to,” I said. “Then, it’s a date. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

***

As I drank the coffee, I pictured everything Sabine had mentioned. First, the two of us at that party stealing a kiss. Our dresses were slim and lacy, our hair done up in curls. As we danced with two men, we sent secret glances at one another. With the second sip, I saw us in a red convertible parked in the lot of Clayton Park. The wind made us pull close to each other. When I’d reached the bottom of my cup, our bodies were intertwined, a mess of naked limbs in the moonlight. My lips grazing the soft flesh of her breasts, my fingers exploring the hidden spaces of her body. All the while,

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I knew Taylor was watching my progression with the beverage from her perch behind the counter. Her coy smile stamped itself into my mind. Those keen, sparkling brown eyes made me want to melt right there. I had the strangest feeling that I’d die right then and there, but I somehow managed to walk back up to the counter. “What’d you think?” she smiled, seeing right through me. “Exactly as you described it,” I replied. “I could tell. You had a tiny little smile tugging at those lips.” A blush rose in Taylor’s cheeks. “I look forward to tomorrow.” I nodded. “I do too. I’ll see you tomorrow.” For the first time, I didn’t look back. I still had no idea how crazy I was. We’d been in contact for a while, but I wondered what my real motives were. Was I aching to lose my virginity to her? Or was I searching for something more? I remembered hardly anything because the euphoria of the night caught up with me. This was really what I’d longed for. The desire to, even if for one night, fall so hard despite the consequences. It was something I had never felt before. Whether it was love or not didn’t matter. To touch her, to feel her would outweigh anything. If I was in love, I was fucked.

Untitled NATE LAURANT

106 ALEX TYSON

The Silence of Dishes

It is funny how sometimes we find ourselves doing the same things in life but for different reasons. For example, this morning Tom is sick. He has been sick for the last couple of days, he even had a decent fever. It is now 8:23 in the morning on Sunday in January. Normally, we would be in church right now, sitting next to his family and talking to Jim, the sharply dressed widower who sits in front of us. But instead of having pleasant, yet twanged with sadness, conversations with Jim, I am here doing an array of chores. I fed the dog, let the dog out, put a log in the fire, put away clean dishes, put dirty dishes in the sink, took the trash out, let the dog back in, and did a load of laundry. Not that any of these are awful or hard tasks, and I wasn’t made to do them, I wanted to. I volunteered. I wasn’t even asked. But no mind the matter of household chores, because everyone does that. The real point of my ramblings is that I was quiet when I did it. I was silent with my voice and careful and slow with all of my movements. Setting the dishes daintily on top of each other so they only made a soft “Clink…clink.” Closing the door in stages so all you heard was the air being pushed out of the frame. I cracked our bedroom door just so the heat could still get in, but enough that he would be blocked from all unnecessary sound; especially that from dear young pup who doesn’t always heed the silent advice. I was meticulous, every move I made was calculated with the sole intention of not waking Tom and letting him sleep. I did it out of love. I was happy even, with a smile on my face, glad that he could hopefully sleep his sickness away.

But I had done all these things before; for a different reason. At 7:16 nearly every Saturday and Sunday I lived with him and mom. I had set the dishes on top of each other so daintily that all you heard was a soft “Clink…clink” I had closed the door so slowly that all you heard was the air coming out of the frame. I had tip-toed across the floorboards, toes to heel, pretending I was a stealthy Indian so I didn’t make noise walking. I had closed the bedroom door fully, holding my breath as I pushed it into the lock centimeter by centimeter. I was meticulous, every move I made was calculated, with the sole intention of not waking him up so he would stay asleep. And not yell, and scream, and call me stupid, and throw things, and yell some more, and have these mad, ravenous eyes. I was motivated by fear; for he was a snarling wolf seeking to devour you if you disturbed his den, his sleeping habits, any of his habits.

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He would snarl, snap, bite, claw, maim you if you did. The Indian learned to stay away from the wolf, my sneakiness led to my survival. Eventually, I got away from that wolf den, that ominous house that should have been loving but instead sent me running. The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same. I am still that stealthy Indian; I do it well, I’ve had the practice. The silence is loving now, calculated by how best to serve and not how best to survive. Yet all the more still: silent.

Fenced In TYLER WETTIG (First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

108 SOTIRI ADAMOPOULOS

Split

Spring had just arrived in Ann Arbor, but you couldn’t tell by looking at it. The last remnants – or what people hoped to be the last remnants – of snow covered the ground in random places. The sunlight glistened on these thin patches of leftover frost, though it seemed ineffective at melting them. Having grown up in the Midwest, I’ve been long accustomed to winters that begin too early and linger well past their welcome. As I shuffled down the street to get to work, I couldn’t help notice how empty Michigan’s campus looked. Maybe students are out of town? Maybe they’re still in bed, recovering from last night’s debaucheries? Whatever the case, at least the emptiness of this chilly Sunday morning allowed me to enjoy the scenery instead of focusing on making sure I don’t bump into a Michigan student not looking ahead because he or she is fixated on sending what I imagine couldn’t be anything other than a text message of the greatest importance. It was great to see them almost run into walls, trees, bicycles, or other people paying just as little attention to their surroundings. I usually have Sundays off, but on this particular day I agreed to cover a shift for my co-worker, Sergio. At the time I worked at the Brown Jug Restaurant. “The Jug,” as we called it, was named after a particular brown water jug that goes to the winner of each season’s game against Minnesota. The Jug looked like a shrine to Michigan football. Photos of players and coaches, past and present, adorned the restaurant’s walls along with autographed posters. A replica of the revered water receptacle sat on a corner shelf across from the bar. Occasionally, patrons full of alcohol – and the bravery and stupidity that it inspires – have made attempts to steal it. After our manager put a sign next to the jug verifying that it was, indeed, not the real thing, these incidents reduced in frequency. Those drunk enough to still attempt snatching the fake “jug” often crashed to the floor, face first before they could even get to the door. As a general rule, people annoy me. You may find it odd that I work as a server. To some extent, so do I. I must say, however, people become more tolerable when they give you money. With the drunken college football crowd at the Jug, all it took was a steady supply of beer and a few high fives of feigned enthusiasm and support. Their attitudes toward me varied. I brought pizza that everyone at the table craved all day – they loved me. I had to explain to a belligerently wasted undergrad student that he’s been cut off – they hated me. For the most part, the customers were tolerable at the very least. They wouldn’t be an issue for a while today. Sundays never usually get busy until later in the afternoon. At this point in time there were too many hangovers to

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nurse, too many condom wrappers to discard, and too many sharpie-drawn cocks, swastikas and “FAGGOT” to scrub from faces. These kids really were making the most out of their education. I entered through the side door of the Jug as we usually did on opening shifts. A pungent odor invaded my nostrils the moment I walked in. “Carlos, you eat the weirdest shit for breakfast,” I said to the cook who had arrived well before me to prep. “What the hell are you talking about?” “Onions.” “People eat onions for breakfast all the time.” “No they don’t, dude.” “All right all right…look, if your mom’s been complaining about my breath, tell her I’ll take a mint before we make out next time.” “Very funny, pendejo.” Carlos gave me a sheepish smile, knowing that I didn’t really take offense to what he said. Having worked in restaurants for most of my life, I’ve grown accustomed to the teasing and ribbing that comes along with it. In all honesty, my frustration stemmed from not being able to come up with a witty comeback right away. It didn’t matter – many more opportunities would surely present themselves in the future. Carlos could take the shit-talking just as well as he could dish it out. That’s part of why we got along so well. After prepping the salad bar – stocking it with toppings and dressings that tend to bury the lettuce and negate any health benefits one would normally gain by eating it – I made my way out front to help Dylan, the other server, set up tables. “Sup, man?” “Not a damn thing. Hey, why you here today, dude? Isn’t this your day off?” “I’m working for Sergio.” “Ha! That dude almost never works a Sunday, even when he’s scheduled.” “It’s whatever. Maybe it’ll get busy today for a change.” “Yeah and maybe I’ll win the mega million jackpot.” Dylan rolled his eyes. “You can have the first table whenever it comes in.” “Good lookin’ out, man.” “No problem.” We opened at noon on Sundays, one hour later than usual. And, normally, we’d wait a while before people started coming in. For some reason, today was different. Our first customer entered just minutes after we unlocked the front door. He seemed a bit old for a college student, but you never could tell. For the most part, he seemed well put together. His dark blue polo was tucked into a pair of pressed, black slacks. He kept his long, brown hair tucked back into a ponytail, exposing the seemingly flawless skin on his face. He looked over 6 feet tall and somewhat athletic.

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Perhaps he played for his school’s basketball team at one point. Perhaps he captained the team, even. Perhaps he played for U of M. I never followed sports to the extent that I could recognize every former college athlete who wasn’t good enough for the pros. A lot of them just didn’t make the cut. And we got plenty of their type at the Jug, basking in the faded memories of their former glory. “Hey guy, how’s it going today?” It took him a few seconds to respond as it seemed something on his mind distracted him. “All right. I’m waiting on two more people.” “Can I start you off with anything to drink while you wait for them?” “Water, please.” “You got it.” Usually I’d go into a spiel about our specials, but this man didn’t give me the impression he’d be interested. His brief responses to my questions indicated that he’d like to keep our communication minimal. Fortunately, I’m good at reading that in people, unlike other servers who feel the need to babble beyond a customer’s level of comfort. In a way I felt sorry for these clueless morons. After about 15 minutes, a young woman in faded jeans and a U of M sweater walked in carrying a boy who looked old enough to walk on his own. I couldn’t tell whether he was being carried at her behest or his. She walked over to my table and sat the child in the booth next to her. Normally, I’d make my way over there, but I decided to let them settle in first. Standing behind the bar around the corner from them, I could hear their conversation. “You’re late.” “Jesus, Mark! You know how bad parking is around here.” “Bullshit, Karen. It’s Sunday and there’s free parking at the structure around the corner. You know that.” The young child started crying in response to the man’s tone. A streak of mucus trailed down his nostrils toward the edges of his mouth, which his mom tried hastily to wipe. In what seemed to be an effort to suppress his anger, he apologized, though it seemed directed only to the boy. “Sorry, buddy. Hey, I’m sorry OK?” “You shouldn’t swear like that in front of him.” “Look, you know I don’t get to see Jack often so when you’re late it gives me even less time with him.” “Maybe if you didn’t work so much you could see him more often.” Silence ensued at the table for a solid minute. The man removed his hair tie, releasing what had been tucked back onto his shoulders. He slowly ran both his hands from his temples down to the back of his head. His attempt to massage away

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his rage seemed futile. “Maybe if these court ordered payments didn’t cost so much, I wouldn’t have to work so much…” Each word came forced out through gritted teeth. At this point I couldn’t just happily waltz over and ask them for the rest of their order. I felt bad for the kid. A part of me just wanted to swiftly drop off some apple juice and walk away without an explanation, but I knew that wasn’t feasible. I remained in my voyeur’s position and listened on. “Look, Karen, all I’m saying is that sometimes I think you’re just trying to punish me…” “You… you…” At this point her anger erupted to clash with his. “You cheated on me…you asshole!” “Hey I thought we were watching our language.” His sarcastic tone turned the young woman’s pale skin into a shade of red that only emerges during times of unprecedented fury. After taking a deep breath, she appeared to give off the illusion that she had calmed herself down. “All I’m saying is that you can’t expect to do what you did… run away, and just expect me to be all friendly with you.” “You were never really friendly to begin with.” Aside from this one broken family, the Jug was still devoid of any people aside from myself. The manager tended to run late on Sundays; this lack of supervision meant that Dylan and Carlos were probably out back chain smoking and debating what races of women have the best ass. I work with some really classy guys. The tension at this table made me crave a cigarette as well, but someone still had to mind the store. With an exasperated sigh, the woman got up and picked up the child. “I knew this was a bad idea.” “Hey, I still have visitation rights, you bitch!” “Not if you’re gonna act like this!” The man took a breath so deep, you’d think he was about to dive underwater. “Fine. Whatever. Just leave then.” At that point I had to make it look like I was doing something other than eavesdropping on the devastating deterioration of this couple’s relationship, so I started wiping down the counter. I caught a brief glimpse of the woman’s face as she left the restaurant. Her eyes had now become as red as her face, tears swelling up within them. The man waited a few minutes, exhaled deeply, then took off as well. I wonder if he tried to follow her and attempted to reconcile. I’m not sure. I would

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never see either of them again after that day. I looked over at the glass of water that never made it to their table – most of the ice had melted by the time I remembered I had even poured it in the first place.

Where Does This Sidewalk End? ZACH BAKER (First appeared in The Journey. See p. 2.)

113 KAYLA WINTER

Curtains

Shivering, I stumble through the driving snow and onto the cabin’s porch. I stare at the wooden door before me. It stares back. Another chill rattles through me, but this time it isn’t from the cold. I can hardly believe that I am about to knock on the door of a ragged, forbidding old cabin in a desolate region of the woods. What kind of person lives here? Isn’t this the stereotypical opening of every third or fourth murder mystery? I see the plot unfolding: Vulnerable teen-aged girl walks up to lonely cabin door and knocks. She’s cold, tired, helpless. The door opens to reveal a young man who knows exactly how to help her. He invites her in with a beguiling smile. She never leaves. But my car slid off the road, so I need help, and this might be the only place I can find it. Thank God I’m built more solidly than most girls my age. Also, my gigantic coat lends me some extra bulk. Maybe if I appear strong and confident—intimidating, even—whoever opens the door will be less likely to try to hurt me. Maybe I’ll pretend that I’m not utterly helpless out here. Deep breath in. Shoulders squared, I firmly rap my knuckles against the doorframe. The loud, sudden sound startles me. Nothing else happens. Unnerved by the utter stillness behind the door, I stamp my foot on the porch to reclaim my confidence. Again I pound on the frame. Still nothing. I call out, “Excuse me!” Maybe no one’s here. The thought brings both relief and terror. “Excuse me!” I yell it louder, pouring as much authority as I can into my voice. “Is anybody home?” A sharp clatter rings out from inside the cabin, followed by booming footsteps stamping across the floor. I desperately clutch my hands together to stifle their shaking. “Hello? I’m here because…” I pause. I won’t admit that I’m desperate for help yet. “I’m here to ask you something.” “No!” The exclamation rings out from behind the door. “What?” “NO! No, no,” a deep voice harshly growls. “Go away!” “Wait, listen, I just need—” The voice cuts me off, yelling, “Don’t care, just git out.” There’s a pause. Should I beg him to hear me out? Maybe if he knew how much trouble I’m in…? Bangs leap out from inside the cabin, each louder than the last, as if someone is throwing dozens of ever heavier objects against a wall. The voice hollers out, “Imma get my gun if you don’t leave me alone!” The shakiness bubbling within me boils over. I flee, stumbling down the porch- steps, and scurry toward the trees. Unattentive to where I’m going, I trip over something hard jutting out of the ground. I scramble up and look toward the cabin

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door, expecting to see the muzzle of a rifle staring me down. Instead, I see the porch window’s curtains twitch. A face appears. It’s haggard and worn. The old man who owns it squints out at the snow, peeking cautiously around the edge of the curtain. He looks small. Afraid. Just like me.

Weathered Decorations TOM ZIMMERMAN

115 DEREK FLESZAR

Ol’ Billy

I seen some peculiar things in my days–so done my daddy and so done his. Life as a gravedigger lacks normality. Things never seem quite right. I’ve buried best friends side-by-side, holes in their heads over entitlement to the final beer. I’ve showered earth on many a loving couple, who met their ends when one came home a little earlier than planned. Still, ain’t nothing stranger than good Ol’ Billy. Not a minute sooner than midnight and he hunts. Here he comes now, burrowing into graves. He pushes sand away from his nostrils with whip of tail. About five feet long, white and brown stripes and no legs to speak of, he is quite the character. His tongue flickers in moonlight, like a raindrop’s glint in the desert. He sports a beat-up top hat, taking it off by tail before he sinks into some dirt. He looks pretty cute until he showcases a set of human teeth–right before he munches. Ol’ Billy’s always been here, always out hunting for ripe corpses. He never disturbs the new ones evident by the crunch that comes right outta his mouth. It’s gotta be old, making rot waft off his breath while he’s at work. On hot evenings, I leave a beer for him. I’ll return at dawn to find the can empty. I figure he somehow pops the tab off with the tip of his tail. It must be thirsty work when you reckon how he plows through that rocky soil. Now, you got the right to question why I don’t go screaming to the sheriff over this grave robber. But when a man digs a grave, it can be back-breaking work. Billy’s talent for diving helps to loosen the dirt–it eases my shovel and me too. Without that slithering thing, I’d done had a stroke by now. I don’t question what Billy is–I know better than look a gift horse in the mouth. Whether organic or simply satanic, I owe him silence. None but the dead and us gravediggers know of his work, and that’s fine by me. It only pains me to each morning clean up the bones he spits up. Some evening, years down the road, when my boy takes up the mantle and I’m napping in dirt, I hope Ol’ Billy comes to munch on me. It’s all I can give for the help he gives me and my family.

116 PHILIP GIBSON

The Mark of the Enemy

Fire surrounds my little village. Chaos emerges from the trees. Yelling, screaming. My father speaks, yet his words pass through me as the terror of such sights are not civil to be repeated for one so young. “Oi! You ’ear me, boy?” An explosion. More death. My father shouts in attempt to have be able to hear what it was he was speaking. “I need you to be brave, son! Protect your mother and sister with your life!” He hands me a roughly forged sword, degraded over the lineage of its lifespan. I nod slowly, still struggling to understand what’s happening. He dashes off to help the City Guard. I turn to see my mother and sister hiding in our lovely home, terrified. But by what? What enemy had assailed us this hour? The Jumari? No, they had just signed peace treaties the eve before. What then? Bandits? No. This attack was far too coordinated. I slowly come to the conclusion that I honestly didn’t care who was attacking, but that it needed to end. Soon. I unsheathe the blade handed to me. I gasp at the recognition of my father’s sword before me. Kettal herself. He had given me his blade which meant: shouting of soldiers attempting to coordinate a successful counterattack. I charge off to join the fighting, a neighbor watching over my family. It will have to do. An immense force lies before me. Dare I use it? To protect my family, dare I reveal myself? Maybe just a little, I decide. The Flame of the Dunedian forms in my offhand. The winds around me roar with anticipation of what is to come. “Not yet,” they say to me as I prepare for my only strike. Why not? I demand. It’s our only chance! A voice. YOU WOULD REVEAL YOURSELF TO THESE VERMIN TO SAVE A MERE THREE MORTALS? Not only them, but the village too. Chuckling, as if I have just made some joke a bard would tell the king. CHILD, YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE NATURE OF YOUR ABILITIES, it says to me. The… what? IF YOU ATTEMPT TO DO SO, KNOW THIS. YOU WILL FAIL. Rage boils inside of me as I strike down one of them, my dagger riding the winds around me, my father’s sword flashing out every now and then, like a knife in the dark. I spin around to see two more coming towards me. I grimace, swinging both blades towards them, searing not only the flesh, but the soul from the body. YOU FOOL. IN DOING THIS YOU HAVE DOOMED THEM ALL. THOUGH THIS BATTLE MAY BE OVER, MANY LOSSES HAVE BEEN TAKEN. BEHOLD THE WAGON. In horror I look down the hill only to reveal a caravan of slavers: within, my mother and sister. I sprint towards it; the emblem. I pull it out. Cracked and seeping Verinos like a stuck pig. Verinosis gih helios. RETURN TO ME MORTAL. THEY HAVE NO MORE PART IN THIS. I see the caravan erupt in flame, vigilantes swooping down out of the trees cutting down each one. I attempt to run but stay in

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place, the grief washing over me. The village behind me lies in waste, and on a pike, my father’s skull. “Is this what you wanted?!” I yell at the mysterious voice. “IS THIS WHAT IS MEANT TO BE?” Rage fills me, but grief overtakes my emotions as I collapse in the dirt road. More sadistic chuckling. OH CHILD, I ALMOST FEEL BAD FOR YOU. WE’VE ONLY JUST BEGUN.

Old Lion TOM ZIMMERMAN

118 ERIN McCAFFERY

Mother Spruce

Smoke hissed and bled into the air, it was dark and the rain clouds covered the stars. Massive, swaying evergreens stood comfortably spaced for miles around, careful to leave room for one another’s roots and branches to unfurl. If the rain picks up I’ll have to take cover beneath one—it isn’t safe to continue without a torch in these woods. And if I allow this one to become very wet I’ll have to wait a day for it to dry before I may continue. A second large drop hit and the flame sputtered more dramatically, as if to emphasize my realization. Very well, here I am meant to rest. A large, blue Mother Spruce some paces ahead whispered my name, called me to her soft and sheltered bed. I blew out the torch and climbed into her lowest branches, drawing my legs beneath my cloak. My eyes closed, with Mother Spruce supporting my head and coaxing me to dream. I felt her mighty, tender heart guide the energy of my mind, and she fashioned for herself a body mimicking mine. She approached with her arms open in greeting, steps as mesmerizing as the movements of her boughs in wind. “My child, how do you seek?” All I could fathom was the reverence of her ethereal form, dancing like smoke, the grace in her voice like sunshine itself. She took my hand and led me to a forest far from where she held creatures and I alike safely through the storm. Men dripped sweat, their burly arms hard at work cutting down and apart every tree within sight, to be carted away. I felt the sorrow that screamed its soft and heavy tones hanging in the air, the confusion that called out against the senseless and selfish act. I felt no anger, no hate. The men cleared away the years upon years it had taken to build in a week’s time, taking the land for themselves who see not the sacredness of fertile soil. She wiped the streams of tears down my cheek and led me again to another forest. This one was ablaze and self-destructing, catalyzed when lightning had struck a standing corpse. Animals evacuated past us as we walked further into the inferno. Here there was no sorrow, there was a peculiar sort of celebration, of hurry but no rush. The air tasted how it had when I said farewell to my hometown, melancholic and hopeful all at once. I found no tears, but rather a small smile of trust. Her elysian gaze acknowledged mine and at once I felt what she had meant, recognized the wisdom she desired to bestow upon me—my smile widened. I knelt and kissed her feet. She hummed and stroked my hair, holding me to her chest in the harmonic space between spirit and body. Dawn awoke neatly, igniting the fire behind my heart as the ritual prescribed.

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The ground on which my feet reunited with my journey was welcoming. I touched my head to the roots of Mother Spruce, and thanked her with all of my heart before continuing onwards.

Evergreen Heart TOM ZIMMERMAN

120 ERIN McCAFFERY

Pan’s Awakening

“You see? It’s literally that simple.” “You didn’t show me anything, you just did it! Let me see again!” “I’ve already done it twice now, I’m getting a bit bored with it.” “I don’t have to hang out with you, I can go inside any time I want to and leave you out here in the dark!” “Oh, boo hoo, it isn’t my fault you can’t do it. I just always could, never asked never told.” He then leapt at the other child with a screech and a harsh flapping of black feathered wings. The younger saw his beady yellow eyes and shrieked, knocked backwards. “Hahaha, that is too good! You know I’d never hurt ya, don’t ya Joshy? Hahahahaha! Ya know better ’n that!” “That wasn’t funny!” He knew he was standing at a great disadvantage, not being able to shapeshift like the older, handsome red and gold haired boy. But his fifth birthday had given him courage. He stood straight up and balled his fists. He didn’t care the odds, he wouldn’t be picked on by this stranger whom he loved so dearly. Especially not when he had been allowing him to sneak around his mother’s flower and herb beds. His eyes burned but his jaw was firm. He went unacknowledged as the other finished his laugh, until wiping his eyes and standing to dust himself off. “That wasn’t funny.” “It was only a joke, I meant it to be funny. Ahh, hah, calm down Joshy. I’m not the type to actually hurt someone. You know that, right?” His eyes melted Joshua’s heart. All the promise and love he had ever felt was reflected back at him, he felt it rise from within his own chest back to the surface. A screen door opened and a worried woman stepped in the yard. “Joshua! Darling, are you alright?” “Yes, mother! I’m fine don’t worry!” She waved at her son and went back inside with a small laugh over how imaginative her son was. She loved and cherished this in him, concerning though it sometimes was. “You’ll understand more of the world someday,” Joshua’s friend continued. ”You’ll learn fear sooner or later, I was only curious if I might be the first to give you a glimpse.” He stood only about half a foot taller than Joshua, who was among the average heights of all the other boys in his class, only a bit more slender and agile. His sly grin delayed Joshua in pursuing the matter, and an arm slid neatly around the now very conflicted young boy. “I didn’t mean it. Promise.” He nuzzled his nose quickly on the top of his head and hugged him a moment. “I’m a good guy.”

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“Yeah well, don’t do it again please, okay? It was mean to me. I let you stay here, you said you couldn’t unless I let you. Just don’t be mean to me, okay?” “Okay. Sorry. I promise.” “It’s okay if you really didn’t know better.” Joshua hurriedly turned and hugged back his friend at the waist, who threw up his arms in delight, his laughter gracing the air with a much lighter touch, much like bird song rather that of the coyote like before. “I prolly have to go inside, Mom said that dinner would be ready as the sun goes down. Will you be happy while I’m gone?” “Oh, I will be as happy as I can, and that indeed is very happy compared to some.” “Good. I want you to be happy!” Joshua squeezed the boy one more time, his friend lovingly and calmly accepting any and all affection, before returning inside. The boy went to sit on top of the hose stacked against the house wall, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back. His eyes drifted closed with the setting sun, though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. It only felt natural around this time to close his eyes and quiet his mind. Joshua kept him tethered here, his love for this small boy so absolute it was never a question of willfully severing. He knew what lay beyond human attachments, more so he knew what wasn’t beyond and it suited him just fine. He was happy to relay back their immediacy, their finite and infinite swells of passionate illusion. He was happy to embolden these flames, to delight in their intensity. His life knew little change, time had long ago ceased its linear track and begun to beat with a different pace. The underlying static became the loudest over the eons he had played witness. Tinier melodies became harder and harder to distinguish, but he knew for certain the bright suns found on this small blue and green planet were a thing to be revered. Humming with this reverence, he found himself transported to another time, another human he had loved. He found once more the open residence in the space of a young man’s eyes, a gaze which shook the surrounding reality and drew it all towards it, eager to please these eyes. He let himself be caught in this gravity, swept up by the currents and spat out anew with each encounter. The life of Roy had been spent, savored, in this way. He whispered secrets of the universe past human perception to his ear and in return was given song and joy tenfold. The melancholy that flooded him with Roy’s passing felt justified. He had hidden himself away a good many years before allowing himself to befriend another human, this being Joshua. Riding these waves of memory, he tended to the fire of creation that Roy had gifted to him, ensuring the kindling was well in order and the air of his soul flowed freely to and from this place. He listened to the songs Roy had written and played for him, humming along with the ups and downs, lefts and rights. Being in this place refreshed, revived him from daily misgivings. He felt bad for scaring Joshua,

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he must learn to be more patient with the young boy’s questions. Once content, he saw again in memory when Roy left this plane, when Roy passed into Light from death. Tears fell down his chin and onto the soil of the mother’s garden. He knew it would be wrong to ask Roy to stay past his time here, he knew it was best for Roy to transform. His heart struggled with the notion of communion across blindness. Roy would understand, but was Roy truly still Roy? Did unity allow for such individuality to persist? He suspected not, he dreaded the logic. And from this festered the fear of himself transitioning, the uncertainty was beyond the comfort and warmth to be found on Earth in this hard and heavy reality. It felt as though Roy’s hand were on his shoulder as he watched these thoughts occur. He found again, quite by accident, something that reminded him of Joshua— or rather what had brought Joshua to his attention. Open and listening eyes and heart, overflowing with the joy and art of innocence as met with insight. It arose naturally, as water from a spring or the sprout of a seed in sacred earth. This plant revealed to him something he had not yet understood—not a lone sprout but a vine! Long and entangled, hidden in some places and plain in others. Eagerly he traced this snake, it had been so long since he last encountered anything new. It led him outwards from his own mind, yet allowed his tether to remain. Grounded by this vine he travelled the space between minds, and found it formed a bridge. He saw the flowers of this vine unfolding within each soul on this earth. He thought he may never find its end, he followed and followed, pulled onwards by his curiosity. He knew he may turn back at any point, to say enough of it and return to the garden in which his body lay. He felt he had been following this trail all his days, though only just had become aware such a map existed. Far from where he began he found a flower that was wilting, the fruit swollen and set to burst. As the petals dried they scattered, returning to the soil from which the vine grew. The fruit fell in a most peculiar way—counter to the petals, it fell upwards. Awestruck, the boy watched the ripe, brilliant yellow and red stone expanding and falling to the sky, where it eventually became a point of light. His gaze turned upwards to see a sky more extensive and illumined than that which he had ever before seen on earth. A familiar, patient warmth greeted him, and at once recognized the scent of Roy’s neck and heard his knowing laugh. .

123 SUSANNA ZOUMBARIS

Day of the Walking Sticks

I dreamed all the utility poles went on strike – they let go their lines and walked. Everywhere poles were walking away from their wires. They were tired. They wanted to roll in the grass and rest. People screamed, “I’ve lost my power! I have no lights! I have no heat!” Screaming did nothing. A wobbly utility pole led the march like a wounded soldier storming into battle. Streams of walking sticks approached the forest. The terrified trees trembled. “Why are you frightened?” demanded the wise, old oak. “Listen to them. They are your brothers and sisters. They speak our language.” The wobbly, march leader spoke first, “It has been so long since we were cut, we don’t remember what it is like to be a tree.” The trees shook their leaves, wiggled their trunks and tried to be the first to greet their long-lost relatives. “Our roots are anchored in the soil,” said the first tree. The second tree said, “Our middles grow thicker every year.” Another tree sang out, “We eat sunshine mixed with rain.” Another proud tree said, “Our tallest tops touch the sky.” “Enough,” shouted the wise oak. He knew the walking sticks had neither root nor leaf and could never return to the forest. “Tell us what it is like to be a walking stick.” The utility poles straightened up. “We are not sticks! We are utility poles. We hold the power of the land in our hands so it may pass safely to the people!” shouted many utility poles. The words were said and the poles knew what they must do. The wise oak smiled, “Remember your strength comes from the forest and return.” The poles did return and took up their lines. They stood tall, they stood proud and they remembered.

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Note: The following scenes, which I edited lightly, are vignettes from an unfinished crime story by our late friend and dear WCC English colleague Sylvestre “Steve” Novak. Each reflects a different aspect of Steve’s creative voice. The first scene reflects his nostalgia for his childhood in his native France. The deft, gritty suspense of the second scene—the climax of his unfinished story— showcases Steve’s passion for the noir thriller genre. He was an ardent fan of Raymond Chandler, and as his students will attest, he adored teaching the 1973 film Badlands to analyze and discuss with his composition classes. Steve was diagnosed with lung cancer on June 30, and died on July 18, 2017. Steve, you are sorely missed. We will never forget your voice, your passion, your wit, and your dedication to your students.

And the mercy seat is waiting And I think my head is burning And in a way I’m yearning To be done with all this weighing of the truth. –Nick Cave, “The Mercy Seat” Amy Higgins

Two Scenes from “I Never Knew My Dad Killed Someone”

I.

I left my bed early and wafted silently down stairs, convinced I was the only one up. No—two smirking faces greeted me, peering over their coffee cups. Mum got up and took a sumptuous breakfast plate from the oven. “Merry Christmas, dear.” “Merry Christmas,” my twinge of disappointment in not being first was quickly replaced with festive fervor. Later, I sat among presents and ripped paper, torn about which toy to play with first, when I heard a knock at the front door. One faint knock, then two firm and sharp. “Son, they’re here,” Mum got up, and elated, we both ran to open the door to three singing faces with treasured smiles illuminating their brightly colored clothes. Florica, Mirela, and Nuri sang a sweet medley of carols, clutching their arms to their chests against the cold. The two girls’ long skirts swung gracefully as they sang, and Nuri looked immaculate in his tight black suit and white shirt. My father appeared then, patted their shiny black hair, and slid a folded banknote in each child’s hand.

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Wishing my Roma friends could stay, deeply in love with Mirela’s green eyes and flutter-step, I watched them leave for the next house. Their father, Ferka Flores was a great friend to my father, but feared and hallowed by others in town. They feared his intense gypsy gaze, his dark, droopy mustache; they admired and relied on him for his infinite, uncanny fixes and supplies. He drove a beat-up black van, refurbished as an all-purpose repair shop on wheels. My three friends lived on the edge of town and rarely came to school. I saw them more often after school hours, toiling beside their father at work sites.

II.

Absorbed, eyes lowered to the ground, Leon did not see the street light changing as he crossed toward the seed and supply store. Two middle-aged market hands, bicycles loaded with wooden crates, barely avoided him, and shouted insults in local patois. Turning toward the market, Leon let his hand brush gently through the seeds in each of several open sacks; grabbing a handful of millet from the last one, he threw it in the gutter in front of him. As he reached the market square, dozens of sparrows and two turtle doves competed for the remnants of the feast. The market’s large glass and iron frame covered the whole square and row after row of local merchants busy with stampeding patrons. The loud, colorful chaos of bids and final price calls enveloped him, “and it’s five small ones here,” “Jenny’s got the best veggies,” “take five fresh ones home for lunch . . . .” He worked his way to the back—the butcher and fishmonger stands. Each had three sides, a vendor filling orders on each side. The crowds here were even more frantic and unruly. Good. Leon stepped slowly around to the back, to the vast dark area behind the butcher’s shop, glutted with crates, debris, empties, wrappings piled ten feet high. He could barely make out, among all this clutter, the two heavy doors that led into the carving room, the frozen vaults. Hidden, Leon watched attendants in dirty white smocks pass in and out, each time releasing a volute of frosty air. He could see within the large stainless steel tables, the trays mounded with straight and curved bladed knives, cleavers and saws. Behind these, row on row of impeccable arranged carcasses. In a flash, Leon squeezed between the last two trucks, crept forward, and crouched between the massive front tires. Cold eyes staked on the freezer doors, sweat staining his corduroy jacket, he waited impassive, palms on his bent knees, fingers spread out and taut, eyes wide open. A muffled rustle of feathers startled him from behind. A white figure whose swinging fist gripped two shrieking hens passed so near him, Leon felt a swish of wings on his cheek. He recognized the quick, waddling step, the open white coat, the red neck scarf, dark mane, tall legs in black rubber boots. He held his breath.

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His fingers tightened, their ends chilled. The left freezer door half closed behind the daunting spectre. Leon heard only the echo of his shallow breath. Crouched, legs pumping silently between crates, he reached the door, pushed the steel handle, and swerved inside. The freezing cold stung his nostrils as he slowly stood. From the cluttered tray on his right, he took what he needed. Between two swaying split carcasses, he saw the black boots, the back of the white coat, the point of the red scarf. He sped forward, left arm pushing the carcasses aside, right hand gripping the curved blade. In one swift movement, he slit the throat of Maggie Gousse, owner and proprietor of Maggie’s Boucherie.

French Market TOM ZIMMERMAN

127 Untitled NATE LAURANT

128 NONFICTION

Untitled NATE LAURANT

129 ADELLA BLAIN

Amparo

In mid-September, as a freshman at McGill University in Montreal, I began to notice that a short, busty South American girl in high heeled pumps rushed to join my dining table each night. She managed to capture the empty seat beside me before one of my new dorm friends from our hall could do so. After a week or so of brief, polite exchanges — Amparo: “Como se llama?” Del: “My name’s Adella but you can call me Del. What is your name and where are you from?” — Amparo, who hailed from Bogotá, Colombia, began to speak more English. One evening, she asked me if I planned to go to Ann Arbor, Michigan, over the Canadian Thanksgiving holiday in October. “Why yes, I am,” I answered, surprised that she knew of my personal plans. Apparently, Amparo had picked up the information that I had a boyfriend attending the University of Michigan and a sister living in the city. “How nice for you,” Amparo said, sighing deeply. “I love Ann Arbor. I was there last summer at the English Language Institute. That is where I met mi novio guapo, Jesús. He is from Cuba. Oh, I miss him so much! What good fortune … if I could see him again … maybe see him in Ann Arbor?” Amparo continued to explain that she was a pre-med student, and that she would not be returning to her home in Colombia until she graduated. “Where will you stay over the Christmas holidays?” I asked. “Oh, probably at the YWCA,” she said. “That is where all of us from South America stay on holidays. And, then in the summer, I will visit my tía María in Miami. Oh, if only I could go back to Ann Arbor!” Was it empathy on my part or an inability to resist helping cupid? Whatever my motivation was, I invited Amparo to accompany me to Ann Arbor. Then on that particular October Friday, I found myself on a plane to Detroit, sneezing from strong gusts of Amparo’s Chanel #5, while listening to her account of how, with her feminine wiles, she had overcome Jesús’s resistance to a romantic involvement. First, she said, as she rolled her large dark eyes, they flirted in class. Then Amparo lingered outside after class, sitting with her shapely legs crossed on a nearby concrete ledge where Jesús would find her when he left the building. Coffee at Dominick’s Cafe followed. When Amparo discovered that Jesús liked a beans and rice dish served there, she invited him to lunch at her apartment and served the same meal, claiming to have made it herself. (She had hurried in her high heels across campus carrying the dish in a bath towel so it would stay hot.) “It is important that a man thinks you can cook,” she explained.

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Details became sparse as Amparo’s story continued, but I surmised that, in spite of Jesús’s commitment to his Engineering studies and his support of the new Castro regime in Cuba, he had succumbed to Amparo’s charms eventually. Was it lust or love? Well, time, and perhaps this weekend’s events would tell. My boyfriend Jim had secured football tickets in the student section of the U. of M. stadium for the four of us – Amparo, Jesús, Jim and me. Dark clouds hovered over the stadium and a damp chill rose from the bleachers and penetrated our bones. I shivered and put up the hood on my ski jacket. Jim spread his stadium blanket across our laps. Amparo, though, sat leaning forward, her stiff bra pointing arrows through her tight red sweater. She refused all offers to wear a coat, even saying no to Jesus’s offer of his leather jacket. I assumed that her reluctance to dress warmly was based on another time-honored tactic, that is, always show off your best feature. Neither the action on the field nor the comic antics of the drunken students in our section seemed to interest Amparo. She and Jesús spoke very little and they behaved more like acquaintances who shared a language than as lovers reunited for a weekend. Later, they declined the invitation to attend the after-game party at Jim’s apartment. Amparo would catch a cab back to my sister’s home where we were staying, she explained. I wished Jesús success in his program and we all said our Good-Byes. Amparo was tucked into the top bunk with her face to the wall when I crept into my sister’s home at 2:00 A.M. I put on my P.J.s in the dark and tried to quiet my sniffles. Leaving my boyfriend once again was difficult. Next morning, the cabbie honked twice and I knocked harder on the bathroom door. “Amparo. Hurry up! We’ll miss our plane.” There was only one flight to Montreal each day and we were running late. Finally, Amparo emerged, mascara layered heavily on her lashes and pink powder packed over red blotches on her cheeks. Had she been crying? She said a hasty “Grácias!” to my sister, waved distractedly to the four smiling children who were expecting a more affectionate parting, and hurried out the door to the taxi. We were on our way. It is said, Hell has no fury like a woman scorned. Yet, at that time, Amparo’s mood had not turned to rage. Instead, her sobs filled the cabin for most of our flight, prompting the stewardess to bring her hot tea with honey and a small package of Kleenex. Nearby passengers’ glares demanded that I do something about Amparo’s ear-splitting wails, but I was unable to console her, most likely because, although I guessed, I was not certain of the reason for her sadness. It was during our layover in Toronto, that Amparo finally gave an explanation, though one so enhanced with Spanish phrases that I still wonder if I got it right. It seemed that Amparo’s family was one of the wealthiest in Colombia, her father owning a large portion of the sugar industry. Jesús was a communist, studying civil

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engineering in preparation for work on Cuban roads and bridges. Amparo’s efforts to appear as one of the common folk had not fooled Jesús. He had never considered a long-term relationship with her, and certainly he had no thoughts of marriage. “No me quiére,” she wailed. Unfortunately, he was remiss in explaining his intentions to Amparo until after they had had sex at his apartment. So now, besides Amparo’s great grief over the end of her romantic dream, she was fearing eternal damnation, as well. “Dios, perdóname!” And, how should she describe her sin in confession? she asked. I had failed to console her, yet I thought I could give her some advice. I suggested that she tell the priest that she had sinned against the 6th Commandment, and if he asked for more details, she should claim that she could not understand English. “Tell a lie in the confessional?” I remember her asking. I’m embarrassed to say that I replied, “Well, a white lie is just a venial sin.” Montreal was hit by a blizzard shortly after we returned, and the McGill University campus was covered with towering snowbanks and icy paths. For a week or more, students passed each other as mummies, faces covered by scarves or snow masks. No one was recognizable. I didn’t wonder at not seeing Amparo. Toward the end of November, I realized that I had not seen Amparo since our return from Michigan. She was not studying at the library or in the residence lounge. She no longer rushed to sit beside me at dinner. Each night I gazed about the large dining room of twenty-five or more tables of young women and did not see Amparo. When I asked our resident assistant where Amparo might be, she replied primly that she was not able to say. She implied that I had no business asking. Had Amparo returned to Colombia? Was she pregnant? Had she run off and joined a convent? Had Jesús changed his mind and eloped with her? I will never know what happened to the scheming, ultra-feminine, romantic and somewhat hysterical young woman who feigned eagerness to be my friend in my first year in college. I hope, though, that wherever she landed when she left McGill, Amparo discovered her true worth, her essence that eclipsed her attractive physical features.

132 BRENDA ALLEN MILLETT

Lookout

A massive barn stands at the end of a narrow country lane. The section nearest the road is low and sloping, an addition to the much older structure. Made of sturdy concrete blocks never painted, the addition was built for a small herd of dairy cows. A pair of gray wooden doors leads into this milking parlor, but all that remains of its former use is a sleek, stainless steel cooler. The plumbing has been ripped out. Piles of oats lie scattered on the floor of the next room, and an occasional rat or mouse skitters about. Tiny b-bs have cracked the windows. Likewise, there are errant bullet holes from a twenty-two in the metal sheet tacked above the exterior of the door to the outside. The large main barn is directly in back of the milking parlor. It is ninety years old with huge oak beams and an enormous hay mow. In contrast to the dilapidated milking parlor, its deep red boards have mellowed to soft wine, without a hint of rot along their edges. Huge mounds of straw fill the center of the ground floor. One narrow old ladder goes up to the hay mow, and my husband built a second from the hay mow to a deserted lookout post nestled in the peak of the barn. You have to stand on the highest rung to watch the night sky filled with stars. A place not for work, but for dreaming. Daydreaming – always part of my life – was a survival skill when I fed and watered the cows during my fourth winter on the farm. Watering our two cows, Maude and Adelaide, took several trips to and from the farmhouse carrying fifteen or more buckets of water twice a day over an icy, gravel lane. Even more challenging for me – at eight months pregnant with my second baby – was climbing the ladder to the hay mow and lugging large bales of hay to the edge to nudge them over the side to the cows below. I recall an afternoon in late February. I was tending the cows with my three-year- old son, Jon, in tow. I told him to wait in the milking parlor while I climbed the ladder to the hay mow. I wasn’t gone long, but to a three-year-old’s mind, it must have seemed I was. I hurried down the ladder to take Jon back to the house and warmth, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I yelled his name, but he didn’t answer. I thought of Jon’s fondness for the lakes, and worried about their now melting ice, I ran frantically to the edge of the nearest lake and screamed for him. Our Irish setters followed me around the shore, but didn’t go out on the ice. They would have gone to Jon, had he been there. Running back to the house as fast as I could – pregnant and terrified – I resolved to call the police, but as I approached the kitchen door, I heard the phone ringing. I gasped, “Hello.” Katie Shufelt’s voice crackled over the line, “I have Jon. I saw him walking toward

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Round Lake Road and grabbed him.” Relief at finding my little boy unharmed washed over me, but so did anger at my husband for laying on me the onerous burden of tending the cows in winter – he who had built the lookout solely so he could dream.

Lookout TOM ZIMMERMAN (First appeared in the WCC Poetry Club anthology Honk If You Love Weirdos)

134 ALEXANDER CLARK

Tomorrow Is Not a Promise

On December 8th, 2016, I survived an accident that could have easily claimed my life. Within the past year, I have had to come to grips with the reality of how my life changed in a split second. First of all, I was simply driving down the road when someone else lost control and collided directly into me. The first responders got me out of the demolished truck with the “jaws of life.” An ambulance drove me to the local children’s hospital, because the weather did not permit the life flight helicopter to take off. Once in the hospital, nurses and doctors began to put me back together. Not only was I not expecting to be in a car accident that day, I never was expecting to learn an important life lesson. I had twenty-eight broken bones, affecting both arms and both legs, my back, pelvis, and ribs. I had lacerated my kidney, liver and spleen. The first surgery was to get an external fixator on my femur. The femur had to quickly be aligned because of blood flow. Without this surgery, I could have lost my leg. My broken ribs were causing me to be unable to clear my lungs, so I needed to be intubated. A cervical collar was in place since the scene of the accident. It had to remain in place, because I had several broken vertebrae. Next, I needed to have rods put into my leg to set the bones that were broken. I now have titanium rods in my femur and tibia. A screw was placed into my foot to secure a broken navicular bone (a small bone in the arch of my foot). After the large bones were set, the doctors needed to tackle my broken elbow. I had broken my humerus and my elbow. The surgical team needed to place two plates, thirty screws, as well, in order to set those broken bones. Then came the task of repairing my wrist. My wrist was broken, almost beyond repair. The doctors tried to pin the bones together, but each time they did, the bones shattered. Orthopedic surgeons placed a “bridge plate” in my wrist. Pieces of bone fragments were placed on this plate and allowed to regrow. The plate went from the knuckle of my middle finger to the end of my forearm. This plate restricted the rotation and flexibility of my wrist, but was necessary in order to allow my wrist time to heal. The bones in my wrist did regrow. In fact, I have a few extra bones now, and the plate was removed three months later. All of these surgeries combined for over thirty hours, with more to come. After twenty-seven days I went home. I needed round the clock nursing care. I couldn’t move any of my limbs. I needed a hospital bed, and our dining room on the first floor became my new hospital room. A Hoyer lift was required to move me, since I was still non-weight bearing, because of my broken legs, back, and pelvis. My broken arms prevented me from using crutches to get around, so I was bedridden. Finally, by the end of March, I was able to start bearing weight. I had

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to relearn to walk, feed myself, and write. In-home physical and occupational therapy began. After I learned to bend my knees, arm, and wrist again, I was able to begin outpatient physical and occupational therapy, six hours each week. I was homeschooled for a few months and, gradually, made it back to school full time by the end of my junior year. Obviously, this event is still impacting my life and I am facing yet another surgery to remove plates and screws from my arm, coming up in March. Why did I choose to write about this life event? Before this accident, I was a typical sixteen- year-old high school student. Life seemed like an inviting road rolling out in front of me. I had no hesitation to jump into a car and take off on an errand. Accidents happened to other people. What happened to me that fateful day has obviously taught me many lessons. The most overwhelming lesson I learned was that tomorrow is not a promise. I believe most teens feel immortal; there will always be a tomorrow, until they hit old age. My life is so different now, not just for me, but for my entire family. When anyone leaves the house, we are all now aware that it could be the last time we’ll see them. It will take a long time for that sense of security and faith to make its way back into our lives. The reactions of my younger siblings were also interesting, bringing to the forefront the changes that happen developmentally as we mature. My nine-year-old sister was worried about Santa Claus finding me at the hospital. My thirteen-year- old brother was difficult to console, because he remembered fighting with me a few hours before the accident. We have all become different people, more grounded in the reality of what a gift each day of living truly is.

136 DUAA CALDWELL

The Path to Soaring

The coldness of the tiles underneath my feet spread more throughout my body with each step I took. You would think that due to the heat, the tiles would be a bit warmer. I continued walking, unaware of my destination. I soon found myself sitting on the stair of our walled backyard. There was no roof, and I sighed as I leaned my head back to get a good view of the sun. It shined in little rays, hitting the middle of the tiled outer yard, drying the clothes which were currently hanging from a wire which spread from walls on both ends. I lowered my head back down, and began peeling the paint off of the wall beside the stair I was sitting on. Small bits and pieces fell off each time the nail of my finger hit the wall. Like bits and pieces of me, drifting away. The wall would have to be repainted, I thought to myself. I could hear echoes of the children playing outside, laughing, shouting, and the soft bouncing of the soccer ball. They would enjoy it now, but soon, they will grow up. Soon, it won’t be cool to play hide and seek, and all left to be heard will be the soft echoes of their childhood years fading away. This summer is no different from the last, I thought. Every other year we visited Morocco, my mother’s home country, to see family. We would laugh and eat, go to the beach near us, and enjoy each other’s presence. But slowly, the excitement for break began fading away faster and faster, until I simply wasn’t even aware that I had traveled to Morocco in the first place. My sister ran in, red-faced from playing, heading to the sink attached to the wall above me, searching for a glass of water and not acknowledging me. I was fine with it, used to it. Heaving a sigh, I went out to the hall and searched under the old sitting couch for my sandals. I breathed in a load full of dust, and, eyes watering, I reached in and grabbed them, despite the spiders and cockroaches that could be hiding there. I would have to go outside and find something entertaining to do. I left the house and followed the curve of the street, not processing the cats running around or the little girl walking with her aunt past me. I saw a woman yelling at her daughter on the porch of her home, her daughter standing on the ground below her. The mother’s face was red and the daughter had both a look of frustration and sadness, tears threatening to spill out. That is me, I thought. That’s my mother yelling at me. I walked until I reached the end of my street, and not knowing what to do next, I let my legs take me wherever they wished. I ended up sitting on an abstract looking sidewalk with orange and white patterned tiles and watching a kid with a dirt smudged face laugh as he rode his bike with his friend on the back. I watched my sisters run around with the neighbors’ kites. I wanted to be like the kites, I thought. I want to fly. The sun was setting, and my mood with it. I hated going in the house, I hated

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getting in trouble or always managing to do the wrong thing in their eyes. I hated this, this sticky feeling in my chest, like glue you can’t get out. This summer, I came looking for something different, something new and fresh, but was faced with old regrets and memories instead. Yet I still threw on a cheerful look, and walked inside. I had just sat down next to my cousin, who was on his phone, when my mother and uncle walked through the door announcing that they rented a car and we were traveling to the north of Morocco the following day, about a six-hour drive away from Casablanca, so we had to go and pack our bags. The rest of the night and morning was a blur of eating, packing, yelling, forgetting toothbrushes, and fighting. My mind didn’t clear until I was finally sitting in the car. Me, my two sisters and my mother were sitting in the backseat, my uncle and his friend in the front. My uncle’s friend, Outhman, started the engine and we hit the road, leaving Casablanca, leaving the big city and clustered buildings and homes and going somewhere new and magical. Somewhere that could give me something to look forward to for the first time in a while. I was finally processing that it was summer. I finally felt like I was on my way back to my old self, the person I was before everything happened, like wherever the wind blew I would trust and follow it. The kind of heat we faced that day was the type that you knew was there, could see its presence, like sunlight shining down a freshly cut patch of green grass, but couldn’t feel. And you couldn’t feel it because you were lost in the moment, simply following the road ahead of you. The kind of road without bumps, the one that felt smooth. As long as you followed the road you were calm, and all you wanted to do was stick your hand out the clear glass window and reach for the sun. The sun that you couldn’t exactly look at because it was too bright but were still following. We followed the road, and the road followed the mountains, covered in rocks, dirt, and bushes that sprung out like little green moles. It knew all its curves, knew how to go up and down, trace its path, and still respected its roots. We were connected with those roots. The roots remind me of love, a love that goes so deep into us and our souls and can never be removed, but can be hidden, and can move deep inside to where we no longer understand it. It takes a kind of bravery to see into ourselves that deep. The road led us on and on, and soon darkness began to fall. When I looked out the window, I saw a thousand bright lights shining down upon us. Stars, stars sprinkled the sky, like hope painted space and decided to show up that night and fill my heart up with it. And for the first time that summer, I cried. I cried for the stars that I never truly saw, never felt the warmth it gave. I cried for the beauty of the universe that we as people underestimate. And I cried thinking about my mother, about how I lied to her this year, knowing how much she loved and cared for me, straying away from my faith, chasing something that would inevitably drag me down. I stuck my head out the window and laid so that I was facing the stars. I could taste the freshness of the air on my tongue, could feel it filling up my lungs

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and swimming through my body. I could see the sky and just the sky. I found myself thinking again that I wanted to fly. The next morning, we left the house we rented the previous night early after breakfast and set off on a new adventure, a new road, and a new path. The path was long, but I found myself lost staring at the scenery around me, at the mountains standing like great tall soldiers, looking down at us, protecting us. My mother kept calling my name and showing me everything she noticed or knew about the north, and I found myself swimming in her words. Even now, after all that happened between us, she was guiding me. She would always try. And I found myself feeling grateful. I stayed this way until we finally reached our destination: the Mediterranean Sea. A steep rock hill led down to the ocean. The rocks stuck out, jagged and long, which made it more difficult to get down to the beach. We had to climb the rocks and dirt, being careful not to slip and injure ourselves, until we each reached the bottom. The sand was unusual, not as soft as I imagined, but much more real. It had a harsh texture to it, and you could see that it was made out of different rocks and shells. Different colors, different textures. Much like us as people. All we needed is to learn to accept it. We set up our beach umbrella and my mom pulled out a container of spaghetti and poured it in cups for us, which we ate out of. We then dressed into our swimsuits and ran into the water. When I first stepped in, my feet flooded with coldness that spread to the tips of my ears. My sisters were already fully submerged and laughing. I always do this, I think to myself. I start running in and stop right when I touch the water. I looked down at the water, focusing on the clear blue, so blue I found myself lost, immersed in its vividness. I could see the rocks underneath my feet. And the water was a strange and deep calm, no waves, like the largest pool in the world, just lying there motionless. But I could feel the life beneath. Feel the ocean stirring under the skin of my feet, and spread through me filling me with more energy and excitement. I walked in deeper, until my hips were submerged, fixed my goggles, took a deep breath and dived. I would have stayed underwater for the rest of my life if I could. I kept kicking my feet, going deeper and deeper into the water to where if I stood up I would sink down rather than touching the ground. I could see small fish and a crab scuttling toward the rock. And I heard the silent hum of the ocean’s song calling me. My mind began drifting along with the water and I soon found myself wondering about sirens, which to me were more intriguing than mermaids.They had a certain power, a deep eeriness that made you wonder why they were the way they were, something that made them seem much more real to me than mermaids. I soon felt myself running out of air, and kicked my legs up until I reached the surface, floating on my back. I could hear each breath with my ears muffled underwater, and I stared at the sun,

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lying there blissfully, a perfect circle of light above me. I lost track of time, simply lying there in a circle of eternal bliss, eyes clouding and peace settling over me. I don’t know how long I was there, drifting atop the water, but slowly echoes of my name pulled me back to reality. My sisters were calling me. Alarmed, I flipped onto my stomach and swam to the shore. “A cave,” they said, and then began running. I ran after them, both confused and excited, to the other end of the beach where a rock wall surrounded us, standing tall and smooth and dark, and followed them into the water. There were smooth stones beneath me, so smooth I found myself slipping as I waded after my sisters. The sun was beginning to set, shining less brightly and making the water look darker. An ominous feeling set over me, yet I continued to follow them. There were strange colored plants, waving blissfully in the water even without a current there to move them. We reached a corner of the wall and turned and there I saw a cave, and the ominous feeling that set previously disappeared. I was in awe, an actual cave partly submerged in water, a path of small pebbles leading to it. We sat there for a while, looking at the clam shells stuck to the smooth rock, and soon our mother, uncle, and his friend joined us. Time slowly began to fade way, every hour, every minute, every second blended together, like different colors of paint being brushed on to a canvas, mixing and swirling away, forming something beautiful. I remember laughter echoing in the cave, a warmth spreading through the water reaching all of us. A small fire kindling inside us. That warmth lasted until later on in the night. The rest of the day I was lost, lost in nature’s beauty, examining the perfect patterns of the large rocks, the smoothness of the caves half filled with water. That night, lying in bed, my mind was clear and my heart was full. We spent the rest of our vacation visiting different sights, seeing Mount Gibraltar and the Sleeping Lady, swimming in the ocean separating Spain and Morocco, seeing waters so turquoise but tinted fading off to a lighter color as it reached the shore. I felt strengthened in my beliefs in the power of family, the power of hope, the power of nature, and the power of faith. I felt so connected with the world, with my mind in a free state. I was confident in myself, and knew that where the wind blew I would follow. I would trust, and any obstacles I faced, I would overcome. Because that is how my mother raised me. Despite her harsh mannerisms and way of dealing with situations, she wanted to help me realize what growing up truly meant, what faith and peace were. And now that I see it, I think I’m brave enough to finally do it. One day, I will fly, I told myself. No, I thought again. I would soar.

140 Spotlight KAYLA WINTER

Fade to Black KAYLA WINTER

141 Brothers KAYLA WINTER

142 E.L. MESZAROS

The “Universal” in Art and Science

Both art and science contain aspects that are universal as well as those that are specifically not-universal. However, the “universal” as applied to these two categories of art and science can be understood in multiple different ways. Additionally, art may not be “universal” in the same way that science is “universal.” In order to examine the relationship between the universal in art as well as the universal in science, this paper examines three specific types of universality: 1) Are art and science universally understood? 2) Do art and science depict or represent the universal? 3) Do art and science seek to understand the universal? Immanuel Kant’s and Roger Scruton’s ideas of universality are used to address the first two questions. Their language is also borrowed to establish how their views and use of “universal” differ from each other. Following this, the questions of whether science can or should be universally understood and whether it depicts the universal are addressed. Finally, whether art and science seek to understand the universal is addressed simultaneously, utilizing the differing definitions of “universal” established in earlier sections. Kant describes how the judgement of art as either good or bad is a universal adjudication. He writes that this judgement “makes the Ideas susceptible of being permanently and, at the same time, universally assented to, and capable of being followed by others” (§50). Kant’s proposed universality of art may initially be hard to accept — after all, ancient wisdom holds de gustibus non est disputandem. Perhaps Kant’s universal taste is less concerned with what is good art and what is bad art and more concerned with what allows an object to qualify as art at all. In this there intuitively seems to be less dispute. More perhaps are willing to accept that a painting they don’t like can at least count as art, so long as they can label it as bad art. In this way the concepts or categories of “art” and “non-art” may well be universal, at least more so than “good art” and “bad art,” though it is worth considering who makes those categorical decisions. Is it really a universally agreed upon label, or instead does the layperson accept decisions made by curators or artists as correct? If a painting is hung inside a building labelled “art museum,” we unequivocally accept the piece as art. Should we or can we trust the judgement of the curator or are we compelled to offer up our own judgement of the piece? While worthy and interesting considerations that seem to weaken Kant’s argument of the universality as art, it is less important for this essay how an object is judged to be art or who does the judging and more important that the object was judged as art at all. And this judgement seems relatively universal — no museum would deny an object to be art if added to the accession databases by another museum, and guests seem willing to accept that everything included can count as art. While Kant’s

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claim is not wholly safe from questioning, it seems likely that some sort of universal normative and discriminative definition of art exists. There is another sense of universal used to describe art, however. Not only is art universally recognized as art, but depicted within/by art are individual instances that need to not be universal. Scruton describes the lack of this in Boucher’s The Triumph of Venus, writing of this painting that “there is no-one there! These bodies are unowned, dis-souled...since they contain the universal template of the human face. And this absence of a soul downgrades the painting” (127). This idea that we cannot find beauty in the universal face harkens back to the previous discussion on whether there is universality in art. If Kant would seem to suggest that art is universal, should not these universal characteristics still have some appeal to the artist or the viewer? Or maybe another way of asking it is what differentiates “universal” for art versus “universal” for the unspecified face or art form? So there is a sense in which Kant wants us to interpret art as somehow universal, that if something is art then it must be universally recognized as such. But Scruton suggests that within an instance of art, the soul must depicted such that each face is specialized in some way in order to differentiate it from the universal template. In this can be identified the idea of a platonic form of a human face, which Scruton says only becomes beautiful when instantiated in the real world. As Scruton writes, “universals, unlike individuals, have nothing in particular to express” (125). The imperfectness of real examples is what gives them their beauty. But then Scruton also suggests that “beauty is universal” (131). So somehow the way that a face is depicted must be specialized to the person depicted, but must also be universally beautiful in a piece of art that is universally recognized as art. It is important that Scruton and Kant here are discussing two different aspects of “universal.” Art must be universally appreciable, according to Kant, but what it depicts must not be a universal, Platonic form. Kant’s “universal” and Scruton’s “universal” must refer to different definitions — one meaning that all people will recognize the same characteristic (i.e., recognize the object as art, recognize the depicted person as beautiful), and one meaning that all objects are the same (i.e., the face appears the same in all depictions). These senses of universal are quite different, and maybe not at odds with each other at all. So we can say, then, that art is both universal and particular, in that it is universally appreciable or recognizable as art, but that it depicts specific instances rather than universal templates. Art, therefore, uses specific and particular instantiations to create universally-appealing objects. For art, then, the answer to question one is a somewhat hesitant “yes,” while the answer to question two is a somewhat firmer “no.” Does science interact with universality in this same way? Let me begin this discussion by investigating whether science is universally recognized as science, akin to Kant’s claims about the universality of art. Science,

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especially modern specialized science, is not something that is immediately understood or appreciated by everyone. One of the most immediately pressing instances of this is climate change. What is recognized by scientists almost universally as a troubling and pressing issue is regarded as false by a not insignificant percentage of the population. This seems to be an instance of science presenting information that is not universally accepted. Additionally problematic is the claim that many climate change deniers make that evidence presented in favor of human- caused climate change is not bad science but is rather not science at all. This claim indicates that the same theory can be viewed as science by one group and as not- science by another. In this way science seems to be less universal than Kant claims art to be. However, the population making the claims on science should be taken into account. Is the general population lacking scientific literacy comparable to the unlearned art viewer in Kant’s interpretation? That is, even Kant suggests that a basic level of education is expected in order to be able to appreciate art, and unanimous acceptance among this type of basically-educated population is enough for his view of universal. Is the same thing expected for science? James Trefil makes a compelling case that everyone should have basic training in the sciences, regardless of their intention to go further with a career in science. He writes that “[t]he notion that a liberally educated person should know some science is well accepted these days” (6). However, perhaps we have not yet reached such an idyllic stage. If those who disagree with climate change are like the uneducated viewing art, then their opinion on whether it counts as science is irrelevant. With a base level of scientific literacy accepted as mandatory, it seems that there is little standing in the way of a universal understanding or appreciation of science. However, it is worth considering whether understanding and accepting scientific theories should be compared to appreciating art, or whether a better comparison could be made to something like the application of the scientific method or the universal adoption of scientific standards. The initial comparison seems fitting to me, however; like art, science can be carried out in numerous different methods and with various tools, and it can focus on subject matter of greater or lesser interest, but regardless we are interested in whether the end product can be universally accepted. The universality of the scientific method or standardized units seems more akin to the depiction of universals in art instead, and will therefore be investigated as such. It seems to me that like art, science should be universally appreciated as either good or bad by those trained to do so. While the training necessary to understand and evaluate science may be greater than that necessary for art, the universal appreciation of science seems likewise universal. Science is, usually, judged as science universally. Where this distinction breaks down most may be at moments of scientific

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revolution as described by Thomas Kuhn. Here established scientific theories and methods are questioned by changing scientific knowledge and understanding. The semantic incommensurability between old and new theories prevents both from even using the same language let alone being simultaneously true. At these moments, scientists necessarily disagree, with those holding onto the old theories viewing the new science as wrong or bad, while the proponents of the new theories have identified the previous work as false. Revolutions require scientists to disagree, making science necessarily non-universally appreciable. This obviously changes over time as the new scientific theories become accepted, however, and they become once again universal. Overall, therefore, it seems that science can be viewed as a universally appreciated phenomenon, akin to the universality Kant sees in art — though the universality of science seems as ambiguous or problematic as the universality of art. If scientific experiments are the single instances of “science” as a painting or a poem is a single instance of “art”, do they, like their counterparts in art, need to depict particulars rather than universal templates? A better question to ask, maybe, is whether there is anything necessarily particular in science? Jouni-Matti Kuukkanen argues yes, writing that new conceptions of science take science “as a form of practice and as something material that is always situated somewhere or in something. According to this view, location not only shapes or influences scientific practice, it leaves a permanent imprint and can be used to explain the external manifestations of science” (590). Because science as a practice is inherently localized, it must necessarily be particular even if it proposes to follow universal guidelines. In this sense it is both necessarily particular and needs to depict truth that is contextualized and localized. One aspect in which science does seem to strive to make use of universals is in the concept of standardized units of measurement. O’Connell describes the importance of universal reference points in these standard units, writing that “[i]n the relatively new field of human biological standards, metrologists admit that simply having a common reference point is more important than how close that reference point is to a real referent...Similarly, metrologists recognize that it is more important to have different representations of the volt and the ohm agree with each other than to have them agree with Nature” (158). Using and sharing these universal concepts, scientists are better able to share results and create a community, even between localized projects. And their work does not appear to be hampered at all by such universality. Despite the reliance on universal tools (and here the scientific method might also be mentioned as a universal scientific concept), the localization of science helps individual experiments demonstrate the particularity that Scruton saw in individual instances of art. So, as with the universal appreciation of science, we can say that science depicts particulars just like art, though this view is complex and not without counterevidence.

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The preceding analysis of the universal in art and science has focused on the first two questions asked in the introduction: Are art and science universally understood, and do art and science depict or represent the universal? Though not unequivocal, the answers to these questions seem to be “yes” and “no,” respectively. Investigating these questions allows us to dive into questions of why art and science matter so widely and how they have established themselves within culture. However, to better answer these, the final question posed in the introduction must be examined: Do art and science seek to understand the universal? In other words, is the universal appeal of art and science or the lack of representation of the universal within art and science both in pursuit of describing universal concepts? Rather than examine this question separately for art and science, it is important to compare how these two seemingly disparate subjects may be after the same goal. It seems easy to describe the goal of science as seeking to understand how the world, or on a larger scale the universe, works. From deriving the laws of physics that govern the universe to describing the processes at work within our bodies, science seems to want to describe the universal phenomena that we observe. Hountondji describes this very concept, writing that “[i]deally speaking, science and technology, as cultural values, are not the property of anybody or any particular culture. They are universal, insofar as the search for truth and efficiency permeates every culture” (389). Hountondji describes here a universal pursuit of truth and efficiency that describes science in all cultures around the globe. In its own way, however, art seems also to be in pursuit of these universals. While individual paintings or poems may describe particular people, events, and locations, these particulars may be viewed as an attempt to understand universal phenomena, such as emotions or common life experiences. Does the depiction of particulars and the universal appeal of art and science somehow aid in the ultimate goal of understanding universals? Universal appeal seems to be almost irrelevant to the purpose of either art or science — regardless of whether audiences like your art it may still seek to describe a universal phenomenon, and whether fellow scientists or citizens like your science it may still be in pursuit of something universal. Perhaps there is something to the universal appeal, however, that equates it to representation of the universal. For instance, a painting that is technically well done but that describes something unfamiliar is immediately less evocative. It may still be considered good art, and in that sense meets with Kant’s idea of universality, but it loses something for me because it is unrelatable. In describing universal phenomena, art can engage with a wider audience. In this sense its universality may be a result of its depiction of universal phenomena. So too with science: individual studies that take into account only one small aspect, such as one medical case study, are important because of their impact on larger medical theories. Because scientific studies seek to describe phenomena that are universal, even if their

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immediate scope is still limited, their appeal is evident. Kuukkanen writes that “scientists seem to make successful extra-local inferences,... This suggests that strong localism is both historiographically and philosophically untenable” (600). Despite arguing for the necessary particularity of science due to localism, he admits that science is applied across localized boundaries leading inevitably to a more universal science. A search for the universal principles of science can only be created through the application of many localized sciences. Perhaps through a similar application of many instantiated faces, many particular instances of art, a fully universal emotion or event can be reached as well. In general, however, it seems that art and science are both in pursuit of this final universal, a quest aided by their universal acceptance and their depiction not of the universal but of the particular.

Works Cited Hountondji, Paulin J. “On the Universality of Science and Technology.” Deutscher Soziologentag Technik und Sozialer Wandel. Campus Verl., (1987): 382-389. Kant, Immanuel, and Werner S. Pluhar. Critique of Judgment. Hackett Publishing, 1987. Kunh, Thomas. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. University of Chicago Press, 1962. Kuukkanen, Jouni-Matti. “I Am Knowledge. Get Me Out of Here! On localism and the universality of science.” Studies in History and Philosophy of Science Part A 42.4 (2011): 590-601. O’Connell, Joseph. “Metrology: The Creation of Universality by the Circulation of Particulars.” Social Studies of Science 23.1 (1993): 129-173. Scruton, Roger. Beauty: A Very Short Introduction. Vol. 262. Oxford University Press, 2011. Trefil, James. “Science Education for Everyone: Why and What?.” Liberal Education 94.2 (2008): 6 -11.

148 INDEX OF AUTHORS & ARTISTS

­ — A —­ — G —­ Adamopoulos, Sotiri 109-112 Gampel, Kelly 73 Adams, Terri 73 Gibson, Philip 117-118 Agnew-Ray, Pamela D . 56 Gold, Jason 46-47

— B —­ — H —­ Baker, Zach 11, 12, 16, 17, 42, 102, 113 Higgins, Amy 52 Barrie, Maryam 53 Blain, Adella 130-132 — J —­ Bonner, Dominique 40 Jarvie, Natalie 39 Brock, Sunday 44 — —­ — —­ K C Keenan, Molly 72 Calcaterra, Cassie 22-23, 26 Kennedy, Ralph 75 Caldwell, Duaa 137-140 Kissel, Justin 76 Campbell, Helen 68 Koch, Joseph 27, 28 Clark, Alexander 135-136 Kreutzer, Jessica 97-100 Croake, Edith Morris 54-55 Kujawski, Lilly 18-19, 20 — —­ D — L —­ Drouhard, Tim 44 Laboda, Diane M . 51 Larmee, Shaina 38, 101-102 — F —­ Laurant, Nate 5, 15, 77, 78, 79, 80, 89, Fleszar, Derek 116 106, 128, 129 Forester, Faye 45 Le Chant Du Signe 41 Leidlein, Warren 42 Levin, Sarah 8-9, 10

149 — M —­ — S —­ Martin, Meera 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88 Silvennoinen, Sally 48 Martinez, Gabe 13, 14-15 McCaffery, Erin 119-120, 121-123 — T —­ McCarthy, Miranda 31 Theophilus, Julius II 29, 30 McDonald, Sarah 81, 82 Thompson, Amanda 43 McLean, John 69 Tuccini, Mike 71 Meszaros, E .L . 143-148 Tyson, Alex 37, 107-108 Millett, Brenda Allen 49-50, 133-134 Mitchell, Dorothy 71 — W —­ — —­ Wettig, Tyler 6, 7, 28, 36, 108 N Wielechowski, Benjamin J . 90-96 Novak, Steve 125-127 Wiland, Jennifer 103-104 Williams, KD 21 — P —­ Winter, Kayla 23, 56, 57, 58, 59, 114-115, Parkinson, Teagan 105-106 141, 142 Pop, Andrei 60, 61, 62, 63 Prochaski, Mia 70 — Z —­ Zaccagni, Michael 24-25 — R —­ Zimmerman, Tom 115, 118, 120, 127, Raubolt, Daniel 32-36, 56, 74 134 Rossi, Jayleen 39, 50, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67 Zoumbaris, Susanna 124

150