Mangrove Review Mangrove

2017 Volume 14 Volume Mangrove Review Mangrove

Mangrove Review 2017 Volume 14 Volume 14 MangroveReview 2017

Executive Editor Editors Taylor Sweat Kelsey Abell Elizabeth Feins Eddie Krzeminski Asst. Executive Editor Puccia Lakshman Taylor West Mark Massaro Michael Pineda Managing Editor Dianna Sandora Temitayo Abdulkareem Teresa Scott Aliza Torres Faculty Advisors Design Editor Jill Allen and Lori Cornelius Jason Elek

Special thanks to Dr. Kim Jackson, Dr. billY Gunnels, and Jim Gustafson Mangrove Review is the student-edited literary and arts maga- zine for Florida Gulf Coast University, showcasing the work of FGCU students, faculty, staff, administrators, alumni, and members of the community. The views and opinions expressed inMan - grove Review are solely those of the individual authors and in no way represent those of the editors and staff of Mangrove Review, employees of Florida Gulf Coast University, or the University Board of Trustees.

Mangrove Review gratefully acknowledges support from the Of- fice of Undergraduate Studies, the Office of Research and Gradu- ate Studies, and the College of Arts and Sciences.

If there are no mangroves, then the sea will have no meaning. It is like having a tree without roots, for the mangroves are the roots of the sea... — words of a Thai fisherman

Mangrove Review takes its name from the mangrove tree. Of the more than 50 species of mangroves worldwide, Florida’s three native species — black, white, and red — form the habitat neces- sary to preserve the life cycle of the estuaries that line the length of the Florida peninsula. Without them, Florida would quite possibly be nothing more than a mere nub off the coast of Georgia. Mangrove Review is published annually in the spring. Mangrove Review will consider submissions of poetry, prose, and artwork from Florida Gulf Coast University students, alumni, faculty, staff, administrators, and the community at large. The reading period for submissions is from September 1 to November 30 of each year.

Submission guidelines Submissions must be previously unpublished and accompa- nied by a short biography. Please do not put your name on the manuscript or file name. Instead, include a cover page with the title of your piece, your name, and contact information.

Poetry Submit no more than five poems per reading period. Prose Submit up to four narratives, but no more than 10 total pages (3,000 words) typed and double-spaced, with 1-inch margins, for any one reading period. Art All artwork must be submitted as a high-resolution JPEG image, with the title of the artwork as file name. We will consider no more than five images by any one artist per reading period.

Submit your materials to [email protected].

Mangrove Review

Contents

Poetry Bitter Melon Zoë Spanbroek...... 9 Nonage Lance Lambert...... 11 (you are safe here) Lance Lambert...... 12 Nostalgia Teresa Scott...... 13 To All the People I Have Loved Madison Walker...... 14 You Emily Dolan...... 16 Art Showcase After the Rain Iman Zekri...... 17 High Times Carry the Low Allyson Clancy...... 18 Mosaic Giraffe Lindsay Dawson...... 20 In a Hostel in Spain Kayla Hoffman...... 21 Female Mystique Kayla Hoffman...... 22 Flutter Molly Creeger...... 24 Not a Tourist Mark Massaro...... 25 Prose The Snoozing Dog Rafael Cruz...... 26 In the Black Forest Alex Neidrach...... 28 Left Right Left Emily Dolan...... 37 Fast but Never Moving Kayla Hoffman...... 39 Right By Salem Mark Massaro...... 42 Apple Wood Mark Massaro...... 51 FGCU Writing Awards winners Poetry: Breaking Good Chandler Tarquino...... 63 Fiction: Performance Spaces Martha Brinkman...... 64 Creative Nonfiction: From City to Mountain — Day to Night Melissa Neubek...... 75 Creative Nonfiction:Just a Number Zoë Spanbroek...... 79

About the FGCU Writing Awards...... 83 About the Contributors...... 84 MR

Zoë Spanbroek

Bitter Melon

We are sitting in a white upstairs room: small lamp on the floor, Florida Panthers poster on the wall, Tai Chi forms also on the wall, and Chinese medicine balls- their distant chiming coming from her hands. These hands will soon ask to hold mine and then tell me how warm I am (and I will feel how cold they are). These hands will soon be picking weeds off of good backyard plants no matter how much they choke, no matter how much they entreat to be saved by the merit of their color.

There is Spanish Needle drying gray in the sun, blind white flowers opening for everyone. Then Lemon Clover neither lucky nor Irish, three rounded leaves crowding grasses ‘til they perish. And finally Bitter Melon bloated orange and heavy, persistent thin tendrils making low trees unsteady.

Now we are walking in a large backyard: departed pine cones on the grass, one Red Acacia growing into the air, Swamp Fern clusters also growing into the air, and Bitter Melon weeds- their sticky grasping stalks being torn away by her hands. These hands will soon age and be unable to feel mine for warmth

9 (and I will always miss how cold they were) These hands will soon show me how to pick bitter melon off of good backyard plants no matter how much it chokes, no matter how much it entreats to be saved by the merit of its color.

10 Lance Lambert

Nonage

Do you have any good stories from childhood? Can you tell me what it was like? Before you always washed your hands Before you learned to ride a bike

Did you always have good manners Did you listen to alternative or pop Are you still in contact with old friends Were you always afraid of cops?

11 Lance Lambert

(you are safe here) when you look up at the stars at night

can you see my window? when you ride ride ride past on your bike

can you see my window? when your parents kiss and hug or fight

can you see my window?

I want you to climb into it with the ladder from the garage

(you are safe here)

I want you to climb into it

I want you

can you see my window?

12 Teresa Scott

Nostalgia

Rust sprinkles the frame of that old swing set. Twice burned trees attempt to live, budding from the ground. Fences fall forward, kissing the green blades, with drowning lips. My hand catches on a splintered piece of shed. Where have they gone? Those faces that lit up this dilapidated yard. I see ghosts in the gazebo. Frigid faced, they whisper, “Get out while you can.” Turning to the paint I no longer know, childish dreams vanish. There’s no place here, for a blonde-haired, baby-doll girl.

13 Madison Walker

To All the People I Have Loved i.

Your eyes are twin solar eclipses that cast a shadow over common sense. ii.

Sometimes I wonder if we could’ve been more than just great sex. iii.

Prettier than pillow talk, with a wet velvet tongue, the last last kiss reminds me of Sundays and all of this damn rain. iv.

We locked eyes at an intersection somewhere between Tennessee and Michigan. I watched your Volvo go in the opposite direction.

14 v.

I hope you find salvation beyond what’s between thighs and other peoples’ lack of patience. vi.

I’m sorry. I’m not here yet. I’m still trying to finish all of the poems I’ve started…

15 Emily Dolan

Yo u

High above the clouds Buried beneath the ground Perspective Can change Hourly Monthly Yearly So who are you? Do you know? If you met You From The Past Would you like What you Saw?

16 Iman Zekri

After the Rain

17 Allyson Clancy

High Times Carry the Low 18 19 Lindsay Dawson

Mosaic Giraffe

20 Kayla Hoffman

A Hostel in Spain

We laid piled In Andurra The only quiet, little paradise.

We met that one summer In the bottom corner of Andalusia Where the sun barely slept.

One ear-bud shared between us Listening, Bob Dylan’s soft voice Lulling us until mourning

Crumpled like the unchanged bed sheets Feet black, We only cleaned the floors one morning

Your amber set glare, That muted smile Spread across dry lips.

Those moments of stillness, The city lights obscuring a view of the stars The unfamiliar language of your thoughts The sky visible in the tears Of the corner of your eyes.

21 Kayla Hoffman

Female Mystique

A response on “Poem on a Theme by Tony Hoagland”

Female erections are mysterious Creatures So delicate and polite Enigmas Like the great flood And secrets crammed in the Deeper Caverns of creation

Her huge erections go unnoticed Save the yearning in her eyes And the way she leans on the seams Of her jeans Muff-led

She could suffer from priapism Puffed up Like a pussy Cat’s fur all ready to pounce Squirming in ecstatic agony

Leaving you Oblivious because Her wood wouldn’t chop a tree Or make the primates jealous Of the size of her Beaver

22 The glory-ous and mythical “O” Quivering members On countless quests Ploughing for the spot marked “g”

The man in the boat never to be Liberated The mouse suffers Only to be clicked once or scrolled over

23 Molly Creeger

Flutter

Twenty identical blackbirds on a wire Forty eyes Between land and sky Flutter.

Black winged sentinels of death. Make a minute seem an hour, in a breath.

A white wildflower wilts Bowing to the setting sun. All seems one, In the fading hour.

24 Mark Massaro

Not a Tourist damn Tourists! You invade my home and label it your paradise, like locusts descending with coupons and cameras. You capture moments, forgetting to experience them while grabbing at that sunset, that bird, that tree, that dock. “Be a traveler,” I say. You reply, “I have that on a t-shirt.” Driving to the supermarket becomes a death screech, your rental car beaming across the lanes at high, confused speeds, refusing your blinkers. “What’s with all the traffic?” you ask, while us locals cry. The quiet and peace are stripped and beaten, as we wait for the reprieve from you for a torrid summer. “Go home,” we plead, hoping for a moment, a moment to simply walk, smile, and relax. But there you are again, Ontario plates, Michigan decals, Red Sox emblems, screaming through Stop signs, yelling about your perceptions of what vacation is and parking across two parking spots. The possessed sheep seeking absolution, where I eat and sleep. you… damn tourists.

25 Rafael Cruz

The Snoozing Dog

kissed my dog open-mouthed on New Year’s Eve 2009. He was I63 and I was 13. Standing in the hallway at Madison’s house, our heads met in the trough between our bodies. I held his gentle frame impossibly close to mine, pinching the back of his blouse to hold on. And in the beauty of the moment I didn’t care that I had grown up along side of him, or that he was a dog, his was the first kiss to come from outside of my own body; I knew that I would always remember it. Later that night, we ran all the way from Madison’s house to the big oak tree at the front of her neighborhood, and watched the sunrise-shoulder to shoulder-from the second-highest branch on the entire tree. As our legs dangled below us, we split a pair of earbuds and listened to a song from his iPod. Right as the sun cut the sky’s edge, I looked him deep in the eyes and made him prom- ise me that we would stay young forever. In 2013, on my 17th birthday, he introduced me to vodka. He was 91 at the time. We sat on the dock behind my mother’s apartment complex and I spoke with complete honesty for the first time in my life. Without my mind’s permission, my body said phrases that had been bouncing around my head for a while. I’m probably the loneliest boy in the whole wide world. I think I’m actually just not a good-looking guy, maybe. I dipped my toes into the water and took sips from a Tervis Tumbler filled with a mixture of orange Gatorade and Pinnacle Whip Vodka. He sat and really listened to me. Maybe I’m just really weird, I interjected. He laughed and promised me that everyone had a hard time connecting with each other in high school and told me that I was going to kill it in college. I looked back at him, with hearts in my eyes, and said, you’re probably right… thanks for that... you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, I love you so much man. He wheezed and coughed and told me that we were brothers.

26 Fast forward to last weekend. He was there with me the first time I tried his Phenobarbital. I had jumped on his prescription when his seizures stopped. It was great because the Phenobarbital allowed me to take care of him properly. Case in point, his cath- eter. Before, I couldn’t even connect the tube to the bag without choking up, but last week, I helped fully guide it into his urethra. The whole time I was so calm and clear headed that I was able to properly caress his fur and whisper phrases of encouragement into his ear like, who’s a good boy, and, oh, my God, you look so cute right now. My mother even told me I looked like a male nurse. But honestly, he’s been disintegrating lately, even though I know he’s a dog. Thus transcends the confines of mortality. Some- times when I carry him around my mother’s apartment complex for walks, I get the feeling that an endless hole is opening up in my chest and that I’m falling in. And just yesterday after I Googled “can dogs go to hell,” he held my crying body close to his and reassured me that Yahoo Answers is almost entirely bullshit.

27 Alex Niedrach

In the Black Forest

eath at the gates, howling my name again. I still see them, their DAmerican mouths roaring at me as they charge towards my machine gun Their American hearts bursting as my bullets pull them apart. You are not my enemy. We are the same. I am just a man with a gun, who does not want to die. I do not want your death; I do not want your life. I just want to go home. I was just a tailor, young and in love, in the fall of 1941 in the beautiful, vibrant city of Berlin. I was set to marry Bromhilde Von Lifher. We were going to run off to the Black Forest, far from that man and his war. Hitler had turned my country into something unrecognizable, and there were rumors he was exterminating men, women, and children. But, I paid no mind to rumors. Hilde and I just needed to save up a little more, and then we could vanish. Business was good. I had learned the trade from my father, and I had become very skilled. Many of the military men had been my customers since before the war, and word of my skill just kept bringing more of them in. At first I didn’t mind patching bullet holes in trousers, but Hilde didn’t like them She didn’t like the way they stared at her. I told her it was because she was so pretty, that she reminded them of an angel. Every time a soldier brought in a uniform, I took that to the back and mended it myself. One day, an SS Captain came in to my shop, complimented my craftsmanship, and said I’m doing the Fuhrer and the Motherland a real honor. To hell with them. I don’t give a damn about their honor. He also complimented her, said he’d never seen a German woman with such dark, beautiful skin. She curtsied, smiled at him, but I could tell she was sick just from his words. She excused herself, and said she had to go to the back to finish mending. The Captain came to me and said, “Siegfried, how did you meet such a beautiful creature?” I told him how we met in grade school, and moved to Berlin together seeking a better life. He tapped his chin

28 and smiled, pacing around my shop like he owned it. All the sudden I could hear his boots clicking, his pistol rattling. I could hear him breathe. I became real careful with my words. “Siegfried, my good man, what part of Germany is she from?” I told him we were both born and raised in the Black Forest, just east of France. “Ahh, well that explains it. It is quite a lovely shop you have, my friend. Keep up the good work. Heil Hitler.” I repeat it. I’ll say anything to get them to leave. Hilde’s crying in the back, saying they’ve been rounding up people for no reason at all, that they took the Rosemont’s, then the Weinstein’s. She thinks we’re next. I held her in my chest like a little bird, told her everything’s going to be alright, that they need us for the war effort. I was the best and quickest tailor in Berlin. We were safe as long as we were useful. The soldiers come anyway, they always do. They show up with papers. Turns out Hilde is 1/16th Jewish, impure, and she needs to be relocated. They grab her and drag her like a dog into the street. She screams my name now. “Siegfreid!” she cries. It’s a bolt of lightning in my veins. I jumped on one of the soldiers, tore off his ear with my teeth, and stole his rifle while he was wriggling on the ground. Twenty men stood around me, rifles pointed at my heart. But the Captain says no, not at him, at the girl. The soldiers train their guns on Hilde and their rifles were truly pointed at my heart. “On your knees!” the Captain yells. I looked at her, our eyes met. It won’t always be like this, my love. The end of a rifle chopped into my head as if a woodsman was felling a tree.

****

I woke up in jail, and the Captain offered me a deal. He said they’d look after Hilde, take care of her, and when the war is done, maybe I’d get her back. In exchange for what? My soul? The Captain said he needed strong, German men like me, with no fear, to fight. He tells me he was impressed at how “ferocious” I was the day before, said I even scared some of his men. They should be scared. He

29 offered me a choice. Put my “true” talents to work on the battle- field, and Hilde would live. I took his offer, but I could not bring myself to shake his hand. I was filled with the kind of rage that could only be tamed by blood. My anger was alive. I would show God how wrong he was to take her from me. Weeks go by and I looked just like them. They taught me how to fire rifles and machine guns. They taught me how to kill. All parts of my life looked the same. Everyday I lost myself more and more.They told me that I would be sent to Russia to fight soon. The only time I was myself was in the darkness of the night. I could hear Hilde calling to me. I could hear her singing those lullabies we learned when we were children in the Black Forest. I would not suffer a single man who stood in the way of me and my beloved. On the dawn of my deployment, a letter arrived for me. I could not hold on to the air as it escaped out of my lungs. Hilde was alive, and “her love for me burns on as an everlasting flame”. She told me of the camp she was at, how it had left her moribund. But, she longed for my touch as I for hers, and the soldiers promised her she would be alright as long as I was fighting.Survive. All I must do is survive. My handwriting was shaky as I wrote to her in the back of a troop transport. We were headed to the Eastern Front. My faith was renewed and my strength was arisen. I would pull those men apart like straw. They were what stood between me and my beloved. Russia is not a place for men to live. It is only a place for them to die. The ground is hard like stone, the air demands the warmth of your body, and robs you blind of it. I do not know how these men have lived there for so long, or why they fight so hard for it. My fellow soldiers, my compatriots, they were just boys. We were fighting real men. Some of them ran towards me with only wood- en guns, replicas, some did not even have the bullets for the guns. They said the man that controlled them was just as bad as the one that controlled us. Russia is where I learned the true meaning of war. My bullets propelled from my muzzle like seeds, catching the gentle breeze before they settled into the dirt. Each one plants a

30 man in the ground. A row of petunias here, daffodils there. Soon, I would have a garden. But I remember, nothing grows in Russian soil, and there is no life in war. There is not much left when we leave, even the ground was burning. The men thought me a hero and my valor was commend- ed. I had been the cause of more death than any one man should be. They drank to me, put their arms around me as they celebrated to a battle well fought. The Captain brought me a pitcher, told me I had ensured Hilde’s safety. He told me she was being well looked after. Just a few more battles and the war would be over.We will see each other again, my beloved. When I slept, I could not hear her voice. I could not hear her singing me lullabies. I could only hear them screaming. I could only see the fire in their mouths, the red on the snow. That is what war will make of you. Time went like the tracks of a Panzer. Nothing seemed to stop it. Two years were gone, and Bromhilde was still not free. The British and French fought with Americans, and they fought hard and fast. I kept the few letters that Hilde had been able to send me in my Bible. I held her words with the same reverence as God’s. She told me it broke her heart that I had taken life, and she felt the blame for it. I am the one you should blame, the one who could not protect you. I wrote her as much as I could, and left out all the blood. The months between her correspondences seem to not even exist, and I grew weary of all of the fighting. I would wither without her. Soon, I would be deployed again to France. The Captain told us that large divisions of American soldiers were marching through and we must stop them. I did not want this anymore; my rage had been quenched a hundred times over. The Captain could see there was no fire left in my eyes. “One more letter came in today Siegfried,” he coaxed me, “Bromhilde needs you. One more great battle and we will win the war. Soon she will be yours.” I could not stop. Not yet. I must save her. Now, the cacophony of screams in my head would be in two languages. I wrote to Bromhilde to tell her this battle would be the last. Either she would find me amongst the ruins or I would find her.

31 Once more, I was in the back of a troop transport, heading off to end the lives of men I had never met. A part of me hoped one of them would end mine. I did not know what France looked like before the war, but it was beautiful even still. The mountains roll out the hills like carpets. The forests and woods danced and hummed in the summer air. There were no signs of life. There were farm- houses with no farmers.Whole towns were left empty. Were we the cause of this? Was I? For several weeks, we did nothing but drive and stop at outposts along the way. There is more waiting in war than anything, more boredom than bloodshed, and more an- ticipation than action. I heard news the Americans were putting up one hell of a fight. I was sure now I would be buried amongst them in the ruins. They had stormed the beaches of Normandy, and they advanced now. The Captain was right, this war would soon be over, but I no longer thought that we would be its victors. France is not a place for men to die, but if I had to, I would not mind settling into the Earth there. We marched through city squares with little event, until finally the ticks and buzzes of bullets reminded us why we were there. A young boy, no older than six- teen, collapsed next to me. I cradled him in my arms, his beautiful blonde hair now bleached with blood. He was crying, telling me of his mother. “I do not want to die Siegfried.” You will. I said nothing, and soon he had passed. I must attend to my own life; Hilde’s still depended on it. I made use of the anger this boy’s death had stirred in me, and, just like the Russians, I learned these American men are mortal too. A mortar round exploded just feet from me. The blast sent me through the window of a small shop and I was reminded that I was as well. There was dirt in my eyes and bells in my ears. I patted my body down; all my appendages were still attached, and I still drew breath. Suddenly, a man vaulted through the window and unloaded a pistol at me. A few rounds marked my chest. Each bullet stung; one more and he would pacify me. But, his gun stopped snapping. He drew a knife and thrust himself on me. We rolled around in the debris, pushing and shoving, heav- ing and rustling. There was intimacy when I took this man’s life. I

32 smacked his head against mine and he dropped his blade. I quickly grabbed it, and plunged it deep inside of him. He raged as he died; I could not bring myself to let him die alone, so I lingered. He motioned to his chest, and I reached into his pocket and withdrew a picture. It was himself on a boardwalk with a beautiful woman. Her name was on the back with a date. He grabbed my collar with one hand, even though he was barely holding on. “Please” he says, over and over, “please”. This word sounds the same in every language, especially when said by a dying man. The wool of my uniform had soaked up more blood than I own. I stumbled out onto the street before a couple men found me and dragged me back to a transport. It was time to retreat. There were less than half of us left. I counted the empty seats as the medic plucked bullets out of me. There was no stopping anymore. All of the outposts were abandoned now, the Captain told us we were to fall back to Germany. It would be our last stand. Every breath I pulled in was like breathing through cloth. I could not fight like this, and the Captain knew it. We settled at a base in Freiburg, and again the men praised me. I was not the savage hero; I was just the only one still alive. The Captain took me aside and handed me paperwork. Bromhilde made it to the Black Forest, finally. I was awaited. He extended his hand to me, and I was too happy not to shake it. “For valor, for honor, for bravery in the face of certain death. You have made your Fuhrer proud.” These are the words he told me, but the only ones I cared about were the ones that told me I was free, no longer a subject of the Third Reich. “What will you do now?” I told him of my impending marriage to Hilde, how we’d open up another tailor shop, how everything would be good again. “It sounds lovely. Maybe one day I will visit you.” That is the day you will die. Freiburg is just mere miles north of the Black Forest. I drove all night to get there. As the road winded through the forest, I could see Bromhilde dancing between the trees. Come day-break, we will be together again, my beloved. In the morning, I scoured the town for Hilde. Still in uniform, everyone recoiled from me,

33 either in fear or disgust. I decided it was high time for me to get a new outfit. There were many faces I did not recognize, and that did not recognize me. Mrs. Oreck’s flower shop was now a law office; Mr. Brighton’s deli was now a music store. I finally found Mr. Lambrecht, still working at his old bookstore. He told me many fled as the war moved south. He said the troops were in town just weeks before. I asked him why as his eyes traced my face. “Why were they here?” I repeated. I could hear the anger seeping into my voice. “Siegfried, you must know?” My body shook, my heart tripped over itself. “Know what? Why were they here?” I could not breathe. I could not breathe. “They brought Bromhilde home.” He removed his cap, water was leaking from his eyes. “They buried her next to her mother and father.” For one minute, I was unstoppable again. I pulled down the bookshelves and threw furniture out windows; I could not stop screaming. Mr. Lambrecht grabbed me, and I felt again as I did when I was a child. I was helpless. I put my arms around his bony shoulders for fear that the ground would consume me if I did not. At this point, it might as well. The dead are not burdened by death. This, I envy more than anything. I could not bring myself to end my own life, it only seemed like a betrayal to her. So I did what we always wanted to do. With what money I had, I opened Von Lifher’s Tailor Shop, right in the heart of town. It was modest, I lived above in the second floor apartment, but word travelled quickly that I was a decent tailor, and soon business was booming. I folded my uniform, my pistol, and my boots, and put them in a trunk, tucked it in the back of my closet. A whole life had happened while I was fighting a war. I was ready for another. Every day, I walked to Bromhilde. Her bed was buried right on the edge of the forest, the fir trees blocked out the sun ‘til noon; she always did like sleeping in. I told her of everything: of the war, all the places I’d been, how much I missed her. But, I always left out the blood. Talking to her helped quell the

34 rage and sorrow my dreams would bring. One Sunday afternoon, as I was making my way to see her, Mr. Lambrecht stopped me. “The war is over! The Nazi’s are defeated! Hitler is dead! Germany is free!” The whole town celebrated, and I admit, I was happy too. Finally, Hilde and I knew peace. Ten years had passed since the war ended, and I learned what kind of monster I had truly become. I begged Hilde for her forgiveness, I begged God for his. They released photos of the death camps, like the ones Hilde was at, and the whole world declared that we were the greatest evil ever to exist. Maybe they were right. I thought I was fighting to save her, except all I had done was con- demn her. The world is not a wicked place because of men with evil hearts; it is a wicked place because of men with good hearts who allow evil. Men like me. Life had begun to settle into its rhythm’s. The familiar sound of Mrs. Adelson and her children, bringing in clothes to be taken out as they grew. The humming of Mr. Lambrecht as he browsed through the suits. I knew the cadence and step of every customer that walked through my door. I would greet them all by name before even looking up. One day, I heard a new sound. It was a familiar click, one I had not heard in years. He was dragging his boots with his stride, walking around my shop like he owned it. “Siegfried, you did it. You actually did it. I am impressed.” Keep your composure. “I wanted to give you something, you really were a phenomenal soldier. You earned this.” He hands me a medal, for killing. It is heavy in my hands like loose bullets. “You know, I tried to keep Bromhilde alive.” Keep your mouth shut. There are no words after those ones that will keep you alive. “But, there really was no choice. It was for the good of the race. I hope you understand.” I tell him I am honored by the gift, and that I have something for him as well. I head upstairs and pull out that trunk, unfold my uniform and lay it on the bed. There’s one spot on the breast where the wool has soaked up so much blood, it’s red all the way through. I put it on, pin that medal to me, and take one last look in the mirror. It won’t always be like this, my love. I reach once more

35 into that trunk and pull out my pistol. There is still a few rounds of brass sleeping in the chamber. I decide I’m not done getting med- als for killing. Not yet. I am sorry, my love. Just once more.

36 Emily Dolan

Left Right Left

took a walk through the collective mind of those who choose Inot to think, though I tramped without legs of my own. I rode a wakeless wave that did not grow with opposition but instead remained steady, engulfing rifts on the base of humanity by denying their existence and continuing on its path. I did not walk alone. I marched with other soldiers, whom I could not see, but I felt their presence and security and I knew I was in place. For years, we trooped in time. They told me there were trees. They told me there were clouds. They told me water ran through crevices in the earth or sat in pits both large and small. Pictures in my head began to form and beautiful images of the world stayed glued to my mind. Everyone thought of the world: the same world. I trudged in time until one day I saw that ugly thing called Hate, and smelled the burning stench of Change. I marched and saw hunger and pain, but also freedom and flight and forgiveness, and it was at once terrible and beautiful, horrifying and liberat- ing. The culmination of these, things, was a soft voice that escaped from the back of my throat, and whispered words other than “fine”, “please”, and “okay”. My whispers became squeaks, and from there grew into mur- murs, then rumbles, then growls, and then, dare I say it, speech. Those who marched beside me surely heard the noise I made, but perhaps did not see the things I saw. Not a single whisper escaped their throats. Dissonance escaped their eyes and apathy leaped from their hearts with every passing step. I no longer walk through that meadow of sand; instead I search for others who’ve become like me. Those who see the agony of their reality and choose to embrace it with open arms, cradling it close to their hearts as a mother does her child; she who feels her child’s

37 flaws and chooses to love it anyway. And though I rarely find others on this path, I hope, somewhere, they are there, dreaming of a simple fantasy that promises the bliss and suffering of life. And for that, I am much less lonely since I’ve fallen-no, risen-from that anesthetized March.

38 Kayla Hoffman

Fast but Never Moving

he weekend is just another workday for some. Saturday night Tis the peak of the workweek. They button their shirts outside in the parking lot. They suck down the last bit of their nicotine until their tables are content enough, and the manager is distract- ed enough, so they can sneak outside for more. The long sleeves are impossible to wear on the drive to work. Their aprons have to be wrapped twice and the string tucked in. The process feels like a performer getting ready for the show. Better yet, it feels like a fighter getting ready for battle, all lined up ready for the main event. Their superiors rattle on about specials, up-sells, 86’Ed items, and some other stuff. We sell steaks, wine, two out of six homemade desserts, the same thing every day. We go through the motions. Somehow, we are immediately hungry and constantly picking on bread, a spare piece of bleu cheese on someone’s salad, a mushroom off someone’s steak, shooting Coke out of mini-cone cups, sexually harass- ing the new waitress, and flirting with a cook in Spanish for some free food. The hunger cannot be filled with just food. The restaurant business is a circus. There’s the acting, the bearded lady on salads that did time up state, the smell of butane from the cheap, flowing liquor at five times the cost. We are acrobats juggling trays and drinks, the mad-dashing, performing with a smile. They keep it dark in the dining room, even on sunny days. The carpet, rarely cleaned, veils the patches of dust and food until we sweep it. People are hunched over small faux-wood tables with walls large enough to divide them from seeing one another. They crouch in their tiny compartments and prepare for overconsump- tion of shitty, overpriced food from the same distributor as Chili’s. We all are geared up ready for the show. We are ready to laugh at the same empty plates and sly look from wrinkled faces when they grin and say, “Can you tell we didn’t like it at all?” He has

39 licked every morsel of a platter for two with three rounds of pret- zel bread. Lisa is already trying to talk us into going to the Poorhouse to drink away the six hours of customer service and ass kissing. The fake smiles and short, forced laughs stain our faces and beg for 20% and expensive checks, all the while our arms grow tired under thick, leaden plates. We comply with every demand; we are forced to submit. It becomes so taxing; that it only slips away with long sips of the same drinks we hefted around on dirty trays all night. Lisa is that perfect girl, the one everybody fucks and leaves, and it drives her to recklessness. She goes home with anyone every night to avoid the loneliness, one thing acquired from being in the industry. Another is xenophobia: people are assholes. We have to fight off the self-worthlessness disseminated by shady people and menial tasks. I can’t pay my rent with a Bible you piece of shit religious zealot, and yes ma’am the trout does seem a bit fishy tonight, can I get you something else? Ruth is in her sixties. A career server and the sweetest talker you’re likely to meet. But really, she is sly, with a high opinion of seniority; the only perk of the business is arbitrary. A lifetime spent on her feet serving others. She has two daughters that are old enough to be President. Ruth is a lifer in the biz. She is the person we love, but never wish to become. Then there is Jessica, the 18-year-old hostess. She is the talk of the alley and dish pit, the cute, naive, still slim, perky Jessica. Her black slacks find every curve of the baby fat left on her butt cheeks and the hard tone of puberty on her stomach and lower-dimpled back. Her shirt is two sizes too small and her bra pushes her tits to her chin. The girl I was nine years ago when I first started this shithole. A place I never thought I’d be this far in life still going part-time to community college. It is a corruptible business with the drugs and drinks, quick money, and fast pace. Ruth, Lisa, Jessica, and I, end up every night in the same corner of Jake’s-conveniently located three doors down in the same

40 plaza and serves food until late. Jake’s is your typical dark dive with cheap, bottom-shelf liquor, lax security, and a spot to smoke weed out back behind the dumpsters: every servers dream spot. They laugh until the bar closes, rotating shifts on shots, flirting with the new bartender, driving home too drunk to their jealous lovers, or to fuck some stranger for mediocre satisfaction, or just to smoke and watch Netflix with their roommates. They live throughout the night fighting off the loneliness. It’s the same show every day. There is no cosmic intervention; time is not kind to any of us.

41 Mark Massaro

Right by Salem

bonfire cracks and the orange embers rise into the night sky. ASmoke dances around a circle of friends like a primal magnet. Laughter swells, giving a pulse to the still forest maze. Conversa- tion, the cold, and red cups surround me. Peeking through the gathering around the bonfire, I nod at it, saying, “That fire could be better,” as it dims to a dull and final gasp. “How so?” a small blonde girl says, her face wind stricken rosy from under a black hoodie. Her mitten covered hands wrap around a beer bottle while she sways to keep warm. “My dad used to throw wood from apple trees in them,” I say, nodding toward it. “Made ‘em smell good.” I know that this girl and I attended the same high school, but her name escapes me. I could just call her something random and let her correct me, but I don’t bother. It’s getting late and I’m getting drunk. The alcohol will catch up to me once I’m warm in the car and focusing on the road. Right now, surrounded by this scene, I don’t feel a thing. “I haven’t seen you around town for a while. Where’ve you been?” “Few hours up in Maine. Right by Sebago Lake. Putnam and I got a place, and we cut down trees and make wreaths during the winter, and take canoeing tours in summer.” A large man in overalls passes me a joint. I take it and nod thanks. “How is Put? Haven’t seen him in years.” “He’s good. His face is usually over a mirror now, but he’s good. Dating a girl from the local Mc’D’s. They met at rehab, so, you know.” She smiles in approval, like we’re doing so much better than them or something. I take a deep drag of the joint and pass it to her. “I’m only home for Jackie’s wedding,” I say, exhaling. “I wasn’t invited to that. Jackie and I haven’t talked since high school.”

42 “Well, free booze, so…” I reply. “Where you staying?” “I’m crashing at Putnam’s brothers place. Sucks though ‘cause he’s got me on this broken air mattress that needs to be filled every four hours or so.” “You can crash at my place if you want? You know where I live.” “Maybe,” I answer, completely forgetful. “Hey. Sorry about Mattie. I knew you guys were close. Sucks.” “Yeah,” I answer, “Thanks.” A force penetrates its way through the gathering in the woods. A voice cries out, “Cops!” and a sudden scatter erupts. Dropping my beer, and the conversation, I make my way towards the darkest part of the forest that I can see, away from the bonfire and farther away from the flashing blue and red lights. Shadows flicker by as I hustle through woods that were once familiar to me. Home is a concept that exists inside of me now. It is wherever I am, even while I’m running lost and scared. I jump towards a fallen log, shovel away the fresh powered snow, and crawl my way under it. Enough room exists for my torso to be hidden while my shaking feet are left exposed. I curl them up against the logs side and push snow over them. Anonymous boots stomp in all directions. Flash- lights break the darkness while adults scurry like guilty squirrels. I hide, with only the cold and my breath to comfort me. What seems like hours pass while I lie hidden, exposed, and forsaken. With the taste of tree bark in my mouth and the smell of timber, I rise and witness a few of the partygoers zip tied and detained. “Underage drinking,” I hear the cops threaten to them, “Possession, Intent to Distribute,” and so on. I wait patiently, breathing down towards the space between the log and me, hoping that my body’s processes don’t betray me. Cops boastingly laugh, while drinking some beer and dumping the rest on the fire. One discusses the actions he took to subdue two girls while another high fives him. I wait, patiently. Cop cars begin herding the drink- ers and the laughers out of the forest. The solid and cold ground turns my bum numb and my jeans half wet. Silence engulfs my

43 situation while the bonfire dulls to a whisper, a last minute urina- tion kills the flames. Waiting until I am sure that no one is near, I emerge from my hiding spot, aware of every sound, while I attempt to adjust my eyes to any sign of movement hiding in the darkness. The snow crunches under my steps as I walk back toward the scene of the ar- rests. Tree branches brush my face, some catching at my coat and some snapping backwards, shaking a flurry of fresh powder to the forest floor. Two bottles of Yuengling reflect the moonlight. I pull them from the nearby snow bank and begin my walk toward the road, where I know an ice cream shop is open. I remain towards the side of the trail so I can jump away in case a cop is still loitering for stragglers, and I see traffic in the distance. My breath is visible in the tiny red and white lights that make up the vehicles speeding down Route 62. Emerging from the forest, by the rear of the ice cream shop, I pass the cow fields, heading towards the “Open” sign, illuminating a glowing red over the black road. I text Putnam’s brother to come get me, while I sit on a picnic bench, holding myself in the frigid air, while the servers, warmly inside, stare at me, the stranger. This ice cream shop was a goal to reach from the woods, but the memories rush back now that I sit, seeing familiar colors, the same picnic tables, and smelling the same cows. Twelve years earlier, I approached this shop to get an Oreo frappe, and I walked away with a phone number from a girl that I still miss today. It took us eleven months to get from our first kiss to losing our vir- ginities to one another. I’d drive Anna to this shop to work her four-hour shift after high school, and then pick her up to drive her home to do our homework together. Everyone wanted what we had. Her sister was always recycling boys in attempts to emu- late us. Anna would stand on my feet and we would slow dance to Dave Matthews Band songs in her driveway, saying goodnight, which always took at least an hour. We camped in her backyard, and watch the fireflies illuminate the woods, while tears ran down our happy and warm cheeks. We loved each other, and two years

44 later, we both graduated high school. The fighting, the resenting, the assumptions, and the naivety then began. “I don’t know who I am other than ‘Anna and Hank’,” she said, “I want to find out who Anna is.” Looking back, it was a smart and honest declaration, but my teenage ego and my broken heart blinded that All I heard was, “We’re done.” I sneak another gulp from my beer as I wait for Putnam’s brother. “What the fuck happened to you?” he asks. “Cops raided the party.” “Can we make a stop before we get back? If you got twenty bucks to throw in, we can get an eight ball and relax at home. I recorded some Seventh Heavens.” “I don’t care,” I say. “Sure.” A memorable road sign reads, “Now Entering: Danvers, Mas- sachusetts.” We stop and spend the night snorting, what I taste, is half de- tergent and half cocaine. He rubs his teeth up and squats over the mirror, loving every second of it. Within an hour, a migraine sets in my skull, and I retire to the small corner that cradles my half-blown-up mattress, while still hearing him snort lines. Fall- ing asleep with the occasional inhale is now something I am de- sensitized to now after crashing at Mattie’s place so many nights. Weariness overtakes me and finally, I pass out. As morning comes, so does a headache, and the dream of comfort slips from my grasp. I crawl slowly into the claw-foot- ed bathtub, letting the coldness drip off of my body. I forgot to bring a toothbrush, so I squirt toothpaste onto my finger and rub it around. Putnam’s brother has an ashtray where the toilet paper holder is, while the toilet paper stands upright in a soap dish. “Dude,” I say, rocking his body with my foot, “Wake up. You need to drop me off at that wedding at Salem Willows.” He covers his face deep in his pillow and groans. “Dude, come on,” I say. “Man, I love you, but fuck off,” he answers.“Take the damn train or something.” I accept the abandonment, and walk away.

45 Watching YouTube videos on how to tie a tie, I successfully pull off appearing like a true adult, and head down Bridge Street. The Danvers River has fishermen gliding over its flat surface, while the seagulls follow. Empty beer bottles litter the muddy shore. The train towards North Station in Boston arrives at 1:44 p.m. and I stay on for one stop down the line. Pine trees and walls of graffiti pass by the window slowly. I smile at strangers, as I feel less blue-collar in my suit, and they shrug back at me, like they could take me or leave me. An old woman sits across the aisle from me and says, “That Patriots new receiver is worth his weight in gold. You’ll see,” and I agree with her. “Salem,” the conductor yells. A new restaurant has taken up residence near the old, abandoned jailhouse that we used to break into as kids. What else has changed? Commuters rush past me, Dunk’s coffees in hand, Sa- lem Evening News tucked under their elbows. Strolling past the old church, heading toward Salem Willows, one large, white tent envelopes the natural beach. Ripples of wind glide up the canvas tent, sending loud slaps back to the sea air. “Hankie,” a voice yells, “That you?” Nick Trotts emerges from a flap of the tent, Miller Light in one hand and his phone in the other. Trottski comes from a long line of carpenters, continually maintaining the family business. Some of his ginger beard scruff has now turned grey and his eyes appear tired. A cigarette bobs freely off of his lips. “What’s up buddy?” I say, arms open for a hug. “It is you, kid. Come here.” The perspiration from the beer bottle touches my neck and I jolt away. “Sorry, man. You need a beer? Yeah? How you been? Guys, Hankie’s here,” he yells to a familiarly strange crowd. The formally dressed crowd yells, “Heeeyooooo,” while holding drinks to the sky. A white bridal dress runs past the open door, her high heels in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. “The bridal party is all wasted already,” he says, “but Jackie’s man is a good cat. Good guy. You’ll like him. Come on, you gotta see everyone.”

46 Repeated reunions happen over the next hour. “Remember this…” and “I can’t believe you got away with that.” And only one, “I’m sorry about Mattie.” The tedious blur only makes me feel old, but lucky to be alive. Jessica, the maid of honor, approaches me and asks, “Didn’t you and Jackie fuck that one time?” “Us? Nope. Not me,” I respond, lying. The wedding goes off as one does, along the aging waterfront to the Salem River. The couple appears happy, at least to me, while I sit in plastic seats with Trottski and other kids that made up the high school football team over a decade ago. I smell smoke and notice a guest has sparked up a joint, attempting to hide it, as if we were at a concert. I rub my eyes, tired of the show already, and I remember why I left all of this so many years before. The newly married couple passes by along the sandy grass, and the crowd’s focus follows. Watching them depart into the tent, a familiar face emerges from the crowd, and my heart sinks deep into a black hole. It’s Anna’s sister, Beth. She claps her hands and yells congratulatory declarations as the gathering erupts in applause. Suddenly, I am aware of how sweaty and drunk I am. I rub my face, attempting to straighten up my appearance. Is Anna here? How does Beth know this group? Small town shit, I’m sure. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please head toward the tent for dinner and dancing,” a voice announces. As the crowd exits towards it, I push my way against the traffic, alone. I tuck my shirt in, wipe my face down, and run my fingers through my hair, pushing it all to the side. I straighten my bushy eyebrows, while a panicked grip takes hold of my chest. I breathe, as I wait for my body to calm down. Pretend to be sober. Pretend to be sober. Music starts up while colored lights begin emanating from within the tent. Blue, purple, and red beams of light dance across the white canvas. Getting a sense of control within my chest again, I walk, appearing slightly confident and relaxed. Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” rises into the evening sky. “Hank,” a voice says.

47 “Kate,” I reply. “Long time.” Kate’s blonde hair is pulled back tightly in a bun. Her hands on her hips imply that she has a score to settle. She walks aggressively towards me. “Yeah. You good?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” she replies, now crossing her arms. “You?” “Yeah,” I say. Kate’s demeanor seems hostile, and I cannot for the life of me remember what constitutes this treatment from her. “You mad at me?” She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit since high school.” She turns around fiercely, and heads towards the party. I pause, waiting until she is fully out of my view, and then follow. “Trotts,” I say, pulling him away from a young, brunette girl. “Hank, this is Little LeRoy, Dougie’s little sister.” Surprised, I say, “Oh, shit. Hi,” while attempting to avoid saying the creepy “You’ve grown up,” though, it would be appropriate. “Dude, Anna’s sister Beth is here. Is Anna?” His smile drops and he focuses straight on me, saying, “I really don’t know.” Beth, in a tight, cocktail dress, looks strikingly like Anna. Her whole family has similar characteristics, making it obvious to anyone that they are a family. She stands in the line for drinks, pluck- ing shrimp off of a paper plate and into her mouth. A tall guy in an expensive suit stands by her, holding her purse and her glass of wine. “Beth?” I say. She turns and enthusiastically hugs me. The tall guy stands and waits for answers. To avoid any assumptions, I put my hand out to shake his and say, “Hi, I’m Hank.” “Ben,” he replies. “How are you?” she asks me, leaving both hands lingering around my neck. “I’m great. You?” “Amazing. I just got my Master’s Degree. Ready for the real world. You?”

48 “Me? I got a business in Maine. Making home décor stuff from trees; tables, chairs, you know, carpenter stuff.” “You just disappeared.” “Yeah,” I answer, having waited long enough, finally asking, “Is Anna here?” “No,” she replies, “She couldn’t find a babysitter. You know she’s married with two daughters, right?” Numbness consumes me, plunges my being into nothingness. Nothing has changed, yet everything has. It does not have anything to do with me, but maybe that’s what bothers me so much. “No, I didn’t know.” “She’s great, though. I’ll tell her I saw you.” “She’s a mom?” Bitterness against a maternal figure is a confus- ing limbo. I loosen my black tie, shifting my weight around. Beth says, “Yeah, they’re the best girls. Her husband owns prop- erty, like, everywhere.” She smiles as if almost happy to tell me this news. “Good for her,” I say. “Yeah, tell her hi. It’s good to see you.” Walking away, fire grasps my chest. Suddenly Anna’s face becomes the reason I’ve done so many drugs, slept with so many women. It is all rooted back to her. She created my choices, this chaos. Trotts approaches and pulls me in close saying, “Good to see you, brother.” The white adorned bride crashes into me, yelling “Hankie!” and wraps her arms around my torso. She grinds up close to me, her hairspray soaked hair overtakes my face, and for a moment, I can’t see or even care to. Suddenly, she begins pressing her mouth against mine, passionately and drunkenly. I kiss back momentari- ly, before her bridesmaids pull her off. Jackie’s eyelids half shut while she attempts to get her bearings. “Let me go,” she says. Jessica, her maid of honor, cradles her upright, and looks at me, saying, “Hank, why don’t you fuck off for a minute.” She nods towards the exit. I turn, stumbling over a chair, bumping into Beth. “Sorry,” I say. Trotts pats my back, handing me a beer, and I walk away, towards the tent exit. The music and laughter slowly die out

49 as I walk away into the frosty city. The waves lap against the rock walls. Again, I begin blaming Anna for everything. If we stayed together after high school, I wouldn’t have partied as much. If I didn’t party as much, I wouldn’t have gotten Mattie into drugs, and he’d still be alive today. I was told to fuck off, so I will. I pause by the old water’s edge, beer bottle in my grip, looking at where the Danvers River meets the Salem River. The bars along the shores begin lighting up with lively, drunken fishermen chat- ter. Green and white fireflies emerge from the forest, surrounding the landscape, as orange embers on the tips of cigarettes mix in, diluting the forests secrecy, creating something new.

50 Mark Massaro

Apple Wood

inter - 1989 - Massachusetts W I had awoken naturally, which slowly surprised me. In my weary morning daze, I realized that I had not been woken up to get ready for school. I felt well rested, confused, and warm. A quilt was placed over me in the night. Shhhkkk. Dung. Shhhkkk. Dung. The repetitive action of my dad shoveling the front steps always ends in a bang against the iron railings. Once he realizes that I am awake, he will ask me to start on the back stairs. He often complains of his bad back during the winters. My nose is cold, being the only exposed skin to the air, and I smell burning logs in the fireplace. I stretch out my limbs, forcing myself free from the twin bed womb. My lips are chapped, and I clutch my teddy bear while throwing the blankets off in a swift move. A wall of frigid air penetrates my pores. I hear my sister and my mother talking in the kitchen as I rub the sleep from my eyes. “Good morning, honey,” my mom says. She stirs a pan of milk on the stovetop with chocolate powder and marshmallows add- ing, “School’s canceled. Wake up a bit and then go help your father.” My sister pinches her face in my direction and I curl my lip back. The burning logs crackle as oxygen releases free. My dad once told me that his secret recipe to build a fire is to place a piece of apple wood in between pinewood for the smell. He worked out some deal with the guy who owns the local apple orchards. Sparks float up the chimney. I hope I remember his fire secret when I’m a father. “Extra marshmallows?” my mom asks. “Yes please.” She hands me the warm mug while blowing on it and I walk towards the sofa near the fireplace. My teddy bear, always by my

51 side, feels like a warm piece of my bed that I can always carry in my arms. I place him behind my head and my eyes adjust to the blinding veil of white through the bay window. The fresh powder, untouched by life, spreads across the only home I have known. Christmas lights wrapping the pine trees along the road blink under their new white blankets. My dad comes through the door, kicking his boots to make the ice shed to the tiled wet-room floor. “Hey,” he says, “Good morning, buddy.” “Morning,” I answer. He sits by the fireplace and raises his hands to the warm dancing light. “Coldest day of the year, today. Finish your hot chocolate and then help me out there. Okay?” He opens the grate and places another log on the fire. “Sure thing,” I say. He sighs and smiles, “Smell that? That’s the apple wood. Remember?” “Yes sir,” I reply, sipping on the warm chocolaty liquid, watching my hero stack the seeds of warmth for his family as I yawn and stretch.

Spring - 1994 - Massachusetts My dad’s alarm clock beeps loud and irritating, and the new day rushes at me. He wakes at 6:00 a.m. to get ready for work and allows my sister and I to remain where we are until 7:00 a.m. before he wakes us up for school. The hour between the two points of time is spent attempting to wrap my mind around my nuclear family becoming a single parent family. The cancer overwhelmed my mother’s body, leaving my father to serve as a maternal and paternal presence. My sister and I have been sleeping in our sleeping bags on his bedroom floor for 44 days now. Forty-four days since she passed away. None of us have been brave enough to be the first one to sleep alone. And plus, my dad’s room has an air conditioning unit in his window when our rooms do not. My

52 mother’s clothes still hang in her closet, and her rocking chair has her bookmarked Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey remaining in its seat. “Kids,” he says, quietly, “Kids. Start getting ready.” My sister shuts herself immediately within the main bathroom as I head to my room to get dressed. I toss my teddy bear, which I only use as a pillow now, onto my perfectly made bed. None of us know when, or if, things will ever return to some normalcy, but we have each other, my dad repeatedly saying, “You kids are my whole world now.” My room is quiet and smells dusty. The last time that I wore my new Nirvana shirt, the one with the smiley face, was last week, and enough time has now passed for me to wear it again. It is my attempt to get the focus off of me, and to blend in with the public school crowd. My black Con- verse will see to that as well. I have worn the toes down by rubbing them on the sidewalk, embellishing that my skateboarding skills are much better than they really are. I can almost ollie now. “Come on, Lisa,” I say, knocking on the bathroom door, “I live here too.” Silence, other than her hairbrush tapping the countertop, in repeated patterns. “Dad!” I yell. “Dad, tell him to shut up,” comes from behind the door. “Leave your sister alone. She’s getting ready.” The last few Halloweens, my sister chose to go with her friends and not with me. The fights started since then. I cried, and said, “But we always go trick or treating together,” to which she re- plied, “Find your own friends.” Despite having a great time with my neighborhood pals, even though Shawn Blanchard kept being Batman like me every year, I will never admit it to her. “Kids,” my dad says from the other end of the house, “Breakfast.” My dad, in his suit, briefcase by the door, working a job that I still don’t understand, slides stacks of blueberry Eggo waffles onto a large, glass plate and places it in the center of the table. Even at a young age, I know that I wasn’t the only one to lose something. My

53 dad lost the love of his life, and I cannot comprehend what that means. I lost a presence that loved and understood without words. I watch my dad scurry around the kitchen, getting lunches ready, leaving his coffee to turn cold while he does it. “Dad?” “Yeah, buddy?” he asks, pouring two glasses of orange juice. “Can I walk to school today? A group meets at the old oak tree and walks through the path in the woods. It pops out by the football field.” This is true, but I leave out the part about Stepha- nie Matthews being there, who is my girlfriend, even though she does not know it yet. A few weeks ago, I walked and she was there first waiting for the group. I walked up and said, “Hi. It’s cold, huh?” She said, “Yeah, it is,” and then asked me what time it was, I thought. It was 7:42 a.m., but she then said, “No, I asked if you have a dime. I need to use the pay phone.” I could feel the warmth overwhelming my face. I didn’t have a dime but I told her that I can go get one, and she said, “No worries.” My dad says, “Sure. That’s fine. But wait until you see others walking and then join them. I don’t want you walking down the street alone.” “Okay,” I say. “Can I have cinnamon sprinkled on my waffles? And butter?” He mumbles and says, “We are out,” checking the cabinets, “but you can have butter. It’s in the fridge. Get it and give it to me.” My sister finishes whatever she is doing in the bathroom and joins us. We eat breakfast, quietly, more because of the rush rather than lack of words. My dad asks my sister if there is anything he needs to know about before Parent/Teacher conferences later that day. She says, “No. I’m doing good in all my classes,” and then smiles at me. I glare my eyes back, meeting her gaze. She takes a bite from her Eggo. “You don’t even like Nirvana,” she says, “You’re just trying to be cool.” “I like that acoustic show,” I say. “Your brother’s going to walk today. Do you want to walk too or you want me to drop you off?” He sips his cold coffee and

54 straightens his tie. “Can you still drive me, Dad?” “Su re .” I wait on the front steps. Birds, specifically ducks, cry over the landscape and the last gasp of winter draws a final grip. The months of seeing my breath in the morning have slowly ceased and the pine trees begin growing baby pine needles. Shawn, in the black leather jacket that he wears every day, walks past and I wave him on, saying, “I’ll catch up.” He gives me a thumbs up, knowing my intentions. Stephanie Matthews turns the corner on the cobblestone sidewalks, her straight blonde hair bouncing with each step. Anxiety creeps into my chest as I hold onto a dime in my pocket. My dad and sister back down the long driveway, him honking the horn in quick bursts. He rolls down his window and they both yell, after my dad gives a countdown, “We love you!” “I love you, too,” I answer back, waving. Gone are the embar- rassments of public affection for family. Despite our sibling bick- ering, it is simply that, and we have our close moments too, moments where I believe my dad when he says that we will be best friends one day. Stephanie approaches slowly, holding her books in front of her, with no backpack, just a purse. She smiles, waving, and I walk down my front lawn, waving back. “Was that your family?” she asks. “Yeah,” I say, “My dad and my sister.” “They seem nice. It’s nice you guys are all close.” “Yeah,” I say, gulping, “I brought a dime for you. Just in case you needed it today.”

Summer - 2004 - Maine Sunlight penetrates through the lines in the blinds, bringing honest day into a dark nest. A headache pounds deep inside my skull, and my beard scratches loudly on the cheap pillow. In the beams of light, smoke still moves around the room. Reaching my arm to the nightstand, I feel for the bottle of migraine relief pills

55 and the prepared glass of water. “What time is it?” a voice asks from beneath the blankets. “I don’t know,” I say, before gulping down the water, “Early.” “Why are you up?” “I got that writing class. You sleep. Sorry I woke you.” Emma mumbles something under her messy blonde hair with little streaks of pink. We met in Gothic Romanticism class, and got partnered up to do a presentation on Percy Shelley. She asked if we should reserve some time in the library but I suggested the pub across the street. “We’ll get work done,” I said, “We’ll bang out an A+, no problem.” One drink turned into four, and then we hooked up on the smoking bench as I walked her back to her dorm. The first week in that class, I figured that I would either hook up with her or that sorority girl that sat in front of me. My professor’s choice of groups did the rest. I roll out of bed, making sure that the blanket stays on Emma. Her tapestries adorning her walls ripple small bursts of waves from the whirring fan on her desk. I attempt to tiptoe across her room, but I stumble into her dresser and her glass bong falls into a pile of laundry. She doesn’t react so I leave it there, assuming that she will think it happened last night. Looking at her, under her framed Janis Joplin poster, I feel lucky to have found a girl that likes to party as much as I do. I wish that she didn’t smoke cigarettes. But, having a girl on my lap at parties, someone who wraps her arms around me with pride, and who stumbles home with me to fall into bed, feels like a modern day Disney fable, complete with the happy ending and a fade to black, the fade to black being passing out naked and tangled up together, is the best that my generation has to offer, so I’ll take it. The smell of freshly brewed coffee slaps me in the face while exiting Emma’s room. The communal kitchen and bathroom are lively at all hours of the day, so, since I am in my boxers, I continue to tiptoe quietly. The dorm kitten scurries across the floor as if I’m something to run from. Emma’s roommate, Lauren, a complete flirt who always walks around in a towel, to the frustration of the

56 roommates and to the delight of the boyfriends, is not around, so I let my gut relax and walk towards the bathroom. A fart escapes and I wave it away. “Who’s up?” a male voice asks. I glance around the corner and Luke, another boyfriend visit- ing, nods. “Coffee?” he asks. “Not yet,” I say, “Gotta shower first. Keep it warm for me though. I’ll need it.” The blue recycling bin by the front door is overflowing with empty bottles. “What time you guys get back last night?” “I don’t know. We left the Grille a little after midnight. Cops were camped out everywhere, so we left quickly. Got back here and just partied in her room.” “Damn. Mine fell asleep early so I just sat in her room watching T.V., and you were partying in there the whole time.” “Yeah,” I say, “but we were naked, so…you know,” shrugging my shoulders. He high fives me, saying “Right on,” and I turn towards the bathroom, knowing that he will probably be dumped soon, so I shouldn’t bother bonding. I have the insider scoop from Emma. His girlfriend had a different guy over a few nights ago, and I was sworn to secrecy. Their shower has empty beer bottles lined up with the shampoo and conditioner. I leave the lights off but leave the door cracked open, so some light is allowed. Their shower curtain is the old New England Patriots logo. I hold my head under the stream of cold water, thinking that I need to call my dad today and thank him for the money that he put in my account. Plus, I had promised to visit home soon, and one day turned into another, and time has escaped me. He wants to meet Emma but as much as I like her, I don’t think she’s someone that one takes home. My hair falls down my face, connecting with my beard, and I flip my head so it goes back. Shaving razors wander around the drain. I slap my face a few times and breathe deeply. Lowering down closer to the drain, I throw up the liquid that my stomach can no longer handle. I spit and spit, and rinse my mouth out in

57 the falling stream of cold water. “Hey? Is that you?” Emma asks. “Yup,” I say, slunk into a ball on the floor of the dirty communal shower. “Are you okay?” I pause a moment, allowing my throat to return to the swallow- ing action, and answer, “Yes. Just puked up some water, down the drain.” “Are you done? Can I get in too?” My headache subdues under the consistent vibration from the stream of cold water. “Yeah, come in,” I say. Her small shadow looms over the curtain. The shadow tosses off its long t-shirt to the floor, then snaps the thong off and balls it up on top of the shirt. Still in the sitting position, a smooth leg enters first, the cold air rushing in, and I say, “Hurry up. You’re letting the cold in.” She hops in quick and maneuvers for the opposite side, away from the water. “Why is it so cold?” she asks. “Better for hangovers,” I say. She rests a plastic bottle of water on the side of the tub, and lowers herself down to huddle with me. Under the icy water, she traces my back with her fingertips, humming Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm”. Her body, which I know so well, feels unfamiliar to me, as we interlock together, limp and wet, on the floor of the strange shower in Maine, hung- over and surviving.

Fall - 2018 - Massachusetts “Dad? Mom? Can I watch cartoons?” Waking up barely rested, and looking into the eyes of my four- year-old as he hugs his teddy bear, I say “Sure, buddy. Go into the T.V. room and I’ll be right there to set it up for you.” I lift my life- less arm and rub his curly head of brown hair. “Be quiet though. Let your momma rest.” He smiles, as if we had a secret, and he tip- toes out of the room like the world’s worst ninja. I rub my weary eyes and peer over at my wife. With her back to me, I still know

58 she’s awake. I kiss her shoulder and rub my nose down her arm. “Morning,” I say, “stay in bed.” Her breath smells, but it’s hers. Getting out of bed, I reach for my flannel robe that I drape over my reading chair before bed every night. The golden retriever dances excitedly by the front door as I approach her, hitting the button on the coffee maker as I pass it. The dog runs out into the backyard to relieve herself, and also to chase any loitering squirrels. The smell of coffee overwhelms the kitchen and the stack of my student’s short stories on my kitchen table appears endless. How many more stories about unrequited high school love can I read this semester? I think. How many hints about abused child- hoods or drug problems can I pretend not to look deeper into? Jess’s 1,000-piece puzzle of Starry Night covers most of the table, but she claims that she is almost done. I see the dog jump into a pile of leaves from the kitchen window, immediately obliterating the hour of raking that I did yesterday. “Dad?” “I’m coming, buddy.” “Is Wallace chasing the squirrels?” “Yes, son. She’s maintaining order back there,” I say, like always, as I begin to find the saved movies on our television for him. Jessica, my wife and colleague, yawns while entering the room, tying her terry cloth bathrobe around herself and brushing her teeth. We met during my first week teaching Creative Writing at the local university, her focus being Victorian and Romantic Literature, Pre-1900. We naturally gravitated towards each other since we were the only two that could be mistaken as students. We sized up each other’s office libraries, her acknowledging my Jane Austen collection. “My mom loved her,” I said, “She used to read her to me when I was a kid.” Jess helped me create my first syllabus, finding a credible tactic to include the music from the sixties into the course. I took her out to dinner that weekend. The server called us Mr. and Mrs. when he returned my debit card. We both laughed awkwardly. I called my dad that night and told him that I met the girl that I’m going to

59 marry. Our colleagues figured out our relationship quickly, some thought it made perfect sense while others warned us against in- teroffice romances. After a year of dating, we combined our home libraries into one massive library, her allowing me to position my Batman action figure in between Hemingway and Joyce. Some nights, before Mattie was born, I’d catch her standing in front of the wall of books, running her fingertips over the rows, delighted with the collection. A disarmed smile crept over her face, in sur- render to our commitment and our home. Wallace’s green football squeaks loudly when I step on it. I kick it aside while she rushes into the T.V. room in an attempt to play catch. “I haven’t had my coffee yet,” I say to her. Her brown eyes fixate on something and she hurries herself to another adventure. The lines from Jess’s pillow decorate the left side of her face. I point at it, saying, “Looks like you have a face tattoo, honey” and kiss the side of her minty mouth. Mattie giggles. She rubs her messy brown hair against my beard. “Mom. Do you want to watch my cartoon with me?” Through her toothpasted mouth, Jessica says, “Gib me a mu- nute,” keeping her head back so no toothpaste falls on the rug. “Check on Wallace,” I ask, as she leaves the room. The coffee maker beeps and I pour some into two mugs, which are adorned with literary figures. Extra sugar in mine, just cream for Jess. I hand her the mug as she walks back into the room and she takes it and puts it down on the table by my stack to let it cool. “You doing all this today?” she asks. “Yes. Shouldn’t be too bad. Some good kids this semester. Ex- cept I don’t understand some of their references,” I admit, while blowing on the hot coffee, “but that’s what Google’s for.” “I’ll help. I finished mine in my office yesterday.” “Thanks,” I say. “Mattie, you want Eggos or cheesy eggs?” He sits wrapped in a blanket on the couch, his teddy bear’s legs sticking out of the bottom, transfixed on the television screen. “Matt?” I ask, again. “Eggos or cheesy eggs?” “Both,” he says, “I like to make a sandwich.”

60 Strong winds blow against the bay window, which looks out over rolling, foliaged hills. The framed Janis Joplin poster is displayed opposite the autographed Nirvana poster in the study. Jessica hates both, preferring the Dave Matthews Band posters she has acquired during her college days, but relented after the bookshelves were built. My old, tattered teddy bear is displayed on the top shelf, leaning against Jess’s Big Five Romantic’s collection. Sometimes I find Wallace staring at him and I tell her, “No way.” The warm coffee works its way down my throat, waking up my tired body. The sugar doesn’t completely dilute, and I chew on a small clump. Jess wraps her arms around me, and I do the same, minding the hot mug. Rubbing her messy hair, I say, “Just leave your hair like this, and stay in your pajamas. I like when you’re comfy.” “What time will everyone be here later?” “My dad will be over around four. He doesn’t like driving too late. And my sister, Tom, and the kids will be by around five. Tom’s getting out of work early, so I’ll get started on the lasagna around noon. That reminds me,” I say, “I left a bunch of apple wood logs in my trunk for the fire pit. I gotta get that before my dad gets here. He loves the smell.” “Okay,” she replies, and then to our son, “Grampy and auntie and uncle and your cousins are coming today.” He excitedly dances around the couch, throwing his blanket, his teddy bear dragging behind him. I stretch my back, and Jess slaps my belly while giving me a kiss on my cheek. Our son laughs at my reactionary jolt. “Good morning, professor,” she says. “Same to you,” I respond. The pile of short stories looms over my day, but the whole family will be together, and the apple wood logs will fill the yard with the familiar smells of my own childhood. In these moments, I watch my dad looking around at the family that he and my mother created, the family he led through the darkest days, and a pleased and calm smile appears as he appreciates each moment. His grandchil- dren play games on the floor as my sister and my wife talk, each holding glasses of wine. My brother-in-law, my father, and I sit in

61 our camping chairs around the fire pit. My dad smells the smoke rising into the air, nods to it and asks, “that apple wood in there?” “Yes, sir.” “So, you do listen to me?” he replies. Dark smoke rises into the autumn sky like a ghostly shadow. Orange embers follow. Wallace crashes into another raked pile of red and yellow leaves, and the children laugh with immediacy as they are caught by the wind and drift across the yard.

62 Writing Awards Winner: Poetry

Chandler Tarquino

Breaking Good

He understands quantum physics, Is competent with any sort of motorized vehicle, and Can tell you the capitals of Iceland and Liechtenstein (Reykjavik and Vaduz). But he can’t tell me What he had for breakfast Why the Earth has seasons What he plans to do With the next twenty years of his life. “Twenty? I won’t make it ten, sugar. Only the good die young.” I forget who sings that song, How to file my 1040EZ And who was president before H.W. Bush. But I learn how to tip the scales, That Heaven’s melting point is 343.3°F, And the metric system.

63 Writing Awards Winner: Fiction

Martha Brinkman

Performance Spaces

sat in front of the dressing room mirror, the florescent lights Ihighlighted every damn feature of my face. I’d shaved, plucked, contoured, rouged—to perfection; I’d practically used up all the makeup I’d bought not even a week ago for my previous act, something still felt wrong. As I fastened a blonde wig to my head the theatre intern barged in. He looked down at his clipboard, then looked to me, eyebrows raised in scrutiny. “Pamela?” “I’ll be ready in a minute.” I said. I strategically glued the false eyelashes on and winced as I pulled them off and realigned them. He looked me up and down. “You’ve got five, thank God.” I flinched as he slammed the door behind him. I applied my red lipstick and started filling the bra, stuck to me like bubbles on a wall, with tissue paper. Adam told me his ex-wife, Vivien, used to wear a pushup to make her tits look fabulous. I was wearing one to make mine look existent. I walked onto the stage as the DJ announced “Pamela!” Thurs- day was drag night, people came more as spectators, not theatre aficionados, but an audience was an audience and I knew Adam enjoyed my performances. The room came to a slow hush as the spotlight hit me and my eyes adjusted to the room. Tony and Regi looked toward me as they anxiously sipped heir gin marti- nis—dry, one olive. Straight Mike and Patricia, arms wrapped at each other’s waists, observed the other audience members before they dutifully focused their attention on the stage. Social butterfly Brandon was still chatting with Bill—stage name “Majesty”—who had just finished an overdone Celine Dion song. It was humiliating,

64 really, that Bill was the headliner of the year. That’d change on next Thursday’s competition. I could feel it. This performance would be practice and affirmation. I glanced at the bar to see if Adam was readying a post-performance drink for me. He wasn’t. The introduction to “Like a Prayer” started, and I mouthed my opening line one beat behind. He wasn’t there. I lip-synced and gestured the best I could until the music was done and my act was over. Applause followed, ac- cordingly, but I couldn’t help crying off those damn falsies as soon as I got off the stage. He wasn’t there to offer up an ovation. He wasn’t there to give me flowers, let alone the Manhattan I desper- ately needed. I gathered my things and what pride still remained in me as I left for home. Anticipating Adam already asleep, then off to teach his class early in the morning, I looked forward to his explanation, whenever that’d come about.

***

“Vivien’s on an art tour in Europe, Johnny, you know Mag has to stay here until she comes back. She wasn’t feeling well last night and I had to be here for her. I’m sorry I missed your show,” I stared at Adam as he said this. “You know she’s at that age now. She needs attention.” He glanced at the table. “I love you, but you have to understand my position.” “I do. You could have told me she wasn’t feeling well. I would have come straight home from work and cancelled my spot.” “Is that so?” Adam crossed his arms. His doubt enraged me. “We met there. You’re there every Thursday. I was stunned. It ruined the performance.” “There will be many others to make up for it I’m sure. You have to come to terms with the fact that I’m still a dad,” he grinned, “gay or not.” The front door slammed and after throwing her backpack to the floor, Maggie made her way into focus. She was wearing the designer jeans I’d picked out for her, but tied around them was the

65 ugliest plaid shirt I had ever seen. One I knew her father wouldn’t have gotten for her let alone agree to her wearing outside of the house. “Honey, what’s wrong” Adam uncrossed his arms and started to get up. Maggie looked at me timidly as she bit her lip, relaying her gaze from me to the ground. “Something happened.” Her cheeks flushed at the statement. Her brows furrowed until they softened as she formed her argu- ment and looked up. ”When Sarah Nelson got hers she was crying, and she got to go home.” Adam glanced at me in wonder. I offered him a genuine shrug and then looked back at Maggie, intrigued by what could possibly be so important about Sarah Nelson. “Amanda Lopes got to go shopping for new clothes and a real bra!” she continued. Adam still looked helpless, but I started to understand what had happened as she rolled her preteen eyes. “I got a stain on my jeans, Dad!” “Carrie White got telekinesis.” I offered. Adam glared at me. Maggie’s lip curled, a look of confusion on her face. “Who’s Carrie White? What’s telekinesis? Dad, is that normal?” She took a deep breath. “Am I going to die?” “Your mother didn’t prepare me for this.” Adam rubbed his temples as he started to explain but gave up. “Just go to your room honey, I’ll be there in a minute.” Maggie sighed loudly before she stomped away, a dramatic door slam impressed the diva in me. “Johnny, what the hell was that?” Adam finally asked. “You know I have nothing maternal in me.” “Naturally.” “Or paternal for that matter.” I rose from the table, the chair screeching. My face felt tight, hot, and I glanced at the guest room—now Maggie’s—before nodding. Adam turned, his foot- steps muffled as he walked away from me. He timidly turned the knob and the squeak of the softly shut door was my cue to exit.

66 ***

As I entered the local pharmacy, a woman in a snug blue vest behind the register counter greeted me with an eye roll as she filed her nails. She was busy, with a line of exactly zero people in front of her. CVS clearly didn’t need my business, but I surely needed more makeup for my act, and some kind of feminine product for Margaret. I walked down the aisles past cosmetics, snacks, and turned right at the OTC medication before stopping at feminine hygiene. ‘Abandon hope, all men who enter here’ should have been written on the sign. “Need any help?” A young woman wearing a black dress and stockings glanced at me, she could sense my bewilderment. Wom- en pick up on these things, like animals that can smell fear. She had on heavy makeup and was holding a bottle of wine in one hand, her arm muscles flexed as she lifted it up to cradle. “She just got her period. I have no idea what I’m doing.” I laughed. “Go with these.” She picked up a small blue box and tossed it to me. “You’re a good dad.” I felt queasy at the statement. I put the box in my basket and made my way to the cosmetics. I instinctively grabbed the tan concealer, bronzer, black eyeliner, and glittery eyeshadow that “Pamela” was known for. I glanced down the aisle and saw, to my chagrin, Bill. He was contemplating the shade of red he’d paint on his nails. I turned quickly but I felt him looking at me. “Doing some light shopping?” Bill walked closer to me. “What shade do you think looks better? Too-Hot-To-Handle or Mid- night Rendezvous?” He glanced at Maggie’s blue box and raised an eyebrow. “Taking your act a little too seriously?” “It’s for Adam,” I said as a smirk creeped across his face, “Ad- am’s daughter.” “Huh, I thought Vivien took care of that stuff.” He looked down at the box again and waved his manicured hand at the basket. “She’s in Europe, Adam has Maggie for a while now. The job’s

67 extended to me, obviously.” “Good luck, Johnny.” Bill was never sympathetic, especially when it came to the mundane relationships normal people com- mitted to. His disinterest in female problems was understandable. “I’m thinking Too-Hot-To-Handle.” He turned to leave me but stopped. “See you at happy hour on Saturday.” He sarcastically added he looked forward to my performance for the competition Thursday. “Don’t hold your breath for this year’s spot, Johnny. I’m going big this time.” I adjusted the shopping basket, making sure to cover the box with my makeup, and headed toward the register. The girl behind the counter slowly rang up my bounty. She cocked her head as she scanned each item. When she told me the total, I shakily pulled out my leather wallet and handed her the cash. She paused as she counted it and looked directly at me. “You’re a good boyfriend,” she said as she put the change in my cupped hand. You’ve got that right, sister, I thought as walked out. When I returned to the house I bee lined to the guest bathroom and left the box as a peace offering. I put the cosmetics I’d bought in the leather tote I used for drag nights. I looked around our bedroom at the photos we’d hung like art in a gallery. One showed a night out at the bar with the group—makeup caked to my face, my wig off, Adam’s arm around me; the time we spent the holidays in Napa, wine glasses in our hands, the sun setting—Vivien had given Adam serious shit for missing that Christmas. Maggie was ten that year and had found out Santa was a lie. My gaze settled on a photograph he’d kept of him, Vivien, and Maggie. Of a time when I wasn’t in the picture; when he was still waiting tables, like I do now, during his master’s program for theatre; when he still thought he liked women. I’d let him keep the picture because he looked good in it and I thought it was important, for Maggie’s sake. The door creaked open. “Thanks for picking those up for her. She’s a bit shocked. Luck- ily I was able to get ahold of Vivien so she could talk to her.” Adam said. “I was out. I thought I might as well.” I shrugged it off.

68 “Listen, Johnny, I have a lot of exams to grade this week. Would you be willing to get Maggie from rehearsals tomorrow? She has a part in the school play, I thought you’d be a good person to talk to about makeup and acting. It debuts on Thur—” “Tomorrow? What time? What about our Saturday happy hour with Bill and everyone?” My voice sounded whiney. Adam sighed. “John, I have more responsibility now for Maggie—” “I have plans I intend to keep.” “Why are you being so selfish?” “I’m a drag queen.” I chuckled. “You’re my partner and I’m asking for help. It’s only going to be like this until Vivien returns.” “If she does.” I was surprised at my statement, Vivien wasn’t always flaky, but she had a tendency to put painting before people. Maggie had changed that for the most part. “Saturdays are tradi- tion. I’m sorry, I have to maintain some sense of my normal life.” Adam looked down, disappointed. “Have fun at happy hour.” He walked out of the room and I went to bed, alone.

***

The next afternoon I got off work much later than I had- in tended, and all I had earned was $30 and a pocket bible. There is a certain performance art involved in serving well-done filet mi- gnons and $20 salads to miserable, old-money retirees and trust fund babies. My last table sat for two hours after I’d cleared their plates, sipping tea and talking charity events. This is the table from which I acquired the New Testament; on the receipt the oldest woman at the table, clearly straddling the line between garden party matriarch and bitter prune, had written “Find Jesus or burn in Hell, cake-eater.” It was oddly archaic and made me feel what I assumed Maggie felt like yesterday—misunderstood, uncomfort- able, strange. I thought about it as I sped home to change and primp for happy hour, to vent about my day and the ancient hag

69 who took it upon herself to save my soul, to tell Adam about my plan for the competition and to brag at Bill. A car horn wailed as I swerved into the other lane. Winded and confused, I pulled into the nearby supermarket parking lot and started crying as I frantically searched the front seat for my emergency pack of cigarettes. I opened the console and grabbed the unopened Marlboro Light 100s, tearing the plastic from the month-old pack and ripping the top open. I puffed my tears away and glanced at the clock. Shit. Would I even have time to get ready? I looked rough, even for me. I thought about Adam and Maggie, and for a minute familiarity trumped the excitement of happy hour. I threw my half smoked cigarette out of the window and started toward the supermarket, contemplating what I could possibly, and decently, surprise them with for dinner. When I got home I placed the rotisserie chicken in its shiny plastic bag in the microwave before opening the industrial sized bottle of Pinot Noir I’d gotten on sale. I poured myself a glass and readied for the job at hand. Boil the rice, roast the vegetables, and carve the chicken. I measured out two cups of rice and one cup of water and chopped the asparagus while the oven preheated. I poured another glass of wine. I turned the pot of rice on high and thrusted the baking sheet in the oven. I checked the chicken in the microwave, it was still there. Exhausted from the culinary fi- nesse I’d newly found, I topped off my wine glass and relaxed on the couch. Another glass and a half of wine later, and the rice had turned to a dry, black cake in the pan, the asparagus was burnt to a crisp, and the chicken, though still in the microwave, had lost its greasy attractiveness and looked dry and cold. I stumbled to set my glass on the counter and immediately filled the pan with water, trying to scrape off whatever bits I could. The front door creaked open. “I’m so nervous for the play, Dad.” Maggie’s voice was high and whiney. “What if I suck? What if I can’t even put the stage makeup on right?” “You won’t, and I’m sure Johnny will be more than willing to

70 help you with makeup, he’s great at that stuff.” Adam paused and Maggie coughed. “What is that smell?” They stepped into the kitchen with a large white plastic bag engulfing an equally enormous paper bag—takeout, Chinese. The oily smell of the eggrolls and pungent aroma of orange chicken wafted from it. “Johnny, what are you doing? Is something burning?” “Just my soul.” I reached for my glass of wine and took another sip. I continued to focus on scraping the pan. “Margaret, will you set the table?” Adam said, I felt Maggie brush passed me as she opened the cabinet for two plates and made her way into the dining room. “I thought you were going to happy hour, not bringing it here.” I turned to him now, simultaneously embarrassed and prideful. “I was trying to be domestic.” I hiccupped. Adam shook his head. “You’ve never cooked a day in your life. Did something happen today?” Adam put his hand on my shoulder. I shook my head and glanced up at him before turning back to the sink. “John, you should probably go to sleep. I would have gotten you something but I thought you’d be out.” I raised my glass. “So did I.” My eyes flitted open the next morning, the room spun as I slowly sat up in the bed. My stomach lurched with a combination of nausea and extreme hunger. I could feel the dried mascara I’d cried down my cheeks still coated to my face. I didn’t bother wash- ing it off, I just shuffled my way into the kitchen and went directly for the coffee. I slammed the pantry door, their voices in the dining room faded and the only sound I heard was the scraping of metal on half-empty plates. A pan of scrambled eggs was on the stove and a few strips of bacon sat on a stack of greasy paper tow- els. I helped myself and I slowly shoveled the food into my mouth at the counter. Adam walked into the kitchen and stared at me. “You can come eat at the table, you know?” As I turned to him and started into the dining room a look of amusement crept on his face. “Jesus, babe, you look awful!”

71 “I’m fine here.” I said as I took a bite of bacon. “Okay, well I need to talk to you about Maggie later. I’m taking her to her friend’s house now so that should be plenty of time for you to get cleaned up.” “What is it? Just tell me now while I still have this headache.” “Thursday is the debut of her school’s play and we’d like you to come. I told her you were great at makeup, you know you are, and I think it’d be a good thing. A bonding experience.” I took a sip of coffee. “This Thursday? Do you know what that means?” “You’d have to miss drag night. I know, I’m sorry.” I set the mug down a little harder than I intended. “Not just any drag night, Adam, THE drag night. The competition to end all competitions!” Adam rolled his eyes. “All I want is to be the headliner this season.” “Oh come on, Johnny, you know Bill’s got that thing rigged. He’s been the headliner for the past three years. Let it go.” I felt my face get red. “This is important to me!” “You’re acting like a child. I’m just glad Maggie isn’t in here to see this, she’s going to be heartbroken.” At this he removed himself from the kitchen. There was some commotion in the dining room as he and Maggie readied to leave.

***

The next couple of days I picked up more night shifts at the restaurant in an attempt at avoidance. Adam and I had talked, albeit briefly, and my decision was made. Maggie had ignored my very existence. Now, it was Thursday, and as their car turned right to Maggie’s school, I turned left toward the drag show. Adam hadn’t kissed me goodbye and I felt slighted. When I got to the dressing room, Bill as Majesty was leaving. I mumbled a good luck as he dramatically turned to me. “Bitch, please. Do you see this?” He gestured up and down himself with his Too-Hot-To-Handle hands. He was stuffed in a

72 sequined red dress, a curly brunette wig was plastered on his head. He smiled. “You don’t even stand a chance.” With that he left and I sauntered into the dressing room. I applied the foundation to my face, rehearsing the lyrics in my head, planning the way I’d need to walk and wave. I desper- ately wanted Adam’s advice, for him to stand up to Bill for me, but he wouldn’t be there. I raised my head, sucked in my cheeks and brushed the rouge on. I then started on my eyes, gingerly painting the black liquid across my lids, trying not to cry. I thought of Maggie, going through the same motions I was; Adam, torn between fatherhood and love, a rift I’d created. He wouldn’t be there to see my performance and tell me I did a fabulous job. He wouldn’t be there to kiss me when I won or hug me if I lost. Just as I wasn’t there for Maggie and him. I quickly got up and gathered my things, my face in half-Pamela display. The intern made his way down the aisle toward the dressing room and stopped abruptly at me. “Take Pamela off. She won’t be performing tonight.” I said as I pointed to the name on the clipboard. I walked swiftly passed him and his deer-in-headlights face.

***

I barged into the school’s dressing room, mothers around their children hastily smeared the school’s old and cheap stage makeup to their nervous and jittery faces. I gazed around the room and finally saw Adam and Maggie. He was zipping her into a blue, ging- ham printed dress, her hair was in pigtails. As I moved closer to them, gasps and awe followed me. “Who are you supposed to be?” a stage mother asked. “I’m Maggie’s—” what exactly was I? I cleared my throat. “I’m her stylist and acting coach, thank you very much.” Adam turned at my voice, a look of wonder on his face. “What are you doing here?” He said. “Adam, let’s not get emotional. Maggie, we’ve got some work

73 to do.” I turned her toward me and sat in front of her. I brushed her cheeks with pink blush and dotted fake freckles on her cheeks. Adam smiled as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you for coming,” Maggie said as I pumped the mascara wand and started coating her eyelashes. She wrapped her thin arms around my neck. “I’m really happy you’re here.” She glanced up at her father before settling back for me to finish. “I am, too, honey.” I said.

74 Writing Awards Winner: Creative Nonfiction

Melissa Neubek

From City to Mountain — Day to Night

ast winter, my husband, Matt, and I spent two weeks with my Lfamily in Caracas, Venezuela. I have been several times, but it was Matt’s first time. My cousin, Elisa, is a photographer. She was working on a project for a restaurant taking pictures of different “corners” in Caracas. The name of the restaurant is “Esquinas,” which means corners, so my cousin and her partner (in business and in life), were working on putting together a series of images of iconic or just cool-looking corners in Caracas. Elisa invited us to spend the day with her shooting, and then the night at her girlfriend Isa’s house up in the mountains. Matt sits in the backseat, while I ride shotgun next to Elisa. We’re driving down a side street in Caracas trying to get a cool angle on a tall building on a corner. Elisa hands me her Canon 5D Mark III—a $3,000 camera. My upper body hangs out the passenger-side window of Isa’s SUV (Elisa only owns a motorcycle, so we’re borrowing Isa’s SUV). The pungent smell of trash fills my nostrils as I crane my neck up towards the building standing tall against the perfectly blue sky. The sun just peeks out from behind the top of the building, caus- ing the most perfect sun flare through the lens of the camera. My left eye is wide open, frantically checking the image through the tiny viewfinder, making sure it’s exactly what I want it to be. I have all of five seconds to get the shot. We are in Caracas, after all. A motorcyclist grazes the crown of my head and my prescription Ray-Bans fall off the top of my head as we lurch forward. Rolling at barely five miles per hour, Matt jumps out the backseat

75 in a tuck-and-roll fashion, scoops them off the littered, pothole- ridden road and jumps back in what seems like one fluid motion. The death grip I have on the camera is fueled by the heightened awareness of those around us who are poor and see the camera and my Ray-Bans as opportunities to make some money. We screech to a halt at a roundabout. I hand my cousin her camera. “Ten cuidado, chama,” Elisa reminds me. She hops out the driver’s side door, I hop into the driver’s seat, grind into first gear, and go. Our pre-discussed plan suddenly ex- plodes into motion. My head is on a swivel: left sideview mirror, right side-view mirror, rearview mirror, front windshield, repeat, like a metronome set to 120 beats per minute. We’re in one of the middle lanes of the four that circle around the roundabout. A motorcyclist raps his knuckles on my back left window to warn me he’s there. “Don’t touch my car! Who does that?!” I half-shout at Matt. “You’re doing great, babe,” he assures me. The motorcyclist maneuvers through the bustle of traffic and pedestrians with ease. Just inches away from side-view mirrors, taillights, and people crossing the street. They all do. Motorcyclists pretty much outnumber cars at least two to one. That number’s not a fact, but it’s as good as true. The streets are controlled chaos, dense with fumes and people and the incessant sound of honking horns. The scene can only be fully understood through experience. I spot Elisa craning her neck up at the same building I had been shooting, but with her feet on the ground. That angle may be the right one. The shot we need. There’s no way of knowing until you get the shots. And there’s no way to get the shots without the risk. In this country, in this city, people barely expose their cell phones in public, let alone their unwieldy, high-priced camera equipment. People get kidnapped on these streets. Eight years before, I had witnessed riots in these same streets that resulted in those windowless-white-van ransom kidnappings you read about in the news. Those unfathomable stories that you

76 can choose to ignore because they are so removed from your every day of Starbucks lattes and freedom to walk down a clean street. My husband and I circle the roundabout one more time while she takes her last few shots. My head continues to swivel on its beat. I round another corner and she waves me down—her camera tucked away in her bag, her fingers wrapped tightly around the straps, her head moving in unison with mine. She resumes her role as driver and off we go. Caracas is a valley. As we drive through the urban city landscape, mountains follow us as a permanent backdrop. Most are littered with ramshackle homes built out of clay, brick, dirt, wood, metal—any scrap that can offer shelter. They’ve been painted bright, happy colors, as if trying to divert your attention from the the extreme poverty they represent. Mangy, emaciated dogs skulk down the sides of the roads looking for food. Children run around shirtless and barefoot playing with deflated basketballs and sticks. Our windows stay rolled up and our cell phones are safely hidden away—our agenda is to get to point B safely. Abruptly, we veer off the paved road onto a mountain road. It starts as dirt, transitions to cement, and quickly changes to a grade steep enough to require four-wheel drive and first gear the whole way up. Now that we’re away from roads teeming with crowds of people, vehicles and motorcycles, our windows come down. We breathe in the cool mountain air. Twenty minutes later, we arrive at Isa’s house in the small mountain town of Galipán. We park, and our bodies feel a slight shock from the sudden lack of constant jostling from the uneven ground and hairpin turns. A wraparound porch with rocking chairs will provide scenic views in the morning. “It’s too dark now, but I can’t wait for you to see this all once the sun’s up,” I tell Matt. My husband collects firewood while Isa, Elisa, and I, make a snack, roll a joint and set up Backgammon. Our night becomes

77 immersed in strategies, laughs and competition by the crackling fire. Isa beats me 3-1, I beat Elisa 2-0, Matt beats Isa 2-1. We listen to Canserbero, a Venezuelan rapper, through iPhone speakers. Our heads bob subconsciously to the beat. I’m always the first one to yawn. As sleep approaches, we say our goodnights and the glowing embers offer themselves as a natural nightlight. Matt guides me and my half-closed eyes to bed. The faint scent of whisky in his goodnight kiss is the unadulterated finish to a great day. I drift off—still a creature of the first world, surrounded in this third world that I can do nothing to change. I fall asleep in a com- fortable bed, warm, under blankets, with a glass of clean water on my nightstand. Just miles below us in the bright-colored clay homes, they dream to be where I am.

78 Writing Awards Winner: Creative Nonfiction

Zoë Spanbroek

Just a Number

his is a story about shame. T “I have to tell you something,” he said to me, “and I need to tell you now so that what I’m about to say will make sense…I’m in love with you. I have been for a while. And I’m ready, right now, to buy you a plane ticket.” John had promised weeks ago that if things got bad, he’d do it; he’d be ready to take me away, save me. Things were bad. He had done it. The salt from my eyes was starting to cake onto my phone, making my left cheek sticky—stickier than the humid air that was sticking my body to the plastic park bench. Some invisible ant was gnawing at my thigh in the dark and the crickets were screaming, as they do every night in Florida. “I’m in love with you, too, John.” I looked up, and there was still no one in the park—no one to hear my voice crack or to see my nose run. Even if someone had been there I wouldn’t have been able to see them. The only nearby light came from a street lamp to my left. I saw it through the thick trees, across the street. It became my focal point. It was just a hollow orange light. But then, through the buildup of stinging water in my eyes, I saw that light refracted and sharpened. You know how when you’re driving at night and you squint a little, then all the lights go from being big circles to tiny, jagged stars? Well, that’s what this light looked like: a big star with sharp edges pointing, quivering in all directions. It became my lighthouse: a constant I could look to in the storm of this conversation. My life was chang- ing; this streetlight was not.

79 “Can’t we just wait ‘til after the 4th of July?” I asked. “I don’t know if we can wait that long,” he said. “But I just…I just want time to say goodbye,” I told him. “Baby, you can’t tell anyone, not even L.; it’s too risky.” “I know, but, to say ‘goodbye’ in my mind.” The place I wanted to say goodbye to was my hometown of Boca Raton, Florida. The people I wanted to say goodbye to were my friends and family. The time I wanted to say goodbye was June 2013, almost two months after my first year of college spent near New York City ended—almost two months after I met Johnny. He was my first love. I consciously knew it as early as our third date. I subconsciously felt it a lot earlier. We just fit so well together; we were yin and yang. I’m a Pisces; he’s a Scorpio. I grew up in the suburbs; he grew up in the city. I was 19; he was…older—45, to be exact. When I came home that summer with the news of whom I had met in New York, every detail I could offer of him was completely eclipsed by the number of years he has spent on this earth. To me, the number was arbitrary considering how we felt about each other. To my friends and family, that number was a cloud hang- ing low over my life, threatening lightening if I didn’t seek shelter away from it. To me, that cloud was made up of my friends and family: their judgments, their embarrassment, their efforts to guilt me into ending things. My mom staged a pseudo-intervention for me. She got my grandparents to drive all the way down from North Carolina to convince me to “get my life back on track.” My best friend was determined, not to try and support or understand me, but to have the politically correct view that I was blinded by love and on the cusp or ruining my life. Ironically, my Dad was the only one who seemed remotely nonchalant. But the pseudo-support of one person wasn’t enough to keep the weight of everyone else’s opinions from crushing me. Love can be blinding, but the fear of losing love is more blinding, which brings me to that night in the park: the phone call, the mutual confession of love, the plan to run away to New York.

80 The night he booked the ticket was a Sunday. The flight was for Wednesday. As I said, the fear of losing love is blinding—so blinding that I forgot Wednesday was my Mom’s birthday. By the time I realized what we’d accidentally done, it was too late to cancel (financially and emotionally). Those next two days were blurred and painful. My strongest memory came from Tuesday when my grandparents and I took my mom out to a pre-birthday dinner because she was working the next day and we weren’t going to have time to celebrate then. My grandfather drove us up to the Fifth Avenue Grill in Delray. Every time we go there, he takes the road that runs along the train tracks. It has fewer traffic lights than the bigger roads; it’s faster, quieter. The whole time, I stared out at the rails and the sparse streetlights that spotted them in dim pools of color. I thought about the streetlight I had stared at the night John told me he loved me—how still and constant it seemed. Those train tracks were another constant, another lighthouse. Par- allel lines of intersecting metal and wood receded behind my eyes as quickly as they reappeared ahead. They were guiding the car closer to dinner, but they were guiding me closer to Wednesday, June 26, 2013. There’s a cliché that says, “Age is just a number.” I guess you could say the same thing about birthdays. The next morning I called in sick to work, frantically packed, and left in a taxi. I’m not shameful of the way I loved him. But I am shameful of the way I handled the pressure that people in my life put on me because of him. I’m most shameful of the way I left. The goodbye note was the worst part. It was sloppy and disjointed. It said that I loved my mom and that I was sorry, which is true. It claimed that she always believed in me my entire life, but now was the time for me to start believing in myself, so I had to go and prove to myself that I believed in love. Blah, blah, bullshit. I wasn’t leaving because I was being brave. I wasn’t leaving because I was standing firm for what I believed in. I was leaving because I had experienced love for the first time, and I didn’t want that experience to end. I was leaving because no one was glad for me that I had found out what

81 happiness actually felt like. I was leaving because I was scared. I feared that, if I stayed, everyone would try to mold me back into the girl that they all knew: the submissive “me” who listened to everyone’s advice about her life and whose happiness came from pleasing other people. They wanted to shape me into my old self again, as carelessly as children shape Play-Doh in kindergarten, not even thinking of the curves that they’re ruining with their eager fingers. When I left, I escaped their eager fingers. When I came back at the end of the summer, my fingers were the ones that were eager. I wanted to caress the wounds I made. I wanted to grasp at the relationships I used to have. I could do neither for a long while. Even now, I’m not sure if that “long while” is over. What I do know is that my family is a technical part of my life again. What I don’t know is if they’ll ever be able to understand the way I love. And I use the word “love” in present tense because Johnny and I are still together. I’m not attending FGCU to get away from New York; I’m attending because my parents invested in a Florida pre- paid tuition plan. Yet, every second I spend here feels like a second wasted: a second I could be spending with my family—especially my mom—or a second I could be spending stitching up all those gashes I gave their hearts. There’s a saying that goes: “time heals all wounds.” I hope it’s true, because I sure as hell can’t heal them by myself.

82 About the FGCU Writing Awards

The FGCU Writing Awards is an annual event that provides an op- portunity to celebrate outstanding writing by FGCU undergraduate students in categories such as fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, literary/art analysis, and sustainability. There were over 100 submissions in 2016, the inaugural year of the event. Winners in the fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry categories have the -op portunity to have their work published in the Mangrove Review. The FGCU Writing Awards are sponsored by the Writing Center and the Office of Undergraduate Studies.

83 About the Contributors

Martha Clare Brinkman graduated from Florida Gulf Coast Univer- sity in 2016 with a B.A. in English and minors in Creative Writing and Medieval and Early Modern Studies. She hales from Naples, FL and currently lives there with her boyfriend, Taylor, and their feline masters, Holly and Tybalt. She and her companions will be journey- ing to Baltimore, where she will teach reading comprehension during the summer and eventually attend graduate school. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, watching theatrical and musical performances, and, above all, writing—both fiction and nonfiction. Special thanks to Lori Cornelius for supporting this piece and encouraging its publication.

Allyson Clancy is a graduate student, working toward her M.A. in English at Florida Gulf Coast University. She has decided to do so without choosing a focus so that she can dabble in works from a vari- ety of time periods and genres. When not engulfed in her studies she works for Florida Gulf Coast University in multiple capacities one is as the Honors Program Graduate Student Assistant of the Honors Mentor Program and the other job is as a Library Student Ambassa- dor. These jobs give her great pleasure because they both align with her end goal; which is to work in a faculty position at the university that is tie with student affairs. Writing and art are not only passions of Allyson’s, but also an outlet for when the daily ins and outs of life get to be a little too much. Her works often reflect this theme. So far, her work has been for herself but she is in the pursuit of being published so that her work can help others who are bogged down by the ins and outs of life.

Molly Creeger graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2003, where she majored in History. She enjoys reading and writing poetry in her free time. She has been a member of several writing clubs and enjoys the comradery and feedback of other writers. Her poetry combines the beauty of nature with the emotion of the human spirit. She is a current employee of FGCU, as the executive secretary

84 of the Language and Literature Department.

Rafael Cruz was born in Fort Myers, Florida. Born to two loving parents, Rafael accidentally murdered his father when he was just 3 years old. A diligent studen,t Rafael dual enrolled at Florida Gulf Coast University at the age of 17. He later dropped out after realizing that he was in fact, profoundly stupid. Rafeal currently lives in Sara- sota, Florida, with his two dogs Amy and Maple. http://www.theforbiddenknowledge.com/hardtruth/list_of_satanist. htm

Lindsay Dawson is an upcoming graphic design artist who has been advancing her skills for seven years. She is dedicated and passionate about the arts and hopes her art brings people joy.

Emily Dolan is from Wilmington, Delaware, and graduated from FGCU in the spring of 2016 with a BS in Biology. She current lives in Ravenna, Italy, while playing professional soccer. In addition to pursuing writing, she is interested in becoming a paramedic and fur- thering her hobbies of photography and computer coding after her athletic career has ended.

Kayla Hoffman is working towards a career in English and Litera- ture. She grew up in Davie, Florida, close to the beaches. She frequently changes her mind and thinks that is a great quality.

Lance Lambert is an English major graduating from FGCU in summer 2016. He enjoys music, reading, and the internet. His passion is summer camp; he spent three summers at YMCA Camp Abe Lincoln in Blue Grass, Iowa, as a Camp Counselor for two summers and Vil- lage Elder for his last summer. For his dedication and commitment to summer camp he received many awards and accolades including Spirit of Camp Abe Lincoln and Most Caring. He also attended the Harvard National Model United Nations Conference in 2013 and 2014.

85 Mark Massaro is a graduate student, working toward his M.A. in English at Florida Gulf Coast University with a focus on The Lost Generation and the Beatnik Generation. He enjoys cooking while listening to classic rock and drinking a cold beer. When not reading, he can be found jamming out at a Dave Matthews Band show in his black Chucks or at a bonfire in his home state of Massachusetts. His short story Dog Walk Musings was published in Literary Juice Maga- zine. He is married to his love and has a dog named Bear.

Melissa Neubek studies journalism at FGCU. She is a part-time student because her photography business keeps her busy. Holding a professional certificate in Digital Photography from the Center of Digital Imaging Arts at Boston University, Melissa has been doing photography professionally for almost 8 years. She’s married to her awesome husband, Matt, and enjoys writing, singing, monkeys and traveling. She’s originally from Boston (go Patriots!) but loves living in Naples.

Alex Niedrach is a 2015 graduate of F.G.C.U. He currently resides in Seattle, WA. In November, 2015, he presented his paper, “Spatial Orientation in ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’” at the 1st annual undergraduate Humanities Symposium. He likes to work on cars and motorcycles, and just finished restoring his grandfather’s 1967 Buick Skylark. Her name is Amelia.

Teresa Scott is a student at Florida Gulf Coast University who will be graduating in May of 2017. She is originally from Naples, Florida. Teresa will be graduating with a B.A. in English, as well as a minor in creative writing. She frequently writes poetry, although she also dabbles in short story writing. After pursuing her degree, she hopes to become a high school teacher, and one day a professor of English.

Zoë Spanbroek graduated summa cum laude from Florida Gulf Coast University in 2016 with a B.A. in Environmental Studies and minors in English and Interdisciplinary Studies. Ironically she still spends most of her time at school where she works at the Center for Envi-

86 ronmental and Sustainability Education. With 23 years of Floridian life behind her, Zoë will soon move to New York and pursue writing on behalf of science, the natural world, and occasionally own memories. She may not know precisely where the future is guiding her, but she does know that she wants to be a storyteller. When she’s not working or pondering her ambitions, Zoë writes poetry to help her make sense of this strange and lovely thing called “life.”

Chandler Rae Tarquino is a senior at Florida Gulf Coast Univer- sity, pursuing an undergraduate degree in English. Working in the restaurant industry since she was 16 years old has served as some of the best inspiration for her writing, but she is also inspired by the memories of her childhood growing up here in Bonita Springs with the interstate running through her front yard and the ocean in her back yard. She is a voracious, insatiable reader because she believes to be a good writer, one must read—and purposefully. She watches Jeopardy with the same religious fervor and emotional investment as NFL fans, to the amusement of her boyfriend, Bruce, and their dog, Vincent.

Madison Walker was raised in Naples, Florida. Currently seeking a degree in nursing, she is also an aspiring screenwriter, film director, fashion designer, and beekeeper. A hardcore advocate for love, with a penchant for trouble, she spends her free time lounging by the ocean wearing something designer and drinking something expensive.

Iman Zekri is an honors student and political science major at Florida Gulf Coast University. She enjoys the arts and has a passion for photography and creative writing. Iman’s major has allowed her to gain a broad knowledge of foreign politics and global issues within the political science field. Iman enjoys traveling internationally and she recently visited Tunisia, North Africa, which was a remarkable op- portunity to expand her photography portfolio and further explore her interest in intercultural studies.