Contents

ADULT Fiction Scott Craven...... Visiting Hours 1

HIGH SCHOOL Fiction Grace Smith...... The Giving Hole 9

Adult Poetry Maria Scudder...... 432 Hz 16

High School Poetry Aliyapadi Hariadi...... To be Clever 19

ADULT Nonfiction Jennifer Priest Mitchell...... Stay With Me 21

COLLEGE NONFICTION Diane Tavoian...... Without a Word 27 Visiting Hours Scott Craven

∙ ADULT FICTION ∙

He grasped the left side of the bow tie, the red one flecked with gold his wife loved so much, and gave it a slight tug. He lowered his hand and leaned toward the mirror. Better. His wife had gotten it for him, what was it, twenty years ago? No, twenty … seven. It was an anniversary present, forty-four years together, and not long after he’d retired. “Your job is over,” Beth had said as she knotted it under the collar of his red polo shirt. “But your life is far from done, so I’m not letting you quit who you are.” Though he’d tucked it to the back of his sock drawer, he was surprised how often he’d wear it. Especially now. And by God if he still didn’t make that tie look good. Before turning from the mirror, Paul eyed the childproof plastic bottle on the coffee table and the blessed relief that waited within. He ignored it, as he had many times before, knowing his muscles and joints would protest his decision with every step across the courtyard. So be it. He glanced at his watch, noting he had fifteen minutes. He’d need eleven of them to make the journey, giving him at least four minutes (if she was ready on time, and she rarely was) to recover in the lobby of the care home. Paul shuffled to the front door and paused, as he always did. Putting his right index and middle fingers to his lips, he kissed them and placed them on the lips of his darling Beth, whose smile beamed from his favorite of all the photos strategically placed so she’d always be in view no matter where he was in the tidy one-bedroom apartment. This one had been taken in in Vernazza, one of five villages of Italy’s Cinque Terre, during one of the many journeys they’d always promised themselves to take before time ran out. Though time did run out, of course, because it’s designed to. That didn’t make Paul feel any less cheated. The trip to Cinque Terre was the last one before … no, no, no. He focused on Beth’s image, the joy in her face. He knew they drew looks as they strolled down Vernazza’s narrow avenues. How cute they were, the doddering old couple still holding hands after all these years. They didn’t know the half of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing what he called the “terrorist thoughts,” the ones always threatening to take Beth – the one in photos and memories – away from him. Opening his eyes he looked again at the photo filled with her smile, giving him the courage to step into the hallway and make his way to her.

1 Down the elevator, through his building’s common room and into the bright and op- pressive sunlight, following the twice-daily path carved over the years by instinct. He and Beth had fallen in love with Friendship Place the minute they saw it, pushing aside the shadows that brought them there in the first place. “Live for the moment,” Beth always reminded him when he descended into one of his moods. I always tried, he said to himself. I keep trying. It was his mantra, one that pushed him across the courtyard in peace. Most of the time. Some days were tougher than others. If Paul recalled correctly, this tough day was a Wednesday. Not that it mattered. Though they were married on a Wednesday. The two twenty-year-olds had no money for a reception, so friends and family gathered at a park on a scorching August afternoon. As Paul reminded Beth on every anniversary, he’d always walk through fire to be with her. They’d met in elementary school, not as kids but as adults (though how they loved telling people their eyes first met on a grade-school playground). He was working his way through col- lege as a janitor; she was in training as a teacher. It was love at no-later-than-third sight. Beth’s world soon was full of children, all shapes and sizes and ages during her forty-two years as a junior-high science teacher. Good thing, since they’d tried to have their own. Beth wanted a sizeable family. “I’m an only child,” she often said, “so it’s OK if we play a little biological catch-up.” Paul nodded on their wedding night when she whispered, “Two boys, two girls, how does that sound?” after the third time they’d made love. Paul nodded, wanting only that she would be as happy as he was. They tried for more than two years, Beth’s optimism carrying them through the first mis- carriage. Even after the second, Beth remained strong, Paul marveling at her strength. The third, though … it nearly destroyed Beth. Paul hid the depth of his despair, knowing his wife had suffered so much more. Though Beth would never admit it, Paul believed his wife would have chosen being a mom over having a career. Their loss was teaching’s gain, Beth devoting herself to students who rarely returned the favor. Not that she didn’t have her fans. Even today, she received Christmas cards from former students, and thank-you notes from the past. Often Beth would read those cards – she saved every one – and tell Paul, “Good thing we didn’t settle for just four kids.” Paul would smile, saying noth- ing at all. As his destination neared, Paul adjusted his bow tie before pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. Maybe a hundred steps to go. He used to count them, an exercise to occupy a mind incapable of wandering into dangerous territory. Now the arthritis in his knees and hips kept his mind from straying, forcing him to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The gleaming white building welcomed him with the whoosh of sliding doors, enveloping Paul in cool air. He approached the front desk soundlessly, his burgundy wingtips sinking softly into the carpet with each step. The same smartly dressed woman who greeted he and Beth on their first visit another era ago looked up from her computer.

2 “Mr. Clevenger, on time as always,” she said. “I could set my watch to you.” Paul glanced at her wrist, which sported a glossy black square. One of those computer watches, things that could monitor your heart rate and check stock prices. He assumed they told time as well, just as he was sure mobile phones still made calls, even if that wasn’t their primary purpose. The world had moved past him, which was fine with Paul. “Ms. Sinclair, how is everything today?” he asked, his heart beating just a bit faster. There was a time when he and Veronica (Ronnie to her friends) Sinclair would have en- gaged in small talk, from the weather (hot) to last night’s entrée in the café (bland). Now it was down to business. “I just checked her chart,” Ms. Sinclair said, her eyes returning to the computer screen. “Quiet night, no accidents.” She tapped a few keys. “Took her meds this morning, but only ate half her oatmeal. We’re still a little concerned about her weight.” Paul nodded. Beth had always been lithe. Though she never had a problem with weight, she’d always started her day exercising to a thirty-minute Jazzercise tape. He could still recall each song in order. If he ever heard those tunes on the radio, he instinctively pictured Beth’s moves, memories forever linked to music. “She likes the maple-brown sugar oatmeal,” he said. “A touch of salt, a pat of butter on top. And you need to give it a minute or two to cool.” Ms. Sinclair’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. “Yes, I know. And Quaker.” Paul nodded again, though Ms. Sinclair didn’t look up. “If she still has a problem with breakfast, I’ll make sure to pass that on to staff,” she said. No you won’t, Paul thought. He knew the attendants thought of him as a troublemaker. He’d asked for flatter pillows because Beth couldn’t sleep if her head was propped up too high. They wouldn’t let him put her favorite rocking chair in her room for liability reasons. More than once, they caught him trying to sneak in a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, her favorite. “How’s her shoulder?” Paul asked. During his past few visits, he noticed Beth wince when she raised her right hand above her head. “We haven’t had it checked out,” Ms. Sinclair said. “If she were, you know, less resistant … but we did have one of our physical therapists manipulate the shoulder. Looks like tendinitis. She’ll keep an eye on it.” “Thank you.” Paul didn’t blame Beth for acting out, not just because she was confused. No one wants to be poked and prodded all the time. For the millionth time, Paul tried to convince himself this was the best place for his wife, one she had a hand in selecting. For the millionth time, he failed. “May I see her now?” he asked. “She’s finishing lunch, so let’s give her a few minutes to clean up, shall we?” “Of course.” Paul took his usual seat amid furniture set up to resemble a living room, which it didn’t at all. It was where he’d sat when they made the decision. When Beth made the decision.

3 “It’s getting worse, not better,” she’d said plainly, honestly. “This is where we need to be. Where I need to be. You’ll always be close and though there will be times when I won’t know that, other times it will be the only thing that keeps me going.” It had started slowly, of course. (Beth joked more than once, “No such thing as spontane- ous dementia,” and Paul didn’t laugh, not once.) Misplaced keys. Forgotten lunches. Names just out of reach. No worries. “Age,” Paul would say. “It’s a bitch.” Only he was more than worried when everything changed That Day. Beth was long overdue from a trip to the craft store. As he paced, stopping only to look out the front window for her silver Toyota Corolla, he promised himself he would be sterner with her when it came to carrying her cellphone, which he’d found on the kitchen counter. He was staring out the window when the other phone rang. The “landline,” as if it wasn’t a real phone. He snatched the receiver. The officer said Beth was fine, that it was a minor accident with no one hurt. She was call- ing, she said, because Paul’s wife seemed confused. Was she being treated for dementia? No, Paul said. She can be a little forgetful at times, but who isn’t when they hit their mid- seventies? The officer asked a few more questions, each more insensitive than the last. When she wondered if Beth was under someone’s care, Paul lashed out. “You mean like a home? A place for crazy old people?” He drove to the scene over unfamiliar roads. What was she doing on the other side of town? He found Beth on a quiet residential street, her Corolla wedged underneath a pickup parked against a sloping curb. He hugged her, asked if she was alright. He stepped back and looked her up and down before again wrapping his arms around her. “Oh Paul,” she whispered. “what are we going to do?” He reluctantly let go and glanced at the car. “We can fix it, don’t worry,” he said. “No, Paul, sweetheart. Not the car.” She stroked his face. “Me. What are we going to do about me?” Three months later they were at Friendly Place, signing a lease for a one-bedroom apart- ment. “Mr. Clevenger,” Ms. Sinclair said. “She’s ready.” Paul stood and adjusted his bow tie. His felt his heart beating faster as it always did, as if a first date rather than one of hundreds of visits. He headed into the pastel-colored dayroom and its bright, vinyl-covered chairs. With all its brightness, Paul appreciated the room’s deceptive sheen. A handful of residents looked at the TV bolted to the wall, gold jewelry sparkling on the screen, and it could be all theirs for five easy payments of thirty dollars. Most of the residents in this area of the complex – Paul hesitated to call it a ward, though that’s what it was – struggled with daily living. In the far corner another resident (Rosemary, if he remembered correctly and hoping to God he did), was with Jaeleen, a “memory therapist.” The two were usually working together when Paul visited, and he’d even seen the true Rosemary emerge from time to time, waking as if from a deep sleep. She asked about her husband (dead),

4 her kids (in another state). She spoke of family vacations and holiday gatherings before slipping away again. Paul found himself clinging to these brief interludes, a lifeboat in a turbulent sea threatening to sweep away all hope. He took a seat, waiting for the familiar buzz and click of the double doors across the way announcing the arrival of his beloved wife (not the stranger she’d become, never that). Buzz, click. The love of his life appeared in a pale blue bathrobe, escorted by a nurse in vibrant pink scrubs. Paul rose, adjusting his tie. Beth turned her back to him. The nurse gripped Beth’s elbow and steered her back into the room, firmly but gently. There had been a time Paul’s heart shattered when this scene unfolded. Now it merely broke, softly, soundlessly. “Look Beth, he’s right over here,” the nurse (Rebecca) cajoled. “And isn’t he just the hand- somest man ever, you’re such a lucky gal.” When Beth stepped into the room, Paul’s heart skipped a beat, as it had since their first date. There was just something about this woman, and the more he got to know her, the more they fell in love. As he gazed at her, Paul did what he always did. He looked past the frazzled hair and stained bathrobe and frail steps to find Beth. The real Beth, the one he knew was there. Some- where. “Let’s go say hi,” Rebecca said, grasping Beth’s hand. Beth shuffled toward him. Sometimes she’d resist, and Paul had learned not to push his wife to do something she didn’t want to do. She’d always been stubborn, even long before her mind betrayed her. As she sat in the chair next to him, Paul noticed a bit of eye shadow, a thin line of lipstick. His hand went to his bowtie again, without him realizing it. Beth stopped, stared at Paul. “Where’s Michael?” she said. “Where’s Michael? Where is he? Who are you?” “I’m Paul, Beth.” His voice was low, serene. Remaining calm was important, the doctors had told him, no matter how painful it might be. He was about to add, “your husband,” focusing so hard on his smile, on maintaining this façade, that he’d nearly made a crucial mistake that would have brought the visit to an end. Beth didn’t know “Paul,” but she knew “husband.” And, in her mind, one had nothing to do with the other. “Paul?” she said. “Where’s Michael?” Paul first met Michael shortly after Christmas. He learned from Jaeleen that Michael was a widower who’d moved into the community shortly after his wife had died. His mental state quickly deteriorated and he was moved into fulltime care last fall. Beth and Michael found one another shortly afterward, as such relationships were not uncommon among those with dementia. “Hon,” Rebecca leaned down to whisper to Beth. “Michael can’t come right now. He’s bu s y.” “Why not?” Beth said as she stared at the TV.

5 Rebecca looked at Paul, an apology written on her face. “I’m just going to leave you two now for a little quiet time,” she said before disappearing through the double doors. Paul took a deep breath and steadied himself. This was nothing new, he reminded himself. Nor was this something that was going to get better. It wasn’t how Alzheimer’s worked. What mattered was Beth by his side. Like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, Paul spoke of past trips and family gatherings. He retold the stories that crafted their lives, the memories that made Paul and Beth, well, Paul and Beth. She couldn’t remember, so he’d remember enough for the both of them. “Is it cold in here?” Beth looked up and behind her. “It seems cold in here.” “It is, a little,” Paul said. “Would you like me to get a blanket, sweetheart?” “No, I like the cold.” Beth’s gaze returned to the TV. “Me too,” Paul said, inching his hand closer to Beth’s. “Especially when it’s so hot outside.” “So hot,” Beth echoed. “But at least it never snows. Remember that trip to Telluride? We were so sure it wouldn’t snow, not in April. We were heading toward the first mountain pass when the clouds opened up.” As the recollection unfolded, Paul lost himself in the swirling snow that turned a spring day into a Norman Rockwell winter landscape. He was back in the orange hatchback that strug- gled mightily to make it up that mountain, the cliff inching closer as they held on for dear life. Paul felt a sharp slap on the back of his hand, which he was surprised to find on Beth’s knee. “What are you doing?” Beth screamed. “Don’t touch me! Who are you?” She slapped his hand a second time before he could take it away. “Who are you?” she repeated. “I’m Paul, honey,” he said. Calm. Important to be calm. “Your husband.” “No such thing,” she said. “How dare you.” The spittle hit him just below his left eye, a spot of warmth that trickled toward his lips. Paul removed the handkerchief from its usual spot – the right pocket inside his jacket – and dabbed at his face. It’s OK, he thought, steadying himself. Not the first time. Not the last time. “Oh, that’s pretty,” Beth said. Slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket, Paul saw Beth pointing to the TV. On the screen, a gold ring with a large inset diamond slowly rotated, sparkling in the lights. “Guys, you’re only going to pop the question once,” the TV said. “And when you do, she’s going to remember every detail as it unfolds. You’re going to want to slip something on her finger that’s as meaningful as the moment.” Another woman’s voice. “That’s right, which is why you’ll want something as beautiful as this elegant yet traditional engagement ring, twenty-four-carat gold with a one-carat stone per- fectly cut to show off its amazing clarity. Right now, all yours with five easy payments …” The voice faded as Paul watched Beth’s gaze fall on her own ring, the one Paul gave her so many years ago. She held it in front of her. Paul couldn’t see, but it looked as if Beth’s eyes were going from the ring on TV to the ring on her finger.

6 She rotated her hand back and forth, like a beauty queen waving during a parade. With her hand still in front of her, she turned her head to Paul. Deep inside those hazel eyes, Paul saw a glimmer. There she was. Beth. His Beth. Time froze. The TV, the chairs, the walls, the entire world melted away until it was just her. His bride smiled. “I do,” she whispered. She grasped Paul’s hand. “I do. Forever and ever. My Paul.” Paul watched the glimmer burn and fade. The two women on TV moved onto a diamond tennis bracelet. Beth released his hand. Chairs reappeared, walls reformed. “Michael’s coming soon,” said the woman watching TV. Paul felt a tap on the shoulder. Twisting his neck, he saw a beaming Jaeleen. “Did that just happen?” she said. “I wasn’t imagining it, was I?”

###

Paul stepped into his apartment, not needing to look at the clock to know it was eight minutes past two. He took his time undressing, as he always did. He slipped on a T-shirt and jeans before settling onto the couch. He looked at the two objects on the coffee table. Time to choose. This time, it was easy. He reached to the left and lifted the heavy photo book, plopping it onto his lap. He turned right to the wedding shots, his fingers instinctively knowing where to go. He lost himself in the past because it was the only way to survive the present. And should there come a time he could not survive the present, then perhaps he’d reach to the right. But not today. Certainly not today.

7

The Giving Hole Grace Smith

∙ HIGH SCHOOL FICTION ∙

August 20 I’m quitting! I can’t take it anymore. After weeks of writing perfect reports, one minor mistake slips past me — one small, inconsequential numerical calculation — and that plump bastard ran to my cubicle, face redder than his hideous scarlet shirt. He shoved the “faulty” report in my face and just started going at it; yelling that I failed him, that I ruined the deal, and even threatened to fire me. Just a bunch of nonsense — I’m the best employee in this pigpen. Even worse, he spat with each word. The smell of his toxic tobacco-stained spit still clings to my suit and my hair. Absolutely disgusting! At least one positive thing emerged out of this mess: the image of his imbecilic face in- grained into my memory. Once he finished spewing his sludge, he outshone the sun, with snot pouring from his giant nose and spit dripping from his protruded chin. Every time his face wan- ders into my mind, I laugh. The moment the chaotic job market tidies itself, I’m leaving. Even more exasperating, a button popped off of my only white dress shirt. I don’t get my paycheck for another week, so now I have to pick up sewing. Luckily, today was not a complete failure. A new girl started this week. In celebration, my coworkers planned a party at the bar next door (the one that’s always covered in filth and smells of vomit). Since I never accept, they didn’t even bother to invite me, but when the new girl heard this, she begged me to come. She said she wanted to meet everyone and even suggested she wanted to be my friend. Of course, I said no, but she would not quit, and so, after a couple of minutes of arguing, I conceded — plus, after the day I had with my pounding head and sore body, I deserved to get drunk. Against all of my expectations, I had fun. The new girl, Emma (or Emmie, as she pre- ferred), overflows with sweetness, having the most adorable smile. The whole time, she attended to me, checking with me, and bought me several drinks. I hope she leaves the business before it sucks the life from her. Reminder: Reports due tomorrow.

August 23 I went out with Emmie again. A retro novelty restaurant/bar popped up around the cor- ner from the office, and she would not stop talking about it. Guess everyone else was drowning in work, or something, because she asked me to join her. I accepted (Mother would have been proud. Always complaining about me being a good-for-nothing hermit, but look, I’m socializ- ing!), but, unlike before, everything ended up being a terrible mess.

9 First of all, the line wrapped around the entire block. We waited for half an hour in the burning heat! Then when we finally found a table, we were shoulder to shoulder, jam-packed like piles of trash stacked in a hoarder’s home — smelt like it too. The terrible food tasted rotten, and the whole ‘novelty’ part felt cheap. The cherry on top of this terrible sundae of a night was the hungry gazes from the table across ours. searching for anything to ravage their appetite. As we prepared to leave, one of the men, drunk out of his mind with more muscle than brain, approached Emmie and begged for her num- ber. She said no, but he insisted. After another firm no, he yelled at her, called her a ‘slut’ and a ‘useless whore,’ said he’d never seen such ugly brown curls, asked if her freckles were a contagious disease, and laughed at her weight. Emmie stood stiff, wide-eyed, and terrified out of her mind. Her lips trembled and she couldn’t speak a single word, so I had no choice but to step forward. We exchanged harsh words, and he cocked his fist back. The security guard finally intervened before he could hit me. Em- mie seemed grateful and would not stop thanking and praising me. She offered to buy me more drinks, but I told her I needed some sleep, and we went our separate ways. I’m so relieved to be home, wrapped up in my favorite blanket with the TV droning in the background. If I didn’t need money, I’d never leave this heaven. Ugh, I hate people! I can’t believe I wore my best pants for this, despite their scratchy wool. Next time Emmie asks to eat out, the answer will be a solid no.

August 26 I swear to God, I really am quitting that hellhole! No amount of money is worth dealing with the crap I suffer through. The bastard barged in again, spouting nonsense about a mistake I didn’t even make! I tried to correct him, but I couldn’t even sputter out a single syllable with his endless barrage of insults. And when I finally spoke up, he shrugged and hightailed out of my cubicle. No apology! Sometimes I just want to wring his obese neck till he begs for air. And of course, a small hole appeared on my living room wall. No sign of it existing yes- terday, so I have no idea where it came from, but guessing by its size, I think mice. Just my luck, living in a crappy apartment overrun with mice. Now I need to start budgeting and saving up for an exterminator. Goodbye new couch, I guess the appalling fiery-orange loveseat, with its forever mysterious brown stain, will have to stay.

August 27 Emmie approached me today. Turns out, she wrote the messed-up reports. I could tell she felt truly horrible about the boss’s mistake, and as an apology she offered to treat me to dinner. I told her not to worry about it, but she insisted, so I lied and said I felt under the weather and that we could go another day. She finally conceded and left to bother someone else. I might have gone with her. She did nothing wrong (the boss is the idiot here), but today, I just want to stay home. Even though I slept all night, my energy’s been sucked dry — the negative effect of work. Speaking of home, I think the hole might be expanding. I can’t really tell, but today it’s the size of a baseball, and yesterday it was not. Why is it always me who draws the short straw? I’ll

10 deal with it tomorrow. Good night and good riddance. Reminder: Stop by grocery store after work.

August 28 The hole is definitely growing. When I woke up, it was the same size as yesterday, but when I returned home after work, it grew three times bigger. It’s not your average hole. Other than the growing part, there is something unnatural about it. It maintains no exit of any sort. It doesn’t open up to the neighbor’s apartment, or the wall studs, but it leads somewhere; some kind of empty void. Maybe a secret room rests between the walls? Although no light enters the hole, so I doubt it. I shone a flashlight right into the center, and nothing — it was as black as ever. No, black is not the right color, but no other color comes close to match it. A dense whirling mass of dark clouds, streaked with shades of grey and the oc- casional strand of green or purple, spirals into the center. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it, being sucked into the dim nebulous. I’ll be contacting the landlord tomorrow. I hope it’s an easy fix; even though my apartment is pretty much empty, moving sounds too stressful. Besides, finding a place in the city, no matter how crappy, is impossible, especially with the current economy. On top of the growing hole, I forgot to stop for groceries. There’s no real food here, except a pack of ramen. I would kill for something fruity, like a banana or an apple. Definitely an apple. The most curious thing just happened. As I thought about eating an apple, the hole spun and cried out. Echoing in my head, a blend of random sounds grated upon one another; a deafen- ing clatter, the distant sound of a telephone ring, an engine of a car. It hurt, but it only lasted for a moment, then the hole dinged like a kitchen timer and an apple popped out. I couldn’t move, or even think, too paralyzed with fear. After standing frozen for several minutes, I crept towards it, basically crawling on the floor, and the moment I grasped the apple, I sprinted across the room. I had never seen a more perfect apple. Gold specks spotted the ruby skin, and an emerald green leaf sprouted from the stem. It looked too appetizing, and I could not resist a nibble. And I’m so glad I stole a bite. It crunched when my teeth broke the skin, and sticky juices erupted from it. As I chewed the soft but crisp flesh, sweet flavor exploded in my mouth and swirled around my tongue. I gobbled it up in seconds and wanted more, and, followed by a clash of noise and a headache, another popped out. I am definitely not sleeping tonight. Whatever this hole is, it hosts incredible powers. Well, I laugh now, but spots of sweat still stain my shirt.

August 30 I’ve been experimenting with the hole for the past couple of days. It can produce anything I think of. A thought, followed by a clatter and a pounding head, then poof, whatever I need pops out and always in mint condition. A dollar appeared with not a single wrinkle in sight and smelled of fresh ink. A slice of pizza bore the perfect proportions of meat, cheese, and crust, and tasted unbelievably good. All clothes come out woven with the best of fabrics and with thread that never frays. I thought of a one-of-a-kind designer-name suit, and it came out identical to the real thing. Watches, shoes, jewelry — nothing is out of my reach.

11 I even thought of the black three-piece couch that I’ve wanted for all these years, and, piece-by-piece, it slithered out of the hole, the black leather so polished, I could see the streaks of grey in my hair, and the brown specks in my eyes. I’m finally free from that repulsive loveseat. But I still work. Who knows if the hole will stay, but God, I hope it does. It brings me ev- ery necessity, and I don’t even need to leave my house! It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

August 31 Begrudgingly, I went to Emmie’s today. The puzzle of the hole kept me distant. And she noticed. She assumed I needed a break away from other people, and she still wanted to thank me for the reports and dealing with the man from the bar, so she asked if I wanted to grab takeout and eat at my place. Definitely did not want her over, so I told her no, but if I continued to ignore her, she’d just keep bothering me, so I said I’d be fine eating at her place. We went after work, and she also lived in a crappy apartment, too, only having one bed- room and a small living room/kitchen, but her amazing interior decorating created a comfortable feel. She made the most out of the hand dealt to her, painting her walls a soft grey, fixing-up used furniture so it looked brand new, and burning several strong incenses, causing every corner to smell of a relaxing pine forest. Exotic plants and succulents strung the walls, shelves, counters, and brought life to the whole place. My apartment seemed so empty and hollow compared to hers that sometimes I wish I could be more like her, so optimistic and cheery — almost the exact op- posite of me. We ate Chinese and drank a 12-pack of cheap beer that had a slight aftertaste of urine. I complained a lot about the boss, while she sat there, listening intently. I begged her to quit before the job corrupted her. She laughed it off and said that she’ll be fine, especially since I’m there to help. I asked why she was being so nice to me. She shrugged and told me that at first she felt bad for me, since all of our co-workers ignored and avoided me (more like I ignored them), but as she continued to observe me, she grew to respect me. She said she never had anyone stand up for her before, and that my work ethic inspired her. Poor girl, she’s made a role model out of me. But honestly, I couldn’t help but grin as she spoke. No one had ever said such kind things about me. Maybe befriending Emmie wouldn’t be the worst idea.

September 1 The hole can’t produce living things. When I thought of a plant, nothing happened. Same thing when I thought of a dog — nothing. Guess it has limitations. Kind of disappointed, but I can’t be too picky. I tried to do some research. I scoured every corner of the internet, looking for an explana- tion or any mention of a similar phenomenon, but nothing, not a single thing about a hole that can produce a thought into reality. The hole is probably the only one in existence. It must be a reward or prize for everything I’ve been through, and all the hard work I’ve done.

September 3 Mountains of clutter pack my apartment. Stacks of top-notch clothes, brand new furni- ture, rare books, and old food line the walls, and whenever I move through the thin walkways,

12 I have to dodge and clamber over the piles. A faint fragrance of decaying food lingers in the air, so I guess I should donate some stuff and throw away any trash, but my stomach churns at the thought. I feel attached to everything the hole produces, like anything that pops out is a gift from a long-time friend, but I need to clear out some rooms — messy places give me headaches.

September 13 I haven’t written in a while. Been too distracted with the hole, but I need to write after the amazing day I had. After years of torture, I turned in my resignation. Work is useless; I possess everything I need. The hilarious look on the bastard’s face as he begged me to not quit, with his clammy hands clasped together, pleading, was worth every moment in that terrible place. He said he’d give me a raise, that he’d be more lenient, even apologized for his past actions, but it’s far too late. I’ll never go back. My coworkers watched in awe, with silent whispers passed to one another, when I packed everything together and strutted out the door. Don’t think they ever expected me to quit. Emmie looked displeased and asked for my number so she could stay in touch. Since today is the happiest I’ve ever been (or at least in recent history), I obliged. Hope she doesn’t contact me.

September 17 Went on a shopping spree today. Don’t need to leave, but I wanted to watch the surprise on the cashiers’ faces whenever I bought the most expensive things. Ran into Emmie at the mall. She and some other ex-coworkers needed new clothes, so they went shopping together. Not a thought about inviting me, but that’s okay — I don’t need them. Her smile beamed joy and her excited movements seemed authentic as she mentioned hanging out with me soon, but I could see the jealousy in her eyes — in all of their eyes — as they gazed at all of my bags. Look who’s poor now! If only I could take the hole with me, then I could leave this crappy apartment, too! But I’ll never move. I could never abandon the hole. Not with all of its endless opportunities.

September 25 Hollow murmurs creep from the depths of the hole and slither along the walls like gnarled, tangled vines overtaking an aged house. More and more often, do I catch myself staring into the frightful darkness that sometimes I feel the featureless spiral staring back, calling and beckoning me to use it. I think the gap between my thought and the item appearing is widen- ing. The noise lasts longer. It’s more furious, louder, and more painful. It hurts, but it’s worth it. Haven’t been outside in days. There’s no point. All I need is the hole.

September 27 Emmie stopped by today. Nailed a sheet to the wall to cover the hole, and its droning buzz crescendoed in anger. Luckily, she didn’t notice. Don’t know how. The gnashing sound echoed through the entire apartment, but she said not a word. Gifts overflow the front room (all the rooms, actually) and she climbed over the moun- tains to enter, and, by the way she scrunched her nose, the smell must be putrid. Kind of em-

13 barrassing, but I can’t just throw away gifts from the hole. Her voice brimmed with worry and concern. Wanted to check up on me since I stopped answering my phone. Something seemed suspicious, so I scrutinized every movement she made, every word she spoke, but no ulterior mo- tive revealed itself. Must be good at hiding her true intentions. When she left, I swiftly tore down the sheet and apologized to the hole for covering it up, begging for forgiveness. It hummed in response. It understood I had no choice.

September 30 Looked in the mirror for the first time in weeks. The figure staring back couldn’t be me. Grease matted down the disgusting, brittle hair and the skin clung to its scrawny bones, like a terrified child clinging to its mother’s legs. Thin, dirty, and ugly — definitely not me. Someone must be trying to trick me, trying to steal my hole. No word from my lips mentioned the hole, so someone must have spied on me. One person comes to mind. Should never have trusted. Should never have left my heaven.

October 3 Hours now. Hours of clatter. Hours of waiting right under my hole. Hours of agonizing headaches, but it’s worth it. My hole always provides.

October 9 S he came again. She wants my hole. I didn’t let her in. Yelled at her. Told her to go away. She pounded on the door. Said she worries about me. Said she cares about me. Sweet honey coated her words. But I know she’s lying. Didn’t let her in. Won’t let her in. It’s mine.

October 27 Nowhere to move now. Only enough space to kneel and wait in front of my hole. Days since the last gift. Days since I’ve last eaten. Days since I’ve slept. Used to the noise. Didn’t notice before, but it’s melodious — the perfect symphony of chaos. But for now, I will wait with open arms for the next gift to come.

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432 Hz Mary Scudder

∙ ADULT POETRY ∙

The dusk of this room is the void I waft into while my pupils are fixed on the chromatic glow from each orb of wax stretching like taffy and melting into one another like the way my body melts into the mattress beneath me but my arms are staying above the water as the tides wash over and over me and warmth slides through my chest like the pearls of sweat crystallizing on my forehead. My pulse is the low frequency in my ears while my eyelids close, heavy and I see the blocks of blushing sandstone temples in the Rose City like the Halls of Eternity I keep pacing through.

16 My entire body is numb but I feel each soft word you murmur as your love penetrates the fortress I have masoned around myself.

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To Be Clever Aliyapadi Hariadi

∙ HIGH SCHOOL POETRY ∙

If you call me one thing, anything ever, then I think that I would most like to be called clever.

I think that I would like to make my own way with words like a Lizzie Bennet or a Jessica Mitford to speak the tongue of the learned, of the young and booksmart, and know my membership was earned, that I know the fine art of the singular guild whom wordplay delights who scorn dullness and blandness who like comments that bite.

And so then the sharpest criticism, which should feel ghastly, so long as it is said with wit, it isn’t, no, not for me,

Because you see, cleverness is a bit like poetry in that

It is to arrange your words in such a manner that strikes a chord with some, and for the rest, makes them feel unspeakably dumb.

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Stay With Me Jennifer Priest Mitchell

∙ ADULT NONFICTION ∙

As I plod along through the pandemic, alternately embracing yoga and healthy eating against watching too much TV and trying new wines, I’ve been reflecting on vacations. This may be due to my longing to travel, but I suspect it is also due to my simply having many happy, and some very complicated, memories of past trips. Recently I’ve spent a lot of dog walks, workouts and daydreams during TV shows (that someone else chose) re-living memories of vacations. I wonder how the trips my parents planned for my brothers and me (and the execution of those plans) prepared me for life as an adult and how they affect my own decisions to create similarly joyful experiences for my family. The trips of my youth included a lot of long, sweaty car rides and compromises over what to listen to on the radio. Our family lived in Ohio, and my folks liked to visit a beach – a beach on an ocean – each summer. We usually traveled to someplace along the East Coast. Our destina- tions included Cape Cod, Massachusetts; Virginia Beach and Nag’s Head, North Carolina. One year we tried something new, and my dad drove 9,021 miles in four weeks taking us “out west” to visit the Pacific Ocean and distant relatives in California. Being the youngest and smallest of three, I rode in the back seat between my mom and eldest brother. My anxious mother developed a seating arrangement where my dad was in the driver’s spot, and she was on the passenger side in the back, so that any collision that occurred would be unlikely to take both their lives. For me, the car rides included a sense of dread as I wondered when this accident might occur and which parent we’d be left with. During the car rides, as the other passengers napped, read books or looked at the map, I would occasionally drift into a pleasant (though slightly worrisome) daydream about living with my brothers and just one parent. First, I’d imagine my dad was left a widower, taking us out to eat a lot and to many Toledo Mud Hens baseball games. Every Friday he’d serve us his specialty for dinner — cinnamon toast made in the oven and homemade hot cocoa from the stove, ladled into big clay mugs. Then I’d think maybe my mom would be the survivor of the accident, and we’d take turns staying at her mom’s house. I’d learn to sew, crochet and make pie crust at our grandma’s. My mom would be so busy taking care of us all that we’d have to stop going to church and Sunday school and hardly ever need any dress-up clothes. Somehow the idea of church, or no church, never raised its steepled head in the daydream about my dad as the single parent. My husband and I have taken our kids on many trips, but we have not embraced “the an- nual summer vacation.” Because we’ve spent 21 of our 26 married years living across the country from our birth families, a number of our “vacations” were merely traveling to see family, using a lot of our time off from work as well as vacation funds on trips to Ohio and Pennsylvania. Those

21 always included the delicate and somewhat secret balance of seeing relatives while also being able to visit a zoo, an amusement park, or a museum to break up all the potlucks and reminiscing. We have taken our kids on a number of flights from a very early age. They were still learning to read when we first introduced the display boards at the airports, where we’d look to see whether our flight was on time and what gate we would need to go to and wait. Some of our “vacations” have been trips where the kids and I tagged along as my husband attended a work conference. Those were always a bargain because, basically, one fourth of the trip was paid for by his employer, and the vacation often included dinners or other outings hosted by a corporate sponsor or even a colleague. The business trip destinations included San Antonio, Bal- timore, San Diego, Honolulu and even Barcelona, Spain. Those vacations were great fun, though peppered with the challenge of me booking activities for just three of us while my husband was working. These needed to be special, but not the peak of any trip as we wanted him along for the highlights. Those afternoons for three were often when we would find a unique local bakery, a- ter rific spot to snorkel or a special place to shop. As I look back on the family trips in the 1960s –1980s with my folks and brothers and compare those to the vacations my husband and I have planned for our own little tribe, dramatic differences strike me. The first of these is, perhaps most obviously, flying versus driving. My husband and I have flown with our kids all over the country and to Europe. Air travel requires a degree of planning, more careful packing than a road trip and a unique type of patience and ability to “hurry up and wait,” as many say. I remember whenever we’d prepare for a plane ride, I would buy some children’s magazines about baby animals, or with puzzles and coloring pages for them to enjoy on the plane. I also purchased small, disposable containers of different treats like pretzels or Goldfish, and once the treats were gone, we would buy something along the way to refill the containers. These were simple splurges to ease boredom and give the kids something to look forward to. Our trips always required a lot of energy trying to please the children, which was not something I recall from my own youth, though I suspect it was there in more subtle ways. Driving, and being in a small (and only some summers, air-conditioned) car, for hours with your immediate family necessitates a special type of patience and, indeed, tolerance. In my childhood, we did not have phones, handheld games, or even individual music to listen to along the way. I remember my dad would turn on the radio when we were on any long stretch of free- way that wouldn’t require his attention to all the nuances of traffic. You never really knew what you were going to get on the radio while driving through rural America, and no one in the fam- ily was particularly fond of any talk-radio, jazz or country music. Once, in the late 1970s, my dad turned on the radio, and the song Stay with Me was playing. It was fuzzy as we were losing the station, and he wanted to advance to the next one on the dial, but I asked him to let it play as the DJ would usually announce the artist at the end. I loved the song and had never heard it before. I wanted to hear the artist’s name so I could buy the 45 of it when we got home. Genesis. I remem- ber thinking they were a Christian rock band. My parents were constantly telling us to “look at the scenery,” but honestly, I think we three kids were always more interested in looking for cars with specific state license plates or pumping our arms to inspire truck drivers to honk at us. On one trip, we drove through a heav- ily forested area, and a bird fluttered in front of the car. I thought my dad hit it. Hours later, we

22 stopped at a gas station, and everyone unloaded for a bathroom break and to stretch our legs. I remember walking around the car and seeing a big blue jay matted and tattered on the grill. My dad quickly suggested that I go see what was in the cooler.” He or my mom had bought a bag of Snickers candy bars, and they said we could have one at each stop. I don’t know if he saw me watching, but I remember him taking paper towels and peeling the dead bird off the front of the car. He wrapped it up so gingerly, as if it were a family pet, and set it down in the trash can by the gas pump. Another time we were heading home from North Carolina. There was a horrible traf- fic jam, leaving us stopped on the interstate near Cincinnati. We sat for nearly four hours, and people actually got out of their cars and talked to one another. Some of them walked up ahead to try to see what the hold-up was. A woman in a car near ours had two young children crying in the backseat. It was dreadfully hot. We had a steel cooler in the trunk, filled mostly with cans of soda pop and bags of mini candy bars, but we always got a lot of ice before we left each hotel. I recall my dad going over to car with the crying toddlers and asking the mom if she’d like any- thing from our cooler. She didn’t want to leave her car, so he took some drinks and candy over to her. She gave him two baby bottles, both of which were empty, and he filled them with ice and water. It was such a simple gesture, but a vivid memory to me. These small and tender moments revealed so much character in each of us as the AMC Matador rambled along to our destination. Back then, a week-long trip might mean four days of travel, two each way, to spend three days at a beach. You had to find some joys in the journey. Another aspect of my childhood vacations that is starkly different from the trips we have taken with our kids in the 2000s is the degree of spontaneity in any venture. The recklessness of my parents setting out in the car with a lot of cash, a lot of Triple A trip ticks and not a single hotel reservation or pre-purchased ticket astonishes me now. My husband and I, because we were flying, I guess, had a lot of time at each destination, and we often had one outing planned, if not pre-purchased, for each day of a trip. When we went to Italy, I booked several tours months in advance, but also made a spreadsheet of “possible outings” for the few days when nothing was planned. I even color-coded it, so it was easy to spot the more indoor-oriented ones versus the outdoor ones, and I made a column to note how much walking was likely to be involved. When our kids were in elementary school, we met my husband’s family at Disneyworld in Florida. I joked that I earned an MDA (Master’s of Disney Administration) as we had researched and mapped out so much of that trip ahead of time. We knew what time of day we should be in different areas, and when each ride might have the shortest lines. I like to think we completed this preparation only because we were able to – because of the Internet and the extraordinary amount of Disney planning material that is available. But I know it is also because we were so focused on making the destination feel amazing and close to perfect for our kids. One additional difference between the trips of my childhood and those of my adulthood is children’s awareness of how the adults are paying, and how much is being spent. The use of cash or travelers’ cheques, a popular aspect of travel in the end of the 20th century, baffled me at the time. My mom would go to the bank before vacation and obtain travelers’ cheques, then hide what looked like Monopoly money in different spots in the suitcases, but also keep a few in her purse. Seeing my dad lay down individual 10-dollar bills or travelers’ cheques and the weight of

23 each paper representation of money, is a memory I will never forget. I knew when a hotel or a dinner was a sacrifice. Our kids only knew that we swiped the plastic, and they got a free cookie in the hotel lobby. I am certain they were well into high school before they had any idea about the cost of lodging or eating out. Dining on vacation was another very different experience for me as a child as opposed to what my own son and daughter have lived. When I vacationed with my parents and brothers, there was a reason why lunch was sometimes the biggest meal of the day, the one meal when we ate out. Lunch is usually cheaper, and places that serve lunch are never as exclusive or expensive as those offering only dinner. I’m not sure I even knew restaurants served breakfast for the first decade or so of my life. For us, breakfast on vacation was a Styrofoam cup of measured cereal and milk, which was sometimes taken from the hotel lobby’s decanter for cream with coffee. There are times when my husband and I would take our kids out to eat for three meals in a single day when we were traveling. This was not because our budget was larger than what my parents could afford, but because there are so many options and good deals in virtually every city today. When my own family travels now, most hotels we visit include some form of breakfast with the lodging, so we often have the first meal of the day right at the hotel. Ten-year old me could not have imagined such extravagances. But as I look back on these two different types of trips, the overall thought that blankets my review is that as a child, I grew to enjoy our car trips, the journey, which was about 75 percent of any vacation. I came to be oddly comforted by my mom’s nervous riding and my dad’s steady calmness while driving. I accepted that my brother Jim, who sat up front and looked at the map, helping my dad watch for exits, had the most input on when and where we stopped to see some- thing. And, none of them minded that we usually tried to find a hotel with a pool, even though I was the only one who would swim most nights. I grew to understand my family and myself better because I was moving along, experiencing a variety of things (both pleasant and annoying), in order to get to a beach. A beach that might be crowded or too polluted that week, so it was closed for the few days we were there. A beach that we might have to enjoy in the rain or under clouds. Or a beach that is temporarily closed, even for collecting shells, due to a jellyfish infestation, so we could walk out on the pier and take pictures. But it was all okay, because there were all those hotel stays, unique meals and radio mysteries along the way. My childhood vacations involved reaching a lot of targets – seeing Yellowstone Park, Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon, for example, but only a little of each because we needed time to get there and time to get home. The fact that my parents, both of whom worked, got only two weeks off in a year also bewilders me now. Only ten weekdays away from jobs they liked, but didn’t love, and they chose to spend those days with the three of us, who were often squabbling, complaining and unable to truly appreciate them in the moment. In most ways, the beauty of those childhood trips of mine was the combination of car rides, hotel stays with sketchy carpet and variable pillows and the unpredictable meals and beaches. My favorite memories are of oddities like having to tell the person at the front desk the ice machine was broken, and her giving me a free Coke; using my own babysitting money to buy a necklace on a Native American reservation; and seeing a license plate from Alaska while down in Virginia. We spent a lot of time on those trips, most of it in the car. You learn lessons about

24 honesty and cooperation when you’re on that kind of ride. The pandemic is another journey to me—perhaps it is to many—but one without a des- tination or a known end. I am holding close in my heart the memories of previous journeys and what they meant to me, what they showed me, because, ultimately, that’s what I can take away from this past year. The Genesis song Stay with Me is still one of my all-time favorites. I don’t know if that’s because I love the sweet lyrics and clear melody, the fact that Genesis ended up not being a Christian rock band or because my dad let the radio play, allowing me to linger on the static-y rendition of the song. I hope the joys of all my trips — the childhood vacations, the later ones when I was one of the adults, and the current pandemic, a day to day journey blemished with fear and sparked by hope — will continue to stay with me.

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Without a Word Diane Tavoian

∙ COLLEGE NONFICTION ∙

It was nearly 10 p.m. when I picked up my sleeping daughter from the babysitter. It had been another long day at the motor pool, going through every generator logbook so that we would be ready for the IG inspection on Monday. As head generator mechanic, I would be re- sponsible for any discrepancies found by the inspectors. I was exhausted but I knew that my area was ready. I could relax and enjoy the weekend. My young daughter stayed sound asleep in the back seat while I drove the short distance to our quarters, a third-floor apartment in military housing. I knew that I would have to carry her up the flights of stairs in spite of the fact that, at age two, she was taller than most three-year-olds. Cra- dling her in front of me, I tucked my purse under my arm and headed for the door. Inside the entryway, I pushed the button that would light the stairwell. Germans knew how to construct a building that would last forever. The steps and landings were unadorned concrete, ten steps to each landing, two landings to each floor. I began the climb. Ten steps, landing, ten steps, second floor, ten steps, landing…almost there, only ten steps to go. First step, so tired. As my foot started toward the second step of the final ten to my doorway, the timed stairwell light went out and complete darkness surrounded me. Startled, I lost my bal- ance and I began to fall backwards. In that split second of awareness, I knew with a certainty that I was going to die, but that my daughter would be all right because my body would cushion the impact. Calmness. Suddenly, without warning or word, there was a hand at my back, pushing me upright. A strong hand saving my life. Balance regained, I went up the final steps to my doorway and the light switch. Turning the light back on, I turned to thank my rescuer. The stairwell was empty.

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