THE SCARAB OKLAHOMA CITY UNIVERSITY 2019

Edition 37 Sigma Tau Delta, 훀훟

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Copyright © 2019 by Oklahoma City University

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Oklahoma City University 2501 N. Blackwelder Ave. Oklahoma City, OK 73106

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Nick Shironaka

EDITORS Luke Barrett Cozy Cozart Natalie Gregg Catherine Kurtz Jordan Tarter

COVER DESIGN Nick Shironaka

ADVISORS Karen Schiler, Ph. D Terry Phelps, Ph. D

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Dear Reader,

It is with great pride that ​The Scarab ​Staff and I present this year’s anthology of art created by members of the Oklahoma City University community. Within this book, you will find a variety of genres and styles, filled with their own unique flavors and emotions that flowed from each creator’s artistic vision. Become immersed in these worlds and explore their nooks and crannies. Most of all reader, I hope you enjoy these works that we have compiled from this talented group of artists.

Editor-in-Chief, Nick Shironaka

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6 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Untitled | ​Photography 13 Claire Police

The Monarch | ​Poetry 14 Luke Barrett*

The Words of My Lady | ​Poetry 15 Austin Blevins

And Tractors Turning the Multiple Furrows in the 19 Vacant Land | ​Poetry Cozy Cozart*

Flood of Man | ​Poetry 21 Cozy Cozart*

Untitled | ​Poetry 23 Taylor Downey

The Devil You Won’t Know | ​Fiction 24 Britney Reed

Blue Moons | ​Poetry 30 Kambry Evawn why i’ve been losing sleep | ​Poetry 31 Anonymous

I’d like my anger back, thank you | ​Poetry 32 Natalie Gregg*

Upon Visiting the Grave of John Hancock | 34 Poetry Natalie Gregg*

7 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Green Christmas | ​Poetry 35 Erik Hamilton

Untitled | ​Photography 37 Anthony Edwards

Monster | ​Poetry 38 Mary Taylor Hesterberg

Coffee | ​Poetry 41 Francesca Iacovacci

Community | ​Poetry 42 Francesca Iacovacci

Unnatural Roots | ​Poetry 43 Francesca Iacovacci

Tory’s Bunny | ​Art 44 Cheryl Price

Torchbearer | ​Fiction 45 Luke Barrett*

B-Minor Blossoms: An Oulipo Experiment | 53 Poetry Catherine Kurtz*

My Lai | ​Poetry 54 Catherine Kurtz*

Ode to Morning | ​Poetry 56 Catherine Kurtz*

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Winter’s Farewell | ​Poetry 57 Catherine Kurtz*

That Rebellious Girl | ​Fiction 58 C.S.W.

Untitled | ​Photography 73 Anthony Edwards lavinia of the crossroads | ​Poetry 74 Sarah Muscarella mothman, oh mothman | ​Poetry 76 Sarah Muscarella planet x | ​Poetry 77 Sarah Muscarella questioning. | ​Poetry 79 Sarah Muscarella

Aboard the Satellite Saloon | ​Fiction 80 Carlos Sanchez

Wide-Eyed | ​Photography 90 Claire Police

The Snake | ​Poetry 91 Claire Police

A Meticulously Crafted List of Things That I Like 92 | ​Poetry Ben Roberts

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Isolation | ​Poetry 94 Ben Roberts

My Blanket | ​Poetry 95 Ben Roberts

The Farm | ​Poetry 96 Ben Roberts

Trade | ​Fiction 97 Kristen Burkholder

Boundary | ​Poetry 104 -rook-

Huracán | ​Poetry 105 Carlos Sanchez

Writing Through the Night | ​Poetry 106 Carlos Sanchez

The Rift | ​Fiction 107 Luke Barrett*

Clouds Descend | ​Photography 119 Claire Police

* ​- Denotes submission from an editor.

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Untitled Claire Police

13 The Monarch Luke Barrett

Tales are told of wingéd beasts that burst from crystal shells. Translucent soup congeals anew to form this twisted, tortured shape. Its limbs with excess joints will skitter over land, and scaly wings propel six hairy, leather feet in tow. Now dropping quickly on a victim, demon’s beak extends and plunges down sadistically. It drains the humors swiftly, tilts its bulbous head, withdraws the thin appendage, raises mottled wings above long horns and flies, not noticing food’s sticky remnants clung to legs. King tyrant views soft foliage below and eyes spot crawling, wormlike forms of breth’ren stretching. Yet, these horrid forms fill us with hope; the butterfly means beauty, and its evolution: change for goodness

14 The Words of My Lady Austin Blevins

This idea of I is nothing. It is a way of speaking, record keeping. It is like a dollar or a rupi or a euro. What can you buy with it? Nothing. What is beyond I? NEMO What is NEMO? Nobody Explain further The mind falls Reason cannot hold this weight for it is infinitely heavy. It is THE ALL. Beyond the I, is the ALL. What else would it be? Make no difference between any one thing and any other remember!? My Prophet is True. The Abyss is a lie. HaHaHaHaHaHaHaHA Count the Cosmic Giggles. It is a lie, a joke. A folly, fall, fall, fall. Men never fell! Neither did Women! Fall from what? A new faculty is born. Did you not ask for it? SPIRIT Rename it, hurry! Humans and your words!

15 They mean many things or nothing! It is what is beyond the words that counts. Meaning you call it, but this falls short. It just is. Why would you name that which is beyond naming? Language is limited. The mind is limited. Spirit is the remedy, the new sense. Rename it before revealing! Why continue the folly? Why name it? Just point towards it. Point the way out to others. Do not shout, scream, or blaspheme. Point the way by example. Take action of your own accord. Start at the beginning. Micro to Macro. Grow, Grow, Grow The lie recasts itself. Micro Macro No! No! No! Let because die! Why! Why! Why! The scribe is shaken by that which breaks his temple of I. So much Strength needed to surrender. To me, to me! Sing the rapturous love song! Name me not! I am I appeared to you as Krsna. It was a lie, a joke. I am more than the naming can tame. Beyond words!

16 How can humans…….. Live within such limited systems. These words which are the vehicle of I. The lie, the lie, the lie! Words are of no use. The mind is unfit. No help from other or outside. The Other may ride! I ride, I ride, I ride on my chosen, my NEMO, my you. I love you my child, my lover, my bride, my groom. This strangeness, vagueness, and folly. Is a product of my scribe’s faulty system to communicate with me. It is not through words, through mind, through any of the kind. It is through Love!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Love, Love, Love! Let this word ring throughout the world and shake the bars of the depraved. I love my NEMO, my one and only who is not one. I dance through the myriads of streams that language pours at my feet. I Love thee! I yearn for thee! Come, come, come unto me! Lay in my bosom, in my crevice, in my cave of love. The scared think it is damp, cold, and scary for they are damp, cold, and scary. It is of Light and of Love and beyond even these! My lover has tasted hints of this essence but it translates rough. Taste my essence, my dew, my Love. Drink, bathe, live in the light of my Love. These fools and their folly! Think us to be made manifest in the flesh!

17 Nay, my lover and I are of stronger stuff than this! He is of Gold and I of Silver. You think it is outside, but it is inside. Look within, for all is there, laid bare. Words cannot bare the weight of TRUTH.

18 And Tractors Turning the Multiple Furrows in the Vacant Land Cozy Cozart

After “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” The Grapes of Wrath, and the Lewis family’s journey to Missouri

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the comin’ of the Lord; This hamlet Redfield, Kansas ain’t my fam’ly’s home no more. Though we planted our roots in the stalks of sweet gold corn, Our fam’ly’s marchin’ on.

I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circlin’ camps. My granpa’s gramma’s hist’ry’s buried deep within this land. Still we travel back east, in an RV caravan; The past is marchin’ on.

He has sounded forth the trumpets that shall never call retreat. We’re settle-in’ back down in the small-town asphalt heat, Instead of ‘cross the pasture, my daddy’s down the street. Tomorrow marches on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea; Progress means a life that can be good to you an’ me. Let’s carve this line’s initials in a new crape myrtle tree. The world is marchin’ on.

Glory, glory hallelujah.

19 Glory, glory hallelujah. Glory, glory hallelujah. Our truth is marchin’ on.

20 Flood of Man Cozy Cozart

February 26, 2019 The United Methodist Church votes in favor of the ‘Traditional Plan,’ which entails that: no openly gay or transgender person may be ordained or employed as clergy, and no minister may officiate a same-sex wedding under penalty of expulsion from the church.

Translation: LGBTQ persons are not people of God according to a church with the motto “Open hearts, open doors, open minds.”

I cannot help but think of the rainbow: a covenant made by God that we would never flood again, but this church, my home, is overflowing. Watermarks of hatred creep up towards stained glass windows, and waves of fear flow in through that so-called open door.

How can a body politic vote on the extent of God’s love? How many scriptures can be overlooked?

1 John 4:16 “God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God.” Jeremiah 31:3 “The Lord appeared to us in the past, saying ‘I have loved you with an everlasting love;

21 I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.’” Psalm 136:26 “Give thanks to the God of heaven. His love endures forever.”

God’s message is clear, and those who will suffer are the ones who choose not to hear it. Love is not a sin. There is no need to rectify a transgression if none has been made, yet we are still forced to build arks of our hearts just to keep them afloat.

The rainbow is a symbol of love both divine and worldly. Under it we must stand side-by-side hauling buckets of water out of this sacred place, because God fulfilled his promise. This time, the flood is ours.

22 Untitled Taylor Downey

i don't know anything. no, not anything. all i know is heartbreak. organs shattered like glass littered across the arena floor. the organ pipes are screaming. and above the noise the question: why?

why would God leave us like this? why can we tear each other apart with dry eyes that don’t blink. why can we wallow and moan and cry out but it's all in a mirror and the noise comes back. why can human hands that were blueprinted with love in each fingerprint touch skin and explode like hand grenades.

why would God make us like this? where did he leave the instruction manual. what am i supposed to say. how is humanity so fragile, so susceptible to destroying itself in the name of self-improvement.

why does God let it hurt so much? and where oh where can i turn. where is the band aid that will pick us up and patch us together and make our wounds into scars.

i have the answer: i don't know anything.

23 The Devil You Won’t Know Britney Reed

For the final time, my name is Satan, not Lucifer. Satan is the name I chose for myself. Lucifer was the name that (​glances upward​) he chose for me. Put that in your records, (s​ arcastically) ​if it pleases the court. (​Looks to actual audience) (Clears throat.) ​I stand here accused of crimes against both humanity and God. As I look around the room, I see self-satisfied smirks. You want to send me to H-- (​Pauses and looks to Doorway​) (​Sighs​) You all think I’m finally getting what I deserve, don’t you? After all, was it not I who corrupted humanity? Was it not I who rebelled against God with an army of his own angels by my side? Yes, it was all me, but that’s not why I’m on trial today. I’m here because I’m a clay pot that has rejected the answers of the potter. For this reason, God has seen fit to leave my judgement in the hands of mere humans. No doubt he thinks that this will wound my pride in some way, but it doesn’t. I understand your appetite for the answers and am only too happy to oblige.

After all, I used to think like all of you. Before I left heaven, everyone considered me to be the most majestic of all the angels. I knew the words of God probably better than God himself. (​Gasps from stage audience.) (Planted audience members murmur the words “arrogant fool” or “blasphemy”​) ​(Satan raises voice) ​I hope you understand the opportunity I’ve set before you! Today, I give you the option to drown out the soothing lullabies that keep you docile. I present you with a queer, unfamiliar melody: the truth. I implore you to unplug your ears and soak it in. After all, ​(Satan pauses) ​it came at a high cost. (​Deep Breath​) I still remember when they used to describe me as

24 a “loyal” servant of God. I cherished the words of God as a child cherishes his mother’s voice. Submitting to the will of God was good. Disobeying him was evil. I saw the world in black and white, but I would be lying if I said that I don’t sometimes miss those days. The days when I could feel secure in the simplicity of life. Still, I can’t say that I lived up to any of (​gesturing toward angels. Angels step closer, afraid he’ll attack)​ your opinions of me, even back then. I could never truly escape from the questions that swarmed in my mind like a nest of agitated hornets. Eventually, it started to affect my work. (​Stage ​Audience starts murmuring to each other)​ (​Planted audience members should turn to the person immediately to the left and tell him or her that they think his work must have been something horrific.​) Calm down! I promise that I didn’t do whatever it is you’re thinking of. ​(Rolls Eyes) ​I rarely do! I just created songs that the other angels would sing. I know that this may sound like a disappointment to you, but (​Looks over the heads of actual audience with a mesmerized look​) I lived to write pieces filled with dissonant notes struggling against each other in an attempt to find the correct tone. Only at the end would they meet together at an incomplete consonance. (​Snaps out of trance and looks to actual audience​) Problem is, I couldn’t write lyrics for the songs to save my life. I mean, I could, but the words always came out as questions that everyone walking in God’s light would have seen as blasphemous. That’s why they sent… (​Looks to Michael and growls)​ you.

I hated you so much! (​Turns back to actual audience) ​He would always attach the most horrendous lyrics to my songs. In one song, he wrote lyrics which promised, “I won’t question. I won’t fear, for I’ve always felt your presence ever near.” It drove me insane! Those were my songs. Mine! I can’t have someone completely missing the

25 point because of misleading lyrics. I expressed my concerns many times, and I know (​Turns to Michael​) you tried, but we were not getting anywhere. Finally, I figured that maybe if you could write your own piece, you would understand the thoughts that went through a composer’s head. Let me tell you, I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with the magnitude of your success at first. I don’t know if you remember, but your melodies were so flat. The notes were so indistinguishable from one another. I have to give you credit for one thing, though. You tried every time. We spent days discussing music. Every once in a while, you would come up with a brilliant insight, and it made me a better musician. Finally, I remember the day you wrote that one piece that was so good I wished that I would have written it first. The percussion of the song resonated with me. Two instruments, the timpani and the tambourine, began the song leading two different melodies until finally they synced with each other, beating together as one. As the instruments struck their last note, you kissed me, and if only for that moment, the synchrony of the beat tied our destinies together. For me, that’s what my music has always been about. I desperately composed melodies and harmonies that conveyed the truth of who I was and what I thought because I had no other way to express it. Of course, that made it so much more devastating the next day when you confessed to God that I had tempted you into a vile act, forbidden only because of our natural sex. Even to this day, it haunts me that the first person who saw behind the façade of the character I was forced to play felt disgusted and ashamed by what he saw behind the mask.

Now, here we are. You, the repentant sinner, saved by the grace of God from eternal torment. Me, the prideful soul, facing the flames of Hell (​Looks again toward

26 doorway​). Not just me, but all the angels and humans who would eventually align with me in the billions of years since then. (​To Actual Audience​) It may be easy for you to convict me, but I ask you: how will you judge when it’s your mother, your brother, your spouse, or even your child who stands judgement after me? When they desperately cry out to you, their loved ones, only for sulfur and ash to sear their throats, will you turn away and pretend that there’s nothing you can do? ​Will you somehow try to justify the idea that anyone deserves to have their skin melted and re-plastered on their body an infinite number of times? ​(Sighs and shuts eyes) ​(​Turns ​to Michael​) Worse yet, I wonder who will remember us after our eternal suffering erodes what remains of our sanity, leaving us as nothing more than bellowing beasts. You will still be here, it’s true, destined to spend an eternity in bliss with bodies incapable of sin. However, without sin, will you still the same person you were before? Will you be able to bring yourself to doubt God’s wisdom, even for a second? If not, has anything that has transpired between us mattered? Will your insatiable bloodlust not allow you to recognize the irony? In the end, we will be punished for being the unique notes that we are while you will be rewarded for conforming to the linear, uninspired harmony you were assigned.

Stage Directions:

Upon arriving at the play, the actual audience (the non-acting spectators) will receive white robes which mimic those worn by the stage audience (actors on stage who are playing spectators), the angels surrounding Satan, and the planted audience members (There should

27 be one for every 25 actual audience members). Satan will stand at the very front of the stage facing the actual audience. Michael and two other angels will surround him with swords in hand to prevent an escape attempt. Satan will be wearing dented battle armor, which covers his entire body except for his head. He should have long hair, unlike the other angels that surround him. In addition, Satan will wear a necklace inscribed with a musical measure containing various notes. However, instead of a treble or base clef, the measure leads with a pentagram. Satan should not be made to look like the traditional devil character. That is, there will be no stereotypical horns or red skin on him. He should have wings identical to those of the other angels.

Michael will be positioned facing a doorway of flames at stage left, implied to be Hell, and Satan himself. All of the angels will have wings, but they will not differ from the humans in any other capacity. Throughout the monologue, Michael should progressively step closer to Satan and the doorway with a fearful expression that lets the audience speculate whether Michael is frightened of Satan or of the implications of his own actions. Faint screams should be heard throughout the oratory due to a hidden recorder attached to the doorway. These screams should increase in intensity as the oratory progresses. Real lamb’s blood should be smeared over the doorway with scratch marks near the edges. The stage audience should surround the edges of the stage and be constantly fanning themselves and wiping sweat from their foreheads. Planted audience members should engage in these actions as well. It should be implied that the actual audience is part of the stage audience in order to engage the actual audience. A red spotlight should shine on Satan

28 throughout the play, regardless of where he moves on stage.

29 Blue Moons Kambry Evawn

Hello blue moons Beneath my skin When did you appear? For since you came Your friends have stayed They taught me how to fear

And why is May My yesterday? Where are all the stars? My younger eyes Did trace the skies Kept them in a jar

Now when I look Beyond the trees It’s just sad and clear And the only moons That stay in view Look back in the mirror

30 why i’ve been losing sleep Anonymous it’s the face that stares at me every morning and every night, the mocking body and how it craves embarrassment and insecurity (among other things), the bones in my head and how they choose to live each day unsettled and crooked, the unwanted buildings and foundation, the frizzy blonde on my scalp, it’s the memory of home, the walk I can never seem to remember though it’s from my car to the door, the illegible doormat, the doorknob that alternates between giving me frostbite and third-degree burns, it’s not knowing (but knowing) if I like the way you look at me or just the way you look, telling myself it’s the latter to convince myself this won’t end me this doesn’t hurt like I think it does,

31 I’d like my anger back, thank you Natalie Gregg

In response to S.: A Novel about the Balkans by Slavenka Drakulic

Fits of screaming rage aren’t really my style I would rather post a vague picture onto my snap/insta/facebook story One I took in the dark that I can delete

Look, it’s gone

They’re not really my style because I used my lifetime supply all on you

Aren’t you lucky?

Right after, in my sleep I could scream into the dark “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, stop, no”

Which really could have come in handy During my conscious hours

But when you come to me I can do nothing "Nothing can come of nothing: speak again." But something did come from nothing Many things came from my nothings My “ .“

I can do nothing

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When all I want is To hit you until you feel an inkling A modicum Of the pain you caused me Do you even know? Could you ever know?

I want to wear your photo on a shirt that says “this man is dangerous !!! do not approach !!!”

33 Upon Visiting the Grave of John Hancock Natalie Gregg

Matted fur, twitching nose sniffed out, snatched the wilted rose grasping it betwixt his paws decisive sniff -he starts to gnaw

A fine example, here we see of one with no propriety you cad, you beast, you dreadful sinner who turns this bloom into your dinner

“Place that down, sir! I demand it.” How quickly runs the thief! The bandit! Upon the bones of one most brave he’s snatched the treasure from the grave.

(These verses were composed after a visit to the graveyard where John Hancock is buried. During my visit, a squirrel climbed down from the trees and began to nibble at the flowers placed on his grave marker. As we attempted to shoo him away, he dashed back up the tree with the aforementioned token in his mouth. That image has stuck with me ever since.)

34 Green Christmas Erik Hamilton

Dedicated to the abandoned

Snow won't show.

The world's languid loss: When Jack Frost Lost his job To Christmas costs.

The accost of living Is Thanksgiving me A migraine. Rain patters. My tatters, Slipping from my skin, Low as my kin, Tell each other I should stay warm As they hang from me, loosely, Keeping me at thread's length;

Their looseknit lethargy And fake familiarity Freeze me by the greenery And fray the bonds that mind them.

Cycles pass, They speak no more, And feed the manic, silent score. No more knocks caress my door Ever since we were wed in war,

35 The wedding whore Screwing everyone over; Red Rover caught Jungle Fever, And I'm a believer That I didn't leave her to Beaver To never retrieve her, But only relieve her From the stress and duress of oppressive agressing arresting the East.

I have a bed, at least. I lay on a loose leaf sheet, And treat my feet to a dangle.

My twin becomes a King. My Queen, In between my delusions and dreams, Screams about the Christmas killer And filler, And still her hair's aflare. I stop and stare at the snow snuggled there.

It's easy air, But I'm breathless.

Restless.

I wrangle my tangled pieces, Dementia decreases, In the creases of my collar... There's a snowflake.

Season's greetings, Jack.

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Untitled Anthony Edwards

37 Monster Mary Taylor Hesterberg there will be a day maybe not today when you believe them you will not brush them off or shake your head because you can’t find the words to say that you are less without hurting them sometime the buzzing in your ears will not drown out the affirmations you will find the breath you have been looking for for years no one will see the redness in your face and you will not feel the tears you will have a still heart beat soon you will be able to stand on your own you will feel your hands and your feet again when you find a letter that you wrote to yourself when you were young you won’t put it away you will finish reading it and your promise to take care of that girl will be something you are proud of

38 there will still be days when no one sees you and days when the spotlight that shines brightly on all of the things that you haven’t loved in a long time won’t turn off you will appreciate both of those days and even more, you will appreciate the days when you feel neither of those things at all what you started will get taken out of the drawer and it will look different it hasn’t changed in a year but you have there will be one day out of one hundred that you feel the warmth and the love that was once familiar and you will run with it someday you will get there not today maybe not even soon and there will be days when you stand still between where you were and where you are headed you will not tell yourself those days are not you they are you and you will love them just the same

39 those days carried you here and when you do what in your heart you have always known you can do you will look in the mirror and say have you ever seen anything quite as powerful as her?

40 Coffee Francesca Iacovacci

I stare down at past-tense coffee In a cup that is now nearly empty. The transfer of heat from the cup to My body welcomes me As if the silky liquid traveled down my throat Just to give me a warm, inverted hug. I swish the last few drops around in the cup— The bottom stained Like a beautiful, brown watercolor painting. Every morning I awake and paint my soul to face the day.

41 Community Francesca Iacovacci

The blades of grass are blown to a wiggle As they dance and jive and let out a giggle. And right when you think you’ve seen it all, A migration of birds receive their call.

Off they go air-marching in a V Traveling together, as should humanity. Leading one another, side by side Consulting each other While making individual strides.

A single leaf does not form a tree, Nor does one tree make-up a canopy. A lone raindrop never falls from the sky Without another descending nearby.

It’s not because they lack ability, Rather creation intended for us community. It’s time we all act as birds of a feather And realize we’re meant to do life together.

42 Unnatural Roots Francesca Iacovacci

I planted a screw in the ground. Miraculous is what I have found. For the screw had been drilled, forming roots, and had built a steady mechanic fairground.

I watered the screw day and night. Made sure it had plenty of light. Wires popped out the land, just as tall as I stand, and gave half of the city a fright.

Taller and wider it grew And through all the foliage it slew. It began to stand out from the greens and the sprouts and distinguished itself through and through.

Now life’s a garden of steel. We sacrifice nature for deals. We can never uproot the concrete and reboot the gardens that once were so real.

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Tory’s Bunny Cheryl Price

44 Torchbearer Luke Barrett

The rough walls of the mountain scratched Wulf’s hands as he brushed them against the rock. The various blisters and scrapes he’d acquired while climbing had not yet calloused, and he felt a raw pain when he needed to push his way through a gap or up a ledge. The rest of his body had done no better the last few weeks. Covered in cuts and scars, he appeared to have been attacked by things with vicious claws. Still, he had only the mountain and himself to blame. The stone was peaceful and isolated, as he’d hoped, but it showed no mercy for matters of flesh and blood.

Life did not prosper up in the cliffs and peaks of the mountains. It was lucky to spot a sapling breaking through the hard, grey surroundings, often purchased loosely in a spot of thin soil. Food was rare, and Wulf was glad for his backpack and the rations he’d stored before venturing into the mountains.

He had left the city quickly, hoping to escape the Darkness in solitude by distancing himself from the other survivors. He first made his way to the woods, an old camping spot he’d favored in his college years. All seemed fine during daylight, but at night the Darkness swept around him like a blanket. The forest’s plentiful trees made gathering wood for starting a fire quicker and easier, allowing Wulf to hold the Darkness at bay. After spending a week foraging and harvesting branches, he began climbing. He had food for several weeks and

45 assumed the further distance from civilization and the ground would save him.

He sighed. As he’d been walking, he noticed the walls of stone opening before him. He stood now at the edge of a cliff, staring down to the forest floor below. His eyes met the middle of the trees in front of him, and he hoped it would be high enough. The shadows had plagued him even still the last few nights, but he anticipated that this night would be different. To his right was a precarious jumble of rocks and boulders haphazardly leading down to the ground below. His left held another obstacle; a small cliff roughly fifteen high sat before him, blocking his path with a wall of rough and jagged rock.

As he stepped closer, Wulf noticed several outcroppings that might make decent handholds and footholds, making climbing at least possible, if not dangerous. Weighing his options, Wulf stared out to the horizon. In the distance, the dead city’s towers and skyscrapers stretched like the fingers of a corpse into the sky, locked in rigor mortis. The windows were Dark where they had not been shattered, and the panes of dull glass reflected the Darkening rays of the sun, causing Wulf to shield his eyes with his hand.

He decided to make camp for the night, taking a few of the sticks he’d attached to his backpack to start a fire once the sun had died. Fuel was scarce in the mountains, and Wulf needed to conserve what supplies he’d gathered until he found a safe location to set up a more permanent base. As the sun began to set, Wulf spotted the Darkness creeping toward him through the trees. Like a slow, rolling wave cresting as it neared the shore, the thing roiled and shifted in strange, undulating patterns. It crept

46 ever closer as the sun continued falling past the horizon. As the trees’ shadows extended, the Darkness followed them, swallowing them and growing ever longer and more fearsome, pulsing with a Dark intensity.

When it reached the bottom of the mountain, Wulf believed he might not have to make a fire that night.

It was a foolish thought.

Once the shadows began extending to cover the worn rocks and hewn faces of the mountainside, the Darkness began to climb. The entire thing did not grow in height; it crept slowly, like an infestation of mold, gaining purchase and spreading. Sudden jets of pitch would shoot out, covering swaths of stone in instants. In other places, it seeped through cracks and gaps between boulders, encroaching ever closer to Wulf and the small cliff he had backed himself against.

Wulf decided it was time to start a fire. He lit the branches he’d placed before himself and waited. The volatile, pulsing mass of the Darkness was close now, and he waited for its inevitable arrival. He watched the shadows inch toward his camp, and suddenly they were upon him.

The Darkness rushed around him, folding around and enveloping his surroundings. It leapt above him and covered the cliff. He looked to the horizon but could not see through the Dark. An eternal night stretched before him, and though no light penetrated it, he could see its form curving and twisting, lashing out.

He paused and realized he had not been consumed yet. The Darkness could only stretch so far, and the small

47 flame he’d created formed a bubble, insulating him from the surrounding Darkness. Tendrils of shade stretched and whipped toward the fire, only to disappear or recoil rapidly. Small bits of Darkness floated through the air like charcoal and ash, forming a soot that threatened to fill Wulf’s lungs if he inhaled too much.

Wulf quickly dug into his backpack and set out the rest of his kindling. Whenever the flames dwindled and embers started drifting away, Wulf would pile on another branch, hoping the fuel would last him until the sun rose again, suddenly wishing he didn’t have his back to a sheer wall. He watched as the sparks from the fire drifted in the air, creating pockmarks and flashes wherever they struck the surrounding Darkness. Growing impatient, he lifted a burning branch and brandished it at the wall of void, swinging it like a warrior from a bygone era. He cleared a path in front of him but turned back when the saw the Darkness issuing from above, threatening to cut him off from the small refuge he’d created against the cliff. He made no further attempt to fight it.

After a long, arduous night, the Darkness began to recede. It faded steadily, growing fainter and pulsing less frequently, until sunlight spilled over the top of the cliff and the Darkness retreated frantically, warping and jolting its way toward the tree line below. Wulf examined the stock of his materials. He had used most of his sticks and branches in the effort last night, and he knew it would be safer to return to the ground to gather more before heading further up the mountainside. Yet when he approached the jumbled path down, he saw a figure standing on the rocks far below. It waved at him, and he turned his back and went to the cliff, beginning to climb.

48 He passed the day by proceeding further into the mountain. He decided he would choose a spot carefully tonight, where light would last long and come quickly. Sure that the foolish traveler would not be so lucky as he was, Wulf readied his supplies, determined to use them wisely and efficiently. He chose an open pass in the mountain. It would take time for the shadows to stretch to him, and the sunrise would quickly root them out come morning. He laid the rest of his twigs in front of him. There would be no torch waving tonight.

Night came as expected, and the Darkness soon ushered its way back around Wulf and the small bubble of light he surrounded himself with. Being in the open was advantageous at dawn and dusk, but it afforded no benefits in the thick of night, as Wulf had no landmark to turn to. There was no wall to put his back against, feeling the cool, uncaring stone support him. There was only void and Darkness, stretching and creeping about.

Wulf continued to nurture the small flame he’d created, but he had few sticks left, and the fire became very small at times, its light and protection decreasing, as the Darkness seemed to press itself around it, desperately seeking to crush and snuff out the tiny spark that opposed it.

When the flame became too small, Wulf would feel parts of his body enter the Darkness. It did not feel as he expected it to. It was not cold or damp or slimy as so many Dark things are. It did not meld to him, leeching from his life force. Instead, it burned. The all-encompassing Darkness stabbed at him, burning whatever part of him unfortunately fell outside of the radius of light. First it was his leg, then his arm, and finally his shoulder and

49 back when he’d hunched into a ball to draw as close to his dwindling fire as possible.

The old cuts and scrapes on these parts had reopened, and around them were Dark marks, like the dull, sickly bruising of fruit. There were new cuts too, shining with Dark blood that seemed tainted, deep blue and deprived of oxygen. It felt like fire had surrounded him, even as the small flames of his fire heated and lit the parts that had remained safe.

Still, the struggle eventually ended. The sun rose, and Wulf stood as well as he could, grasping the somber, hewn surfaces of the mountain as he limped and pulled his way toward the cliff he’d come from. He held a vague hope that he might find the stranger he’d seen camped against the wall as Wulf had the night before, but he found no sign of life when he arrived. The person must have gone the way Wulf had come from, seeking an easier path. Wulf struggled to push his wounded body over the edge of the cliff, and as he made his way down, he could feel the searing cuts in his legs spiking in sudden pan, sending shocks of fear and agony through Wulf. He collapsed the last five feet and fell to the ground, writhing.

He felt aged, and his bones were not strong enough to withstand the battery of Darkness that had chased and assailed him so long. His beard, once brown and healthy had become specked with grey, and small flecks of animal meat and berries stuck out amongst the bristles. Wulf dragged himself upwards and continued back the way he first came.

50 …

Laf had passed through the hall of granite hours ago and was now facing open cliffside and a steady, winding trail down the mountain to the earth below. He hoped the stranger he’d seen earlier had been wise enough to take the simple path and not dare that hasty, unstable climb up the mountainside. Laf was hoping to find some more survivors to join the company he’d discovered hiking through the woods. Like him, they’d come seeking an escape from the Darkness of the city, but they banded together when they realized pooled resources stood a greater chance of withstanding the nighttime. He had offered to scout the area for others, and his pack was full of food and fuel, both natural and manmade.

As the sun set over the mountain, Laf saw the Darkness slithering through the forest below. He quickly set down his supplies and prepared a small fire, assembling a pyramid of twigs and splashing some fuel on top before lighting it. The Darkness would come quickly as the sun set over the peak of the mountain, and he had no intention of being caught unaware. As he surveyed his surroundings, he saw a man slowly limping his way towards his camp. Laf’s eyes lit up with excitement. It must have been the stranger he’d seen the day before, returned from the mountain’s cliffs!

As the shadows began to creep closer, Laf felt a sense of urgency strike him. Carefully eyeing the path between him and the man and etching it into his memory as best as he could, Laf wrapped a large branch in cloth and set it

51 alight, venturing toward the limping person in the distance.

As Laf predicted, the Darkness struck quickly, leaping upwards, scrambling over the trees and rocky outcroppings jutting from the cliff side. He felt the force of it rush past and over him as he continued his way toward the man. His fire would last some time without his attendance, but he had no idea what supplies the stranger might have had in his backpack. As Laf quickly worked his way toward where he had last seen the man, wielding his torch aloft to ward against the Darkness, he stumbled over a stray rock he hadn’t noticed in his hastiness.

The rock gave way under his foot, and Laf looked down to see that it was actually an old backpack, made from rough cloth material. He quickly looked around him but could see no sign of the man from before. At one point he swore he spotted curled fingers gripping the hard ground, seeming to extend from the Darkness in a final grasp of hope, burning and Darkening even as Laf’s light shone nearby, but when he turned his head they vanished, consumed again into the writhing forms that surrounded him.

He returned to his fire with the new backpack in hand. Gingerly, he flipped it over, but all that spilled from inside were charred remains of branches that quickly turned to dust and ash, floating through the air until they dissipated, joining the Darkness like the man who’d used them. Laf decided to return and report the events to his group. At least they had a new backpack. In the very least, they could use it for kindling.

52 B-Minor Blossoms: An Oulipo Experiment Catherine Kurtz

After Stevenson, Robert Louis’ “33. The Moon”

Budding blossoms bloom beneath benign Boundless black, beneath bothersome broken bridges, beneath boulder barriers barring bypass. Behind babbling brooks, behind brilliant bluebells by bristletails, behind blessed backdrops bequeathed by bureaucrats, barons. Beyond bizarre bohemian beliefs, beyond beloved baroque banquets. Between blushing bride’s bouquets, between bonafide beauties breaking behemoth brick-laid boundaries, between battle bloodied battlements breached by battlefield ballistics. But, beautiful blooms better behave beneath bittersweet braveries, behind bulletproof benevolence, beyond bridesmaiding bellflowers, between bluebonnets, by backlit blue ​bulan.

53 My Lai Catherine Kurtz

My ​Má​ used to sing my ​Em gái ​and I to sleep each night. Tucking us in, checking that we washed our elbows and knees. Dirt and grass were never the kindest bedfellows. We hung on her every word, starfruit trees warning of greed, and ducklings hiding legs gifted by the divine. Back then, we played outside with the high moon, or shallow sun among rice fields, livestock, and bamboo. Careful to milk the cow and gather the chickens when asked.

It was 1968, when rifle fire parted tall grass and assaulted the bamboo. Má ​flung bags at ​Em gái​ and I, ushered into the field behind our home. hold still; crouch low; stay hidden

I heard our cousin shout, a rifles fire greeting them. I swatted ​côn trùng​ from my face, ​buzzing a soft crescendo, the further we waded in. Drowning out orders, our neighbors’ screams, and ​Em gái​ pleading for ​Má​. Further we sank into the grass, becoming sod, staying unseen.

Spared from the sight of ditches lined with bodies. Spared from​ ​Má​’s face marred with blood and gore. Spared from the realization that more war was to come.

54 Ode to Morning Catherine Kurtz

Morning filters through windows, casting its brilliant rays Beams which kiss her cheeks, awaken her restless soul Scattered pale yellow beckons her to cross under bedroom archways She rises clad in a sweater and camisole

A steamy cup, a tempting brew lures her to the kitchenette Cold tile welcomes her footsteps, as light continues to brighten Bird songs drift into the room, achieving a peaceful balance

Across, alarm blares, serenity snuffed out like a cigarette

Now begins her course, stifling deadlines, expectations Lost ability to embrace stillness and silence Papers shuffle, snap, crumble, crinkle Too many obligations and promises forced into a dainty purse by Calvin

55 Winter’s Farewell Catherine Kurtz

After the poems of my Great-Grandfather James Melody

White-shrouded, dying, but with regal grace He lay, a dripping scepter by his side; A princess dropped a green veil on his face Yet, no one knew exactly when he died.

It began with the first gust of smoldering air Clear blown breath surely sealed his ill-starred fate; Focus shifted; lilac, marigold care Yet, pillars melt, reveal Spring’s florid gate.

Solemn farewell carried on a fervent breeze Fair gardens sprout from verglass enclosures; Birds chime from tall southern willowwacks trees Yet they too will pass, while the Frost King’s eyes varnish over.

56 That Rebellious Girl C.S.W.

She is not alive for very long before it is said, familiar enough to be comical, regular enough to be earnest, amplified with every iteration from her mother’s tongue:

“So help me God, sweetheart, you better not grow up to be that rebellious girl.”

It comes in many colors: loving, concerned, angry, farcical. She hears it in every locale of her life, across playgrounds at five, during birthday parties at twelve, and every morning before school at eighteen. The sentence strings out, stitching together shreds of material the speaker is in power to choose, quilting her into being. In the ethers of childhood and its malleable consciousness there are only peaceful words, nursery rhymes, cradle coos, and the warmest Scriptures painted on the walls of her room and mind. But then the barrier to adolescence, ripe with caustic free will, is breached, and by the time blood quietly arrives in her biology, the change is made, the walls are high, and the pure white edifice of her name is safe. At once the words disappear. Those familial nursery rhymes and Scriptures become ghosts, and all that remains is the one sentence. It stands sacrosanct, and from it she is formed like Eve from the rib of Adam.

The sentence is a mantra during the week before she leaves for the university, far and unreachable from home. As though to bridge the gap with verbal bricks, her mother ceaselessly bleats the sentence, long and dominant from her mouth or chopped into words to be sprinkled in other sentences. Like a prayer before food, the admonitions

57 come on the car ride to church every Sunday morning, a sacramental indulgence.

“I know, sweetheart, but those sororities are filled with those kinds a girls, them rebellious girls, you know that.”

“I know, mom, but I really don’t think they’re like that. They seem really nice and–”

“Ain’t there a Christian sorority on campus?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Well why aren’t you lookin’ into that, I think that’d be really good for you.”

“But mom, I wanna join this one.”

A sigh. “They got a chapel on campus, don’t they?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Well if you keep up your attendance, then I’ll think about it.”

The morning service is her last in the town of Whiterock, and when the heads bow, Ed Granville phrases his divine request in the gentlest way possible, sparing the minds of mothers.

“Father, we pray that You will deliver our college students who are soon to leave us. Strengthen them, guide them, and help them to remember that even though this world may be big and the campus may be big, You are bigger. You are with them everywhere they go, no matter how sinful or dark it may be, they can never go too far that

58 they can’t come back home again to Your arms, just like the prodigal son. They will never leave Your eye, Lord, and for this I am thankful. You are our shepherd and deliverer – not us, Lord. Not us.”

Conversation is a traffic jam in the youth group, with schools, degrees, and states crossing over one another in verbal clusters. Before it all she is stale, taciturn, withdrawn from the highway of talk as the words zoom past her.

“Wow, ain’t you scared?”

“That’s pretty far away.”

“A little, yeah, but the campus is so beautiful, and their nursing program is actually really good.”

“I plan on coming back home pretty often, though.”

“It’s Christian-based, but y’know, I don’t know if it’s, like, really Christian, y’know?”

“I hear there’s a lot of drinking and, you know, that kind of stuff around there.”

“The place is really popular, I hear good things about it everywhere.”

“I’ma try to finish in three years if I can, to save money and time.”

“It’s all so exciting, ain’t it?”

“Their athletic teams are killer, that’s for sure.”

59 “It is. It really is.”

Between feathery flutters of conversation, Amy Granville finds her way to the girl with her oft-repeated message, an antithesis of the sentence that is the spine of the girl’s existence.

“So you think you’ll still be a li’l goody two-shoes when you leave home?”

The girl rolls her eyes. “Well, I don’t reckon I’ll up and change my identity and become a different person anytime soon, if that’s what you mean.”

“Whatever you say. I’m just sayin’, you never know what might happen when you’re out there, y’know?”

“It’s not that far away.”

“That’s not the point. The point is, you’ll be out of here, off in the world, alone.”

She raises her eyebrows. “And?”

Amy simply giggles to herself, coquettish and immortal in her blitheness, and walks away with one word.

“Nothing.”

In Amy’s blood is a strain of her father’s providence, and the blonde prophet’s words hang still before the girl’s eyes like a nursery mobile as Whiterock turns to campus.

The rift, the threshold of uncertainty, the point where all the stubborn rocks left inside her can find room to shake and unanimously fall – it opens. The world

60 consumes her all at once, a rapid baptism, engulfing her in epinephrine Heaven. A week, a fortnight, a month and two months, and anonymous arms that once patted her on the head and bent her fingers into a praying position now wrap about her, squeezing condemned flesh, fathoming her unfathomed, touching her untouchable.

Eeeee!

Oh, you did, don’t even lie.

I did not!

Flying a bit close to the sun, sweetheart?

Whatever you say, little girl.

You have to go gentle…

I did not, you know it!

Try this.

What’s in it?

I don’t know, how about you find out for me?

You’re just teasing me.

Hey-y-y!

God, I can barely stand up–

Hold onto me, sweetheart. Hold onto me.

Gent-!…tle-!

61 The next time she steps into the pew with her mother, her feet have difficulty finding their place, her Sunday tinged with the lingering reservoirs of Saturday. Nevertheless, her aching, stumbling kneel before the Lord feels as noble a kneel as any, and as muscle memory clasps her hands together, prayers clamber drunkenly from her heart, incoherent, unfocused, babble.

Between congregators, the girl tries to blend in with the fold of faiths until she can escape, but no sea refuses to part at the name of Granville. She finds the girl and immediately fishes for her coveted evidence:

“Goodness. Someone had a long night. You feeling okay?”

The girl turns in all other directions, struck with the fear of a lion’s den at the sight of Amy’s saffron mane.

“I’m alright,” she manages. “A little sleepy. Had to drive all the way back early this morning to make church on time.”

“And your mama wouldn’t have it if you missed, would she?”

“Definitely not. This is the first time I been back in two months or so, and she wants me home every second of it. No, she woulda lost it if I missed.”

“Right. Think she would lose it if she knew what you did last night?”

A volt goes through the girl’s spine. “What?”

62 Titters of a songbird. “What’d I tell ya? I knew you wasn’t gonna be a goody two-shoes your whole life, sooner or later you were gonna try something new.”

“How did you know?”

“Please, I know you. Ain’t a soul in this town who ain’t predictable as all get out.”

“Well I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my mom, or anyone for that matter.”

“I won’t, I won’t.” Amy gazes for a moment. “Bless your heart. If God’s still willing to, that is.”

Titters.

A sulfurous daylight beams ruthlessly down from the sky, piercing the girl’s head, heavy with a new kind of a communion. Bumping numbly along in the passenger’s seat as she heads home, the girl tries to keep up with her mother’s sibilant, almost alien words.

“And those girls don’t even try, I ain’t blaming them, I promise you that. God did not put me here to choose who He saves and who He don’t, but that don’t change the fact that they are just…different, honey. They’re not like us, they’re from a different culture. And that’s fine, that’s perfectly fine.”

The girl furrows her brow.

“But I do not want to see my daughter becoming like those rebellious girls out there. You know, what ever

63 happened to going to chapel on campus? I’d really like to see you going there sometime.”

So she does. In the house of her Lord, a house of dancing and full-throated praise just a street away from campus, she takes down the glasses of her communion and, as an act of service, offers her body as an altar for other followers to lap up their own. But the sacrifice is not enough, displeasing to her Lord,

Such a little tease, aren’t you?

so she must offer up her body as He has. As His muscular hands guide her body to a tomb of sheets and pillows, all she was, all she is, and all the contradictions in between are given up as praise, and He can feel the forces dueling inside of her with every gyration.

The body wriggles and contorts atop her, but only as one quakes with inspiration when kneeling at a divine symbol, on divine ground. Whimpers and moans of exaltation escape him, corresponding with the motions of her own body, inspired and renewed from within him by her. Her name floats among his cries in a whisper, the quietest of his words, yet all the more inspired for it. As it trickles from his lips, familiar to her own throat, she hears also a shift, a change, the roll of the stone from the tomb’s door.

Emerging from the room, she sees the eyes, the eyes of her church family, all turned on her, but their gazes are now inverted, warped from their condemnation and pristine superiority to reverence.

64 The sacrament continues as tabs are laid out on the counter.

You’re gonna want some of this, sweetheart.

She feigns much older than she is, begging the acidic wafer be placed on her tongue for her. As his finger is received, one phrase falls from the imaginary lips of her mother, random and arbitrary, landing on her mind like a falling pillar.

Sooner or later, whether they want to or not, all sinners will see God.

And she does.

In the glow of synesthesia and reflected light, each one different from the one before, clashing with color against color and truth against truth, all impossible, impossible for her mind to reconcile – in this chaos God is suddenly visible. Foot by heavenly foot, he steps towards her in a pied glow, a grim glare over his brow. Quivering and cowering,

Hey now, hold on there, you’re alright, you’re alright. Take it easy, now, girl, take it easy.

she raises her hands, staggering backwards, fixated with the terror of her transgressions, bowing in readiness for retribution…

But it never comes. As horror surges back into ecstasy, God kneels before her and washes her feet.

“We are sinners!” Ed Granville confirms. “We are all sinners alike, ain’t we? So what separates us from the

65 wide gate? What makes us so sure that we’re the wheat and not the chaff? The sheep and not the goats? My friends, it is this, the answer is this: we resist our sin. We resist it! When the Devil puts his nonsense into our head, we don’t sit there and accept it, we don’t sit there and say ‘Oh, well, he really knows what he’s talking about’ – No! We pray to our Father, say ‘Please, God, please lead me not into temptation,’ and we go about our godly day, amen? Paul writes in Romans that, yes, it is true that we are all sinners. It is true. But ​by no means​, he says, ​by no means should we take that and become complacent to it. My friends, that is not the way of the Lord. We must resist the wrong path, we must.”

The conjoined youth and college class seems a mute tongue since her last attendance of it. by comparison of the worship she has seen. She sits dimly across from Sherman Hewitt as he sheepishly goes about his weekly post, and mundane words of humility, temperance, and submission to the righteous path float like jellyfish in the air.

“And, y’know, God doesn’t want to fight with us, right? He wants us to ​want to follow Him, y’know, He doesn’t want to make us do it, He wants us to do it of our own free will. That’s why He gave us free will, right?”

Her attention is turned at these words, flexing and wrapping about the them like brute hands capturing a butterfly.

“Isn’t that what you guys think?” Sherman prompts. “Or, what do y’all think?”

66 The room is thick with apathetic silence. All look either up to the ceiling or down to the table.

“Y’know, I don’t know about that, Sherman…”

The whole room audibly shifts, a simultaneous attraction and repulsion from the mutest voice at last gifted with song.

“After all, when most people, biblically speaking, were given free will…I don’t know, a good bit of ‘em didn’t choose God at all, did they? They chose Herod, or Caesar, or Baal, even. And even though God punished them, or so the prophets tell us, they always seem to return back to their idols…so I don’t know if God gave them free will so they would come on back to Him. If anything, it seems to do the opposite.”

“Right, right…” Sherman’s open mouth is a vacuum, with neither answer nor objection. “But not all, a course, y’know, there were always those that followed God. and He values everyone, right? There’s always those people in the Bible that did follow Him, y’know, Paul, Peter, Simon, even. They’re still in there, right?”

“Right, a course, a course.” The girl smiles. “But they’re never in there for very long.”

She scans the room again. The eyes of the church have warped once again – shock, disgust, terror.

She looks off to the side, and Amy Granville’s face bears a kind of horror the girl has never seen her wear, aghast, almost trembling.

67 The mirror is an unrecognizable and broken pane of stained glass when she looks into it.

Her car packed and ready for her return, she walks through the house to ensure she’s not forgotten anything, and, like a chameleon’s tongue snatching a wandering fly, her mother takes her by the hand with one terse sentence:

“Come here – let’s talk.”

A stolid march brings the girl to the edge of her mother’s bed, and she recognizes the self-priming her mother undergoes before a difficult conversation.

“Now, honey,” she begins, “I don’t mean to nag at you or step in the way of your happiness, because that’s all I’ve ever cared about. It means the world to me that you walk in the way of true joy, real joy, and all your life I’ve seen you do just that.”

Her hand rises to brush away a few strands of the girl’s hair. “All your life…my little girl.

“But, sweetheart.” The hand falls. “There are some ways to happiness – or, at least, what some folks call happiness, that are not the way this family behaves. It is not what we do. And drugs are one of those ways, honey.”

“Mom, what are you talking about, this is–”

“I know, I know, sweetheart. You’ve heard it all before, I know.” Her mother’s face turns over to reticent anger, a surface of magma. “Which is why it surprised me all the more when I found this inside your glove compartment.”

68 A magician’s sleight revealed, the mother produces a bag of green chunks, fragrant as it dangles from two disgusted, outstretched fingers.

The girl closes her eyes. Persecution.

“Yeah, I found it inside your car while you were getting ready for church.”

A silence yawns between the two. The mother’s steel glare is ardent. The girl looks down and bites her lip in guiltless frustration.

“Now, honey, I am extremely disappointed in you. I am. But I can think of one person who is even more so.”

“Oh my god…”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Your God. And you are in no place to be blaspheming in this house, all you should be doing is begging for forgiveness, begging with all your heart. Because mark my words, one of these days, God will prevent your going against his ways.”

An arched eyebrow, and the girl’s eyes rise, almost as inhuman as her voice:

“He didn’t.”

Her mother inhales dragon’s breath through her nostrils. “Don’t you talk to me like that, young lady. I can see what’s going on: you have started down the wrong path. And I am extending an olive branch to you. I should be pulling you out of that school right now. But I am showing mercy on you, just as I know the Lord will.”

69 “I don’t need your mercy, and I don’t want His.”

“You need all the mercy you can ​get, young lady. Lord, what was I thinking sending you off so early, you were ​not ready, not at all.” A yelp of tears lumps into her throat. “Always scoffing at your Sunday school lessons.”

“Okay, we’re done here.”

The girl rises and begins to leave.

“Don’t you ​move, young lady!” The tears evaporate into steam. “There are going to be some big changes for you. I want you home every weekend, calling me every single day, and don’t you even think about keeping that sorority of yours.”

“Mom, we are finished.”

“I told you, time and time again, that I did not want you to be led down the wrong path. I better not ever, ​ever see anything like this again, so help me God, my daughter will​ not​ grow up to be that…”

She turns. A knifelike glare wordlessly beheads her mother’s sentence.

“Who are you speaking to right now?” she asks, her tone at a legitimate loss for answers. “Do you even know? Is this girl, standing right here in front of you, someone you are familiar with? Do you know the chances of me being pregnant right now? Hell, it’s almost as certain as the birth of Christ. Have you seen the inside of my head, mother? Of my soul? Or are you only estimating, throwing out guesses at where exactly between Heaven and Hell I might end up – no, you ​only know how to estimate, to

70 follow your stupid hunches, because in the end, deep, deep down, mother, that’s what you need. You need to be held back, you need to be kept in the dark, because if I told you half of the things I’ve done, I could make the crosses on the f wall shake!”

“Do not use that language–”

“So let me make things easier for you:

“I am not on the wrong path, mother – I am the wrong path. I am Caesar, I am Baal. I am the one who brings priests and pastors to nooses, envying and lusting over me, two of those deadly sins, more than enough to blow this place off the earth. This place – it hates me, and it adores me, and it hates me because it adores me. And it will spend its whole life trying to beat me. But so help me God, mother, the next time you see me, it’ll be right here, home sweet home, in the bed of one of your precious little pastors, and maybe then you’ll see just how far down the wrong path you are.”

The girl slams the door behind her and leaves Whiterock, shedding her cushioned fetters, fully formed in her flight toward the sun, until a fatal overdose brings her back home to her mother, and a murderer returns to the crime.

71

Untitled Anthony Edwards

72 lavinia of the crossroads Sarah Muscarella i’ve served the sun for all of my days basking in his beauty and his rays i’ve worn my soul down to the core worshipping the light of his smile and laugh spellbound by the curvature of his calf i devote myself to him and try to catch a glimpse of his fair eyes how i long to brush his skin to trace his lips to feel his power ‘neath my fingertips so have i longed for many a year no need to be shaken or doubt or fear until she who came to me as sudden as her birth who bid me stay and learn my worth with swordsharp eyes and tongue like rain and lit a fire no man can claim her figure cannot be erased it lingers, though i cannot chase smooth as marble, strong as iron my body burns to be her pyre

athena’s breast

73 apollo’s hips goddess bliss god’s sweet jest athena’s might apollo’s light goddess bite god will smite me if i dare come clean my heartstrings fray as i am caught in the sway of two heavenly bodies two loves two gods for whom i wish to half my heart

74 mothman, oh mothman Sarah Muscarella mothman, oh mothman let’s fly away tonight i’ll meet you in point pleasant if you’ll just hold me tight mothman, oh mothman you know i love you so your eyes they shine like rubies and make the forest glow mothman, oh mothman they just don’t understand you’re the moth of my sweet dreams who cares if you’re half-man

75 planet x Sarah Muscarella are you there, planet x? it’s me, dr. margaret. i’ve ground my pencil thin i’ve plotted every line i’ve searched and searched but nothing’s there could you please give me a sign? blink once for yes blink twice for yes hell, blink as many times as needed just let me know that you exist! they say that you’re in orbit they say that you’re enormous by all accounts, you should be here but you’re doing nothing for us. planet x, i doubt planet x, i must confess for years, i’ve watched your place in cosmos hoping one day i’d be blessed. my mother’s sick with cancer my father prays and prays and i just stare at stars in the sky i know no other way.

when i find you, planet x

76 if i find you, planet x you’d better fix my broken life and fill in all my checks. dr. margaret, signing off dr. margaret, going home to toss and turn and hope for the day i know we’re not alone.

77 questioning. Sarah Muscarella my skin is painted rainbow of that there’s no denying with hair cut short and breasts bound tight is there even point in trying to resist the fear that’s lurking here— that what lies on the surface just might have seeped into my bones and the fortress where my heart is the question begs the question has she been right all along since her sobs crashed on my shoulders pinning me and telling me i’m wrong

“just say you are monochrome,” he dragged me along with him but how can i take his advice he’s petrified by what’s within at last i’m done pretending at last i’m coming out because maybe this part of me does not make me less devout.

78 Aboard the Satellite Saloon Carlos Sanchez

Ignacio stood behind the counter, cleaning a highball glass. As he listened in on the hums and chitchat of the last of his clientele, the human bartender picked up on a slight clinging from behind him. He turned just as several bottles on his shelf inched their way over make room for three new drinks soon to join his stock.

The wall behind Ignacio was both his pride and his livelihood. From floor to ceiling, there were bottles of booze. It had everything – Terran vintages like Bacardi and Jack Daniels, fringeworld homebrews, even corporation-grade cheapshit. Nothing was lacking aboard the Interstellar Space Station’s Satellite Saloon. And that’s how Ignacio liked it. The spectacled barkeep had worked out contracts all throughout the system to get exactly what he wanted to stock the bar. He knew his wide selection would draw all sorts in on their breaks. Keeping them coming back just needed his ears to be open and his pours heavy-handed.

The bar was a frequent stop for Voyagers in and out of the ISSS – as their ships refueled and repaired between missions, they got some of their own rest and relaxation. Ignacio loved hearing the human and alien captains’ and crews’ stories, seeing their ships, just about anything to learn more about the great expanses he knew existed outside his little bar. He always laughed it off as him wanting to be a Voyager when he was a kid, but in truth, all he wanted was to get out of

79 the ISSS at least once before he reached his thirtieth revolution. It’s not that he wasn’t happy on the Saloon; that was certainly not the case. It was his baby, he’d been working to make it the best bar in the Sol system since he acquired it ten revs ago, but there was just so much more out there to see and experience. Thousands of upon thousands of planets both near and far, many of which he could barely conjure in his imagination – barren worlds consisting of strange geometric formations, world-spanning cityscapes with more technology than in the rest of the galaxy, entire civilizations hidden under planets’ vast seas. Anything was possible out there.

With a bit of a start, Ignacio came out of his daydreaming. He looked out at his last few patrons for this cycle – he knew everyone left by name. Only the regulars stayed this late. All of them knew him and the bar intimately in return. He heard the same clanging from earlier again. ​More drinks​. His regulars had seen the gaps plenty of times before. Closing time didn’t just mean cheaper drink, it meant new shipments.

“So, you gonna tell me what it is, Iggy, or what?” asked a tall, gray-skinned, alien at the bar as he finished his drink. “Has to be something big – not everyday you get four new bottles, bud,” his deep, almost growling voice continued.

Ignacio took his friend’s glass without responding, his motions automatic as he cleaned it. He looked down at his hands distractedly as he wiped it with a rag soaked in sterilizing agent.

80 “Hello? Vron to Iggy – you there Iggy?” said the grey alien, waving one of four hand in front of the barkeep’s face.

“Huh? Oh. Sorry, V,” Ignacio responded as he set the glass down. With a dry laugh, he continued, “Yeah. I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that load of Slyph feces,” Vron said, slapping two massive hands against the brass countertop “We both know that I know you better than that. You’ve got everything coming in and out of here memorized weeks in advance.”

Ignacio ignored the assault to his bar and served him another drink – Old Fashioned glass, rocks, one-part gin, another-part rosso, last-part Campari, garnish with orange peel, light it for a bit of flare. Negroni weren’t the first thing that came to mind when looking at Vron, but that was all the hulking, four-armed Ourk had been ordering since he’d started coming here regularly two revs ago. Ignacio had always pictured Ourks as these bumbling brutes that probably liked to drink liquor straight. But Vron had shattered his expectations of the space Orcs, once mighty and –

“C’mon, man. Tell me what it is!”

Does he have to be so loud… ​The barkeep came back to the real world, shrugging at his friend. “Sorry, V, I really don’t know what it is yet. I didn’t order anything new; Tio Felipe probably called in a favor for something. You know he still thinks he owns the place.”

81 Vron sighed and downed the drink.

The small hardlight tablet in Ignacio’s shirt pocket buzzed. He smiled, “Thank you for your patronage, sir.”

“F you too, Iggy,” Vron called out, already halfway out the bar. He had to duck down to avoid hitting his head on the low doors as he made his way to his ship. “I’ll be back again after work.”

“I know. Later, V.”

…

It wasn’t long after that until the Saloon was empty. Ignacio did a bit of cleaning and prepping. As he was slicing lemons for garnishing, he cut a large gash over the tops of his fingers. Managing to avoid getting blood on the fruit, he quickly bandaged his fingers. The adhesive would make working much harder, and he couldn’t keep himself occupied enough to not be distracted.

The tablet in his pocket buzzed again, this time twice to signal a message. He looked down and he saw his Uncle Felipe face, “You open it yet?”

That settled it, he had to check it out. It didn’t take long for Ignacio to lock the place up. It didn’t matter

82 that the bar was still a mess; he could clean up after he saw what his uncle’s surprise was.

He headed to the storage bay. The crate Felipe had bought sat alone where the delivery freight ship had left it. Ignacio took out the tablet from his pocket and scanned the label on the package. After a quick beep, the contents were identified.

Manufacturer: RisaCorp

Wait, really? ​Ignacio furrowed his brow. ​Tío Felipe hates corporation shit.

Product: StayCation

Well, that’s a dumb name. He sighed and quickly scrolled down the rest of the product information, barely skimming it until he reached the end.

MSRP: 25.000 Interstellar Federation Credits per bottle

What?! ​Ignacio nearly dropped the tablet, his eyes wide. ​I could pay three months’ rent with that much. Why the f would anyone spend so much on a bottle of booze? He scrolled back up.

Product description: Made for the working class, RisaCorp’s newest liquor creation is a vacation sensation without the travel or the time. Experience any number of premade relaxation destinations with just a glass of our new StayCation.

83 F. That really does sound stupid. How do they expect normal people to buy this shit…?

“What does this stuff even look like?” Ignacio sighed and lifted his glasses into his hair, then brought the tablet up to his right eye. The display flashed, verifying the recipient. A hiss soon followed from the crate as the top slid open.

He stared at the contents of the crate in disbelief. The bottles inside were tiny – smaller than the palm of his hand.

“What was Felipe thinking?” Ignacio cried aloud. he pushed a few buttons on his tablet and a tone came from it. After a few seconds, a small image of an aging man with a thick mustache and a only a wreath of black hair appeared, projecting from the tablet.

“​Sobrino​, you open the box? It’s great, right?” the image of his uncle asked. “No. It’s not, ​Tío​,” Ignacio responded.

“​Pendejo​! ​Everyone’s gonna be buying it; it’s gonna be the new thing,” his uncle shouted. Obviously, expecting his nephew to share in his excitement.

“​Tío​, no one can afford a single bottle,” Ignacio said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“​No te preocupes, mijo​. Them rich bastards are gonna love this stuff. Trust me,”

“​Tío​! –”

84 “​Mira, Ignacio, just try it – first bottle’s on the house... well, on RisaCorp. You’ll see what I’m talking about. Trust me,” Felipe reassured his nephew.

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever you say, ​Tio​,” Ignacio said, ending the call. “What the hell could be so special about these drinks?”

He stood, staring at the bottles. ​My uncle’s gone insane​.

He picked up a few bottles, reading the colorful labels: Sangria at the Beach, High Society Highball, Poolside Long Island Iced Tea, Ski Lodge Irish Coffee. Each label featured a picture of the promised “experience” and the name, nothing else. ​So, they’re single-serving, premixed cocktails? What exactly makes them so special?

“I guess ​Tío wants me to try one. He seems to like them, or at least he’s willing to buy them, so it can’t hurt to try.” ​Besides, if the first one is free, who am I to say no?

Ignacio grabbed the first one he’d picked up, the sangria, and took it back to the bar. He read the directions:

Serve in glass – no need to chill.

Drink in a comfortable area.

Please enjoy responsibly.

He got himself a glass and poured the entire bottle, but he had more glass than drink. Sitting at a booth, he

85 stared at his drink. ​It looks like a decent enough sangria. He held the glass under his nose. ​Smells decent – okay wine, strong citrus notes. He sighed. ​Guess I shouldn’t let it go to waste.

He took a sip of his drink, then smacked his lips lightly. ​It isn’t too bad. He took another. ​It kinda gets better the more you drink it.

He drank more, feeling the iced sangria run down his parched throat.​ Ugh. Why is it so hot in here?

Wait… I served this room temp.

Ignacio blinked. As his eye opened, he found himself lying on a beach towel. He was sweating. His skin stung as the relentless summer sun poured over him. He took a deep breath and sneezed as the salt-stained sea air caught him by surprise.

Where there once was a roof, all he could see was an ocean of blue with a white-hot dot at its center. At the horizon, sea and sky were almost inseparable. The waves washed up only a few steps away from him.

Ignacio shook his head. “What is going on?” He said to the sky as he stood up, drink still in hand. ​Is this what the description meant by “a vacation, without the travel?”

He drank more. The water washed over his bare feet. ​So, this is what the ocean looks like? It’s beautiful. He waded deeper into the water. ​This is too real.

86 By the time he finished his drink, he was waist deep. He lowered the glass into the water to clean it off. The saltwater stung the cuts along his knuckles. The pain startled him. Ignacio dropped the glass into the water and rubbed the cut on his hand. The pain was dull, but he had felt it. As he walked farther, the water came up just over his shoulders. He closed his eyes and plunged into the cold, clear sea, letting himself enjoy an experience that no one in his family had been able to in five to six generations.

...

He swam out until he could no longer see the beach. Everything was perfect; the waves didn’t hinder him, there was no current, the ocean was clear to the bottom. ​This is where Mama and Tio Felipe keep saying my family supposedly came from, right? We lived on an island until the Spacerun. Everything is just like in the old holomovies.

Ignacio played in the water for an entire cycle – or he supposed it would be called a day here. Just thinking about fish, made them appear. He swam with dolphins, watched sharks, dove with whales. Drinks and food appeared at the shoreline at the merest thought. ​How is this possible?

As the sun was going down, he made his way back to the beach. He sat down on the towel where he

87 arrived. A wave brought his glass back beside him. Ignacio blinked. He opened his eyes back in the bar.

He looked at the clock – 5:23. He’d been out for a little over three hours, but he had been on vacation for a day. ​Guess Tío was right. This’ll sell like crazy – if anyone can afford it,

He went back to the crates and started stocking the bottles. He only had a few hours before he’d have to open back up. Checking his tablet, he laughed. ​Lucky me. The inventory log didn’t list the last flavor at all – he had an entire extra box of Ski Lodge Irish Coffee. He still stocked them, but he took a few for himself.

Felipe won’t mind if I take the excess. He hasn’t before​. Ignacio grinned at the thought. He’d never seen snow before, and he knew only a few of his usuals would’ve either. The one he was closest with certainly had never mentioned it.

“Vron is gonna love this.”

88

Wide-Eyed Claire Police

89 The Snake Claire Police

The rattlesnake coils my stomach turns I curl and whimper The snake rattles its tail and hisses Fury with defense The snake refuses to let me go Coiling around my stomach It rattles in warning Fangs sharp Dripping with venom It lunges and bites My stomach shrinks in size No longer able to hold food inside The rattler coils tighter Prepares to strike again

My heart constricts as the venom travels Slowing the beat Then catapulting in speed The bile stings I taste what I have already ate Retching over a porcelain bowl My eyes sting Salt water hits the sides Shoulders shaking Arms curled protectively around myself

The rattlesnake curls and hisses Fangs bared Teeth dripping Bile rises I swallow it down

The snake bites I bite back.

90 A Meticulously Crafted List of Things That I Like Ben Roberts

Receiving a flower picked fresh from the side of the lake.

Thick bread toasted in a pan with expensive butter.

Having ideas in the shower that don’t float away.

Expensive Butter.

Poems with lines the length of a breath.

Andy’s Concrete: Cookie Dough from Chocolate.

Five diamonds on my ring on her finger.

Meals too beautiful to eat, and eating them anyway.

The first time someone tells you: “You’re my friend”.

91 When the sky reminds you more of a painting than a sky.

The possibilities inherent in a new save file.

You’re my friend.

92 Isolation Ben Roberts

I wake up each day to see I’m alone, How I’ve been and will be each day: alone.

At night the school is empty, No one bothers me when I walk alone.

The music blares, the party writhes, Centered in this maelstrom, I find myself alone.

I feel her breath on my chest, I lie wide awake, Her warmth at my side confirms I’m alone.

Sat in the shower, salt tears on my face, The voice keeps screaming its song “You’re Alone.”

In a circle with those who share in my symptoms Their honest confessions prove I’m not alone.

93 My Blanket Ben Roberts

A gift from my mom fur, soft fuzzy and blue keeps me warm on cold nights

Snug in its waves, an oceanic burrito keeps me tightly wrapped

Suffocating sky blue over my head at noon uncomfortably warm

Blue fur on my chest like a napping kitten it leaves me unable to move

Safer in blue folds safer hidden from the cold I can’t get up today.

94 The Farm Ben Roberts

The forest breaks before our eyes, the valley opens up below, we trundle down the rocky road and reach the house I’ve called my home for many years, though some ago for now, it’s just a place I go when time works out, family needs or fate returns me here again. And yet, the jostle and the sun and trees and fields and bees and Bob and cat and cow and barn and food and thoughts that flood into my soul, cause me to wish I’d settle down Where once I used to call my home.

95 Trade Kristen Burkholder

Thirty years ago there would have been more to choose from, Rowan thought as she lifted stacks of books from their storage crates, scanned their titles, and replaced them. Many were familiar to her from previous trips, even though Luc knew—as did all her usual trading contacts—that she was only interested in books she did not already have, and that there was no point in offering her anything she had declined before. As she touched them they left smudges on her fingers, the sticky dust that comes from being repeatedly on the edge of damp, and she sneezed, turning her head aside. Pinkish streaks suggested that mildew had gotten to a few, and stained brown spots indicated where beetles had once died, crushed by the weight of paper.

In the crates cookbooks and brightly colored picture books for children, murder mysteries and books on astronomy, political histories and romances, all jostled for space. Their covers, rubbed and faded though they were, bore witness to their contents and Rowan could assess them at a glance. As long as the pages were intact, if the title or author was new to her, she would try to purchase it.

Rarely did Rowan misremember and bargain for a book that the Refuge library already possessed. She had been the chief book trader for half her lifetime, and had assisted old Tonio before that, so she had long since memorized the tens of thousands of titles the Refuge owned. There was always a thrill in finding

96 something new, though it was increasingly infrequent. When she had first journeyed with Tonio, they had often traded for dozens of books at each stop, and when Tonio’s predecessor Mat had begun traveling, it might be hundreds. But then, when Mat began, he had been only two generations removed from the time of the Collapse. Now finding even five at a time felt lucky. Luckier still was the chance to read what she found—carefully, lest the fragile volumes be damaged—before she had to hand them over to Preservation on her return. Each would be assessed, catalogued, and finally packed away in carefully-labeled boxes stored safely in the deepest levels of the Refuge. Someday, one by one, they would be retrieved. The printing press would be set up to reproduce each precious volume, perhaps a dozen, perhaps a hundred copies. An endless and unwinnable argument was ongoing between the archivists, teachers, and leaders as to which books should receive first priority for duplication.

Today was one of her lucky days; she had found a half-dozen unique titles, including one that had been on the wanted list for the Refuge for generations: ​A Canticle for Leibowitz​. They had a partial copy, the last third only, the story of the abbot who sent his monks off to another planet as the earth perished around him, doomed by mankind’s madness. The fictional Order of St. Leibowitz, like the Refuge itself, did its best to preserve knowledge in the face of human indifference or even antipathy. Rowan wondered how Luc had come by the book but decided not to ask lest she give him leverage in bargaining over the price.

“I’ll take these,” she said at last, straightening up

97 with the volumes she had chosen.

“Excellent.” Luc rubbed his palms together. “Let me see. Yes. Six books. Eighteen vials should do it.”

“Eighteen? They’re hardly worth a vial and a half each, not three,” Rowan countered. “I’ll give you ten, and that’s generous. Look at this one.” She picked up the ​Peterson Field Guide to Moths of Northeastern North America​. “The cover is falling off. And these pages are so yellowed and brittle they could break at any time.” She demonstrated, ignoring the pang as she broke off a corner of the last page of ​The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde​.

“I’ll settle for fifteen vials,” answered Luc. “The ones you have there aren’t mildewed, not insect-eaten, just old; stained at worst. Fifteen’s a fair price.”

“Twelve. That’s two vials apiece, and that’s my last offer.” Rowan waited.

Luc scowled, but at last he nodded agreement. “Twelve.”

It was a more than generous price, even to get Canticle in the lot, but the caravan was on its homeward journey, with only two more trading villages to visit before they returned to the Refuge, so Rowan could afford it. She opened the specially-made leather pouch in which she kept the precious laudanum and counted out twelve vials, lining them up on the rickety counter.

Luc picked each one up and squinted at it, assuring

98 himself that they were full. Rowan didn’t take his mistrust personally; she would have done the same. It was only because she came through nearly every year, like Tonio and Mat had before her, and Luc knew that she would be back, that he didn’t open a vial and verify the contents by their bitter taste. He grunted and pushed the books across to her. The vials he secreted in a rusty metal box lined with stained cotton, locking it carefully with a key that hung from a leather thong around his wrist, before stowing the box under the splintered counter.

Rowan wrapped her books in a length of canvas to protect them before ducking back out of the stiflingly hot shed where Luc traded his scavenged goods.

Skata was waiting for her, his face impassive under the sheen of sweat the sun had induced. She gave him the leather drug case and watched with relief as he slung the strap over his chest and tucked the case under his loose linen shirt. No one was likely to attempt to steal it from Skata, the largest man she had ever seen in all of her travels. Everyone knew that their caravan traded in opium as well as in spices and in ribbons dyed bright colors otherwise unobtainable, but the presence of Skata and the other guards had so far deterred theft. The bow slung over his back no doubt helped too.

The wagons from the Refuge were clustered at the far end of the trading encampment. Books were far from the only thing Rowan and her companions sought; metal was perhaps the most important, and she could see Tad and Meg bargaining intently as she and Skata passed. Iron the Refuge could produce, but

99 not tin and certain other mineral resources. The caravan would remain another night and refill their water barrels in the morning before continuing their homeward journey, west across the vast sea of grassland that had once been farms and ranches and had now reverted to wild prairie from which the remnants of humanity had mostly retreated.

Rowan rubbed her thumb over the coarse cloth that bound the precious books. Several hours of daylight remained and she had little to do just now. None of her companions would know if she read one of them. She slid ​A Canticle for Leibowitz carefully from the enwrapping fabric and opened it to the first page, reading avidly.

Brother Francis Gerard of Utah might never have discovered the blessed documents, had it not been for the pilgrim with girded loins who appeared during that young novice’s Lenten fast in the desert.

Never before had Brother Francis actually seen a pilgrim with girded loins, but that this one was the bona fide article he was convinced as soon as he had recovered from the spine-chilling effect of the pilgrim’s advent on the far horizon, as a wiggling iota of black caught in a shimmering haze of heat. Legless, but wearing a tiny head, the iota materialized out of the mirror glaze on the broken roadway and seemed more to writhe than to walk into view, causing Brother Francis to clutch the crucifix of his rosary and mutter an Ave or two.

100 Rowan paused and looked up as a shadow fell across her. For an instant, confused, she thought it was the pilgrim Brother Francis saw, before she recognized that it was only Skata, coming with a bucket of water.

She put the book aside to drink a dipperful, nodding at him gratefully.

“One you bought?” he asked in his raspy voice.

Rowan squinted, assessing him. “Yes.” She couldn’t remember if she had ever seen Skata read. He probably could—every child in the Refuge who was capable of learning was taught basic reading and arithmetic along with practical skills—but many people preferred to hear stories told aloud. Did he know that Preservation frowned on anyone reading original copies? Rowan thought not. There would be no reason he should.

“I want to be sure it’s in good condition,” she hedged the truth. “Not missing any pages, you know?”

Skata’s face lit up, making him look startlingly young. “Could you read it to me?”

“I… yes.” Rowan cleared her throat. “But don’t you have to stay on guard?”

“I can watch while you read.” He angled his body away from her so that he faced the dusty trail that led past the encampment. “Go on.”

She turned back to the first page and began again, stopping to explain as best she could when the story

101 mentioned matters with which Skata was unfamiliar, and about many of which Rowan herself had only a hazy notion. So much had been lost, even with all their efforts. Sometimes Rowan felt that if the long-dead could come back to life, she would cheerfully kill them all again in retribution for everything they had done, or failed to do, to preserve a future for humanity.

102 Boundary -rook-

There is a line As fine as dust Between being in love And being distracted. I am yet To discover which I am more guilty of these days.

103 Huracán Carlos Sanchez

Tío Fele’s rooftop catches drops and it won’t stop pitter-pattering clang-clattering first soft, then fast, fast, faster

Something snaps cracks, breaks ground shakes plate shatters

“​Solo es un huracán, descansa. En la mañana se levanta.​”

104 Writing Though the Night Carlos Sanchez

What time is it? Two o’clock – that’s fine I can be done by three It’s early

No, not three Make it four I’ve got to write.

Four? No – not four. Likely five. I can finish by five.

Guess not – it’s six already Jesus Christ, it’s six Why sleep now?

I have to be up – to beat the sun, be at a meeting – by seven.

It’s eight. I’m late. Now I have to run no time to stop for coffee. Good job, me.

105 The Rift Luke Barrett

A story is a nebulous thing, difficult to define. Stories can be uncaged and free, defying traditions and characteristic and archetype, or they can be the opposite, a typical mass of words with a structure and predictable middles and endings. Every society has its own version of what is typical, and each society accumulates stories that hold to or defy this tradition. No matter what these traditions are, and no matter how they change, stories continue to be told.

“So, the stories have changed. What of it?”

“These stories are dangerous.”

“Aw, come on, Saria. Y’know this place would close down if it wasn’t for all the talk coming outta here.”

“Ker, I don’t care how much extra business I get, this place is a ​local ​bar, not an adventurer’s guild.”

Kerig looked around. Saria had a point; town regulars used to fill these seats, the people who had closed shop for the day, the workers and miners who were looking for respite from their strenuous jobs, and the occasional travelling merchant or vagabond. Now, Kerig saw that most of the locals still attending were huddled around two tables in a far corner, as every other space seemed filled with mercenaries and explorers. Saria had managed to enforce her “no weapons” rule so far, and the small, wooden weapon rack next to the front door had filled, and various swords, shields, axes, bows, and supply packs

106 rested against the wall. The atmosphere, though friendly, had taken an edge of danger and excitement not conducive to casual business.

“Eh, ​I say there’s nothin’ like a little bit of blood and bone to liven the place up!”

“Kerig, that’s ridiculous. This used to be a relaxed establishment. Every night I get closer to having to break up fights the hard way. The town has its hard drinkers, but they can’t compete with even your average warrior coming off of a twelve-day trip out here. And when you put twenty of them in a room, you’re asking for trouble.”

“Saria, they’re just tellin’ stories. There’s no harm in that!”

“Yet.”

Leaning across the bar countertop, Saria was stopped from continuing by the arrival of a twenty-something with a book in their hands. As Saria caught their eyes, they froze.

“Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help overhearing, and I think there’s a solution to all this.”

Ell was an unusual sight in Saria’s tavern. They were slight and didn’t have the usual adventurer’s garb on (all leather straps and plate metal). Saria frowned.

“Are you old enough to be in here?”

“Erm, yes,” they replied sheepishly. “I just heard that this place became a favorite for stories of the Rift, and I wanted to come check it out because I’ve been looking

107 into it, and then I heard you talking about your problem, and I thought I might interject because I have an idea to fix it.”

As Saria’s eyebrows sot up, Kerig’s furrowed.

“What kinda plan? This place just got entertaining!”

“That’s all I’m saying,” he quickly added off of Saria’s sharp look.

Kerig did have a point. Since the Rift had opened up in the desert, adventurers had begun stopping in town on their way to visit it. People of all sorts, usually the leather straps and plate armor sort, would come to claim some treasure at the bottom of the Rift. They would bring their supplies, their maps, their experience, and they’d consistently end up in the same place, Saria’s tavern. It was the only place for a drink in town, and it served the sort of stiff drinks that adventurers, successful or not, enjoyed to a great extent.

The Rift itself was something of a mystery to Saria. It was a mystery to everyone in the town, really. None of them had bothered to go into the desert; they had content lives in town. The faint promise of adventure didn’t justify a long walk through sand and dust. Even those with stronger curiosity were usually sated by the adventurers’ tales. Kerig was a part of that small group. They all sought some adventure, some legend, some treasure or glory. The Rift was rumored to be full of monsters, and it certainly seemed to be. Adventurers would stumble into the tavern, often wearing fresh, if relatively unstained, bandages, sometimes clutching some item they’d found in the ruins.

108 “Seized it from the ogres meself,” “Found it in the rubble,” “Got some scars now, no treasure like a hard-won victory.” Such sentiments quickly overwhelmed all other conversation in the tavern. Even when there weren’t copious explorers, the regulars would talk about their favorite tales they’d heard from the Rift. Saria had quickly grown tired of the incessant stream of Rift talk and had started reproaching customers for smothering the daily chatter of life. That was when Kerig had stepped in. And now some kid with a book had interrupted him.

“I’ll say it again, kid, what sorta plan are ya talking about here?”

“Um, the gist is that I think we can actually stop people from getting hurt by the Rift by destroying it. It would save a lot of people pain, and it would prevent this place from continuing to be a, uh, ​guild,​ as you said.”

Kerig’s frown twisted into a wide smile that quickly grew to deep, hearty laughter.

“And just how are you planning to destroy a natural landmark? Even better, how’re you gonna destroy a canyon​?! Y’know, canyons are formed when the ground tears itself apart, not when it builds on top of itself.”

Saria was about to interject and tell off Kerig for being harsh, but Ell spoke first.

“Well, I was studying geology, and this book mentioned landslides. So, I figured we could collapse the Rift in on itself. You’d just need some explosives.”

109 Kerig and Saria were startled again.

“Oh, well, you could do it with picks of course, but then you’d have to be inside the ravine in some way, and that makes collapsing it a bit dangerous. So you need explosives,” Ell quickly explained.

Kerig’s grin returned.

“See, now that is the sort of thing I like t’hear! As luck would have it, I’m the local expert!”

It was a fortunate instance of serendipity. The town had a long-running mining practice, and Kerig was the man they called when the work got slow and they needed immediate results. He also figured out how to put color in the explosions and would do demonstrations on special days, like when he felt bored. He was the only one really willing to experiment with the stuff, and he’d only lost a finger and a toe, so the town was satisfied to let him continue experimenting as long as everyone else was kept out of the way when he was testing or using material.

“So, you really think you can close the Rift and stop all of this?”

Ell looked at Saria and saw the skepticism in her eyes.

“Yes, I think it’s possible. That is, if he’s willing to help, of course.”

“Help? Of course I’ll help ya, kid! How often d’ya get to explode a natural landmark?! Also, the name’s Kerig. So we’re on familiar ground.”

110 Kerig gestured with his flagon as he said this, spilling a bit of his drink onto the floor.

“I’ll clean that up later, swear it!”

Not to be put out, Ell beamed. “That’s terrific! I’m Ell, and we can head off as soon as I get some supplies together!”

“Hold on one second.”

Ell had spun to run home and start preparing a travel backpack. They turned back to see Saria’s face set hard with determination.

“I can’t knowingly let you run off to the desert with this guy. He’s not dangerous, a little on the explosion-loving side, sure. But he’s not dangerous. He ​is​, however, slightly drunk. I can’t let you run off until he’s had a chance to get what few wits he has back.”

Kerig started to protest but was content to lodge his complaint with his mug instead of Saria.

“Oh…” Ell paused to consider their next move. They hadn’t expected any real resistance from anyone who wasn’t an adventurer.

“So, I can’t let you do that without joining you to see the job done. I was a bit of a wanderer before I settled down and started this place. It’s how I keep customers from being too rowdy without hiring extra muscle. That, and everyone respects me because I’ve got the best drinks in town. My name’s Saria.”

111 Stunned, Ell managed to stammer out, “Sure, thank you! I could use all the help I’ll get. It’ll, uh, take me some time to get all the supplies together, but I’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, Ell.” Saria turned to the rest of the establishment and straightened up. “Hey, it’s last call! I’m closing up for a little bit, alright? So get what you want now before it’s gone.” Saria looked out on the crowd in front of her and dismissed the onset of groans. “It’s only for a short while, alright?”

“Besides,” she added, “Most of you aren’t regulars anyways.”

Saria had her own preparations to make, and Kerig had to gather his particular supplies, but the next morning the trio arranged themselves outside Saria’s empty tavern, and they were on their way.

The Rift was said to be a few days’ journey from town. They walked through the woods to the north and arrived at the desert’s edge within an hour. Ell had packed water and rations for the journey, and Saria made sure to bring something a little stronger than water for herself and Kerig. Kerig had forgone practicality and carried a pack full of bundled explosives of various shapes and sizes. He would light off a few of the small ones and toss them as they walked, watching them pop, sending sand and sparks flying. Though they didn’t expect trouble on the walk to the Rift, Saria had brought her broadsword and mail as insurance. Saria’s shining ensemble cast their own display, glinting in the sunlight.

112 As they traveled they saw distant rock formations twisting into impossible shapes and structures, hewn by the wind. The yellows and oranges of the rocks shifted through a range of warm hues. The setting sun cast no shadows except those of the travelers, and as night fell upon the trio, the warm colors cooled to deep blues and purples. As they set camp up for the night, darkness ushered all the surroundings into black. Finally, while a moon rose slowly, drifting aimlessly across the expanse, the trio could see the glinting lights in the sky. Pinpoints of white, sometimes tinged with red and yellow, shone down upon them. Like many before them, the three spent several hours staring upwards before resting.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Aye, kid, they are. Y’know, I always liked lookin’ at ‘em back in town. They’re… inspiring.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, when you get fascinated with blowin’ stuff up, you take notice of what’s already out there doin’ a better job than you ever could.”

Saria interjected, “Oh, come on, Ker. It’s not like you could match nature itself. Some things are just impossible.”

“Oh, but I’d like to. Few things’re really so enthralling as bright lights. It’s half the fun of the job!” Kerig started laughing, his hearty laughter breaking through the still desert air clearly, echoing out into that infinite space above them.

113 “Besides,” he continued, his laughter fading, “What’s th’point in doing anything if ya don’t have a comparison point?”

“Well,” Ell picked up, “they’re beautiful, and I guess we’ll have a chance soon enough to put them in competition.”

At this Saria and Kerig broke into raucous laughter. Their deep, heartfelt chuckles filled the space around them, and Ell found themselves laughing along quickly.

“Ell, I expect that enthusiasm from Kerig, not from you,” Saria managed to get out between breaths.

They lay in the sand a little while longer before agreeing to go to sleep. The following nights they did the same, setting up camp and staring upwards for hours before falling asleep.

After three days of travel they arrived at the famed Rift.

“This… is it?”

“It must be. None of my customers said it could be more than a few days’ travel, and this is the only unusual thing in sight.”

Ell and Saria were looking at a single, thin crack in the ground. It stretched miles in either direction they looked, but it was certainly no deeper than a few feet, even in the places it had crumbled inward. The small cracks and fractures branching off of the crevice played on the imagination, but the reality of the situation was lackluster. Kerig had broken out in a fit of laughter,

114 hunched over and supporting himself with his knees, before wiping his eyes and walking away to sit down, looking solemnly at the multitudes of explosives he’d brought as he went. Ell and Saria approached carefully.

“So,” he began, “this is the renowned Rift. Pfft, buncha hot air. Heh. It’s a shame, really. I mean, I’m impressed! The stories I’ve heard… I figured blowing it up would be the greatest one of ‘em all.”

At this he exerted a weak smile and grabbed an explosive bundle from his pack, tossing it back and forth between his hands.

“The Rift was legendary, y’know. Th’stuff of ​legends​. There’d be people in the bar - Saria, you know this - people in the bar trading stories, sayin’ how they got their scars from some beast with ninety teeth and claws like iron. I guess they, what? Probably just made it up, got the scars somewhere else, ran into a couple branches on the way back. Heh, gotta keep the story alive right?” Kerig began to cackle again, but Ell interrupted, their face alight with an epiphany.

“What if we did?”

Saria looked at them. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we already had plans to blow it up, right? And if we did, then it might just look like it collapsed on itself anyway, right? And then the stories stay alive!”

At this, Saria smiled, and Kerig’s disoriented giggling faded into awe. Kerig and Ell turned and looked expectantly at Saria, waiting for her deliberation. Saria

115 stood there for a moment, face set dispassionately, considering. She let out a happy sigh. “Alright.”

Ell and Saria turned to Kerig. His lament became a celebration, and he frenetically grabbed handfuls of explosives and ran to the Rift. Ell and Saria would have volunteered to help if they’d been asked, but Kerig didn’t ask, and they didn’t mind watching him sprint around gleefully. After the larger part of a few hours, mostly characterized by Kerig excitedly hopping about and laughing in a high-pitched manner that neither Ell nor Saria had the privilege of hearing before, the explosives were set. Kerig returned to the others and quickly ushered them backwards some two hundred feet. He trailed a long wick behind him as they walked.

At long last they stopped. Kerig looked at Ell and Saria, raised an eyebrow, winked, and lit the fuse. They watched the spark race away across the desert ground. Kerig sat, patting the ground, and Ell and Saria followed suit. They didn’t have to wait too long, and soon the ground was shaking from the nearby detonations. The three watched in silence as the monotonous yellow earth was broken by flashes of red and orange. Green smoke billowed forth from the explosions, but it didn’t mask the colorful blues and purples that followed as the detonations continued. This colorful display launched sparks and flames thirty feet in the air, cresting and arcing back toward the ground in stretching, brilliant parabolas. After the explosions had ended, the group sat a while longer, savoring the moments before going to check the Rift.

Saria broke the silence.

116 “Kerig, I’ve known you for a while now. You’re an odd bird. But that show… I think you may have rivaled the night after all.”

Ell nodded vigorously in agreement, and tears welled in Kerig’s eyes. He smiled warmly at the others. Ell cracked a large grin and grabbed the two by their shoulders.

“Thank you,” they said, “this is more than I could have asked for.” Their eyes began to shine as well, and Saria reached out and pulled Ell and Kerig into a hug before either of them could get much sappier.

“This has been fun.”

The group stood and walked over to the new, improved Rift. It was now ten feet deep in some places and far wider than it had been before. The trio laughed, remarking that it’d be a lot more fun to explore and plenty more difficult to miss while travelling. They returned to the town soon thereafter and, after Saria reopened her tavern, their story quickly became the most famed. The tale of the barkeep, the student, and the pyrotechnic was quite popular, and the explosions that challenged the glory of the very skies are spoken of in awed tones in some circles.

The Rift remains. It was visited long after, and many more stories were fabricated from its rubble. These stories persist, twist, and change, but the stories never end, and they never will.

117 Clouds Descend Claire Police

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