Mangrove Review Vol. 15

Volume 15 MangroveReview 2018

Executive Editor Editors Taylor West Gabriela Bonilla Callie Brannon Elizabeth Feins Assistant Sarah Lee Executive Editor Dianna Sandora Michael Rotaru Aliza Torres Caylee Weintraub Managing Editor Temitayo Abdulkareem Faculty Co-AdvisorS Emily Woolf Vallier Design Editor and Lori Cornelius Jason Elek Associate Advisor Heath Callahan

Special thanks to Jim Brock Mangrove Review is the student-edited literary and arts magazine for Florida Gulf Coast University, showcasing the work of FGCU students, faculty, staff, administrators, alumni, and members of the community. The views and opinions expressed inMangrove Review are solely those of the individual authors and in no way represent those of the editors and staff ofMangrove Review, employees of Florida Gulf Coast University, or the University Board of Trustees.

Mangrove Review gratefully acknowledges support from the Honors College, the Office of Undergraduate Studies, the College of Arts and Sciences, and the Student Government of Florida Gulf Coast University.

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

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

Submission guidelines Submissions must be previously unpublished and accompanied by a short biography.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

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

Submit your materials to [email protected]

Contents

Poetry The Gardener `Kelly Canaday...... 9 Busy Callie Brannon...... 10 Because You Left Me Michael Pineda...... 11 You Won’t Find Anything Here Trevor Lewis...... 13 Unplanned Annmarie Ferry...... 14 Tell Me to Breathe Callie Brannon...... 15 Nightmare Callie Brannon...... 16 fuck your sorry Brianna Ganzini...... 17 Writing Through the Wars: Documenting Military Messages Through Poetry One Day Sydney Van Dreason...... 19 It’s Just Training Sydney Van Dreason...... 20 Hear Me Sydney Van Dreason...... 22 Yes, I’m a Woman Sydney Van Dreason...... 23 You and Me Sydney Van Dreason...... 24 Language, Love, and Circumlocutions Day by Day Alexander Sell...... 25 Too West Makes an East Alexander Sell...... 26 Aporetic and Ineffable Alexander Sell...... 27 Upon Return Alexander Sell...... 28 Thinking of Myself Alexander Sell...... 29

Hank Williams’ Last Ride to Nashville Savana Scarborough...... 30 Visual Arts Showcase Quiet in the Chaos Erica Terese Krueger...... 33 Summer Rain Savannah Jensen...... 34 Sunset #3 Savannah Jensen...... 35 Waiting for the Resurrection Savannah Jensen...... 36

Grey Unicorns Erica Terese Krueger...... 37 Troubled Thoughts of a Struggling Soul Leah Picciano...... 39 Prose Lake Caylee Weintraub...... 41 To Die Will Be an Awfully Big Adventure Elizabeth Feins...... 43 Nothing More Brianna Ganzini...... 51 Rosalie’s Letter Kristen Petry...... 53 The Coyote’s Apprentice Kristen Petry...... 59 Ungodly Stars Ryan Kraczon...... 62 Salted Fields Alexander Luke...... 70 Miles vs. The Coyote Michael Rotaru...... 76 Relational Surrender Mark Massaro...... 79

About the Contributors...... 89

Cover photo by Erica Terese Krueger MR 2017 FGCU Writing Awards winner

Kelly Canaday

The Gardener

He’s the fly on your front porch that sends lost vessels, lapses of skin over the striped Earth

The sun wakes scalloped ferns on the edges of the yard, a flimsy banner for the voices drowned in sleep

He sounds of slot machines and organs playing as he tends to the prison in between the windows and the gates he’s violent to the ground so he isn’t violent to the face that stands at the washing machine inside, softened from the lace curtain

9 Callie Brannon

Busy

Running around like your head is cut off. Typing like your fingers have already bled out. Talking faster to get what needs to be said out. Numb from not being able to express your thoughts. Empty from lack of life. The world runs on money. Money, it takes time to accumulate enough to survive. Surviving and not depleting, Like a balloon on low fumes. Fumes that surround you because there are no windows to open. Open, when was the last time you sat and breathed in fresh air? Take that breath. Freeze yourself in place. Enjoy that moment. Sleep that day away. Wake up! Run like your head is cut off. Type like your fingers have already melted away. Talk like you have no more breath left. Think while you still have a thought to think. Over, and over, and over, and over. Till one day you stop. Stop! While there is still a tomorrow.

10 Michael Pineda

Because You Left Me

Because you persisted, I was born. Because you struggled, I did not. Because you loved me, I flourished. Because you believed, I was arrogant and proud. You gave me warm arms and a dreamer’s heart. Yet because of you, I kept it to myself. You shrouded me in protection, as if to keep me from falling in front of others. Fearing I would be judged but more secretly you would. Together we were killing each other with insecurity. You choked on the poisons of vengeance and grudges, taking form through yells and taunts. Until cancer finished you off and I heard the final blip of your monitor. Where does this leave me? Where did YOU leave me? Because you left me, my world was obliterated. I shattered into the grievous heap of scraps the world calls mourning. Because you left me, I lost my mind. I bent and broke to false hopes and deceivers. I cowered and whimpered at the feet of an abuser. And I liked it. I starved for the love you brought me to know. And like a whore I threw myself for substitutes and broken dreams. Because you left, I bled my heart into madness. I fell into the whirlwind of alternative opinions. I asked yet never answered. And amidst the recesses of what I had become, I remembered you. Why the hell did you leave? Why do I still exist? And in the omnipotent silence of such pondering, I find salvation. Because you left me, I am capable.

11 Because you left me, I am myself. There are no borders. No shrouds to keep others from passing judgement. As if I care what demons speak. My ears are to the angels. I live because you died and I weep for you still. But I live in your memory on my own accord. Because you left me, I am alone and humble. Because you left me, I rise and fall. Because you left me, I am new. And I have never felt better. You rest in peace. I’ll live the rest in peace.

12 Trevor Lewis

You Won’t Find Anything Here

What time I have left I owe to you and that damned smile. Your smile—a cursive margin that knows no margin when I’ve told you I’ve ate today. When I told you chemo went well or lied about the doctors being hopeful. Does it count as fighting if I’m pretending to fight for you? You hate the cafeteria’s applesauce with its grit and grain But I love the tenuous furrows when you squinch your face. Your face with that damned cursive smile. I think my biggest regrets are the times I didn’t take you dancing when you asked. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see your legs again Or if I even remember the left and the right apart. These days your legs that used to shine and awe and hold my sur reptitious kisses are cloaked, Kept from rapturing my soul by long sweatpants. I’m surprised your legs don’t burn straight through them. Why do you stay here, with me? Don’t you know you’ve got two legs so long they’d carry you far away— From cold rooms and IV bags and gritty applesauce and mortality? And what about your smile I owe every day to? Do your lips not deserve to crack in the splendor of sunlight on a truly great day? There are no great days here. You’ll find nothing here.

13 Annmarie Ferry

Unplanned

If things had gone as planned, I would have never spotted seals, bobbing up and down in the rough frigid water, diving and dancing, popping their heads up to say hello. I would have never stepped foot on gray smooth stones, unstable under my feet, but providing me a path all the same. I would have never discovered Scarback, the gray whale who makes Yaquina Bay her home, spouting and gliding through the water, showing off her scar, a picture of resilience. I would have never met the old man, thirsty to share his knowl edge of his brutally beautiful home, still as fascinated after hundreds of sightings as I was at my first, every line etched on this leathery skin a story, though I would not hear them all. He was there, then he was gone. Would I have seen sights as equally wonderous in the Gorge had it not been for fires and smoke? Perhaps. But, the whale, the seals, the stones, the old man.

14 Callie Brannon

Tell Me to Breathe

Do you know what it is like to feel alone amongst thousands of people? Who are all living their lives, So naturally, you are invisible to them.

Invisible to your loved ones. They don’t feel your pain. They have their own problems. You have yours.

Have you felt the feeling of helplessness? Common to the loner, cutter, and awkward middle school student, trying to claw out of misery that is “mean girls.” But it’s not only girls, it’s boys too. Boys who try to flirt and be sly, but all they really want is your picture to show to all their friends. The feeling of humiliation when they look at you as if you are naked.

The feeling of pain? The feeling of holding on to someone who is not good? Instead, they hurt you. The feeling of them choking, hitting, cutting and bruising,

Yet you tell me to breathe, to tell you my thoughts, feelings—past and right now. You. The consoler, shrink, “professional help.” Do you know what it is like to be told to… Breathe.

15 Callie Brannon

Nightmare

In a dark, dreary, gross cave, far in an unnamed forest. I lay on a moss-covered table, spilled with wine and blood. Shivering, yet numb.

Something is crawling on my rotting flesh making my bones itch, I feel left behind, slime from earth worms. The burning urge to move, but paralyzed, I cannot. Waiting for the scratchy dark ugly beast to move me once again.

It snarls at the boiling kettle on the wood fire, set on the moist mucked floor. I do not think I will ever touch the ground. The smells of vinegar, salt and malted mixes of meat Make my eyes burn like pepper spray, but I am too fearful to blink.

For what comes next, I do not know. Will the beast cut me open and feed on my organs? Will it skin me alive, inch-by-inch so I feel every crook? Will it throw me in the kettle watch my skin melt off my body and meat become pure? Only it knows, and I am too horrified to ask.

16 Brianna Ganzini

fuck your sorry nothing i did begged you to send me crude messages begged you to pressure me to have sex with you begged you to demand i send nude pictures • nothing absolutely fucking nothing makes “then i’ll just have to force you” an okay response • because of you, i was scared to walk around my neighborhood you are taller stronger faster because of you i was scared to go to school it was there that you told me you would pull me into the woods behind the school and fuck me • i am a victim but i did not ask for this but i did not deserve this but my clothes did not invite you to violate me • no longer will i stand by and let others experience this

17 and think they’re alone • it took me a long time to realize that what happened was a violation. it took me a long time not to blame myself sometimes that voice still whispers that i could have prevented this • the truth is, i’m not at fault you are you know who you are and you know exactly what you did now i’m talking i refuse to silence my voice • i am a victim. and NO means something. and i am standing up for myself and you are not innocent • so fuck your sorry cause we’re burning it down

18 Writing Through the Wars Documenting Military Messages Through Poetry

Sydney Van Dreason

One Day

One day I am going home on that bird. Back to the place where you try to fit in but you never do, where you try to forget, but you never do. Back to the place where they don’t understand what it’s like to wake up and wonder if this is the day you’re going to die. They’ll never understand. I’ll never forget. But at least I’ll be home. One day.

Based on quotes and stories by: Norm Jaeger, Al Manshum

19 It’s Just Training

Don’t ask questions. Just shut your mouth, and you won’t get in trouble. The two most basic rules, and yet the hardest to follow. Don’t mess up. If you mess up, you can get us all killed when it really matters.

Learn to throw the hand grenade the right way. It’s so easy, and yet, if you ever stand up, you may die.

November 11, 1960. 15 push-ups in the rain and mud all because I called a Sergeant “Sir.”

There are certain things they put you through. But they didn’t do it to hurt you.

At least, that’s what they thought.

I visit your memorial every day in my memory. You weren’t a close friend, but you were a friend nonetheless.

The war didn’t take your life. You did.

20 And it was all their fault.

The military was not your friend. It bullied you. It made you feel weak. It made you feel useless.

It drove you to that water tank in Texas. It compelled you to jump off. It caused you to take your life before you were even old enough to vote.

But I guess it’s not really their fault after all. You were suicidal. You were the one who asked for the teasing. You were the one who didn’t man up.

They didn’t do this to hurt you. They did it to better you. That’s just how training is.

Based on quotes and stories by: John Whittle, Larry Siegman, Norm Jaeger

21 Hear Me

I wish that more people would listen, would try to understand.

I remember when I first got my orders for Vietnam. I went to a bar that night.

My friends got lost in conversations. My drinks were my new friends.

I found a group of girls. I tried to tell them about my deployment. They didn’t listen.

They were in their own world, one that I wasn’t part of.

My friends were in another, slowly fazing me out.

I suppose they thought Vietnam would be my death. It probably would be.

When I die, will the world still go on without me?

Yes.

When I die, will anyone finally hear me?

Based on quotes and stories by: Norm Jaeger

22 Yes, I’m a Woman

“Wow, you’re brave. Especially being a girl, you know?” Yes, I’m a woman, but being a woman in the military doesn’t make me brave.

It makes me courageous.

I know lots of guys that talk a storm, but definitely don’t have the courage to do what any of us are doing.

Gender has nothing to do with bravery.

I train the same as you.

I fight the same as you.

I challenge myself the same as you.

I’m a soldier.

And, yes, I’m a woman.

Based on quotes and stories by: Female ROTC Student 1

23 You and Me

It feels like just yesterday that we all met for the first time.

I didn’t know that you’d become my best friend.

I didn’t know that we’d sit next to each other on the plane to Iraq.

I didn’t know that you would always have my back until you didn’t anymore.

They called us into a room today. They told us you were KIA. I already knew. I should have been you right now.

It doesn’t matter where you are. We are one team, You and Me.

Based on quotes and stories by: Female ROTC Student 2

24 Language, Love, and Circumlocutions

Alexander Sell

Day by Day

Evening: I embrace my honeyed mug; when Violently, the stinger ruptures my silent skin. Origins confound ends in my veins, sweet poison. Lovely-pain/bitter-Nectar: Ambrosia for demi- gods, apples for Adam.

25 Too West Makes an East

The lines of the Canyon run into the horizon. They could go on forever; yet, they stop At the juncture of sky and stone Where the Red fades to Brown And brown to the unknown. The lines of the Canyon run into the horizon. Leaving only a chasm between east and west, It yawns skyward: the mouth of God In an expanse of dust. The baked oxygen issues forth, Propagating from the maw of mineral, Glutting the Gorge. The lines of the Canyon run into the horizon. The emptiness saturates each crevice And fills the pores of the earth. The air pulses with potential, each path Beaten. But open. The lines of the Canyon run into the horizon, and Staring into the Gulf, he said, “there is nothing.” The gulf staring back sighed, “there, is everything.” And he descended.

26 Aporetic and Ineffable

Language is a torch, used in the dark. Periodically, it burns low, low, low. Touching the hand, panicked, and Clutching. It falls, down, down. Down, Casting its light in odd directions. Then there is but The feeling of yourself; and of Others. It is a darkness visceral. Language-less: without a word. To contain it.

27 Upon Return

I still remember the day That I came back to you With your sign and your white dress Damp from the hot day’s sun.

I closed the gap between us Collapsing in your arms Surprised to find that it was You in mine. Pressed to me.

I felt nothing but the joy And the shock of you. Stunned for words we floated ‘Till I find myself. Now.

Still in shock that it was you, There, for Me.

28 Thinking of Myself

Myself: I am centered around a Nucleus; my thoughts orbit, centrifugal in a cloud. Buzzing, like flies, never in one spot; never to be found, never where they ought: Always uncertain.

I am centered around a Nucleus; static only in the diagram, known only in theory. In reality, nothing is still; and this is makes everything work: Until it doesn’t.

I am centered around a nucleus; the model is dead. In stillness I fall apart. Without the substance of motion; myself is nothing more than a snapshot: Motion is the Idea.

Without thought; without motion; without focus – only desperate searching: I find myself only in the motion.

29 Savana Scarborough

Hank Williams’ Last Ride to Nashville

Ain’t no one left to sing the blues And all the belles cried when they heard the news That the old blues man done gone seen the light But ain’t no surprise to all the men tonight, Drink in hand they raise up the Beam Cause Hiram King took his last ride.

Wonder if he knew it was his last ride? How long had his skin turned blue, Wonder if that driver knew about that empty Beam Everyone at the Opry laughed at the news “That man ain’t dead, he just too drunk tonight” Tomorrow they’ll be hell to pay come light.

All the belles still cry, knowing he ain’t never saw the light Til it was time to take his last ride Up to the Opry in the sky, no more pain like he felt tonight. They gather round the fire and moan the blues Cause he’s all they speak of on the news And the men in the corner watch, drinking up that Beam.

No amount of last rides could ever stop me from my Beam, Cause up here it ain’t nothing but the light. Broke my heart to watch Audrey cry when they gave her the news My lady always told me it was coming soon, that last ride. But up here I don’t feel the need to sing the blues, So go to sleep Audrey, and I’ll make sure to keep you tonight.

Will my heart ever break again as it has broken tonight? Knew it was only a matter of time, codeine and Beam. So tonight, angels, hear my voice as I cry for you my blues.

30 Let me cry out “I saw the light” Hold my heart tightly and keep me safe on my ride, For everyday I’ll cry the same as the day I heard the news.

Now everyone gone and cried when they heard the news Ain’t nobody gonna come here to play the guitar tonight, But we all know we waiting for our own ride, So don’t worry bout them pills and that Beam One day we all gonna see the light, And pray that someone will sing for us our blues.

So Nashville raise your voices and sing your own blues And know that one day you are gonna see your own light, So until then kick off your boots and swill your Beam!

31 MR Erica Terese Krueger

Quiet in the Chaos

33 Savannah Jensen

Summer Rain

34 Savannah Jensen

Sunset #3

35 Savannah Jensen

Waiting for the Resurrection

36 Erica Terese Krueger

Grey Unicorns

Hi! My name is Insecure, but you can call me Considerate. I was born and raised in Florida. People say that we are rare breeds. I am a scientist by education and a free spirit by nature. I can tell you how ocean circulation works, but I can’t tell you why humans are trying to stop its flow. I like my coffee black and my tea sweet. Jesus is my homeboy, and He gave me a pretty voice. I am obsessive compulsive about my closet, but my bed is always messy. My best friend says I am a unicorn. I didn’t know unicorns come in shades of grey. My blood type is a mixture of ocean waves and whiskey on the rocks. I loved a man once. I broke his heart and haven’t been able to love since. I like to take naps in clawfoot tubs; the cold, hardness reminds me of my heart. I think too much about things that don’t require thoughts at all. I doubt my abilities, yet come out successful. I have an irrational fear of spiders, but a healthy love for snakes. I like to wear black. Black is

37 such a happy color. Some people tell me I’m like sunshine after a hurricane. Others say I am like sand as it turns to glass when a bolt of lightning strikes. Hi! My name is Erica, but you can call me E.

38 Leah Picciano

Troubled Thoughts of a Struggling Soul

Compassion stirs the mind and soul till they become one, overcoming the darkness of doubt and fear and insecurity mesmerizing us with the simplicity of action it entails pressuring us to open our hearts to the grief and suffering of another being as they suffer the injustices wrought by the human hand and heart cursed with cruelty. So come, from the light of hope, the ones with soft voices, kind hearts, and gentle hands soothing the pain of wounds seen and unseen and secure a bond of trust that had been broken in the darkness of cruelty that knows no shape or bounds. Only the simple kindness of untarnished love can affirm that there is reason to love again not creating a false hope with a false promise easily broken by the betrayal of the human heart.

If greed and anger rule the mind, then how can compassion rule the heart? Should we surrender, or fight for the fairness and beauty of life and this world?

Through the trials of life passion stirs the heart and mind to continue in the quest for the right path How can one know the right path from the wrong? How can one know where to turn? Ever do the feet stray from the path, but the cry of the soul leads us back to the heart of what stirs us so in the night.

So comes the time to choose: follow the heart of empathy or sink in the well of darkness? Only the soul can know where the kindness it seeks can be found,

39 until then only the mind can guide the hand to the right moment in time to show compassion buried. Long may the wait be, but frugal it is not.

Only at the end can one know the impact of their life, and be at peace with the beauty they have created. For they have shown those that come next the path to compassion, and how to follow it.

Lie still...be calm...the night is long, and in the troubled mind stirs the turmoil of indecision. In that you are not alone, for others stay awake deciding right from wrong in the quest for inner peace and purpose. Fear not the howls of the wolf, for their song stirs in the hearts of the ancients, and guides the peace of the heart. Ere not from the path, and you will find the road you journey on to be the one you seek.

40 2017 FGCU Writing Awards winner

Caylee Weintraub

Lake

e swim in circles in the water, our legs making small waves. We like the way the water is cool when it flows between our fingers because it makes us feel like we Whave webbed hands, the water filling our empty spaces like a thin skin. The lake is low this time of year. Our feet touch the sand and we muck up the water till it’s dark green. Our mother is standing at the window, watching us from inside the house. She always worries that we’ll drown. She wouldn’t be able to save us even if we did---she can’t swim. The last time we got her in the lake, she panicked in the deep end. We swam over and she grabbed onto us though we were not strong enough to hold her. We kicked hard trying to keep her head above water but she kept pulling us under, her nails digging into our necks. I wanted so badly to save her, but there was a moment when all three of us were sinking that I thought about letting her go. I thought about prying her arms off from around my neck and swimming as far from her as I could. But before I could do any of this, my brother had wrapped his arms around us and pulled us all to the shoreline. He’s always been the strong one. Our mother watches us now as we float on our backs through the shallow water. I meet my mother’s eyes, and I know she is thinking of my grandfather who is sick upstairs because her face gets pale, like a lake drying up. I wave to my mother but she doesn’t see me. I’m floating on my back, thinking of how small my grandfather looked in his bed last night, his eyes dark and glossy like two tapioca pearls. His skin was thin and wrinkled, soft like peeled grapes. He did not speak

41 or drink. My mother and my brother and I wetted his mouth with sponges all throughout the night, saliva slipping out of the corners of his lips. He looked around the room, pointing at the walls that had been repainted in different shades of blue. We kept thinking he was asking for more water, but he wasn’t. He’d forgotten the word blue. My brother and I race each other back and forth across the lake. Our mother is still at the window, rubbing her neck in the place where our grandfather had scratched her the time he thought she was trying to kill him. She’s ashamed of the scars but we like them because we think they look like gills. For a second, I think I see her smile just before we go underwater. My brother and I wait to see how long we can hold our breath, streams of bubbles floating up around us. Tilapia flee from our kicking feet, and I think of when our grandfather told us about the time that he and his war buddies had gotten so hungry they ate fish that were still alive. My brother and I didn’t believe him when he told us but he promised that it was true. He’d looked at the globe sitting on his desk and searched for the river the fish had been in. He couldn’t find where it was, so he drew it in himself with a blue marker and we were proud to have a grandpa who could make us rivers. Later that same night, he’d waded knee deep into the lake in nothing but his underwear. I could see the marks on his bare back from where his father used to beat him. The scars were long and thin. Above, the moon stuck out like a knuckle. Grandpa shivered when I took his hand and started to lead him back to the house. He was shaking though it was warm out. But then, he was cold all the time. When we finally step out of the water, shivering, and dry our faces with old towels, we find our mother asleep in the chair beside our grandfather. She is white and pale, her hair loose all around her, as she kicks her legs and thrashes her arms as she dreams. We don’t need to hear her garbled speech to know she is dreaming about drowning, to know she’s been underwater for some time now

42 Elizabeth Feins

To Die Will Be an Awfully Big Adventure

omehow, Tina Bellestri walked out of the funeral with a date. The tall, strikingly handsome man from the back pew held the door for her as they ducked out of the church together. SThe sun shone down with all the welcome warmth of a long over- due spring; Tina shimmied out of her black cardigan and stuffed it unceremoniously into the purse hanging from her shoulder. “So.” She took the skirt of her lime green sundress in her fist and held it in place at her thigh as a playful breeze swooped between her legs. “How did you know Peter?” The man—James Hookes, he’d said his name was—fingered a long scar that encircled his right arm just below the elbow. “Met him ten years ago, when I was in college.” “Right. You said that inside.” They approached the intersection of Lagoon Avenue and Tigerlily Boulevard. Tina pressed the crosswalk button. The light didn’t change. “But what about the details?” James shrugged. “We were never close, if that’s what you’re a s k i n g .” “You were close enough to come to his funeral.” The light still hadn’t changed. With a frown, Tina pressed the crosswalk button again. James hesitated. “You know those things don’t work, don’t you?” “I’ve heard rumors.” Tina smacked the button twice more with her palm. The Walk sign lit up. With a triumphant glance over her shoulder at James, she stepped into the street. “Hold it!” James’s hand wrapped around her shoulder and yanked her backward just as a taxi screeched through the intersection. Tina swore. “Drivers in this town.” She shook her head and took a slightly more cautious step into the crosswalk. James let go of her arm and fell into step beside her.

43 “So where’s this famous coffee shop you’re taking me to?” he asked when they reached the other side of Lagoon Avenue un- scathed. “And how come I’ve never heard of it?” “It’s called the Hangman’s Tree,” Tina said. “Terrible name.” “Fantastic coffee.” Tina pointed to a small shop a few blocks down the road. “It’s a little hole in the wall down on Treasure Street—second bar to the right. They have open mic nights on Tuesdays and Saturdays.” She paused. “It’s where I met Peter.” “Right. Peter.” They came to another crosswalk. Red light. Tina adjusted the strap of her purse. “You still haven’t told me how you knew him.” “He nearly killed me, if you want to know the truth.” “Killed you?” “Killed me, yes.” There was a moment of silence between them. “You can’t just leave it there,” she said. The crosswalk light blinked, and with a careful glance in both directions, James started across the street. In spite of their six-inch height difference, Tina kept up without jogging. “I’ll tell you all about it once I’ve bought you a coffee,” he said with a wink. “And once you tell me how you knew Peter.” “Oh.” Tina blew her blonde bangs off her forehead. The Hang- man’s Tree was within sight. “I was his fiancée.”

rrr

“His fiancée.” They were hunched over a shaky table in the corner of the Hangman’s Tree. Tina used her straw to stir gently at her drink— an Irish Coffee with two extra sugar cubes, just the way she liked it—and nodded. “Ex-fiancée, actually.” James took a sip of his Dead Eye and leaned back in his rickety chair. The Hangman’s Tree was stuffed in the basement of a record shop. Its bar and counters were lit almost exclusively by strings

44 of soft yellow lights, but each table had a pale candle with a little white flame that cast leaping shadows across the walls. It was dirty, cheap, and empty on Friday afternoons like this one, although Sat- urday nights found it crammed with college students. “So let me get this straight,” James said. “You left your fiancé’s funeral early to go out for coffee with a stranger.” “Ex-fiancé.” Pushing her straw aside, Tina took a long swig of her Irish Coffee. “And you can’t blame me for leaving early. Half an hour of mourning is just about all a girl can be expected to give without any alcohol in her system.” James let out a low whistle. “I take it the relationship was rocky.” “You could say that.” “Are you going to say it?” Tina shrugged. An uncomfortable first-date awkwardness hung in the air of their silence. “What about you? How did Peter almost kill you?” James’s hand tightened around his mug. “Look, you obvious- ly knew the man better than I did. I don’t have very many good things to say about him. I didn’t realize you were his fiancée when I asked if you wanted to get out of there with me and—” “Just tell me.” James sighed. “Drunk driving accident.” “Yes,” she said quietly. “I remember a few of those.” “He was going the wrong way—down Tigerlily, actually. Down this very street. It was late. Maybe two, three in the morning. On a Tuesday. I’ll never forget it.” James had a faraway look on his face. “I was driving back to campus after work—I had a part-time job bussing tables at the Croc Spot down by the pier—and I remember being worried about the time, because there was a storm coming the next morning. Hurricane Barrie.” The name rang in Tina’s ears like the heavy toll of a bell. She knew that name. “All the weathermen were predicting heavy damage, so everyone had stayed late at the restaurant to shut everything down. I had never seen a hurricane before, so I was nervous about making

45 it back to campus. It was supposed to make landfall before sunrise, and I knew I was cutting it close. So I just kept—I kept looking at the clock on the dashboard, as if I could slow down time by counting the seconds. Tick, tock. One, two.” He looked up. “I used to think like that a lot.” Goosebumps spiraled down Tina’s neck. “What happened next?” “I was staring at the clock, counting the seconds, trying to do the math in my head. If I could get back to the dorm in half an hour, I might be able to beat the rain, but I’d have to step on it. So when the light turned green, I hit the gas.” He shook his head. “Didn’t even see the other car coming until it hit me. Didn’t even know I’d been hit, actually, until I woke up three days later in the hospital with a skull fracture and twelve screws in my wrist.” Tina swore. James prodded at the scar around his elbow—she noticed for the first time how precise it was, how perfectly straight, as if it had been carved with a surgeon’s scalpel. “Found out later that the guy driving the car was drunk out of his mind.” He exhaled heavily. “I suppose the best revenge is knowing I’ve outlived him. Son of a—” “I was in that car.” James went quiet. Tina touched her chin, fingering the thin, startlingly white scar that marred the skin along her jaw. “A Tuesday night, you said? During Hurricane Barrie?” He nodded. “Open mic night.” She gestured toward the unlit stage at the front of the Hangman’s Tree. “Peter always played.” She touched her chin again. “I broke my jaw on the dashboard when we hit y ou .” He looked at the table. “I’m sorry.” “Peter was fine. Untouchable, as always.” He looked up. “Until he overdosed.” Something in Tina’s throat clenched. “Until that.” The silence between them grew uncomfortably large before

46 James spoke again. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.” She threw back the last of her Irish Coffee. “Maybe.” “It’s not like he’s around to be offended, though.” An inexplicable urge to defend him swirled in the pit of her stomach. “He made bad choices. He wasn’t a bad man.” “Isn’t it the same thing?” “Of course it isn’t.” She didn’t know if she believed herself. James leaned back in his chair, and whatever spell the two of them had cast with their memories was broken. “You knew him better than I did, I suppose.” “We were brand new back then, Peter and I. Two kids against the world.” She rolled her eyes. “Stupid. Romantic.” “I can’t believe you were going to marry someone who almost killed you driving drunk in a hurricane.” Tina fought back a smile. “Like I said. Stupid. Romantic.” She drew a ring around the rim of her empty cup with her finger. “Buy me another?”

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They were on the doorstep of her one-bedroom on Shadow Street before she was ready for it to be over. The sun dipped out of sight while he looked at her, a cold intensity in his hard brown eyes. Tina had pulled out her cardigan again on the walk home from the Hangman’s Tree, but a chilling wind found her through the thin fabric, and in spite of the whisky in her bloodstream, she shivered. “Do you want to come in?” He nodded, and she unlocked the door to her apartment with a dirty metallic key. “It’s a mess,” she said, stepping over the thresh- old and kicking off her heels. “Sorry about that.” James stooped awkwardly to clear the low ceiling in the foyer, and then straightened up as he came out into her kitchen. “Don’t you think you should go back to the funeral?” he asked. “People might—” “Don’t say his name.”

47 “I said ‘people.’ I didn’t say ‘Peter.’” “Oh.” Tina felt her face stretch into a grin. “Whoops.” James smirked. “Still think three Irish Coffees wasn’t too much alcohol?” “When you’ve been through as much as I have, James Hookes, you learn that there is no such thing as too much alcohol.” Being barefoot made her feel almost naughtily undressed. She reached up to pull her hair down from its messy bun. James leaned an elbow against her kitchen counter and braced his cheek against it. “Your fiancé would be rolling in his grave if he saw you like this with another man.” “Good thing he’s not my fiancé anymore.” Tina all but twirled into the living room and let herself fall into the sofa. “Biggest favor he ever did was running off to marry that bitch.” James followed her to the couch and sat beside her. “I didn’t realize there was another woman.” “Oh, yes.” The edges of her vision were blurry, and if she squinted just right, she could almost pretend she was still eighteen, she could turn back the clock ten whole years and undo all of the mis- takes. . . . “She was the president of his fan club. Wendy Rogers. Wendy Pannier, now.” James watched her for a moment. “I think you owe me the rest of your Peter Pannier story.” Tina heaved a sigh that ruffled her bangs. “What’s there to tell? He was a struggling artist. I was eighteen and rebellious. The story writes itself.” She giggled. “He had a tattoo of a mermaid on his bicep. I was fucking smitten.” James didn’t laugh. “Go on.” She thought for a moment. “He wanted to be famous,” she said. “He was always saying that. ‘I’m going to be a star, Tina.’ He would write these songs—you’ve never heard anything like those songs. There was this one, about my eyes, and how they—” She cut herself off quickly. “It doesn’t matter what it was about. I just remember thinking that if anyone could make it, it was him. He believed in himself so much. He got some kind of thrill from the

48 applause.” The sigh that escaped her lips was almost wistful. “He chased thrills like he couldn’t live without them. I liked that about him. I thought I wanted thrills, too.” “But you didn’t?” “Maybe. I don’t remember anymore.” She leaned her head back against the couch cushions. “He got a kick out of lying, though. I do remember that. He could sweet-talk his way out of anything— anything—all he had to do was look at you with those eyes. Best liar I ever knew.” She shook her head. “I let him get away with everything. I thought we were going to be young forever.” “You’re still young, Tina.” “Twenty-eight.” She lifted her head and looked at James. “Twenty-nine next month. He’ll never get older than thirty.” She had forgotten to turn on the lights when they’d entered the apartment, but she could still make out James’s face in the post-sunset dimness filtering in through the window. His expression was un- readable—concern mixed with pity mixed with an intent kind of understanding, and she didn’t know what to make of it, so she looked away. “It’s strange that something that happened so long ago can still feel new, isn’t it?” she asked. “I met him at eighteen. Moved in with him at nineteen. Engaged by twenty. Caught him home alone with Wendy Rogers when I was twenty-two. I forgave him seven times—seven, can you believe it?—before I realized he didn’t want to be forgiven anymore. He married her a month l at e r.” James took her hand. “I’m sorry.” She shrugged. His calloused palm was warm against her own. “It was a long time ago. Time heals all wounds, right?” “That’s what they tell me.” The scar on his arm looked smooth and sleek, and when Tina reached out to brush her fingertips across it, her lower lip trembled. “He scared me sometimes,” she said. “He really did. I was never sure who I was going to come home to. Sometimes he was Peter, and sometimes he was—I don’t know. Sometimes he was different.

49 I don’t know whether it was the pills, or what. I don’t think he was happy unless he was high. I don’t think I made him happy.” James traced a hand up to the white line beneath her jaw, and the sensation of him touching her scar while she touched his was somehow intensely intimate and private. “He overdosed two other times before he d-died. And—” Tina cut herself off. “I just met you. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” “Tell me.” She swallowed. “I never found out if it was an accident.”

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James left without kissing her—he respected her too much to take advantage of her, he said, and he would call her in the morning to see if she was feeling better, and maybe they could have coffee again next weekend. He was a good liar, but not as good as Peter, and Tina knew they wouldn’t see each other again. Neither of them needed the memories. When she was decidedly less tipsy, she walked out to the side- walk on Shadow Street and gazed out over the pavement. Still barefoot, she stepped off the curb and planted the soles of her feet against the asphalt without pressing the crosswalk button. A taxi flew by. She closed her eyes tightly and wondered if Peter Pannier was watching from the sky, or whether he had stopped caring about her a long time ago.

50 Brianna Ganzini

Nothing More

he ran her hands along the dusty wood mantle hanging over the fireplace, leaving fingerprints behind. It was abandoned, and if she didn’t know better, she would have believed that it Shad always been that way. Everything was gone; the couch she grew up on, the television she spent hours in front of. All gone. If she looked close enough, she could see the marks on the hardwood floors where the couch had been. She could see a faint outline of the television stand. Of course, if she tried hard enough, she could pretend that nothing was wrong, that it was just another day. She could imagine her brothers running through the house, and her sisters arguing over clothes in the closet they shared. Her parents were in the kitchen; her mom cooking dinner, while her dad prepared his next sermon for Sunday. And then there was her. She could see it clearly. Curled up in a chair in the corner, book in hand, intently focused on the words surrounding her. It was always easy to tune out the world around her. Growing up in family with two sets of twins yet not being a twin herself meant that there was always chaos that didn’t involve her. There wasn’t much to remember though when she spent the majority of her life tuning it all out. With a dry sob, she jerked herself out of the past and continued to walk slowly through the house. She skirted around the kitchen, not ready to face the demons that lurked there. The back of the house was no better. She counted off the five doors, oldest to youngest. Her sisters’ rooms were to her left, with their bathroom between. The exact same layout was opposite, for her brothers’. And her room lay in the middle, the door firmly shut, even as the others rested open. With her hand on the knob and eyes closed, there was nothing

51 preventing her from remembering the last time that she stood in the exact position. The words reverberated in her head, growing louder with each second that she ignored them. With a jolt, she forced the door open, the shouting in her head dissipating. Everything was the same. Her bed was messy, un- made, and her laundry hamper was full of clothes she never got around to washing. The only difference was the stack of boxes in the corner and the fact that her jewelry box was gone, along with anything that had any value. Her blood chilled as she gazed upon the boxes. Everything that was hers was in them, this she knew too well, as her writing was on the side of them. That didn’t stop her from cracking the lid on the first one. On the very top rested her birth certificate and social security card. Underneath were cards, letters, and papers from her childhood. Her first Bible was there, buried at the bottom. The other two boxes held much of the same. Every paper she wrote for school, every canvas she painted, everything was contained in those few boxes. Packed and put away, as if she was nothing. As if she never even existed. As far as her parents, and their neighbors in whatever city they now resided, were concerned, they had two sets of twins, two girls and two boys, four kids. Nothing more.

52 Kristen Petry

Rosalie’s Letter

andall stood there on my doorstep, holding the envelope, and sweating in the summer heat. Adolescent fuzz prick- led his jaw. My boys played nearby, spraying each other Rwith the hose and throwing each other down the Slip n’ Slide. The grass was flooded and squashed. He cocked his head and grinned. “Guess I’m not gonna hafta mow for a while.” “Guess not.” Rosalie, his mother, had written me a letter, and he handed it over. I slid my index finger under the tight seal and pulled out a single piece of plain stationary.

Dear Janice, I’m dying. Please call my sister, Alice, up near the lake (number below) and ask her to come right away. My husband is out of town, working, and I have no one to help me. Very Truly Yours, Rosalie

I looked up, unsettled. Randall waited for my response, eyes warm and uncertain. I wondered how much he knew. I waved him onto the screened porch, door slamming behind him on the salt- squeaky hinges. I made him a sandwich and left him to eat, while I called Alice. She answered after two rings. My heart skittered. I apologized for the shock. She didn’t cry, or ask a lot of questions, or tell me she’d have to call me back. Instead she snorted derisively before she hung up. “Rosalie’s fine! I was at their house yesterday and I live four hours away. I can’t come back now.” Alice hung up and Randall said, “I’m going … thanks for lunch.” “Wait! How’s your mother today?”

53 “She doesn’t feel good, but I guess she’s okay.” “I think I should go home with you to check on her.” “No! We’re not allowed to have anybody in the house.” “Why not?” “Dad says.” “He’s not there, right?” “Please. No. We’re not allowed.” Randall looked terrified. This is the part that still makes me feel guilty. I didn’t argue with him. The situation gave me the willies and instead of insisting, I sent him home with dinner packed in a paper grocery bag. If Alice didn’t call back in a few days, I swore I’d call her again. When my husband, Allen, came home from work, I showed him the letter. Regret nagged me. I should have gone to Randall’s house to make sure everything was alright, no matter what he said. Allen disagreed. It’s best to leave some things alone. He rubbed my back and stroked my hair, soft lips brushing my forehead, while he reassured me, and I tried to believe him. The boys came into the kitchen, hand-washed for dinner and arguing loudly. One of them grabbed the paper plates and napkins, the other the drawn butter and a bowl of lemon wedges. I dropped a pile of steamers into a pot of boiling water and stood there until they opened, finally fishing them out, with their broth, into a huge bowl of corn on the cob. Outside on the porch, day slowly turned into night on the smell of cut grass. Wisteria hung on its lattice. We said Grace and began to eat. The boys stopped fussing. The food was too good for distractions. After we finished, they got their baths, and too hot upstairs, I decided we should sleep on the porch. A llen and the boys drifted off right away, amid the night sounds of toads and filtered breeze. They snuffled in turns, but my mind wouldn’t turn off. Fireflies blinked beyond mesh. I would go to Randall’s house and check on them in the morning, no matter what. Breathing slowly, I finally willed myself to sleep. A siren blasted at the fire house a few blocks away. Allen, a

54 volunteer, quick to sleep and quick to wake, got up, and left. One of the trucks barreled, full throttle, down our street. I got up and pulled on my bathrobe. Incredibly, neither of the boys stirred. I opened the creaky porch door, and stepped outside, bare- footed and thinking only of Randall. Crossing the bottom of the yard, I walked onto the street. The fire truck stood in front of his house, engine loud and lights flashing. I passed it, climbed the stone steps leading to its wide open front door, and rushed inside, into the faint smell of dusty carpeting, toward Randall and six of his siblings. Allen didn’t notice me, until Randall raised his head in greet- ing, silently pointing me toward the old-fashioned kitchen, where another door stood open. Allen called out for me to stop, but I ignored him. My gut led me down the wood steps into the cellar. It was cold, cut out of ancient New Jersey bedrock, illuminated by bare bulb, yet laid over, still, by another kind of palpable darkness. A washing machine and sink stood against the far wall under a high window and near them, Rosalie slept on an army cot in a white cotton night gown, edged with hand-made lace. Her entire lower half was soaked in fresh blood. A gigantic, half empty, package of sanitary napkins stood nearby, with another, unopened, held in reserve. I placed the inside of my wrist against her forehead, the way I do when one of my kids has a fever, but she was cold; cold in a way I knew was wrong. I began screaming and kept screaming, horrified, while I cupped her face in my hands, hoping she’d open her eyes, until Allen came down with two of the other fire fighters and led me away. The paramedics from the hospital twenty miles away finally -ar rived. They pounded down the basement steps with a gurney. A group of our neighbors collected in the street, watching and whis- pering and lifting their chins at me when I came out. My feet were filthy, and I still wore my bath robe, arms wrapped hard around my waist.

55 The breeze had shifted, cooler with the edge of a storm behind it. Back home, I collected our sons from the porch and put them to bed in their room. After a hot shower, I put on flannel pajamas and got into bed, falling into the kind of black sleep that saves us when we can’t cope. Allen called my mother and she arrived the next morning. I gave her Rosalie’s letter and she mailed a copy to the police the next morning. Three days later, Allen and I went to Rosalie’s funeral in the big Catholic church, on the bluff, overlooking the lobster boats. It was built of light brown stone and had a vaulted roof. There were castle-like turrets on each side, and a long, sweeping stair lead up to it. Inside, the sanctuary was dark and redolent of incense, with candles in sconces, below the stained-glass windows. A life-size crucifix hung over the alter, the pews shined darkly, and the vel- vet kneelers were used clean of nap. The eulogy was delivered by Rosalie’s oldest son, home from Vietnam, and wearing his Marine dress blues. A woman played hymns on the organ, and an elderly priest read from the bible. We sat in a middle row, with the family up front. Afterwards, they formed a receiving line and we waited to console them, one after the other. Alice was there, next to Randall’s father, looking like a much younger version of Rosalie, hazel-eyed and dark blonde, wearing a conservative navy dress and pearls. Her little girls stood next to her, one on each side. I told her it was nice to put a face to her voice. “We’ve spoken?” she asked. “Of course. The day before … anyway, it’s so overwhelming! I can understand how you’ve forgotten.” Alice smiled slightly, but with a hard edge. I wanted to know why she lied. “Your daughters are beautiful. Your husband must be so proud. Is he here?” “My husband died overseas.” She said it firmly, meaning she was a war widow and the subject

56 was sacrosanct and off limits. “I’m sorry,” I told her, nudging Allen out of my way, and hur- rying out of the church. I crossed the grass, to a rose garden surrounding a statue of the Virgen Mary, and threw up. The old ladies chuckled and raised their eyebrows. I’d later realize I was pregnant with our daughter, but that’s not why I was sick. We went home after that, and summer turned into fall. I kept pestering the police department about Rosalie’s letter. Finally, I went down there and waited until a detective agreed to talk to me. “She had female problems,” he said, settling back in the chair behind his desk, face coloring red. “That’s what killed her.” “But wasn’t her husband obligated to help her? And don’t you think it’s odd that he married Alice only two weeks after Rosalie died, and she moved right in? They’re spending a lot of money to fix the house up and Rosalie never even had a phone!” “It takes all kinds, Janice, believe me, I’ve met them. We’ll check into it, but I guarantee we’re not gonna find anything.” That was a long time ago, so long, it almost doesn’t seem real. Allen has died, and I’m selling our house. It’s summer again, late June and the same Wisteria vine covers the screened porch. Ran- dall stands on my doorstep, but this time as a middle-aged man, good-looking and self-assured. He hands me a big take-out bag fragrant with garlic and vinegar. “Subs?” “Sandwiches,” he smiles, “like you used to make, but I don’t cook.” I laugh. “Sandwiches aren’t cooking.” He grins, following me inside, to the same table on the porch, covered with a new cloth, the last in a long series. “I’m sorry about Allen. I saw the obituary. He was a good person. A good father. He used to play catch with us, or pitch so we could bat.” My eyes fill, but the memory makes me smile. “We were married for a long time.”

57 “I came to say thank you, before you move.” “For what?” “For trying. Dad left us for Alice, long before they locked Mom in the basement to bleed to death. We weren’t allowed to let her out. He was embarrassed about her weight and said she was crazy. Maybe they didn’t shoot her, or poison her, but they murdered her just the same. They were terrible people. Her daughters aren’t my cousins, they’re my half-sisters.” “I was never sure.” “You made the cops give him a hard time, and even if you hadn’t, I saw you get sick in the church yard. I knew you under- stood and I wasn’t alone.” “I’m sorry I didn’t go back with you that afternoon; after you gave me the letter. I’ve always felt her death was partly my fault. You came to me for help and I let you down.” Randall’s eyes shot open and he covered my hands with his. “No, you didn’t! She was probably already dead when I got here that morning. I found the letter on the kitchen floor. She slipped it under the door. I don’t even know how she got up the stairs, she was so sick by then.” We said nothing for a moment and then Randall continued. “Don’t be sorry. You cared and I’m grateful.”

58 Kristen Petry

The Coyote’s Apprentice

he government van left the detention center in Miami that morning, at the first sign of daylight. In two days, it would arrive at the Mexican border crossing. Mimi sat in Tthe back, with six other women, all of them deportees. There were two guards. The nice one drove while the redneck one leered over his shoulder. She exhaled slowly when she saw the old gas station. The building was white-painted clapboard, with a “Bubba’s Gas N’ Go” sign out front. They parked under it and the guards began arguing about who would take their bathroom break first. Neither man backed down, so they broke protocol and left their passengers alone in the van, handcuffed to bolted-down side bars. Mimi was a slight woman with delicate features. She squeezed her left hand and pulled it out of the first cuff easily. The woman next to her inhaled sharply. Mimi ignored her, wedging the second cuff down in angles, like a stuck ring, until it popped off, with a metallic sound. Some of the women whispered encouragement and some quietly prayed. Mimi opened the back door and bolted out into the summer heat. There was a massive live oak behind the building, before the woods, and it had a hollow opening at the base of the trunk. She crouched, pushing her head and shoulders in, and shimmied up- ward, until she was completely lodged inside, curled in a fetal position. She squeezed her eyes shut, leaking tears and praying they wouldn’t find her. The guards came out of the building, saw the van’s open door, and ran to it, swearing. A quick head-count told them Mimi was missing, but they knew she couldn’t have gone far. They called for back-up and began to search. Distant sirens got closer and stopped in front of Bubba’s. Mimi held her breath. Footsteps crunched up to the tree. The nice guard spoke, so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

59 “We’re leaving, but the guys from the main office are here now. They’ll stay for hours. Don’t move until Tia comes for you.” Mimi didn’t risk answering. A news crew showed up. Camera angles were discussed. The reporter started her news report saying, “A deportee named Mimi Hernandez escaped from guards during a rest stop at Bubba’s Gas N’ Go, today, just before noon. She’s twenty years old and came to the U.S., from Mexico as an infant. ICE agents are searching the area surrounding Bubba’s. We’ll update you when we get more information about this breaking story.” She signed off then, and the cameraman made a joke as they went back to the car. Eventually, frog song signaled the arrival of night. The last of the ICE investigators finished whatever they were doing and left. Bubba’s descended into ordinary silence. Mimi was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. She allowed herself to shift, and then she heard Tia calling. “Mimi? … Hija?” Mimi pushed her way out of the hollow, blood tingling. Her legs wouldn’t hold her. “Esta bien … I got you,” said Tia lowering her to the ground, “My truck is over there.” She’d gotten the job at Bubba’s months ago, when she found the Oak tree, completely by chance. Mimi’s escape plan fell into place afterwards, almost too easily. She grinned in the dark, just thinking about it. Mimi sat there until she could stand, while Tia kept watch. They dashed to the truck and got in. Mimi sat out of sight on the floor. Tia drove out of the parking lot. A couple of miles later, Mimi eased up onto the seat and buckled herself in. The click was loud in the silence. Tia handed her a bottle of water and she took a long drink. “I’ll have you back to your parents by morning.” “They’re not my fucking parents!” “Don’t talk like that! If you disrespect them again, I swear to God, I’ll drop you off now! They raised you; they’re your parents.

60 I only gave birth to you.” “It’ll make it worse for them if I go back.” Tia swallowed. She wasn’t an easy crier, but it suddenly welled up inside her. She’d been furious with love and worry since Mimi’s arrest and now she was terrified. They were so much alike, tiny and smart, but also strong and rebellious. “I have friends here. I’ll find a place for you to stay until the laws change again. You’ll start over.” “You want me to live with strangers?” “I’m a coyote. My life is dangerous. I can’t take you with me. That was never part of the plan.” Mimi’s eyes filled. She thought of her mom, Reyna, Tia’s sister. She missed her so much, it actually hurt. “I hate you. What kind of mother gives her kid away!” “The kind that got all of you over the border. I had nothing after your father got killed by the drug runners. You think it was easy letting somebody else, even Reyna, raise you?” “You’re such a bitch! Why should I believe you?” Tia swerved off the road next to a cattle field. The gravel on the shoulder crunched under the tires and the air hinted green earth. “Get out!” Mimi’s insides broke. She began to sob. “Take me with you.” Tia pulled Mimi into her arms and kissed her hair. It smelled of cheap detention center shampoo. The good life they wanted for Mimi, hoped and sacrificed for, was gone. “You’re right,” Mimi answered her thoughts. “What?” “It’s all gone.” Tia suddenly realized that wasn’t true. She felt relieved and it startled her. “No,” she shook her head adamantly. “No. It’s not gone. You’re here, and you turned out exactly right.” Tia let go of Mimi then, but only to shift the truck into gear and get back on the road.

61 Ryan Kraczon

Ungodly Stars

ill and Nate never felt safe, not for a second except when in each other’s presence. But this was a tender, emotional comfort, not of a life-sustaining kind, and it would not legitimately Jprotect or save them from the little, crime-ridden, Italian village they lived in and had grown up in, or from the mobs of angry, rotten-toothed men in white toga-like garb, which always were soiled with the aftereffects of their gluttony – fatty meats, fruit, wine – who ruled it with an iron fist. It would not protect them when these men claimed hard-earned harvests as their own or ransacked their shack-like homes or beat them purely for amuse- ment, as happened to Nate while he was tending to the wheat fields. They had walked by, drunk, slurring and incoherent, complaining about the heat and how his crop had been interfering with the breeze that would otherwise be cooling them, and then knocked him down and kicked him until things went black. “That’s what you get.” said one of them, as the darkness approached, as he felt a loud ringing in his ears and saw stars and lines and geometric shapes instead of the surroundings of his own home. “And not for any reason other than because I say so. Expect it again.” No, this comfort that Jill and Nate had – one another, it would not save them from what would happen to them if they did not leave. Things had changed, or so they heard, about eighty years ago – the dynamics of all the earth had. But they only knew about the present, about their own lives, which were so hard that they often felt like they had been placed amongst the worst of mankind for a reason, that perhaps the village was a kind of purgatory to the real-world, a world they had yet to experience, where good and ordinary people had been consigned to a difficult life where they had to make do with almost clichés of moral ineptitude, as a kind of cosmic test. Jill and Nate did not deserve this life. Jill and Nate, who had

62 batted eyelashes furtively at one another for years, since before they were teenagers, before Jill’s parents had died of dysentery. Back when Nate worked odd jobs for anybody in exchange for lodging though still often was forced to sleep beneath the stars while wrapped in dirty, rotten blankets, being that his parents were dead and he had not any place to truly call home. Jill and Nate who both looked so alike – emerald green eyes; olive-suntanned skin; wavy brown hair, grimy and dirty, much longer on Jill – that some people thought they were brother and sister. Who were so dissimilar in personality – Jill, loose and carefree, always with her eyes opened to the world looking for beauty in everything; Nate also with his eyes open but only because he always kept vigilant to life’s dangers – that they may never have married, as they recently had, if they’d been given different, more ordinary lives. No, they did not deserve to live in this hell forever, nor did their unborn children deserve to glimpse it, or even know that it did exist. So, despite the ever-prevalent threat by those in charge that to leave the village is to abandon the village and therefore is punish- able by death, they agreed to exchange every belonging they had owned, including that entire harvest, to a local fisherman for a ride to somewhere else, to anywhere else. Three weeks later, now on the back of a boat, riding the current south, they held one another and breathed in only one another – strawberries on her lips and now his; nervous sweat; the after- smell of the wet soil they had just washed off from when they almost were caught, forced to hide in a rain-soaked field from their almost-executioners; saltwater. They were so enveloped only in one another and what their new life would be like, that they were oblivious to the noxious fish guts smeared on the wooden deck around them, and the fishermen who was gazing lasciviously at their embrace from inside his cabin, hardly paying attention to the waters in front of them. It seemed that now, without a boulder weighing them down, they could perceive things they never had before; they could concentrate on what they chose to instead of what they had been forced to in order to survive.

63 “Has this freckle always been there?” asked Nate, pulling Jill’s shirt up a little, exposing her stomach to the warmth of the sun. Tracing the underside of his fingernail around her belly-button, he knew that when they arrived at this new land, their new home, they finally would conceive a child – which they had been struggling with since they began trying about a year before marrying. There just was something about where they were leaving from – that village, still faintly perceptible in the distance if they squinted, next to the ocean, a dot amidst the shining sun, an ink blot on the colorful painting that was their past. Yes, there just was something about that place that did not want life to be, that prevented it from being. “Oh, that’s snail, just some snail.” said Jill, inspecting the dot. “I ate some snails earlier.” She scratched the remnant of the snail away and flicked it onto his cheek. Narrowing his eyes in mock contempt, he stretched his tongue out and tried to remove it without using either hand. Then: “On second thought, I think I’d like it back.” She pressed her hands to his chest, shoving him back against the deck while opening her mouth so that it resembled a guppy’s, wanting the snail back. But then the ship swayed back and forth, sending her clunking onto the wooden deck beside him with a sharp pain in her left elbow, which she had landed on. Water splashed to their left, barely missing them, though still wetting them a little. Birds fluttered, cawed, and flew away. A dark storm cloud had suddenly approached and was hov- ering over them. Everything became dark. Thunder seemed to shake the boat and they felt its reverberations in their bones. Sev- eral nearby bolts of lightning brightened the now-black sky, and for a few seconds it was like they were under a strobe light. They instantly knew what was happening. They were being assessed by the Gods, were being judged. It was being decided if they could proceed forward on their journey, or if they would be punished for leaving their village and would die though together at sea. Jill, half-expecting a giant’s hand to rise from the water, clench

64 a fist, and pound the boat to splinters, leaned towards Nate’s face with fear in her eyes, and then quickly, like a frog would when catching a fly, licked the snail from his cheek. She did this as furtively as possible, hoping the Gods would not see her. Having done so on instinct, she did not know why. The look she gave Nate laid apparent this confusion – wide-eyed, shrugging, splaying both hands out in front of her, shaking her head quickly. On some level she had wanted only to spend her last moment alive doing what she would have been doing otherwise, and did not mind upsetting the Gods if it meant that she could be free. Nate, his mouth agape at her disregard for the levity of the situation, enclosed her hand within his and began mumbling a prayer. And then, just as suddenly as the black cloud had arrived, it left also. Now it was venturing inland, towards their village, looking oddly beautiful. It looked like something out of a cartoon, when a single cloud moves of its own volition and affects only some im- plausibly small radius: disparate with the rest of the blue sky and in control of a little block of the sea entirely, a line of demarca- tion between it and the calm was clearly visible. This cloud is what their lives were: a section of chaos amidst the unknown. The sun was setting in the distance now, in the other direction – golden-orange, mirrored on the water – but it was the fast approaching sunrise of their new life they were concentrated on, and despite what would happen to them in this new land, they never would regret leaving. They never would regret becoming free, even if it only was for a while.

rrr

“I love to jump, and dance, and sing,” said Jill, swaying rhythmi- cally, almost dancing, as she and Nate walked through the grassy countryside, motley trees and flowers to their left and right: reds and purples and oranges amidst the green. “but have never even known it until now.”

65 “I’m glad you got to know yourself, then.” said Nate. Their eyes had been opened; they could now see. Worlds of possibilities now were available to them in this new world: cafes and shops and bathhouses and taverns, where people drank and laughed instead of drank and screamed. There were things they had heard about but couldn’t accurately fathom until seeing first- hand. A nearby volcano, grander even than the sea, reached to the heavens. Vivid, colorful frescoes mesmerized Jill, and often visited her in her dreams. A stadium able to seat twenty-thousand held the finest concerts and she, now working as an assistant for a man who painted walls at the stadium, met some of these performers and conversed with them about their crafts. But while she had been given, by those leaders who delegate jobs, something that brought her joy and satisfaction, Nate had been forced to work long hours picking wild food and roots on the outskirts of town, which he was doing now. Jill had tagged along. “And I want you to dance and sing with me.” Turning back towards him, now face-to-face, Jill grabbed ahold of him, clasped one of his hands, and thrust it out to the side, mimicking the first steps of a dance she was learning. Shrugging her off, Nate said: “You can do as you well please, but I have work to do. These roots aren’t going to dig themselves up.” “Which is why I’m here to help.” “Are you? Or are you here to dance and sing? Look, if I don’t meet my quota then my next job may well be fertilizer collection.” She let this sink in and then scrunched her face up in disgust with wide eyes and asked: “Manure?” “Manure.” said Nate. Jill nodded her head a single time, approvingly, seriously, and then removed a small handheld shovel from a utility belt she was wearing, a utility belt that was loaded with so many things – shovel, hoe, homemade mosquito repellent, snacks, water bottle, handker- chief, second pair of underwear, an extra shirt – that she looked like some kind of superhero gardener, ready for the harvest. “Let’s

66 get digging then.” “Some people might try to hide their extra pair of underwear, you know.” said Nate, pointing to the garment dangling visibly from her belt. “Why must you parade yours around like it is a badge of honor.” And with her hands resting on her hips and her back arched proudly, still not living in the levity of the situation, she jokingly said: “I ain’t got no shame.” Then, after Nate shook his head and continued walking, the ground began shaking viciously. It was an earthquake. Jill had up- set the Gods, yet again. She always was doing this. They began stumbling a little. Nate grabbed Jill by the shoulders to steady her, wanting only to keep her safe. “The Gods want us to dance, also.” said Jill, looking up at him, not worried. Shaking his head, he clasped her hand again and said another prayer – but this time, the chaos did not stop. It only was beginning. The volcano, clearly visible only a thousand feet away, had erupted. Lava was overflowing from the peak and moving faster even than any ship they had ever seen before. It already had spilled down the sides completely and was turning the green grass – which had represented the other side for them, when they had first arrived, the proverbial opportunity for a better life – into a sea of fiery orange and red. Medusa’s head smiled deviously at them within the approaching monster, and the lava, all the lava, was composed of snakes that were on fire and partly interwoven together. They had heard about Medusa before, part of another religion. Was she punishing them because they did not believe in her? – because they believed in something else? It was coming for them now – she was, destroying everything only to get them. They sprinted away, Nate dragging her along. Knowing they could not escape, for the lava was much too fast and abundant, their only chance was at the top of the nearby hill. If they could get to that, to its peak, they might be high enough to escape its

67 destruction. Both started coughing on Medusa’s black breath, the ash, but had managed to move fast enough. Standing at the top of the hill now, they had bought themselves some time – the lava still was gurgling out of the volcano, in heap- ing amounts, and it still was flowing towards them. But they were so high up that it did not matter; it was flowing right past them. They now were trapped on a little island amidst a sea of lava, safe for the time being. Although they knew the same could not be said for those people in their town, the town which they could see from where they were standing: at a much lower altitude, standing no chance. It no longer would be a fertile crescent and nesting place where their love could grow, where they could show their children whom they hadn’t yet had exactly what was possible – for it was about to succumb to this sea. The waters from hell were fast approaching and there was no way for them to stop it. They shouted warnings at the top of their lungs, guilty that their own sins would punish so many others. Sometimes, hunters chased boars beyond an adjacent patch of trees; maybe those men, if they were there, could ride off on their horses to help. But they soon realized how desperate and foolish their shouts were, not even because there was no time, but because the demon of a volcano, Medusa, was drowning them out entirely. They tilted their heads and looked at one another, resigned, a little embarrassed, and became silent amidst the chaos surrounding them. Deafening fireballs sporadically blasted into the air. Lava con- sistently gurgled below them. Trees and bushes crackled and burnt up, sounding like a camp-fire, charred, and smelling of burnt flesh, of death, of what soon would be. Their own skin was hot to the touch, covered in sweat, and red. Nate, standing behind Jill, wrapped his arms around her, enclosed her palm in his, and ran a finger up and down her knuckle with one of his fingernails, like he had so often done. He gazed fixedly at it, lost in it, in her, thinking about the life this hand alone had lived – her attempts at painting; dressed with the ring he had

68 given her and how it had been naked prior to that; gliding through his hair, tracing his scalp, touching him. In this comforting and reflective silence, one that would be accompanied with violins and cellos if in the movies, he did all he could not to pay attention to the demon who now was blotting out the sun with ash, extin- guishing so many lives. He cursed himself for not being able to protect her, for his helplessness, for his foolishness. She gazed at her stomach for what seemed like eternity. The ash began falling and their throats began burning. Medusa blanketed them with her dark malevolence. Fits of coughing again ensued. Jill turned around. Nate held her face in both hands as they stared into each other’s eyes. She dug her fingernails into his back, in fear. “We should never have come here.” said Jill. “I’m s or r y.” “We needed at least to try for a real life.” said Nate. “And I thought we had it. I thought Pompeii was our salvation.” Shaking his head – “It has been decided. We are not welcomed h e re .” “It’s not fair, though. We didn’t have a choice. We didn’t even have a choice.”

69 Alexander Luke

Salted Fields

amplight makes the snow drifting around him gleam and mimic a freshly swirled snow globe. What doesn’t stick to my hair picks up and flutters close to John, adding to his Lpersonal vortex of flakes. The air’s so cold it’s packed with knives, yet he’s in a white t-shirt. John’s cheeks are flush, but he’s frozen there, inanimate till my boots crunch the snowfall; it’s the only sound on the street besides distant new year’s fireworks. “Hi,” he says. “Hey,” I reply. He wipes the snowdrops from his arms and reveals the grease burn stripes up and down them. Years working the grill at The Counter have left his skin looking spot-welded together. He stands, but doesn’t approach. Juxtaposed my arms are scarless and hug my body, despite three-inch-thick snow jacket. I’m cold, but I play it up. I don’t want to watch him die on the porch. “So, gonna let me in?” His eyes widen and I can tell he’s shocked at himself for making me wait all of three seconds. John isn’t old-fashioned, so much as in love with the illusion of old-fashioned. I’m not his girl anymore, but I’m still his guest. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Emily,” he mumbles and fumbles with the brass knob of his door. The heat inside his mother’s house feels great against my skin but smells like burnt carpet. John shakes when he steps in. The cold must have left him brittle. “You know, you should at least wear a jacket.” “I like the cold.” “I like you not sick.” “And I like the cold.” His voice never jumps an octave like most men when he’s

70 annoyed, it dips down. And so, I strategically retreat. “Was Enrique’s party alright? I heard Sasha got real banged up.” “Yeah. We butterfly stitched his head, though. He’s okay, just stupid on E.” John puts his hands in his pockets so I can’t hold them. “Talks too much.” “Enrique gave him E? He’s so handsy, though.” My knee highs come off easier than it seems like they should and I toss them into the muddy pile. As is my custom, I walk through the two-story like it’s my own, right past his mom who doesn’t say a word. She stopped caring about anything other than her televangelist four years back. It’s pathetic, but a pathetic I understand. I know how it is when the one leaves you hollow. “Still, who does that to someone who’s just tripping? I saw the picture of him—he was just so bloody.” “Misunderstanding,” John declares as he shuffles his way after me. “The guy didn’t know. Enrique only gave some to us. Didn’t want to do it alone.” His ash black eyes with not a flicker of flame left on the wick. “Aw, did you take too much?” I know why I was asked over. Ecstasy taps into your dopamine and serotonin, way more than any natural wondrous moment. Given John’s poor diet, sleep de- privation, and, judging from the aforementioned social circle, far more hits than any mussy, hundred-and-sixty pound, white boy was meant to, he’s out of it. There’s not an ounce of chemical joy left in his brain and I’m supposed to cheer him up. It’s like sprin- kling water on salted fields and asking when the grape vines will grow. “Some,” He admits. John never liked the druggy tag line he in- herited by association, it’s not even his thing, but he wouldn’t be him if he let anyone down. I don’t mind this state though. He’s more malleable. We can be closer while he’s desperate. “Thanks for coming.” “Of course, I’m always here,” I remind him and give my best smile. I washed and touched up my skin as I was out the door. Fixed my eyeliner into a perfect point, too. It looks like I never

71 even worked today. I hope the extra effort might hide the aroma of El Primos grease glued to me from my insider shift. “So, want to play something?” he offers, like it’s recess.

rrr

John smashes the dash button towards the boss known as Lady Maria, the green stamina bar cut in half by his rush. He slashes with his hunter’s sword, but like before she merely bounds out of the way and unloads a quicksilver round into the avatar. John’s back is straighter than it’s been in the decade I’ve known him, his shoulders all bunched up tight. I see the flexing muscles of his jaw grinding teeth. He doesn’t say a word. The only echo bouncing about is the clacking of sticks, the squish of the Playsta- tion’s symbol coded buttons, and the occasional feedback from my phone’s touch screen. I watch him though, curious about what strategy he might em- ploy or new angle he’ll take. Each attempt is just a variation on the same quintessential theory: run up and hit ’em with your sword. “I hate her,” he mumbles. I’ve never been killed seventeen times in a row by anyone, but I don’t think I’d like them after either. “You’ll get her.” “I really suck at this.” “Not the best.” He lets out an awkward half-step between a sheepish grunt and laugh. I giggle in return, happier with the random drops I was earning in Divine Champion. Phone games are a touch more for- giving than horror fantasy, or even more than reality. We are both sitting on the floor, John’s back to his twin bed and mine to his shoulder. His box of a bedroom is immaculately main- tained and the only thing in this home that shifts every time I come by. A bookcase full of fantasy novels and comics can be anywhere from upright inside the closet to laying sideways, making an impromptu wall sized, and rather short, countertop. Today it’s upright next to the relic of a CRT he plays on. There’s enough floor

72 space for us and maybe one other person if you shoved me between the plastic Walmart cupboards and the wall. I glance back at his avatar on screen, making the short trip from the flower garden to the boss room. John’s eyes catch mine for a second and remind us both I’m here. “Would you like to play?” John tips his controller towards me. “I don’t feel like it.” Either I’ll lose, get pissy, or I’ll win and poke a few holes in John’s pride. That’s not my angle. “Maybe a movie?” he asks. “I’m good,” I say. He opens Netflix for me regardless. The selections are spastic, poor server has no idea who of the ten or so friends are bumming off Sasha’s account this might be. Suggested movies are all over the place, action and horror with grossly different scores on similar films. The romance section is prominently featured, all credit for it going to the two of us. “What’s that four to the left?” He doesn’t fight me, he enjoys them more than I ever have. The screen pops up: an average romcom with three out of five stars, the ‘I don’t know’ of movie scores. I read aloud a will-they- won’t-they plot summary. For once I think it’d be kind of cool if it ended with just won’t. John pauses before he hits the play button and asks if I’d rather watch something else. I press it for him and hope it sets the mood well enough. A standard film about a girl who’s too serious and a boy who’s too silly. It’s set in Chicago, but I’ve seen enough movies, I know it’s really Vancouver. It starts in winter, snowy like it is here, but melts with the characters. I don’t know if Chicago’s really like this, but Vancouver’s got such green summers. The trees, the grasses, all vibrant emerald shades that play well over the blues of the Pa- cific Ocean you can see acting in the role of a river. “I miss this,” I begin after I feel the scene’s been set well enough. “We watched a movie Wednesday.” “It’s just nice being with you.” His arm muscles lock as I snake around one and rest my head in the perfect space between his chin

73 and shoulder. John says nothing. He sweats and watches the movie. “Would you ever wanna go to Vancouver?” I speak into his shoulder. “Why Vancouver?” “It’s pretty. Would you take me? It’d be nice just the two of us.” “I’d be fine with leaving,” he whines, very slowly melding toward me, “if I could ever afford to.” “We don’t have to go,” I say. “Just us like this is fine.” His chin turns to face me, mine rises to meet him halfway. His eyes are wide, brow pushed forward like he’s actually surprised. My hand reaches around his side, pulling him towards me, and we kiss. I’m gonna see if I can just plant the seed of something with my tongue.

rrr

He’s spent and stained. Sitting at the edge of the bed his spine curves towards his knees so tight the nubby protrusions of his back bones are easy to spot in the low light. He keeps his head tipped down to complete the spiral. Over dramatic. It wasn’t the first time we’ve done this after the break up, wasn’t even the twenty-first time. I’m not moving. It’s cold and his green patchwork blanket is warmer than my discarded clothes. From the bed I can stare out the only window into the back yard. The snow has stopped, but the sky is only a few shades blacker than the grey fields below. The powder snuffs out the grasses and anything else that might bud up. Only thing out there are distant dreary oaks with leaves full of flakes. Not even a moon to break up the samenesss. “I’m sorry,” John says. I scratch the false tips of my fingernails against those little spi- nal bumps and trace imaginary shapes from under his skin. The flesh I mark spasms ever so lightly while I cross my T’s and dot my

74 I’s. John’s not a very good canvas. “Don’t be.” I don’t see the reason to. “I don’t love you.” “I know.” It wasn’t news two years ago either. I just dash at him regardless. “I’m sorry.” I scratched him harder. “I’m twenty-five, not five.” “Sure we’re not fifteen?” he jokes and my fingers stop. “We act like it.” “Fifteen year old John had less grill grease on him.” “You’d think, but I was oily enough to keep a candle going for eight days. They made a holiday about it.” I slap his spine with the back side of my hand. I feel him shake with silent laughs. He is re- curving back to normal: a faux-druggy burger flipper who doesn’t need me anymore. “You’re gross,” I giggle with him. Just like last time, nothing grows.

75 Michael Rotaru

Miles vs. The Coyote

he blood turned a dull brown on the grass. The next morning when she saw it, still in her bathrobe, she did not weep; she wept for the first, even the fourth, Tbut by the seventh, the feelings of dread had been replaced by an overwhelming helplessness. Now all she could do was hose down the spot on the lawn, to be washed away with the morning dew. The realtor never told her that, even in a residential area, coyotes would come in the night, like flies to a freshly baked pie. It was common knowledge to anyone already living in Oregon. The realtor never told her that when she installed the vinyl door so her cats could come and go as they please, she would be issuing a death sentence. Expectantly, the neighbors got a kick out of watching her pull eight cats, one by one from her dingy minivan and into her home. Calico, tabby, tuxedo, Lilac, all carried with utmost care, so they would not associate their new home with fear. They struggled regardless because these were not indoor cats. These were outdoor cats that happened to eat their canned fancy feast inside. An indoor cat that lives inside can get used to living outside, and within days the family pet will return to its instincts, whether that be climbing trees or painting the welcome mat with the insides of ro- dents. An outdoor cat, however, can never readjust to a life inside. It will always look for a way out, like a sailor longing for the sea. Now that the blood was seeping into the soil, Alice found her way to her closet to put on her rain boots, and then to the garage for the gardening spade and the smooth black stone she had found on an evening walk. In permanent marker, the stone was already labeled Barnabas. It sat in the garage next to another, almost iden- tical one, but labeled Miles. Solemnly, she came to the juniper tree in the back corner of the yard. Under its shade, six stones lay me- morialized with marker labels.

76 Alice knelt in the wet grass, feeling the morning seep through her bathrobe and onto her knees. She took the spade with its enamel, floral handle and removed a patch of grass where she could place Barnabas the tabby’s tombstone. The wind tossed her silver hair as she walked through the yard to return to her living room. Alice took a seat on her couch and contemplated the day ahead of her. Perhaps she would watch the news, perhaps she would wither away on her seersucker sofa. A large orange cat sat in the middle of the room. Number eight, Miles. “Miles I’m begging you, don’t go outside tonight.” Miles turned to look at her. “Alice you know I have to.” “Then I’ll lock you in here with me. Then you can never leave me. We both know it’s for your own good.” “If you lock me in here I’ll only resent you for it. It’s not fair to me, and It won’t be fair to you when I tear the curtains to ribbons.” “So what am I to do? Miles, you’re all I have left, without you I’ll be alone in this big house” “You’re a coward. If you truly loved me, you’d fight back.” With this final statement Miles left the living room and walked through the doggy door to scour the backyard for prey. Alice grabbed the keys to her Pacifica and left her home, neglecting to lock the door. She entered her local sporting goods store still in her bathrobe and muddy rubber boots. After the background check had been completed, Alice left the store with her new revolver. That night, Alice set up her deck chair in the middle of her lawn. Her intentions were to spend the whole night on patrol, looking for the coyotes that manifested in her neighborhood after sundown. She followed Miles around the property, watching as he sprinted after his unsuspecting prey. In the light of a full moon, she walked, six-shooter in hand waiting to defend her orange son. After a few hours she began to tire and sat in her deck chair. Around four in the morning, she woke to what sounded like a blender full of nails. A few feet from, her a lanky blur chased Miles, hoping for an early breakfast. This was the moment she had

77 prepared herself for. She raised the gun with shaky hands. Remi- niscent of western films she had seen, she attempted to take aim at the coyote, but it was too fast. Gunfire shattered whatever seren- ity the night had until now. A residential area became a warzone. The first bullet sank into the grass, the second into a tree and the third and fourth found themselves somewhere in the garden. Al- ice knew that with only two shots left she had to make them count. Despite her attempts thus far, the shooting had done nothing but create background noise for the hurricane of hair and teeth that was Miles versus the coyote. Shot five burst through the coyote’s skull as if its head were a volcano waiting to erupt with grey matter. In a cold sweat, Alice could not believe what she had done. She had been all-powerful as she killed the coyote. Revenge through a smoking chamber. The triumph was short lived, however, upon finding Miles sprawled on the lawn with two broken back legs, femurs sprouting through orange fur like perennials in the spring. Miles lay silently on the lawn, his eyes drifting back and forth. They connected with Alice’s and for just a moment, it was like looking in the face of god. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you in time, Miles. I did everything I could, I really fucking did.” “Oh Alice, don’t you know everything is mostly nothing. There is no escaping death nor is there reason to.” Bullet number six concluded Miles’ pain. The blood ran a dull brown on the grass.

78 Mark Massaro

Relational Surrender

om and Liz drive along a stretch of road in the center of Florida, avoiding the highway traffic, in order to reach -Or lando by midnight. Tourists are herding their ways to ma- Tjor airports in order to get home for the holidays. Liz’s birthday is December 26, and her father tempted her to visit him with promises of cruise tickets and money, aside from Christmas gifts. Tom overheard her on the phone with her Dad, passive aggressively punishing him for leaving his family when she was younger. “And a ticket for Tom, too. My boyfriend,” she said, “Okay, we’ll visit.” Tom stated his apprehension about accepting gifts from a man that he hadn’t met yet, but Liz waved it off, saying, “Who cares? It’s the least he can do. You don’t even know.” In Tallahassee, Tom closed the coffee shop that he works at twenty hours a week and drove to campus to pick up Liz, who was still packing, despite the visit being three nights. Her dorm smelt like a high school locker room mixed with Bath & Bodyworks limited Christmas candles. Liz’s roommate, a bassoon player and honor society leader, said, “I can finally have a few nights without you two banging right next to me.” The towns in the center of Florida seem forgotten for different reasons. One town, you don’t speed at all through. Another, you lock your doors and don’t stop. Silhouettes of trees in orange groves stand out before the sky darkens and the street lights begin crackling on. “Who’s your Dad’s girlfriend, again?” “Jackie.” “And her kid is?” “Melody. She might not be there though.” “But your brother is?” “Probably. He lives near Dad. He’s on leave for a bit, I guess. Don’t worry about him.”

79 Tom grips the steering wheel, saying, “I’m not stressed. I just feel a bit weird meeting your older brother who is two years younger than me. It’s like, I have to respect him ‘cause he’s your brother but he’s still younger than me.” “You’ll be fine,” Liz says, running her hand along his right thigh, adding, “I brought that little outfit that you like, with the leg things.” At twenty-three, Tom knows that it won’t last with a nineteen-year-old. He’s experienced it enough to know better. The promises, the dreams, and the hopes, habitually dissolve away. But breaking up with his last girlfriend left him shattered, and one evening, Liz walked into the coffee shop. Bright blonde exten- sions ran wild across her shoulders leading to a tight, black cock- tail dress. She sipped her coffee, staring straight at Tom, despite her date being present. She excused herself from the frat brother caricature and headed toward the bathrooms, located behind a wall, continuing to make eye contact. Tom walked slowly toward her, smiling, cleaning a mug with a rag, and she kissed him, pushing him against the wall. She left with her date but returned later to keep Tom company as he closed the shop. He considered it a welcome distraction. It wasn’t love, but it was the right thing at the right time. A boy needs a girl strutting around the bedroom, wearing his boxer shorts, always with the top folded down, for a sense of momentary belonging. In the beginning, Tom still drove past his ex-girlfriend’s house, located on a main road. He’d slow down enough to see if her car was in the driveway and if her bedroom light was on. Then he’d turn around in a church parking lot and, with tears in his eyes, drive on. He’d crawl into Liz’s bed to temporarily find a reprieve from the situation. Often, in the middle of the night, Liz would mysteriously cry, and she’d make a strong attempt to calm her dis- torted breathing, wiping her tears away before they hit the pillow. Tom, with his back to her, pretended to be asleep each time. He didn’t want to ask about her, sometimes hinted at, damaged past. A few months later, Tom and Liz are on the road heading to her father’s new home, her hand unzipping his pants.

80 They make it close to midnight. The street sign is missing. It always is, since the street is named Stoner Street. The house, tech- nically Liz’s father’s girlfriends, is secluded enough from the road for comfortable isolation. Tom fixes his pants and carries the lug- gage up the front steps to the porch. Liz opens the creaking door, allowing him and the bags inside. A bald man descends the staircase, holding the banister for balance. His belly hangs out of his white t-shirt over his tightie-whities. Tom looks away, and then back to her Dad since they clearly don’t see a problem with this. Liz kisses her Dad on his cheek. Tom shakes his hand, adding, “Thank you for inviting us, sir.” “Call me Frank,” he says, keeping his hand on his belly, “You two are set up in Melody’s room. She’s at her dad’s until tomorrow. Then you can crash in the playroom. There’s a pullout in there. All I ask is that you keep it down at night.” After some apprehension, Tom agrees. Liz says, “Thanks, Dad.” “Goodnight, kids.” Melody’s bedroom is dedicated to horses. The ceiling border is blue and red ribbons. Paintings and collages of horses. Horse trophies. Horse stuffed animals. “This room is creepy,” Tom says. “Ye a h .” “What’d your Dad mean by, “Keep it down?”” “He’s not stupid. He doesn’t care.” They have sex and Liz falls asleep. Her breathing is close to snoring, but never quite gets there. Tom lays awake, reevaluating his life choices. He was one class away from obtaining his B.A. in Environmental Science. He was living with the girl that he thought he was going to marry. They had four dogs. Unexpect- edly, she broke up with him, sending on a downward spiral. Now, he’s in Orlando, with a slightly unhinged girl with dad issues and a constant need to control her sexuality, in a horse-themed room. Liz didn’t acknowledge that her dad greeted us in tightie-whities? Throughout the night, footsteps and movement trembled from

81 unknown corners of the house, keeping Tom on edge. Sunlight pours in through the blinds, giving life to an unknown room. Liz is missing. The smell of coffee fills the house and muf- fled chatter. What the hell am I doing here? He changes into a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt, hoping to connect somewhat with her dad, and pulls up pajama pants. “Good morning,” Frank says, “This is my girlfriend, Jackie. Jackie, this is Tom.” “Good morning. Nice to meet you,” Tom says, “Thank you for this weekend.” She has hair shorter than both men, and a sneer. Small glasses hang on the brim of her nose. “You’re welcome,” she says. “You sleep okay?” “Yes, quite well.” Liz sits cross-legged on the barstool, spinning around, sipping hot chocolate. The four relax around the breakfast nook, a large window re- vealing the expansive backyard. In the distance, a red barn peaks out from behind the green brush. A tire swing hangs from a tree branch, rocking slowly from the strong winds. They exchange stories about how the couples met. Liz innocently changes their first meeting as a simple interaction at a coffee shop, forsaking the part where they made out in the corner while she was on a date with someone else. Frank and Jackie met while working on some busi- ness merger. Tom considers that they could be lying too. There is a collective pleasantness where people don’t state the obvious to maintain societal comfort: Liz hates her dad and only visited for money and Tom is only sitting at this table because he has a sexual relationship with Liz. Sometimes the reality of situations and re- lationships are so clear that they must remain unsaid to maintain societal stability. “Tell us about your family, Tom,” Jackie says. He takes a mouthful of coffee, swallows, and says, “Mom’s a teacher. Dad’s owns a hardware store. I grew up working there, helping out, and learning stuff. I guess I could build a house at

82 this point, but my mom really hammered in the education stuff. I’m, uh, a few credits away from an Environmental Degree. And I have a younger sister. She’s just graduating high school now. We’re pretty close.” “Well, that sounds nice, Tom,” she replies. Then he says, “Yeah, we all talk every day.” Once the words escape his mouth, he regrets it. Frank looks down to the floor, as- suming the posture of a man with sorrow. Liz hangs off of Tom’s shoulder, arms wrapped tight. Tom feels like he just told prison inmates how miraculous the natural world can feel. Jackie tops off Frank’s coffee and dumps the rest in the sink, saying, “Well, we’d love to meet them sometime.” Tom nods in approval, knowing that it will never happen. He wouldn’t let it. “How old are you?” Frank asks. “Twenty-three,” he says. Toward Liz, Frank asks, “What are you, now?” “Nine-teen, Frank,” Liz says, in a matter-of-fact tone. Jackie says, “You’re both just babies.” Tom and Liz drive to Islands of Adventure, a theme park located in Universal Studios. They go on roller-coasters, go through a haunted castle, and dance to some unnamed bands at the House of Blues. “My Dad gave me so much money before you woke up,” she says. Tom orders beers that are half the size but double the price. Liz occasionally orders slushies and adds rum to them. A trademark of Liz is always filling her empty sunblock bottle with different alcohols when they go out together. “Another year and a half, baby,” she’d say, “and I don’t have to sneak it anymore.” By the time they get to the Bob Marley restaurant, her eyes are noticeably relaxed, and her speech is slurring: “My brother juss texted me. He’ll be there when we back.” “O k ay.” “You’re so hot.” “You are, too.” They pull into the long driveway. A large, red truck blocks the trail halfway, so they park behind it. Random bumper sticks adorn

83 the back of it. One says, “If Global Warming Isn’t Real, What Hap- pened to the Ice Age?” Another one states, “Speak English.” Tom considers that his Peace sign and Grateful Dead bear sticker on the back of his own car wouldn’t get along with her brother’s stick- ers if they were locked in a room together. “We’re back,” Liz yells. Her brother, Steve, walks around the corner, holding a tall boy of Budweiser. The siblings hug and Steve fixes his attention to Tom, putting a hand out. His shaved head matches his dad’s bald- ing head. “Nice to meet you, Steve,” Tom says, firmly shaking his hand. “You, too.” Tom and Liz go to change. Frank passes them, saying, “After you guys shower, come on out and we’re grillin’ in the backyard. Tom, there’s a mini-fridge built into the shower if you want a beer.” And he continues to the kitchen. Tom whispers, “Did your dad mean, like, together?” “Yeah, he’s cool. Don’t worry.” “Your dad just suggest that I go drink beers with his naked daughter?” “Yup.” The family retreats to the backyard and starts a fire in the bonfire pit. Seeing Liz around her family highlights how much of a brat she really is. They drink, laugh, tell stories, and Steve talks about the kickboxer training that he’s been doing lately. “I gotta pee,” Liz says, “Be nice.” She stumbles her way across the lawn towards the house, pushing the tire swing and dropping her red cup. Tom says, “So, I just want you to know that I really care about your sister. So, you don’t have to worry about anything. We’re, like, really serious.” He only says it because he should. Steve nods in approval, chugging his beer, and finally says, “Good. Just take care of her.” The night goes on. Jackie and Frank join the party. Melody -fi nally materializes and appears to be a few years younger than Liz. She carries an angry demeanor under a pound of makeup and a

84 push-up bra. “I’m going to bed,” she says, walking away. “We should too, Liz says. “Uh, Lizzie,” Frank says, “Tonight, you’ll stay with Melody and Tom can take the pullout couch. It’s Jackie’s house so, her rules.” “What the fuck, Frank!” she responds. Suspecting a fight, Tom says, “No problem. It’s not a big deal, Liz.” “This is bullshit.” She stomps her feet like a toddler having a temper tantrum. “Not a big deal,” Tom repeats. “Get over yourself, Jackie,” she says, adding, “You’re just jeal- ou s .” Tom walks Liz inside, saying, “Stop,” repeatedly. “She’s such a bitch. You’re my fuckin’ boyfriend! I can sleep w it h y ou .” “Just sneak into my room later,” he says, “It’s not a big deal.” Witnessing her behavior, rooted in deep resentment and aban- donment, casts her in a new light. “It’s my birthday!” she exclaims. Melody slams her bedroom door shut, knocking a horseshoe dec- oration off it. Frank comes in and says, “Tom, you mind driving Steve home? He lives a few streets away. He’s too drunk to drive.” “No problem,” Tom says. “I’m sorry again, Lizzie,” Frank says. Tom and Steve drive in silence. Steve’s head bobs around with the cars movements. He looks up and pulls a flask out of his pock- et and begins chugging the contents. “Dude,” Tom says. They approach a red light and Steve gets out of the car and runs in the opposite direction. Tom reaches across to shut the door and spins the car around after him. Pulling up next to Steve, Tom rolls down his window and yells, “Get in the car!” “No!” he says, “I’m going back.” “Fine, I’ll take you back. Just get in and I’ll drive you back.” He does and they get to the entrance where the missing street sign should be.

85 “Get out here,” Tom says, “At least make it look like I did my job. Come back in ten minutes.” Steve gets out, finishing off his flask and tossing it away. Tom pulls in the driveway again, walks up to the front door, keeping an eye out for Steve. Silence. Walking around to find Liz, with no success, he assumes she’s passed out. He gets into the playroom area and finds the bed set up for him with clean sheets and pillows. Resting there, finally, he exhales deeply, allowing his eyes to adjust to another dark, strange room. Witnessing this salvaged family’s dynamics makes Tom appreciate his boring, traditional family much more. The biggest fight that his family had was when they couldn’t agree on where to get ice cream from after mini-golfing. But this? Just as exhaustion began to overwhelm Tom, the door creaks slowly open and new weight shifts the bed to the side. He opens his eyes while Liz straddles him topless. “Jesus Christ,” he says. She kisses him, then his chest, and then his stomach. In the dark, a figure passes by one window, and then another. “Shit, your brother is back.” “What?” Liz says, sitting up. “Your brother didn’t want to go home. He ran back here. He just walked by the window.” Liz puts her shirt back on and they sit on the bed, waiting. The front door opens. “Dad!” Steve shouts. “Steve?” Frank replies. And sudden chaos erupts. Grunts and ex- plosions. Liz and Tom rise from the bed and open the door. In the kitchen, Steve has his dad in a headlock. Frank is off balance, spinning around, trying to get free. He does and attempts to hug Steve into surrender. Steve breaks free from his grip and punches Frank across the face. Liz yells, “Stop! Stop!” and Tom takes her and Melody into the next room, telling them to stay. Returning, Tom picks up the fireplace poker and holds it up like a batter at the mound. “Stop! Now!” Steve releases Frank, while Frank tries again to hold him into submission. Steve’s face is red from uncontrollable crying, while

86 Frank’s left cheek begins to swell. “Tom, take him home again,” Frank says, patting Steve on his back. Steve’s breath is short and sporadic beneath the sobs. Frank holds his face and walks away. They get into his car, again. “Left here,” Steve says, “Right in about a mile.” “You okay?” “Yeah,” he says, staring out of the window. His eyes are sunken in. “Despite what you saw, we are a good family. We care about each other.” “I know. You don’t have to explain. You just need some sleep.” “There’s just some shit that we don’t talk about.” Tom returns again, exhausted. Crawling into his made-up bed, he slowly curls into the fetal position, and exhales, attempting to forget this day. After the previous breakup, he felt content with being a lost dog, wandering the bars until someone took him home again. Allowing the tide to control his fate. No more, he thinks. I’m getting too old. The foreign playroom begins to slip away and Tom, focused on his breathing, surrenders to a deep sleep. Miles away from his home, strangers in family photos on the walls surround him. Out- side, the bonfire struggles to remain alive and cigarette butts are caught by the wind, spreading out across the yard. Liz’s discarded red solo cup swirls towards a nearby stream. The breeze blows against the windows, while the house, and Tom, settles into a de- sired submission. Again, the door creaks open.

87 MR About the Contributors

CALLIE BRANNON is an Integrated Studies Major for Marketing, Adver- tising and Hospitality. She loves to write because she has a deep appreciation for being able to expressing herself. She feels her poems are the voices in her head that need to be written in words.

ELIZABETH FEINS graduated summa cum laude from FGCU with a Bachelor’s degree in English and Creative Writing in December 2017. A storyteller since age two, Elizabeth’s passion lies in rewriting fairy tales. Her first narrative was a short thriller about two lost dogs, which she excitedly recounted to her mother while jumping on her bed in a shaky home vid- eo from 1997. When she isn’t writing, Elizabeth spends her time at Opera Naples, where her work as a performer and a volunteer earned her FGCU’s prestigious Excellence in Civic Engagement award.

ANNMARIE FERRY is an educator—an English and reading teacher to be exact—who never considered herself a writer. An invitation to a writing circle by a respected colleague and friend changed all that a few years ago. Since then, she has written poetry, essays, and short stories for her personal blog and the group blog. She currently resides in Naples, Florida, with her husband of 26 years and her 14-year-old dog, both loyal companions and staunch supporters.

BRIANNA GANZINI is a junior at Florida Gulf Coast University and she will be graduating with an Integrated Studies degree in May 2019. Her degree focus is in Communications, English, Creative Writing, and Manage- ment. She has enjoyed writing for most of her life, and it is a passion of hers that she holds near and dear to her heart.

SAVANNAH JENSEN graduated from Florida Gulf Coast University with her Master’s degree in English in 2016. She currently teaches part time at the university. In her spare times she enjoys painting, taking photographs, and reading ghost stories.

RYAN KRACZON is an English major and a creative writing minor at FGCU. He likes pizza, his cat, and Eric Clapton. Though if somehow he ends up with pizza in hand on a day when his cat is not especially hermetic, and if on this day Eric Clapton just happens to come on the radio in that special way that he values more than if he were to merely put it on himself,

89 lending that very act of listening to music a sort of winning the lottery-like quality--well then, watch out.

ERICA TERESE KRUEGER was born and raised in Southeast Florida. A 2016 Florida Gulf Coast University graduate, Erica holds a Bachelor of Sci- ence in Marine Science, and a minor in Geology. She is currently a graduate student at Florida Gulf Coast University, working towards her Master of Science in Environmental Science, and works as the Executive Secretary for the Department of Language and Literature. She has always had a deep appreciation for the ocean, where her love of photography began. Writing is sometimes uncomfortable to her, but as someone near to her heart explains, “Erica is the best writer educated in science.” She is a self-proclaimed coffee addict, and has a slight touch of OCD.

TREVOR LEWIS, a FGCU healthcare science major, aspires not only to contribute to America’s expanding healthcare system but to also have a hand in advancing the art of the written word. Born in Lakeland, Florida he demonstrated a nascent ability for storytelling from a young age, develop- ing his skill for both poetry and prose in his early years of high school. He received scattered praise (and lots of criticism) from an audience that con- sisted of his mom, friends, and begrudging teachers. Currently focused on writing a novel, he’s likely to be spotted on campus hefting around a clunky novel by the idol he cannot seem to shut up about, David Foster Wallace.

LEX LUKE on top of being a soon to graduate Software engineering student and creative director at a currently unannounced game project manages to find time to push out short stories and manuscripts across genres sharing only a deep love for introspection and the human experience. When that’s not enough Lex keeps the mind busy with an unhealthy interest in physics, programming, history, camping, and very little sleep.

MARK MASSARO received his Master’s Degree in English Literature from Florida Gulf Coast University with a focus on 20th Century American Lit- erature. Currently, he is an English Adjunct at two Universities. He enjoys cooking while listening to classic rock and drinking a cold beer. When not reading, he can be found in his black Chucks at a bonfire in his home state of Massachusetts. His work has been in Literary Juice Magazine, The Pega- sus Review, and The Mangrove Review. He’d be in a ditch somewhere if not for his loving and patient wife, and they have a dog named Bear.

90 KRISTEN PETRY is a landscape architect, trained in the art of place-making. When she does her job right, people live their stories against the stage- set of her work. Watching them often inspires her writing.

LEAH PICCIANO is a junior at Florida Gulf Coast University majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing and Digital Media Design. She is from Miami, Florida, where she has lived her entire life. She likes to spend her free time writing fiction and has only recently started branching out into poetry. This poem was written for an assignment as an acrostic that took on a life of its own when she let her imagination run wild. Leah has a dog and three rabbits that she feels are part of the family and considers wolves, horses, and killer whales not only inspiration but also her favorite animals. She hopes that this poem will help her gain useful feedback in im- proving her poetic writing and will help her audience feel more connected to the world and the compassion that lives in everyone.

MICHAEL J. PINEDA is a recent graduate of Florida Gulf Coast Univer- sity. He is the founder of GoldenHeart Stories, and has written over twenty online epics for it. Michael is in the process of publishing his first novel. He is currently a lifeguard at Disney’s Blizzard Beach Water Park.

MICHAEL ROTARU is a student at Florida Gulf Coast University majoring in English and minoring in creative writing. In his free time, he writes fiction and intends to do so indefinitely.

SAVANA SCARBOROUGH is currently a junior at Florida Gulf Coast University and is pursuing a degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing. She is from Polk County, and is a seventh generation Floridian.

ALEXANDER K. SELL is a student of Philosophy and Literature. He stud- ied abroad on four occasions, published two essays, presented his philo- sophical work at several conferences, and graduated summa cum laude in 2017. Alex plans to move to Germany to continue his philosophy education.

SYDNEY VAN DREASON is a junior majoring in English with a minor in Creative Writing. After graduating college, she hopes to become a published author as well as an Imagineer for Disney. Besides poetry, she also mainly writes short stories. In her poetry collection “Writing Through the Wars,” completed as an independent research project, she interviewed three veterans from the Vietnam War (Norm Jaegar, Al Manshum, Larry

91 Siegman) and one from the Cold War (John Whittle) along with two female ROTC students studying at the University of Florida who wished to remain anonymous. She took their quotes and incorporated them into poems in hopes that their voices and messages could be heard.

CAYLEE WEINTRAUB is a sophomore English major at Florida Gulf Cost University. She was born and raised in Bokeelia, Florida, on a twenty-five acre palm tree farm. She is the Vice President of the Creative Writing Club and the Assistant News Editor of Eagle News. Her work has appeared in Polyphony H.S., Imagine, and The Word Exchange. She is an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio. When she is not reading or writing, she loves spending time with her dogs, cat, and flock of thirty-six chickens.