HUMID 13
SPRING 2020
CONTRIBUTORS
Sandra Carranza
Rebecca Chatskis
Arianna Doughty
Brianna Dunston
Margaret Godfrey
Katie Harris
Payton Hudak
Deana Jones
Amelia Kleiber
Brice Kohleriter
Krista Lambert
Nia McCray
Harleigh McGowan
Rebecca Miller
Shaylynn Packard
Meridian Parham
Emma Rhyne
Marisela Rios
Kaitlyn Sharrock
Savannah Shelton
Kendall Simmons
Taylor Smith
Allison Swaim
STEPHEN F. AUSTIN STATE UNIVERSITY
NACOGDOCHES, TEXAS
Humid
Thirteen
2019 - 2020
HUMID is the undergraduate literary journal of Stephen F.
Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. Produced
with the generous support of the Department of English and
Creative Writing, the views expressed do not reect those of
the Department, the College of Liberal and Applied Arts, the
administration, or the Board of Regents at Stephen F. Austin State
University.
Masthead
Cierra Krause
Isabella Mata
Dakota Perry
Al Peterson
Clarissa Rangel
Ali St. Germaine
Kristen Tracy
Taryn Busch
Sarah Farmer
Zackerie Germany
Sydney Gillentine
Miara Hall
Katerley Hathorn
Anthony Hutchens
Faculty Advisor: Andrew Brininstool
Table of Contents
Fiction
1 Arianna Doughty, “Town of Fire”
16 Savannah Shelton, “e Woods”
22 Meridian Parham, “e Call of the Void”
35 Taylor Smith, “Oswald’s Demon”
74 Krista Lambert, “Yellow Light Girls”
90 Payton Hudak, “Breaking a Mold”
104 Harleigh McGowan, “Better to be Abducted”
105 “Snow Angels Among Shadows”
106 “Riverbed Clouds”
113 Kennedy urmond, “One of the Boys”
Nonfiction
14 Margaret Godfrey, “e Ceiling”
30 Brice Kohleriter, “No Souvenirs Allowed in Monasteries”
56 Payton Hudak, “Death Is a Highway”
99 Kaitlyn Sharrock, “Laborious Living”
107 Amelia Kleiber, “e Upstairs Neighbors”
Poetry
10 Payton Hudak, “Silence Your Cellphones Now”
11 “Igloo”
12 “What We Do”
13 “Rollerskating to Katrina and the Waves”
18 Shaylynn Packard, “Away with the Sea”
19 “Barcelona”
20 “You Loved Me Like the Ocean”
47 Rebecca Chatskis, “An Early Inheritance”
48 “Moses Mourns Miriam”
49 “Making Jam with You”
50 Allison Swaim, “Cross”
52 “180 Days / Parabola”
60 Kendall Simmons, “In the Morning”
61 “Prom’s Phantom”
73 “In a Love Story”
87 Marisela Rios, “M&M’s and Other Sweet ings”
88 Emma Rhyne, “From Outside the Waiting Place”
89 “Would You Like to Meet Me?”
97 Amelia Kleiber, “e Innite Answer“
109 Nia McCray, “Kunta Kinte”
110 Kaitlyn Sharrock, “Brewed to Perfection”
112 “A Tale of Woe”
126 Sandra Carranza, “What it takes to get to you”
127 Angela Galvan, Lyric Essay, “Empanada”
130 Rebecca Miller, “Toss of the Sea”
Art
63 Deana Jones, “Image 1”
64 “Image 2”
65 Brianna Dunston “Neither Tear Nor Mend.”
66 Emma Rhyne “Migrating Omens”
67 “Backbone of the Forest”
68 “Changing Skins”
69 Katie Harris “Grand Canyon”
70 Emma Rhyne “Morbid Curiosity”
71 “Safe in the Shelter of Speed”
72 “Persephone Steps out of her Skin”
1
Town of fire
by
Arianna Doughty
Untied shoelaces slapped against sneakers. e rubber soles of
our shoes pushed on pedals of metal and plastic.
It was the perfect day for a long ride, to the little store a few
miles from our place. A dry air whipped around us, the tail end
of summer. We’d only been back in school a couple of weeks.
But this day we’d le our homework for another day, as we
oen did at this time. I couldn’t ignore a clear blue sky with a
wind so strong. I could almost pretend it was cool.
Jack cheered as we rounded the corner; he’d been complaining
loudly for a while now, waiting to see the candy blue roof of San-
dy’s Corner Store. Flashing lights cut o Jack’s joy. At fourteen he
was the oldest, so he swaggered over to the cop car as the ocer
stepped out. I, on the other hand, tried to make myself as small as
possible, hoping to blend into the trees and brush behind me.
e ocer was chewing Jack out for riding our bikes on the
busy highway. I tried to listen, but there was something in the air
that felt wrong. I looked at my other brother and my sister too to
see if they smelled what I had.
Burning wood. Trees burning.
Over the blue roof, a slender stream of smoke rose in the air.
e cops’ radio crackled.
“Code 904F.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked. He was ignored. e ocer was
talking quickly into his radio. Asking questions: what was the
location, and could this be contained easily. e answers made
no sense to me. He turned to Jack,
“Your parents should be on their way soon.”
I stood there for a long time watching the sky above the roof
of the store turn into an orange haze. How peaceful it looked
from this distance, that stream of smoke slowly getting larger,
dancing and swaying in the wind.
2
“Get in the van,” my father shouted at us. He was always
shouting, the only time he seemed to get off his ass was to yell
at us. I’m sure the only reason he knew we’d gone was the cop;
he’s not the kind of father that would check on his too quiet
children.
We rode back to the house in silence. Trash littered the
front yard, the calf tied to the swingset grazed the overgrown
brush. He was the color of whiskey, with eyes as big as the
moon. How I wished to climb into those big brown eyes,
somewhere I could hide.
The paint was peeling off the swingset, letting the rust
show through. I wondered if people are like that; beneath
their glossy new paint is an ugly orange stain, smelling of a
time long past their first summer.
“Phebe, come in,” This time it was my stepmom who
yelled. She was a small woman that I pitied. She was kind and
sweet but a total pushover. He didn’t deserve someone like
her. I kicked off the swing and ran into the house.
It was in more disarray than usual. Bags littered the floor.
“Big forest fire, grab your stuff before we all die,” Jonah
said around the baloney sandwich that hung from his mouth.
He was a year younger than me, a dramatic twelve-year-old.
He averted his eyes when our father gave him a sharp glare.
Anna walked by, rolling her eyes. I followed her back to
her room. That’s where I stayed when I was with my dad, I
didn’t have a room of my own, nor did I have to pack a lot.
Mostly I helped Anna pack up her things, dolls and family
photos.
Packing the car was my favorite part, like a game of real
live Tetris. Anna could reach the places I couldn’t quite get
to. Although she was only eleven she stood several inches
taller than me. I stuffed Jonah’s bag on the side, wedging it
between the car and some framed photos, careful not to break
the glass.
Anna had tears in her eyes when the police car rolled up
our drive, blaring an evacuation order.
“What if I never see this place again?” She was scared
“We’ll come back here, don’t you worry about that.” Even
3
as I said this I knew it was useless. She’d still worry because it
was the only thing we could do.
We piled into the minivan. I wondered if this was the last
time I would see this tree-lined highway. Fire truck sirens
called out to one another, a distressed game of Marco Polo
where everyone was screaming their names, but no one could
answer them. A helicopter passed overhead, like an angel sent
to rescue us, but it just kept flying.
The radio blared the oldies a bit too loud. Every so often
they would stop the music for an emergency broadcast calling
for evacuations. The sky behind us had lost every ounce of
blue. It became the color of the cafeteria counters. It felt like a
demon was chasing our car away.
We stayed in a hotel in the big city an hour away that night,
it was one of those Comfort hotels, inn, suites, or something
or another. It didn’t really matter because it had a pool, and
that was enough for me. From the window, I could see my
town. The sky was filled with the burning smoke of the forest.
Tuesday came, labor day weekend was over, and we re-
turned to our town. Of course, we did as best we could. But
more often than not we found ourselves staring up at the sky,
wondering about the homes we’d left behind days earlier.
The sky was still on fire. Glowing red and orange, like
something angry and sinister was lurking at the horizon.
My middle school was one of the designated places for
evacuees to go. I wandered over there from time to time,
handing out water and watching people cry over the burnt
areas. Everything was displayed on a neat color-coded map
that got updated daily. A crazed tangle of lines, many blocked
out in big letters. BURN ZONE.
The fire was eating up the town, racing across farmlands,
swallowing up the forest.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” I whispered under my
breath.
“Whaat? Whaat was that?” Said the old lady with wrinkles
as deep as the Grand Canyon, her stringy hair fell to frame
her face. She smelt of cigarettes, even worse than mom after
a hard night.
4
“Oh nothing, just a little rhyme, would you like a water
bottle?” She frowned at me but took a water bottle.
I scurried away quickly, to avoid her piercing gaze. I hated
that. Hated the way people would look at me sometimes, try-
ing to figure me out as if I was some puzzle for them to twist
and turn and put together.
“Hey P, wait up.” Jack was racing up to me. It wasn’t until
he got closer that I realized that he had a black eye.
“What’s that from?”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“The black eye, dummy,” I said jabbing my finger in his
stupid face.
“Oh yeah, that. I got into a fight”.
“Another fight.” He’d been in three just this last month,
and at this rate by eighteen he’d either be dead or in jail.
“Should I even ask what this one was about?”
He shrugged his shoulders, “No, probably not.”
“The wind’s picking up again.” My eyes drifted back to the
map on the wall, thinking of all the areas marked off in black.
“Maybe Jonah was right, we’re all gonna die.”
“Jonah doesn’t know a damn thing.”
Talking to Jack could either calm me down or enrage me
further. Although I doubted he knew that.
I had another sleepless night at the shelter; the school
gym lined with neat rows of cots where everyone had unneat-
ly strewn their personal belongings. The ash was thick, and
the coughing echoed across the gym. It reminded me of exam
days, when they’d stuff us all in the gym to take mandatory
exams. Someone would whistle, the teachers could never fig-
ure out who it was, then a few minutes later the same whistle
would come from a different side of the gym. This would
herald in a hushing and shushing from the teachers, but like
clockwork it would all start again.
Dad was mad.
It was Jack and Jonah. I saw him leading them out of the
gym, gripping their forearms. Jonah was twisting, trying to
break the hold our father had on him. Panic was screaming
through my body.
5
I ducked around people, side-stepping families, and hop-
ing over bags. I pushed through the gym doors. My father
might be an asshole, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew
that he had to get the boys out of ear shot if he was going to
discipline his children.
I crept up to the corner, I could hear their labored breath-
ing.
Jonah started to cry, “No, Daddy I’m sorry..” I flitch as I
hear my fathers’ thick hand connect with my little brother.
I can’t move. I want to move, but I can’t. Fear holds me,
captive. I want to throw myself on top of my brothers, I want
to be brave.
But I’m not.
I sink to my knees. And let the tears fall.
Jack didn’t cry. He was past that point.
When it came time for them to leave, I hid in a darkened
hallway. Jonah’s face was still wet from tears, and his blond
hair casting shadows over his face.
As I slipped back into the gym after them, my father shot
me a look that could’ve said where the hell have you been, but
he said nothing.
The boys got a few concerned glances. Whispers whirled
around us, careful not to point directly in our direction. My
father tried to shield them from prying eyes. He’d never had
an audience before. A mother in the corner of the room,
looked as though she wanted to say something, but she just
nodded her head as if she understood. Understood why our
family wore long sleeves, even in the insufferable heat of
the summer. No one reports bruises they can’t see. A calm
welled up around us like a trench dug up around our precious
farmland to keep the fire out. The fire could not burn what
had already been rid of grass and brush. Take the fuel from
the fire.
I sat there on my cot picking at the loose threads in the
seams of the fabric. A woman in a navy blue blazer strode in,
and the first thing I thought was she wasn’t supposed to be
here. She looked out of place, her shoes unscuffed, her shoul-
ders over-stuffed. She scanned the gym as if a robot searching
6
for her next target. Then she locked in on my siblings and me.
Just my luck.
She beelined her way through the crowd of people milling
about. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I’d been taught that
running looked suspicious. People who had nothing to hide
didn’t run, but that didn’t make it any easier to resist the urge.
I had nothing to hide, right?
Her triumphant smile made my stomach turn, so wide
and proud as if she’d just completed some heroic feat, not
walked across the gym. Her teeth were yellow and smudged
with her lipstick, the color of a watermelon sucker.
“Are y’all the Martinez kids?” She spoke too loud, as if we
would be unable to hear her if she didn’t speak at a pitch only
dogs could hear.
Jonah nodded his big blue eyes, staring up at her, his
straw blond hair stuck out at odd angles. Jack shoved Jonah’s
shoulder.
“We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” Jack said, not
sounding at all like a fourteen-year-old but much more like
a child.
“I’m Dora Lee from Child Protective Services. It’s okay, you
can talk to me.” She took us to a dierent part of the school,
where we could talk without everyone looking on. Dad was
there smiling a wide smile that didn’t budge from his mouth ,
but never touched his eyes. He hugged each of us in turn before
we went into the classroom alone with the lady.
“I am here today to investigate reports of possible child
abuse or neglect,” said Dora Lee
I knew what this meant.
They were going to separate us.
I would never see my siblings again.
The fire had reached me.
It had sought me out, and now it would burn down my
world.
Take everything from me.
So I did the only thing I could do.
I lied.
“Has an adult ever hit you or one of the other children
7
living in the house?” Her eyes bored into me, searching.
I’d watched my dad throw my little brother to the ground,
and I’d closed my eyes tight as his fist had arched downwards.
I looked away from her and focused on the fake wood
grain of the table top. “No.”
She glanced down at her notes, “Have you ever felt that
you or the other children were in danger?”
My dad had chased Jack down with the car, he’d almost run
through the front doors of the grocery store. Jack was scared of
what dad would do when he caught him, I told Jack not to run,
running makes you look like you’ve done something wrong.
“No, I don’t think so,” I lied once again. I couldn’t look her
directly in the eye, so I traced wrinkles around her eyes.
“Phebe?”
“Yes?”
“You can tell me the truth.” No, no I couldn’t. She didn’t
know. She wouldn’t understand. Family stays together.
“I know. I am,” I said, smiling.
I’d sat in that hallway for a long time after that, and I didn’t
know what the others said. Had they told the truth?
Each night I would face Anna and look into her wide
dark brown eyes. Her hair was cropped short she looked like
a cartoon character. I’d tried to give her a brave smile, the
kind that said everything would be okay, after all, I was her
big sister and I was here.
I wanted to be brave so bad. I remember my grandma
praising me for being so strong, but I never felt that way. I felt
tiny, timid as a rabbit. How could I be anything that would
resemble strong?
I just wanted one thing, to keep us together. I didn’t want
to lose them. That’s why I did what I did.
It’s the reason Jonah would no longer talk to me as we
did when we were younger. I worried this over in my mind,
smoothing it like a pebble in a river.
The BURN ZONE got larger each and every day. Six-
ty-three new fires. Over thirteen hundred homes lost. We
were told it was safe to return to our homes. People had been
trickling back in all week, but finally, it was our turn.
8
The corpses of hundred-year-old pines littered the sides
of the highway. Others still stood but were merely husks of
their former selves. Hillsides of blackened trees, here where
I’d lived all my life and never known there was a hillside.
A weight settled in my chest, this was where we’d spent
our youth. We would run through the woods playing hide and
go seek, and building forts that only we could find.
There was no trash to be found on the sides of the drive.
There was no anything. The cinder blocks that the mobile
home had sat on was all that was left. Through my open win-
dow I could hear it before I saw it.
I heard the mooing of the calf.
There was a small circle around the swingset, all around
it had been burned. Our house, the neighbor’s house that sat
across from us, all burned. But this little cow with its eyes of
deep chocolate brown had lived.
We sifted through the ashes, trying to find anything
that had been forgotten. Why did we look? I knew there was
nothing to find. The silt in my hands slid through my fingers,
turning them gray.
“Where’s Jack?” I asked my step-mom
She looked up distracted as if her oldest step sons’ disap-
pearance hadn’t seemed odd to her, “I think he walked off in
that direction…” she trailed off pointing toward the black-
ened treeline. The trees looked like the inside of the mouth of
some nightmare.
The pigs had turned to bacon; my sister’s beloved pigs
that she’d begged our father for.
I stepped around their charred carcasses, holding my
breath. There was no way I could breathe in those toxic
fumes without emptying the contents of my stomach onto the
ground next to them.
Jack sat on the remains of a tree, staining his backside
black. Sniffling. I stood in front of him, and begged him to
meet my gaze.
“Pull it together,” I whispered. The fire had reached his
heart as well. I could see it burning him from the inside out.
Jack with his dark hair has always had a tender heart, but he
9
titers on the edge. Walking the tightrope of what most call
sanity. Makes me want to take his hand, and gently say just
one step at a time. But I know that won’t make a difference, it
would only make things worse. Instead, I plant myself in front
of him and wait - waiting for him to make the first move.
I’ve been doing this since before I could remember,
waiting for reality to sink back into his face or the face of
our mother. Waiting for the rain to come, and put out the
firestorm that raged.
Finally, his cedar eyes met mine.
“ It ’s g o n e .”
“But we’re not.”
“Phebe,” he said my name as if it caused him great sad-
ness.
“I’m leaving soon, I just wanted to leave y’all with some-
thing.”
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere they can help me, somewhere I don’t have to
be hurting anymore” he fingered the scars that laced their way
up his right arm.
But I had lied to keep us together. How could this happen?
Why? After all we’d gone through? A car door slammed, like
a thunderclap. Jarring me out of my thoughts.
“That must be them now.” Jack said.
“Jack, honey” Mom called. My mom, she was here to take
Jack away.
My brother left me there standing in the woods that
smelled of fire and smoke. I was just another tree that had
been burned.
10
Silence Your
c
ellphoneS now
by
Payton Hudak
Tension sizzles under the skin
of my hands like freshly-poured
Pepsi. Whispered kernels pop
in my ears, liquid butter trickling
down my spine. I came to see the stars
but now crush candy beneath my teeth,
imagining it to be the people conversing
languidly in front of me, while light
ickers across their faces, untroubled
by the supernova pressure piling up,
unaware of the universal fury behind them.
11
igloo
by
Payton Hudak
Our skin is cold as Death, yet heat lives
inside us. e womb around us is hard
ice and we can see moisture, hot
from our mouths, hanging in the air.
We are dragons, breathing re, guarding
each other. Snowballs y, angels lie,
we build our home below a sun
that promises to melt it all.
12
whaT we Do
by
Payton Hudak
Dad always asks,
How is your friend?
I always say,
He’s doing ne.
We survive this way. We pretend
that our conversations don’t tend
to amount to passive lying.
Dad always asks,
How is your friend?
like the band on my nger blends
with my hand, like it doesn’t shine.
I survive this way. I pretend
that my heart doesn’t comprehend
how his question aims to conne
me. He always asks,
How is your friend?
My soul screams,
How can you condemn
happiness?
My partner and I,
we survive this way. We pretend
it’s not exhausting to defend
love; there’s no option to resign.
Dad always asks,
How is your friend?
We survive this way. We pretend.
13
rollerSkaTing
To kaTrina
anD The waveS
by
Payton Hudak
is carpeting was prevalent in the 80s,
the green and purple and yellow geometry
deceptively haphazardous in its overlap.
But it isn’t here by accident, it’s meant to stop
you from barreling into another body
when you leave the arena, blood glowing
in your cheeks and bruises creeping up
your knees, heart pulsing with the disco lights.
14
The ceiling
by
Margaret Godfrey
e rst time I saw someone die I was 18 years old. I worked
at Texas Emergency Care, a little clinic outside of Houston in
a tracky area o Will Clayton. Little did I know what had
started out as a normal day would change my life forever.
I’d spent the morning on homework, writing an essay on
cell structure when my phone buzzed, the camera light ash
-
ing. My attention shied from cell walls and membranes to the
phone. Work. I debated if I should answer or decline the call.
I quickly answered, knowing I had a shi that night. My boss
sounded panicked, asking how fast I could get to work. She
didn’t explain the situation. I assumed we were short-staed or
the systems were down, and I pushed aside my schoolwork to
get ready. I dreaded going to work and took as much time as
possible, sliding one leg into my pants at a time, slowly pulling
the so cloth to my hips. I knotted the waistband into the per
-
fect bow. Grabbing my shirt, I slid it over my head, enjoying the
smell of owers from my new laundry detergent. I smoothed
my hair into a tight ponytail, shoved my feet into my worn-out
scrub shoes, dingy white with various stains splattered on them
like an art canvas. I reached for my car keys and headed to
work. If I had known in that moment what I was being called
in for, I would have rushed to help.
e clinic seemed unusually quiet, and I pushed through
the glass doors, cool air slapping my face. I immediately knew
something was wrong. When is an emergency room ever quiet,
or a waiting room vacant? I imagined every worst-case scenar
-
io, my thoughts bouncing and leaping like a confused frog. I
started to feel stressed, my mouth dry, my chest tight. I was
a rubber band stretched across the highway. I walked around
the corner. My heart thumped like a drum, ready to explode. I
found a woman on the oor, head in her hands, praying fran
-
tically. She looked mid-ies and could have been my mother.
15
Tears streamed down her face. Her sharp voice cracked as
she prayed, “Lord please give him more time. I can’t do this
alone. Help me.” She repeated herself, repeated herself so many
times the words burrowed into my brain. I put my hand on her
back and searched for the right words. She struggled to put
together a cohesive thought, “My... My husband. I don’t know
what to do. Please... Room four.” I eased the woman back into
her chair, reassured her. I would check on her husband.
Down the hall, sta members swarmed like ustered wasps,
ready to dive and sting. Everyone yelled orders, bumped into
each other, bounced o of each other. I squeezed through to
see what was happening. e man lay sprawled on the bed,
gazing at the ceiling. He looked terried, sad, as if he knew
something we did not. His splotchy red skin darkened to deep
purple. As his oxygen levels plummeted, a jagged line formed
across his chest. He was a textbook case. Pulmonary embolism.
Unable to breathe, he danced on the thin line of death.
My boss ordered me to start CPR. I climbed up the stool and
positioned myself directly above his heart, placed my hands
on his chest and took a deep breath, knowing I could make
the situation worse, but if I stood around and did nothing, he’d
have no chance of survival.
My coworkers called for an ambulance as I started com
-
pressions. His ribs fractured under my hands. Every time I
pushed down, his ribs and cartilage popped like bubble-wrap,
a unsettling noise I still hear today. At this point our options
seemed slim to none, and we knew it. Hope slowly drained
from everyone in the room. Time never moved so slowly.
ose een minutes felt like eternity, and I wondered if
this really was the right profession for me, questioned my abil
-
ity to handle each situation that I may or may not make worse,
depending on the severity of the case, who called me and when,
how soon I arrived or did not arrive. How many women would
I nd on their knees praying for their husbands to live?
e paramedics exploded through the door, le the room
empty as if the man had never existed.
I oen nd myself thinking about that aernoon. Will I
ever erase that day from my memory, or do I even want to? He
gave me a glimpse of reality, the ceiling, and it haunts me like
a ghost.
16
The wooDS
by
Savannah Shelton
The woods are a dangerous place.
Not because they contain deadly fauna or breath-snatching
flora, but because they don’t. Not because the trees trap obliv-
ious travelers in their branches and the whistling winds cut to
the bone, but because they don’t.
No, these woods are far from terrifying or bloodthirsty.
One could even go so far as to say they’re normal, if such a
thing still exists. The trees are tall and wear emerald crowns
bejeweled with bird nests and spiderwebs. The soil is dark and
fertile, carpeted with fallen leaves and thick rugs of moss and
skittering insects. Sunlight is easy to come by. It enjoys shifting
between the trees and bushes like molten gold. Streams run
swift and silver through the foliage, populated with smooth
stones and shimmering fish.
Creatures here are shy, but friendly if approached. They are
accustomed to humans traipsing through their home, marvel-
ing at the dreamlike silence of the trees. Nothing rancid or foul
resides here. It’s a pure environment, flawless by design. No
predators stalk the night, no snow or hail or thunder disrupts
the perpetual peace.
That is exactly how it draws them in.
These woods are a haven, the perfect example of harmony in
nature. Very few people venture here, but those who do seldom
leave the same, if at all. They become entranced by the beauty of
the woods, the vibrant colors that bleed into each other, a smear
of emerald and gold, jasper and sapphire. They forget, in the
woods, that there’s danger beyond its borders. They forget that
there’s famine and disease and poverty in the outside world.
They enter a fantasy atmosphere and leave reality behind.
But just because you abandon something doesn’t mean it’s
gone forever.
17
Eventually, they recover their wits when they realize they
are starving to death, unwilling to kill any animal or destroy
any plant. Such is their desire to preserve the splendor of the
woods. Their basic human needs jerk them back to reason, and
with heavy hearts and clear minds, they shield their eyes and
make their way through the trees. Once they reach the edge
of the woods, without fail, they turn around and have one last
look. The sunlight shines just a bit brighter, the animals seem
to become more tranquil, and the trees rustle oh-so-invitingly.
It is a goblin market of living things, whispering one final time,
Come look.
Come see.
Come stay.
Many decide to go back into the woods, unable to resist
its allure, and are never seen again. The wise few who are able
to turn away from the spell of nature return to their homes,
gloomy and heartsick but alive. Those who make it out are sure
to never return. They know what will happen if they do.
The woods are a dangerous place.
18
awaY
wiTh The Sea
by
Shaylynn Packard
time and tide, indeed, wait for no man—
or woman
she stands entranced —
the shimmer, the depth,
the swirling hues of cerulean sea-
feeling insignicant yet freed
the rise and fall of crushing waves—
tender gestures ung
towards the one who lives
with saltwater in her veins
pulled in by the receding tide
towards the rippling of the sea—
destined to control the depths and breadths
of the sprawling innite blue horizon
she boards her ship setting sail —
escaping the realm
of dust and foliage,
duty and frailty
riding rippling waters
towards the horizon
she waits for no one—
for nothing
19
Barcelona
by
Shaylynn Packard
round and round the city by bus
hands intertwined, my head on your shoulder
surrounded by strangers, I’m at home
we don’t speak the native tongue but it’s music to our ears
hands intertwined, my head on your shoulder
walking along cobbled streets alive with song
we don’t speak the native tongue but it’s music to our ears
dancers’ dresses swirl and shimmer brilliant blue
we stop along a cobbled street alive with song,
sangria soaked lips so pressed against mine
the sea swirls and shimmers brilliant blue,
we’re drawn to its color, sparkle, size
sangria soaked lips so pressed against mine
warm salt air, sunshine and sandy painted toes
we’re drawn in by the color, sparkle, and size
sitting half soaked in briny clothes, we’re content
warm salt air, sunshine and turquoise painted toes
surrounded by strangers, I’m at home
sitting half soaked in briny clothes, I’m content
as we go round and round the city by bus
20
You loveD Me
like The ocean
by
Shaylynn Packard
As I move closer, the sound dances in my ears.
Standing at the shore,
the smell of salt stimulates my nose.
Wild wind rushes through my hair.
Warm sand covers my toes,
the water glistens aquamarine.
As I move closer, the ground turns damp,
the waves leap eagerly to caress me.
I yearn to feel more of this embrace.
Water slides up my legs like liquid silk.
e water and its waves have an undeniable magnetism.
I want to know you, be surrounded by you.
I want to discover your secrets.
As I move closer, water encircles my body.
e balance between our waters creates a buoyancy.
My feet no longer touch the ground.
e vastness of your beauty is alluring.
I want to be part of your enormity,
to see what lies beneath the surface.
Your shallow parts are remarkable,
your heart must be the same.
21
As I move closer, waves pull me out faster.
You yearn to possess me as much as I do you.
I go with you willingly, succumbing to you.
I place my face below your surface until my lungs burn.
Maybe you’re not what I thought.
You take my breath away and yet blind me.
I let myself disappear for you.
Deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper.
Until there is no way back,
and I fear the dark.
You are no longer beautiful.
Your waters turn a gloomy shade of navy.
You turn cold and vicious, holding me beneath the waves.
I ght it, hacking up brackish water.
I open my eyes to see what you are beneath the surface.
When I nally see, the pain stings like
jellysh tendrils, writhing.
My body grows tired of the pain you inict.
It’s getting harder and harder to ght for myself.
I let you hurt me.
My lips are sore and split.
Lungs compressed by your weight.
You push me under, tossing and turning, gasping for air.
You push me away, a bruised and broken vessel,
damaging me on every wave.
And somehow, you’ve pushed me back to shore.
22
The call
of The voiD
BY
MeriDian parhaM
Have you ever wondered what it felt like to die? Is it as
truly painless as they say? To fall asleep for the last time and
become one with nothing? Or maybe become one with…
something. Is there really an afterlife? A Heaven with angels
and Hell with demons? What are we to everything?
All this I wondered as I watched Melanie’s lifeless body on
the bed, tubes running like veins and the rhythmic beeping of
the instruments keeping her alive but not living.
My sister didn’t deserve to be there, in a vegetative state, and
me, awake. It had been weeks since the accident. e scarlet rips
in her esh had barely begun to heal. ey never would. Not
fully. If she even woke up, they’d join the brown dots on her skin,
passing over them like white rivers in the landscape. Flaws on
Perfect Melanie. Her hand lay on the bed next to her, free to grab
if I wanted to. Except I didn’t.
She seemed peaceful in a way. Even though a machine
breathed for her, she could have been taking a nap, as she always
did aer she came home from school. e doctors kept telling
me that she was just sleeping. I hated when they would tell me
something fake. I wasn’t eleven anymore. She’s in a coma. Not
asleep. A vegetative state, as the doctors called it. Comatose. It’s
just as bad as when they call it “passing away” because they don’t
pass; they die. ere is no little-farm-in-the-country for sisters
that get killed in car accidents.
“Except she’s not dead, Grace,” my mother loved to remind
me every time I would say she was as good as.
“She’s a vegetable. e only dierence between her and broc
-
coli is that I can eat broccoli,” I told her. She just lay, limp and
lifeless, in this hospital, where the uorescent lights even gave
her a greenish glow.
23
I hated when they tried to comfort me. I didn’t want their
pity. I wanted my sister.
“You know, she can probably still hear what you say.” Mel
-
anie’s nurse walked in, disturbing my thoughts. ey always
checked on me when Mom and Dad were out. Annoying.
“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t bother to look up at her. She never
changed. Same scrubs, same shi, same expression of pity.
“You should tell her about your day.”
“My day sucked.”
I could feel the nurse purse her lips through the tension in
the air. I meant no disrespect. But I did. She busied herself with
checking Melanie’s tubes, not bothering to be subtle with her
quiet mutters about how twelve-year-old’s were getting ruder the
older she got.
en, she le, shutting the door with a snap to show her
irritation. Something crashed, the sound split the quiet room.
Panic ared through my body and I was gone from Melanie’s
side and the hospital, back on that dark country road. Melanie
jerked the wheel; tires squealing, the headlights of the other car,
glass shattering and steel crunching together like aluminum.
en, I was back, bent over the side of my chair, panting and
sweating, forcing myself not to vomit again.
I controlled myself long enough to look around the room.
e picture of a blooming sunower had fallen from the nail in
the wall, probably from the air when the nurse had closed the
door. It had been my fault. Again. I blinked, my eyes blurred,
overcome with tears. I snatched a tissue from the tray next to
Melanie’s bed, quickly wiping my nose and eyes before anyone
could see that I had been weak.
I needed to clean up the mess. ey would think I did it out
of anger. Again.
I crossed to the broken glass, bending down and grabbing
the jagged shards with my whole hand, ignoring the sharp stings
that came from my hands. I threw piece aer piece into the trash
can, unaware I was sning so much and that my eyes were blur
-
ry. I need to throw the glass away.
Get it out of here. Far, far away. Glass caused too much pain.
Too much hurt…
It hurt Melanie in the accident.
24
No, wait.
I hurt Melanie in the accident when I yelled at her for not
letting me use her laptop at home. I grabbed the wheel and—
e door opened, giving way to my mother, clutching her
purse and the overused wad of tissue she used to dab her eyes
all the time. I could feel her gaze on the back of my head as I
paused, on my knees, surrounded by little diamonds of glass and
smeared droplets of blood.
is had happened before but it hadn’t been an accident.
e poor lamp never saw me coming. Mom didn’t do anything
but turn, step into the hallway to call for a nurse and a broom.
She then knelt next to me, took my shoulders in her hands and
guided me to my feet, leading me to the chair beside Melanie’s
bed. She wasn’t angry with me.
I think.
e nurse returned. is time I felt pity from her as she took
each of my bloody hands in hers, turning them over to check for
glass in the cuts. e room was quiet again as the nurse set about
cleaning and bandaging up my hands. e alcohol stung but I
didn’t inch. Nothing hurt anymore.
Mom said nothing. She didn’t need to. A mother’s eyes
always said more than their mouths did. Melanie looked like
Mom. From the freckles to the brown color of her hair. I didn’t
want to look at the disappointment in the eyes of my sister on
the expression of my mother. I looked back at the vegetable. No
change in her condition, I repeated to myself. It always helped
to say that.
e nurse le as quietly as she had come.
Mom took a breath in before asking, “How is everything
here?” Her voice was so and delicate, like it had never been
before her favorite child was almost killed by her least favorite
child.
I resisted the urge to sco. She didn’t want me here. She
wanted precious alone time with Perfect Melanie. Perfect Mel
-
anie who played with life and death like it was my old train set.
e engine going around and around the track, faster and faster
until that track became a straight line and the pearly white gates
were hers and hers alone and…
I would be alone.
25
ey might have always favored Melanie, but she loved me
more than the both of them but how could I hate my sister? I
still gave her a hard time, even though she gave me everything
she had and Mom and Dad gave everything they had to her. She
always got praise for the good grades and I got criticized for
everything I did.
“You know, you shouldn’t always be here.” Case in point.
“I can if I want to be.” I knew that wasn’t true. She could
easily make me leave. at wouldn’t stop me and she knew that.
I loved my Perfect Sister.
A long silence followed. She wanted to say something to me.
“Spit it out, Mom.” I didn’t care if it was rude.
Mom inhaled, ignoring my tone, “Grace, I know you don’t
want to, but your father and I have talked about,” she swallowed,
“taking Melanie o life support.”
I felt my heart stop and my whole body shivered. O? Why?
It’s only been a few weeks of nothing, “No, Mom. She-she’s going
to wake up any day now.” My chin started to quiver and my eyes
watered over again, “You can’t give up on her!”
“Honey, it’s been weeks and there’s been no sign of brain
activity. e doctors have done all they can for her. It’s time to
do what we can and think about the possibility of letting her go.”
“No, I won’t let you.”
Mom rolled her ngers into her st, a red ush began to
creep up her neck, “It’s not up to you.” She was trying to maintain
a level tone. She knew how volatile I was.
I didn’t want to see her becoming angrier with me. As always,
I pushed her buttons. I turned to look at Melanie, letting myself
be childish. “I will make it up to me.”
“Stop it.” e sharpness of her words made me turn to look
at her. Lips tight, her face blotchy and her shoulders shaking as
she spoke, “I have tried to go easy on you these past few weeks,
but I’m tired of your ungrateful attitude. You’re not the only one
who is suering. You selshness means that—” Tears brimmed
her eyes as her throat thickened— “you do not deserve to be
h e r e .”
“Here in this room, or here on Earth?” I snapped.
My mom clenched her teeth together so hard I thought
they’d shatter, her ngernails dug into her palms, turning her
26
knuckles white. Tears escaped from her eyes as she ung her bag
over her shoulder and sped from the room, her shoes crunched
through the broken glass that had yet to be swept away.
I exhaled slowly, not realizing I had been so tense. Why
didn’t she answer the question?
It was silent now, except for the sounds of Melanie being
kept alive and the snis that came from my nose.
You are hurting, Grace. A voice came to me in the quiet
ambiance of the room. e door hadn’t opened and Melanie and
I were alone.
I turned in my chair to see a light shape that spiraled in on
itself as if a white storm cloud had accumulated in the hospital,
twisting and churning upon itself like a snake rolling over its
prey.
I was scared at rst. Feeling immense power emanating
through the room, channeling into me. What was it?
Seconds passed before I was able to muster the words to
speak, “What are you—”
You are hurting. It repeated. It didn’t speak, not out loud.
e words didn’t come from the cloud but from my mind, the
syllables echoed and bounced through my skull. I put my hands
over my ears but that didn’t help as the echo faded. I’m here to
guide you, Grace.
I opened my mouth to say something sharp and smart but
I was stopped as a bright ash ripped through my mind like
lightning and the room was replaced by red. e feeling didn’t
hurt but I could tell the cloud didn’t like my tone.
ink carefully, child. A lie will get you nowhere. I know
you. It hummed gently, a so buzz in my ear.
“Yes,” I found myself saying, “I am hurting.”
Good. Tell me why you are hurting.
“I-I hurt my sister.” e words fell out of my mouth before I
could change them.
e cloud seemed to chuckle. You make everything about
you. You have done nothing but say ‘I’ while you’re here. It is not
only about you.
What was this cloud and who made it in charge?
e cloud laughed, the sound echoed through my ears, my
mind, and my body, rocking through my bones and my soul. I
27
am… there was a pause in the cloud’s rumbling voice. …a Void.
A protector to you. And to Melanie.
“Are you like a guardian angel?” I’d heard about those some
-
times when people’s loved ones died.
Not quite. I’m the color gray. e middle. You have a story
that I want to read and I’m here to help you.
“And what story is that? e one where I killed my sister?”
e one where you gure it out with my help.
“Help?” I scoed, “Why do I need your help?”
Your sister is dying because of you.
“I know that,” I snapped, turning away from the stupid
cloud-void. e gravity of what I said reached my heart and my
next words were so, “I know. I caused the car to crash and put
her in a coma.”
e void chuckled again. No, that is not the reason she is
dying. Your sister saved your life. She jerked the wheel before
the other driver could hit you straight on. You both should have
died.
e memories came rushing back like a broken dam. e
roads were slippery. I was mad at her. I hit the wheel. Melanie
screamed. Headlights ashed the inside of the car, the wheel had
spun in her hands, and I was thrown into the passenger door. My
head hit the glass.
Why are you so angry with yourself, little one?
I felt my heart sink. I was angry with myself, “I-I don’t know.”
ink about that. With a sudden ash of light, the Void had
vanished and I was alone in the room with the sounds of the
ventilator keeping Melanie with us.
A knock on the door and the nurse returned, clutching a
broom and dustpan, “I’m sorry to bother you but I thought I’d—”
I found my mouth spoke for me, “No, no, please, let me.” I
reached out for the broom and the nurse looked taken aback. I’d
never said please to her before. Or anything that wasn’t full of
preteen angst.
She gave it to me, “Are you feeling alright?” She seemed
apprehensive and I could tell she thought I had a concussion or
maybe an aneurysm.
I didn’t say anything as I swept away the last of the glass. I
threw the remains in the garbage bin as I turned to her, taking a
28
deep breath, “No. I’m not.” My voice broke as hot tears began to
spill down my cheeks. e nurse enveloped me into a hug and
I cried into her shirt, “My sister is dying and I don’t want her to
l e av e .”
e nurse hushed me soly, “I know, dear. Deep breaths. No
one is doing anything yet. ere’s still time for her to wake up.”
I snied and let her go, stepping back and wiping my eyes. I
couldn’t do anything but nod and blubber out a “thank you.” She
nodded back, giving me a smile that was full of hope and leaving
with the bag of glass, closing the door behind her.
See? at wasn’t so hard. I turned, and saw the Void had
returned.
“No,” I admitted.
You did well. You are letting go of your anger.
“Who sent you to me?” I had to know why this guardian had
come to rescue me from myself. I’d grown up believing in fairy
tales but this wasn’t a fairy godmother.
I came because of your sister. I stayed for you. So many of the
souls I meet are hopeless, but you showed me something else.
What did that mean? Before I could ask, the Void interrupted.
Be with your sister. She needs you.
“No,” I corrected the Void, “I need her.”
e Void gave a low chuckle, pleased with my response. It
had given me the kick I needed. Melanie had always been there
for me and now it was time for me to be there for her.
**
Someone gently shook my shoulder.
I opened my eyes, feeling hope rise in my chest before I
realized that it wasn’t Melanie who was waking me up. I’d fallen
asleep in the chair.
It was Mom. “Sweetheart,” she didn’t seem angry, but her
voice shook, “we’ve decided to—” her voice failed.
“—to let the doctors turn o life support,” Dad nished her
sentence. He was standing behind her, resolute in his expression,
a gentle hand rubbing her shoulder. Always there for us.
I felt something begin to rise in me, bubbling at the surface. It
should have been anger but it felt familiar. Like before something
intense, like a soccer game. It felt like spirit. I got to my feet,
looking them both in the eye. From one to the other, I glanced
29
between them, then to the doctors and nurses standing in the
back, their faces solemn.
Once more, the voice echoed across my mind, Why so angry,
little one? Was that it’s lesson all along?
I didn’t see the mysterious Void that guided me from my
anger but I felt a wave of peace wash over my body, feeling clean
for the rst time in weeks since I’d woken up in the hospital.
I looked at Melanie, asleep on her bed. She didn’t look like
my sister. e tubes twisted and turned on themselves, skin
sunken on her face. Her freckles had faded away from the sun’s
grasp. ey blended almost seamlessly into her skin. If you were
close enough, you could see the pale brown spots. She may have
been alive, but this wasn’t living. Seeing her suer for a selsh
hope or dream that she’d wake up and be my sister again wasn’t
worth this anger. I had to let her go and nd peace for myself.
Good, Grace, good. You live up to your name.
I nodded, looking at Mom and feeling a so smile emerge.
“I’m with you, Mom.” I looked at my Dad, standing strong, as he
always was. He was falling apart, like Mom, but on the inside.
“And you, Dad.”
Relief ooded her expression when I didn’t ght her. I knelt
beside my sister and took her cold hand in mine for the rst time
in weeks.
A gi for you. A ash of light accompanied the resonant
voice.
e doctor stepped toward the machines where the tubes
intersected. He reached out, hand outstretched when…
Melanie squeezed my ngers and opened her eyes.
30
no SouvenirS
alloweD
in MonaSTerieS
by
Brice Ashton Kohleriter
In 1959 the Dalai Lama fled Tibet with the assistance
of the CIA, following the Chinese invasion and takeover of
Tibet in 1950. He sought refuge in India where he has since
grown to the ripe old age of eighty-three. Even now he is an
active teacher and humanitarian. He has proclaimed that he
is ready to move back to Tibet in a moment’s notice, should
China cease its oppressive rule and return Tibet to a state of
independence.
According to Bardo Thodol: The Tibetan Book of the
Dead by His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Tibetan outlook on
death states that when you die, your soul will experience at
the very least one of six tests. Six trials which even the low-
liest of humans have the opportunity to take. At each trial,
one will see a dull light in front and a blinding light behind.
It is up to that person to choose the path most bright, even
though it hurts to look at, as that is the path to enlightenment.
If they walk into the dull light, they are cast downward to
their next trial. If by the end of the sixth trial a soul is still not
liberated from existence, then it is either sent into the body of
an animal, a man, or a demon depending on your actions in
life. Some souls are sent to burn in hell of course.
Have you ever spent a week writing a memoir or painting
a portrait with watercolors, only to set it ablaze on Sunday?
A storm had come and gone over Dallas, leaving the roads
wet and petrichor on the wind. Asphalt crunches beneath the
tires of my mom’s car as twigs under heavy footfall. After only
31
a thirty-minute drive, we arrive at a building with a green
statue sitting crisscross in the center of a fountain. The Crow
museum of Asian art is under construction. The sound of
power drills and the smell of burnt rubber stains the atmo-
sphere. My mom walks in front of me, glancing back every
now and again as if to make sure I’m just as excited as I was
thirty seconds ago. We walk through the glass doors but are
immediately lost due to the chaos of the construction work-
ers. It’s strange to think that these workers toil day to day,
late into the afternoon, pouring their sweat and occasionally
their blood into something that will outlive them and might
even outlive humanity. Lost in these thoughts, I start to lag
behind. My mom hears the shuffling of my feet, which she
immediately scorns. Picking up my pace we find our way to
an elevator with blue cloth covering the walls.
A rare complete set of samurai armor greets me at the
museum’s entrance. I stare it down, hoping to intimidate it,
but it doesn’t flinch. My mom shakes my shoulder and hands
me my ticket. Ascending the stairs, we sweep straight through
the heart of the museum. We have some time before the
ritual, so we make use of it by navigating the corridors. We
can only observe the museum attractions, as we don’t have
enough time to read about them. Locked behind plastic or
hung on the wall is preserved Art, sculpture, weapons, ceram-
ic plates, and astrolabes. Depictions of warriors in conflict
with warriors, demons, or animals. We see the Buddha in his
may forms fashioned from bronze or ink blotted paintings of
black rivers.
We had rushed through this all in about twenty minutes.
It seemed not enough time. We cross a glass skybridge and
enter into a heavily populated room. Immediately, my eye
is caught by the multicolored sand art in the center of the
room. It’s a mandala, which from Sanskrit translates to sacred
Cosmo gram. Its design is composed of six vibrant colors
of sand, each of which represents one of the six teachings
of perfection, or one of the six Buddhas of enlightenment,
or one of the six realms of rebirth. Each intricate pattern is
painstakingly detailed across a very basic stencil which lies
32
underneath. Directly behind the mandala is an altar upon
which sits a framed picture of the Dalai Lama. His smile is
radiant, exercising nothing but compassion and wisdom. Laid
out to the right and left of the Dalai Lama are gold goblets
and silver platters, upon which are various fruits, herbs, and
grains. Elegantly dressed visitors snap pictures madly. I take
my seat in the front and rightmost section of the room. A few
rows down, an oversized stuffed dog plush rests next to the
seat of a boy much too old to be carrying it around. A woman
in a black dress tells us to be seated. Some opening statements
are made, a “thanks for coming!”, and an even huger “thank
you to our sponsors”. A second speaker takes the front center
and attempts to lead us through some brief meditation. She
tells us to close our eyes and focus on the word “ohm”. Very
few people humor her, choosing instead to scroll through
reddit or whisper to each other about sports teams and tuna
casserole. At last, the monks step out from behind a dividing
wall. Their heads are shaved bald and they wear red robes
with a golden sash. They stand in a line, waiting patiently for
their moment in the spotlight. The room falls silent and the
ritual begins.
The ground buzzes and quakes as though someone was
playing the tuba. The voices of the monks match in synchrony
and tone, a deep rumbling voice which fills the room. Through
it all, I can make out words spoken in a foreign tongue. For a
moment they stop. Two of the monks retrieve what appears
to be golden and intricately engraved metallic jugs. Reaching
inside, they pull out section by section the interconnected
components of the jug like contraptions. By the time they’ve
finished, the two monks hold massive mammoth’s tusk shaped
trumpets so large that they can only be held up from the top
so that the bulk of its body rests on the floor. The trumpets
shake every chair in the room and a mother has to take her
child outside to silence its screams. A photographer with the
Dallas morning news crouches next to me, snapping pictures
loudly.
I try to ignore him. I close my eyes and focus my attention
inwards, letting the sounds fill and nourish me. Only one of
33
the monks has a necklace of wooden beads. He pounds a
leather drum with a vortex insignia of pink and turquoise in
rhythm with the chanting. The pacing of the drumbeat picks
up and the chanting fills the room and for one-moment there
is order in the chaos. The ritual climaxes with the lead monk
destroying the circular sand mandala. He collects a pinch of
sand from each of the six sides of the mandala, palming it
in his hand. He then sprinkles the sand onto his own head,
signifying his enlightenment and refinement of the third eye.
Pushing his brush in a straight line across the middle, he cuts
the weeklong labor in half. Then he walks counterclockwise
around six times, destroying and dividing it line by line each
rotation. After the sixth rotation, the sand is mixed into a dull
grey conglomeration at the center of the table. Where once
there had been brilliance and symbolism, now there was only
dust. The closing ceremony had concluded.
Four of the eight monks shuffle to the center table and
scooped the sand into tiny Ziplock bags with spoons. They
passed the bags out to everyone in the audience. Upon closer
inspection, you could pick out each individually colored
grain of sand, beautiful individually but dirty and dull when
inspected from afar. We’re told to scatter the sand into the
wind or sprinkle it into running water as a reminder that all
suffering is impermanent. I wait a little longer than most,
hoping for a chance to talk with the visiting monks. Once all
the sand had been distributed, one of the monks steps forward
and begins accepting questions. His group had traveled from
a monastery in India to Dallas, Texas. They’d spent a little
over a week doing little more than rubbing two hollow rods
against each other to scatter the colored sands held inside.
People ask him intently about his life as a monk or about the
mandala they had so carelessly destroyed. It could have been
worth tens of thousands you know. Unfortunately, I under-
stand very little of his response due to his accent. Finally, it’s
my turn to ask him a question. I had read just the previous
year Bardo Thodol:
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
almost to
its entirety, a thousand-page bible dedicated to Tibetan gods,
Buddhas, demons, and rituals that shamans conduct on the
34
dying. I tell the monk this. I ask if the lessons we learn in life
stay with us during our trials in death. He hesitantly says yes,
although he seems to be struggling to grasp the right words.
Indeed, it’s no small task explaining Tibetan death.
“I really can’t explain this in words. You just have to keep
searching for answers. Look inward.”
This is all the monk could tell me and although I’m cer-
tainly not satisfied with that, he has other questions to answer.
Thanking him for his time, I return to my seat. My mom asks
me if I’m ready to go and I hesitantly nod yes. On our way
to the elevator, my mom and I see some familiar faces. It’s
the boy with the stuffed dog and his mother. In the elevator,
we strike up a conversation about the closing ceremony and
about each other’s lives. The kid is in fourth grade and the
mom does interior design. I ask him why he’s carrying around
a stuffed puppy to a ceremony about the acceptance of death,
yet the mother answers for him.
“Oh, well the monks gave it to him. Apparently, they went
to the carnival last night and won it.”
“Huh,” says my Mom, “I guess there’s no souvenirs allowed
in monasteries.” Funny that. I guess there’s no souvenirs al-
lowed beyond death either. You just simply can’t take them
with you.
35
oSwalD’S DeMon
by
Taylor Smith
Oswald was never a good sleeper. His father was to blame.
He always had the television at maximum volume because
his hearing wasn’t the best, but what made it worse was his
open-ended comments. He always had something to say.
Oswald was sure his father thought he was muttering under
his breath, but at the same time, Dad had no regard for oth-
ers. Oswald’s sleepless nights were even more excruciating
because of school.
It was hard for him to walk the halls without drawing
attention. A part of him didn’t mind, but he wanted more
respect out of those fish-eyed stares. Most boys didn’t walk
around in high-heeled platform boots. Painting his nails black
or framing his eyes with eyeliner didn’t help him, either. Like
others who did not fit the social norm, Oswald was labeled
as weird. The boy’s appearance was weird, his lack of friends
was weird, and staying quiet all day was weird. What made
him all the weirder was his magic.
Oswald didn’t want to be categorized with those wannabe
girls who thought boiling rose petals or using lavender oil
in their baths gave them a ‘spiritual’ awakening to nature’s
magic. His magic was real.
His mother told him he was special for as long as he could
remember. Oswald assumed it was her way of making him
feel better about himself. She would reassure him whenever
he wanted to get a Barbie doll over a toy truck that it was
okay. One day he wore a tutu to class and discovered that boys
don’t wear tutus. After a day filled with jabs to the stomach
that escalated to punches, his mother was there to comfort
him. They just don’t understand, she would say. It’s hard,
but you should never be afraid to express yourself. You’re
special. His mother tried her best to have his father be just
36
as supportive as she was, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t
see his son like his mother did. When Oswald was eight, his
mother died in a car accident. The loss was indescribable. He
didn’t cry at the funeral. Oswald was angry. Something in
him snapped. It broke in his chest and pulsed with the power
of inferno. Oswald had magic.
The boy made sure to keep it a secret. Through years of
trial and error he learned his craft, even if he didn’t truly un-
derstand it. His journal was filled with hexes and rituals that
would shake those aesthetic seekers to their cores. Oswald
could create potions that evoked the emotions of man. He
could communicate to the dead if he wanted the company.
Now, those wannabe girls wouldn’t be able to sleep for
months. Oswald could, if his father ever learned how to shut
up.
The boy’s brow furrowed deeply with annoyance. He
was done. He was done with the stares, the loud whispers
in the hallways, the disregard for the way he looked and his
muttering father. He wanted to make it stop. “That’s it,” he
said aloud. Oswald boiled underneath his sheets as he wait-
ed for his father to turn off the evening news and go to his
room. After that, he would be able to do what he wanted to
do. Oswald let his dark thoughts fog his mind. As soon as he
heard his father’s door close across the house, Oswald pushed
the suffocating sheets off and stormed to his closet. He tossed
aside several comic books and pairs of flashy shoes to get to
what he needed. Candles. Blood-red candles only available
at a shop deep in the downtown alleys. The seller had the
vague knowledge of how powerful they were and was hesitant
about selling them to Oswald. The boy used his bewitching
charisma to get what he wanted. He knew what he was doing.
Already burned into the wooden floor underneath his rug
was a series of precise and skeletal circles that overlapped
each other, a symbol for the demon he wanted to summon.
He had read about them in a forgotten book that was
stacked on the highest shelf of the public library. Why was
there such a dangerous book in the public library? Oswald did
not question it. This particular demon, if summoned, would
37
serve their master for three days. Within that time, anything
could be possible. Nothing would be out of Oswald’s grasp.
The reward was high, but so was the price. This demon was
powerful, hard to conjure. If Oswald were to succeed, he
wouldn’t be allowed to enter Heaven. He would have let one
of the most powerful demons out of Hell. How would they
accept him? Oswald’s eyes hardened.
So be it.
The boy placed each candle in its place, and as quietly as
he could, pulled out a small case of matches from his desk
drawer. As he grabbed his journal, he asked himself why
he wasn’t scared. Normal people would be anxious. They
wouldn’t be able to stop sweating or keep their hands still.
Their knees would rattle and their stomachs would flip. Not
Oswald. He strode about his room with confidence, determi-
nation etched into his stony features. The boy took his place
at the base of the symbol and went to work.
Oswald muttered the incantation as he ignited a match
and lit the candles. He wasn’t surprised to see the flame turn
black. The book, The Chronicles Of Demons, said it would
do that. That meant he was reciting the spell correctly. He lit
six candles in total and leaned back onto his heels. Despite
being as black as night, the small spits of flame casted an eerie
glow around his room. Oswald’s expression twitched. He had
read about what it would look like but seeing it in real life was
different. No one has ever managed to conjure this demon.
For all he knew, they could have tried but were never suc-
cessful. What happened to the summoner if the ritual failed?
He hesitated. The flames dimmed. Panic ignited in his chest.
“No, no, no,” he stammered. Oswald hurriedly leaned for-
ward and outstretched his hand over the center of the symbol.
He tried to calm down, to grab the condence he had earlier
and put that energy into the ritual. Aer a few moments of
silence, the ames returned to their unnatural glow. Oswald let
out a shaky exhale. at was close. A few moments had passed
before he began to recite the conjuring spell again.
His words began to roll off his tongue without effort. As
the demonic words intensied, the black ames grew stronger.
38
The symbol glowed red. Oswald’s voice deepened into an
unnatural baritone as the spell strengthened. He could feel
the floor rumble beneath his fingertips. The spell poured out
of his mouth at rapid speed, as if the demon were pulling
itself out of Hell with his words. He felt how they dug their
claws into his stomach, how they pierced and pulled their
way up his throat and into his mouth. Oswald forced himself
to remain calm the closer the demon came to the surface. He
would get what he wanted.
e small black ames of the candles shot up to the ceiling.
e room shook violently. Oswald’s voice became someone else’s
as something writhed out of his mouth. Fear raked his chest at
the black substance, how it slunk out of his mouth, down his
chest and across the oor like a slug. It was groaning in agony,
a symphony of distorted roars that wasn’t animal or human.
Oswald’s part was complete. He coughed and resisted the urge
to vomit when he brought his hand up to wipe whatever was le
around his mouth. e substance was thick and dripped from
his ngers like syrup. e glob had reached the center of the
symbol. e noise grew louder as it transformed.
Arms and legs sprouted out of the blob’s sides. ey
squirmed and screamed as their back arched grotesquely. From
the body grew a neck and a face. Oswald shrunk back once he
recognized human features. e inky substance began to melt
away and was replaced with human esh. e demon spit and
snarled in pain. eir voice became more decipherable. Ears
grew and were pointed at the tip. From the spine, a tail sprouted.
e end was shaped similarly to a spade and was dark red, nota-
bly scaly. When the nal spots of human esh patched together,
clothes were summoned on top. Oswald didn’t expect to see a
pair of torn up jeans and a red annel. Within the next couple of
seconds, searing pain smoked against his wrists. Oswald looked
down and saw them decorated with glowing red shackles.
Chains slithered between him and the demon and linked togeth-
er. Before he could tug at them or scream, they vanished. Once
their formation was complete, the demon sharply outstretched
their hands. In a rush of power, the ames were snued out. e
symbol stopped glowing and the room grew still. It was done.
39
The house was deathly quiet except for the demon’s la-
bored breathing. They took in a deep breath and exhaled in
finality. Smoke left their mouth. Oswald watched in horror
as one of the most powerful demons of Hell attempted to
stand. They were much shorter than he thought they would
be. Their legs shook with effort before they collapsed to their
knees. Oswald heard them grunt in frustration. “Curse these
fucking human legs,” they muttered. The boy felt his head
tilt to the side with surprise. They sounded young, perhaps a
few years younger than he was. Their voice was high pitched,
feminine. Oswald made a move to stand and reached for his
chair to steady himself. Of course, having just conjured a
demon, his body was weak. He fell against the back of the
chair and made it skid against the floor. The noise was loud
enough to make them jump. The demon whipped their head
around and stared at him. Oswald froze.
The demon had a small, round face with large oval shaped
lips. They had olive-toned skin and their nose was small,
almost flat to their face. Wide and alert almond-shaped eyes
bore into him. Oswald blinked. They don’t look like a demon.
They looked they could be a student at his school. He made a
double take when he saw their eyes, how they glowed black,
similar to the flames that were lit mere moments before.
Never mind. The two stared at each other. Oswald swallowed
roughly. Was he supposed to say something? Give them
his command? Something told him they wouldn’t be easily
ordered. Their brows furrowed. They opened their mouth to
speak before the voice of Oswald’s father interrupted them.
“Oswald? What the hell was that? Was there an earth-
quake?” he asked groggily. The doorknob began to jiggle.
Oswald and the demon exchanged a look before the boy
barreled over to the door. He pushed himself against it to
prevent his father from coming in.
“Y-Yeah, Dad! Just a small one! I’m fine!” he said. His
voice cracked. He avoided the demon’s curious gaze. They
turned around and attempted to stand again as Oswald’s
father continued to knock on the door.
“Why won’t the door open?” he asked.
40
“Dad, I’m ne!” Oswald shouted. e demon wobbled to
their feet; arms outstretched to keep their balance. Oswald’s
legs shook as their red tail icked from side to side. “I-It’s late
and I have a test tomorrow! Go back to bed!” He heard his
father grumble before his footsteps retreated further into the
house. Oswald’s breathing was rapid and shallow. e demon
paid him no mind as they managed to stand up straight. ey
glanced in confusion between their arms and how the sleeves
of their shirt covered their hands. ey moved their hands up
and down and watched the fabric op.
“Huh…” they muttered. e demon poked at their new
face and tugged at their hair. “Weird.” Oswald opened his
mouth to say something but was interrupted.
“You summoned me?” they asked. e demon had stopped
staring at their clothes and glanced back to the boy for an an-
swer. Oswald felt uncomfortable. He managed a shaky nod.
ere was a short pause. e demon abruptly snorted and
slammed a hand over their mouth. Oswald’s cheeks burned
red. “You? A fucking skinny-ass teenager?” e demon howled
with laughter. It didn’t sound demonic like he thought it
would. ey sounded human. Oswald’s anger reignited. e
demon he conjured treated him the same way his classmates
did. ey laughed at his appearance. ey weren’t supposed to
do that. Oswald’s brow furrowed deeply. He shot o the door
and marched over to the demon, who giggled into the palm of
their hand. He let anger be his guide, just as it was before.
“You should have more respect for your new master—” he
began. e demon erupted into more laughter. Oswald resisted
the urge to shrink away. Aer a few moments of cackling, they
began to calm down.
“Silly boy,” they sighed. eir face abruptly fell into a
glowering stare. A ash of fear burst in Oswald’s chest. “You
think I’m going to treat you like my savior?” e boy blinked
with surprise. e demon pointed a nger at him. He hadn’t
noticed their sharp nails, how their ngers were scaly red like
the end of their tail. “I’m out of that hole for three days. You’re
just…” e demon paused to think of the right words. “… the
one who opened the door.”
41
“But you’ll serve me,” Oswald said. His voice wavered.
His confidence from earlier had diminished. “You have to
grant me anything I desire, that’s what it said in the book!” By
now, laughing at the boy had gotten old. The demon looked
around Oswald’s room with mild interest as he talked. Their
flaming eyes scanned over his band posters and clothes that
littered the floor.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the demon muttered. They saun-
tered over to his closet to examine it. The demon’s expression
pinched in thought. “I thought I would be summoned by
someone much older.” Oswald hadn’t heard them. He started
to panic. What if the book lied? No, not lied. How could the
authors know about this demon if they hadn’t conjured them
themselves? It was all theory, not fact. What if he had brought
the end of the world? The demon hummed as they picked out
a metal band t-shirt. “So, what will it be, Oswald?” they asked.
Oswald didn’t realize he had begun to pace the dark room.
He glanced up and noticed the demon had helped themselves
to his wardrobe, now wearing the metal band shirt. Oswald
blinked.
“You know my name?” he blurted out. The demon rolled
their eyes.
“Your dad said it a few minutes ago,” they said.
“Oh,” Oswald muttered, embarrassed again. “What’s
yours?” The demon stared at him. When they didn’t answer,
Oswald stuttered. “I-It didn’t tell me in the book—”
“What?” the demon spat. They stomped over their sym-
bol and grabbed the discarded book. They angrily flipped
through the yellowed pages. “I would think they would be
decent enough to write it down somewhere.” Oswald forced
his outstretched hand back to his side. He didn’t like how
rough they were with the book.
“A-Actually, there’s no name at all. Your incantation is
the only one that doesn’t mention a name…” The demon
hummed at the thought, pleased that they were different
from the others. Oswald was sure it was because they were
more powerful than he had read. A name wasn’t enough to
summon them.
42
“It doesn’t matter,” they said in nality. e demon
snapped the book shut and tossed it aside. Oswald scrambled
to catch it. ere was a pause.
“Can… I give you one?” Oswald asked.
“I’m not your fucking dog.”
“No! I-I mean, of course not! at’s not what I meant!”
Oswald jabbered. “I just thought it would be better than
‘Demon’.” ey didn’t say anything. Oswald started to get
frustrated. “Have any names in mind?”
“You’re asking me?” the demon asked in disbelief, their
eyebrows raised. Oswald nodded, as if it wasn’t an odd ques-
tion. “No one ever asked me that before.” He was about to ask
why, but gured spending eternity in Hell didn’t give them a
chance to discuss names. e demon had crossed their arms in
front of their chest and thought for a few moments. “Dmitri,”
they said. “I like that name.” Oswald blinked.
“Why?” he asked the demon. ey shrugged.
“I knew someone named Dmitri in the seventh circle. Killed
his family. Nice guy.” Oswald felt a pit form in his stomach.
“Well, uh, nice to meet you, Dmitri,” he said awkwardly.
ey waved a dismissive hand in his direction.
“Yeah, whatever. When are we going to get down to busi-
ness?” Dmitri asked impatiently. Oh, right. Oswald had gotten
so wrapped up in having an actual demon in his room that he
forgot why he summoned them in the rst place.
“O-Oh, yeah. Well, I gured we could start tomorrow
when we get to school,” Oswald said. Dmitri nodded, a sign
for him to continue. When he didn’t, they blinked.
“And then what?”
“en, uh, maybe you can give Jake and Grayson a wedgie
if they make fun of my shoes. O-Oh, and if Brooke whispers
to her friends about me, you could make her hair fall out,”
Oswald listed. e pitch of his voice raised out of excitement.
A smile sprouted on his face at the thought of the endless pos-
sibilities. Dmitri, on the other hand, did not look happy. e
demon frantically glanced around the room before their eyes
found the window behind Oswald’s desk. Dmitri ran towards
it. Oswald looked after them with confusion.
43
“What are you—” e demon tumbled through Oswald’s
room and clambered onto his desk. Dmitri made a move to
open the window, perhaps break it, before their hands were
tugged back by an invisible force. e demon yelped. At the
same moment, Oswald felt something pull on his wrists. He
glanced down and found the eerie outline of the shackles from
before. Dmitri roared in anger and leaned back on their heels.
is only made Oswald lurch forward. His eyes widened. He
forgot. ey were bound together.
“NO!” Dmitri screamed. Oswald brought a trembling
nger to his mouth and attempted to hush the demon.
“You have to be quiet, my dad—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” the demon yelled. ey
glared at Oswald. “Seriously? A wedgie? How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Oswald muttered.
“You think this is a game?” Dmitri growled. “You want me
to stop people from bullying you?” Oswald hesitated before
he nodded. e demon’s hands clenched into sts. “You don’t
want to set the school on re? Make your teachers drown in
their own puke? Maybe have everyone ght to the death while
you watch?” Oswald’s expression twisted into discomfort.
“Ew, n-no. I just want them to leave me alone. If they do
something bad, then you can just… I don’t know, make them
hurt for an hour and then I’ll be okay,” Oswald said. Dmitri’s
shoulders shook with fury.
“I give birth to plagues! I can tear a man’s mind apart! I
make mortals wish for death!” Dmitri howled. ey tugged
against the shackles again. “I-I made kingdoms fall, started
wars, famine, pollution! A-And you want me to go to high
school?” Oswald returned their tug with one of his own, a
spark of his condence returning.
“I got you out of Hell, so you will do as I say, and what I
want you to do is keep everyone’s eyes o me,” he said rmly.
Dmitri’s breathing was ragged with rage. ey collapsed to
their knees. He never thought he would ever see a demon look
so defeated.
“How are you that powerful?” they asked. Oswald blinked
with confusion. “How are you—” They were angry again.
44
Dmitri scrambled down from the desk and stalked over to
the boy. “—powerful enough to summon me, a demon who
can do anything?”
“Well, clearly you can’t do ‘anything’,” Oswald blurted
out. He gestured to their wrists. “Without me, at least.” Dmi-
tri blinked up at him with the force of Hell.
“You realize the price you paid, right? You can never go
to Heaven,” they said. Dmitri’s tone had shifted from anger
to one of importance, like it was the most serious thing in
Oswald’s life. In a way, it was. The boy merely shrugged.
“at’s ne,” the teenager said. “It’s okay.” Dmitri made a
move to strike him, to dig their claws into his stupid skull. e
shackles pulled their hands roughly back to their sides. Oswald
shied away from them before he managed a sigh of relief. Aer a
few moments of intense silence with the visibly shaking demon,
Oswald uneasily glanced around his room. “So, do you want a
sleeping bag? I can give you one of my pillows, if you want.”
**
The next morning, an elated Oswald trotted out of the
house. He wore his favorite platform boots with fishnets and
torn skinny jeans. He woke up early to do his makeup. His
glittery champagne eyeshadow twinkled with the morning
sun. Oswald tossed his bag over his shoulder and glanced back
to the house. Dmitri followed him, their expression dripping
with annoyance and anger. Oswald had been so kind as to
lend them a shirt and jeans for the day. He liked seeing Dmi-
tri in something that wasn’t so oversized and glum-looking.
Pink was their color. Oswald had insisted that he did their
makeup so they could match, but Dmitri said that if he did,
they would personally drag him to Hell.
The two waited patiently for the bus. The demon gazed
around the neighborhood with skeptical eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Oswald asked. “You look… grossed
out?”
“Earth changed,” they said shortly. The boy bounced on
the balls of his feet with interest.
45
“What did it look like before?” he asked. Dmitri eyed the
large yellow bus as it neared their stop.
“The sky was bluer,” Dmitri said. Oswald felt his stomach
sink. The two climbed onto the bus. Dmitri squirmed next
to Oswald uncomfortably as the teenage chatter grew louder
with each stop. When they arrived at the high school, Dmitri
understood what compelled Oswald to summon them.
The school was run-down, unloved and uncared for. The
halls reeked with the stench of marijuana and body odor.
Dmitri saw the foul stares and glances aimed in Oswald’s
direction. He ignored it and continued to trudge through the
overpopulated corridors. Dmitri had to quicken their pace to
keep up. As they neared Oswald’s locker, the demon watched
with shock as a jock stuck out his foot in the middle of the
hallway and made Oswald trip. Before the boy could find
his footing, another jock pushed him into the lockers. They
snickered and fist bumped as they left the scene. Dmitri found
themselves glaring after them. They felt an anger they hadn’t
felt in a long time. When they saw how Oswald attempted
to use the lockers to regain his composure, Dmitri expected
to be given an order. Set them on fire. Make them vomit up
their intestines. Kill their families. Instead, Oswald heaved a
shaky sigh and rubbed his bruised arm before he opened his
locker.
The day didn’t get any better. Everywhere he went,
Oswald was ignored and treated poorly. The popular girls
would whisper into each other’s ears, hissing with grins as
they exchanged fake rumors. The boys would avoid him at
all costs, confused and unsettled by the way Oswald dressed.
Even the “weird” kids didn’t go near him. Oswald was avoid-
ed like the plague. Dmitri waited for him to say something,
to give them an order. They didn’t expect to feel so eager to
make the school suffer. Oswald remained silent. It was as if
an invisible force sealed his lips shut. At lunch time, the two
sat underneath an old oak tree at the edge of the courtyard,
away from everyone else. Oswald ate his lunch quietly while
Dmitri stared out into the sea of students, close to their
breaking point.
46
“I understand why you summoned me,” Dmitri muttered.
Their fiery eyes narrowed as a group of girls walked past
them. “High school is terrible.” Oswald only nodded softly
and swallowed. The demon turned towards him. “So, what
do you want me to do?” The boy glanced up to the crowd and
mustered a shrug.
“I don’t know,” he said glumly. “I’m not really in the
mood.” If Dmitri heard this earlier in the day, they wouldn’t
have hesitated to growl in frustration or send a string of
curses his way. The demon’s shoulders sank the longer they
stared at Oswald. He wasn’t the confident boy they saw the
night before. Oswald constantly messed with his hair and
looked at his reflection through the screen of his phone to
check his makeup. His eyes flashed anxiously to the crowd
every ten seconds. He looked hollow, drained.
Dmitri was lost in thought when Oswald offered them
some chips. The boy had to nudge the demon’s arm to get
their attention. Dmitri blinked at him, then the chips. They
accepted his silent offer and plucked one from the Ziploc bag.
Oswald couldn’t go to Hell. He didn’t deserve to spend
eternity in the fiery pits just because he wanted a protector, a
friend. As Dmitri chewed the disgusting artificial cheese-fla-
vored corn chip, their expression hardened into determina-
tion. The demon made up their mind. It has ever been done
before, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Dmitri was
going to get Oswald’s soul back. He deserved Heaven.
47
an earlY
inheriTance
by
Rebecca Chatskis
My father presses the porcelain bowl into my hands
with the insistence of an immigrant who was once forced
to ee, leaving behind cherished heirlooms.
My ngers run along the gold rim, owers blossoming
under the rosy swirl of my prints.
Warm ivory tones, dotted with luminous petals,
match my father’s voice as it soens, low
telling stories of a motherland I have never known.
Of birches that burned bright in a long-abandoned replace,
of frost nipping the feeling out of toes and tips of ears,
of his shattered bones under jackboots.
e end of my visit looms, tears pinprick our blue eyes.
We fold newspaper between each saucer
to protect the porcelain from turbulence.
A choked goodbye in my throat, I pray the TSA
will not force me to unpack the fragile box,
but knowing that my ID is not required to state Jewish.
Safely tucked away in my apartment, I pierce
the tape with the tip of my kitchen knife
and carefully lay out each piece:
Bowls too shallow for soup and cups with tiny handles
too delicate for coee, the treasures of my father’s inalienable love.
48
MoSeS
MournS MiriaM
by
Rebecca Chatskis
Would that when I struck the rock,
YHWH brought forth my sister
in place of water to quench
His petulant ock.
Would that when I struck the rock,
poison seeped from stones to mock,
damn all from Canaan like me
their tears still bitter.
Would that when I struck the rock,
YHWH brought back my sister.
49
Making JaM
wiTh You
by
Rebecca Chatskis
Fresh fragrant strawberries, juicy and sweet,
arrive only once a year. In summer,
bright red becomes a deep garnet color
as the so esh bakes in the July heat.
You always trust me to choose the best batch,
pooling our meager funds for a pallet,
mashing the fruit in our practiced ballad
of sugar and pectin.
Dewberry patch
in California, your uncle’s orchard,
our berry kiss, my heart a hummingbird.
Twisting metal lids, you seal still warm jam
in clear glass with sticky pink ngertips.
Leaving jars to set, your hand to my lips,
I kiss your sweet prints and you smile.
Goddamn.
50
croSS
by
Allison Swaim
is was not where I pictured myself,
chained to my Saviour,
his veins tied tight around my neck and
his string of fate binding my ankles.
I cannot move.
And years go by and he is still my S a v i o u r,
I was once betrayed but am now betrothed,
forces unseen binding us once again and
I am choking.
I cannot see.
Like sandy sludge clogs up everything
my sight and my mind,
blurring my thoughts and vision,
until I nally choke and die.
My S A V I O U R is here again.
He clears out the sludge,
tells me how beautiful I am,
touches me again and suddenly
I am living for him.
Contradictory thoughts are racing and ghting
in my brain.
I can’t tell if I’ve become the doll he destined me to be
Or if I’m chained to sin.
51
My S A V I O U R commands me once more.
My own tumultuous wails at night render
my body useless,
trapped by his will and his words
My S A V I O U R has rendered me a failure again.
Long aer freeing myself of his chains,
I still nd that string I severed trailing behind me.
the threads become longer each day,
searching for his end to connect
to what’s le of him.
I fear the return of my S A V I O U R.
52
180 DaYS/
paraBola
by
Allison Swaim
Day 1: I make a list.
Pros versus cons. When I read his text, I felt confused. Torn
up and down, and only he could restore me to my previous
state. Bright, bubbly and enthusiastic! I played soccer and was
killer at guitar hero, and now? Now I’m nothing. Pros: I’m
happy again. Probably. If I’m happy I can go o my medicine
again, and wear short sleeved shirts. Cons: I’m a rebound. Or
not. I don’t really know. I’m not sure how he feels about me and
I think I care. It’s all jumbled and feels strange in my head.
I think that the pros outweigh the cons. I pick the phone up
from my bed, and I see myself in the mirror. Should I consult
with someone? He broke my heart, and now I’m crawling back
to him again. I add that to the Cons side of the list. I notice that
I’m still holding my phone; swipe right and pull up messages.
I respond “Sure” and the send button clicks itself. e word
launches into white techno abyss.
Day 23: I don’t kiss back.
In the car, returning home from school, he’s almost on top of
me. It makes me uncomfortable but hey, that’s what girlfriends do.
And I know he’d never hurt me. He whispers in my ear and asks
if he can kiss me for the rst time. I’d been kissed on the cheek by
exes and I think it won’t be dierent, but it is. I feel like throwing
up. It’s my fault, I’m not used to it, I should just make myself more
comfortable. en he touches my chest, I can feel myself pulling
back and I can’t breathe, but I don’t stop him because girlfriends
don’t do that. He stops.
He drives home, I smile and say I can’t wait to see him again.
Why didn’t I ask him to stop? I can go home and reect on that. I
cry that night.
53
Day 47: I talk about it.
I arrive at his house. I tell him about my problem, and say I
just need to practice. Practice being comfortable. He says okay
and that he understands. Exposure therapy has to be the way
to go. I practice and kiss him more, he holds me tightly. He’s
kind to me. He’s kind; I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend. I
just couldn’t. Besides, it’s not like there are any other guys I like.
Just the one. I know I like him. I drill it into my brain that I like
him, I like him, I like him.
Day 58: I love you.
He said it to me in the car that night, and he kept repeating
it. He loves me. He loves me. I say it back for the rst time. I
can’t say it out loud, so I write it down. Soon I can whisper it,
but I can never say them normally. I know I would cry, but
there is no reason to. He loves me, I like him, I love him. People
ask if we’re dating, of course I say yes. My parents love him, I’m
sure one day we’ll get married, even though we don’t have the
same goals. I’d live in the city with him, no children, no pets. A
lo and we overlook the city at night, it’s beautiful and bright.
I’m comfortable, and I’m sure I’ll be happy. I remember that I’m
only 15, I shouldn’t think about life so far from now. But I do
love him. I love him, I do, I do, I do.
Day 84: I snap for the rst time.
He touches my chest again. He laughs when he does, and
compliments my chest. I snap. WHY WOULD YOU DO
THAT?! But I know he couldn’t have known better. I let him
do it the rst time, why would now be dierent? He apologizes,
says he didn’t mean to hurt me. I know he meant well. He was
just playing, he loves me all the same. Why would he make that
joke if he hated me. He thinks that I’m attractive, nobody else
will, so I let it pass. But I remember when my parents walked in
on him with his hand where it shouldn’t have been, long before
we dated. I didn’t remember before. I cry again that night.
Day 103: I question if I’m happy.
I reread my list. “I’m happy again. Probably.” Probably
54
stands out more than before, there was always a risk of me
spiraling, and I realize that it’s happening now. I cry that night,
and the next, and I still tell him I love him. My mother begs to
me, why are you unhappy? But I can’t even verbalize how I feel,
I’m so useless. I can’t please anyone, I’m a useless person if I’m
not pleasing others. Why am I here? Everything’s going my way.
I have friends, and new clothes, and a boyfriend like everyone.
I’m acing my hardest classes and my teachers love me. Why do
I feel so wrong?
I break down again. I tell my mother that something is
wrong. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. She says that I just
need to become more comfortable with him, and relationships.
I’m just a kid aer all. She says I’m confused.
Day 126: I make a list.
I list the reasons for my discomfort. I don’t like it when he
touches me, kisses me, or tells me he loves me. But why? He’s
made his mistakes, but when he broke me the rst time, I could
have sworn that I loved him. I know I did, back then! Emotions
are confusing but I’m sure. So why does everything about him
repulse me? Am I just not attracted to him?
How could that be?
Day 145: I see a girl.
I kept digging. My brain was hurting from overthinking
everything, and day to day I was still with him. I don’t know
why I don’t break the relationship o. I walk into my rst
period that morning. I sit next to my friend. I notice the girl
across the classroom, she cut her hair short. She looks really
good, it makes me happy. I invite her to sit with me and she
does. Maybe I’ll invite her tomorrow, too.
Day 147: I think about a girl.
She remains on my mind. It’s been a couple days and I
know I need to end things with him. I began to think I’d be
happier if he were her.
I’ve never doubted my attraction to him, to men in
general. Women were another story. I oen nd women pretty,
55
beautiful. It’s normal, or maybe I’m bisexual. It doesn’t matter
so much to me what my sexuality is. As long as I still like men,
somehow, I have to. I always have, if I don’t I must be faking. So
I assert my bisexuality, she’s beautiful, but I still love men. I’d be
a stereotype if I didn’t, just picking a side. at’s not me. I still
love men.
Day 168: I talk to a girl.
She starts to sit with me daily. I get in trouble for talking
during class. She’s gay. at’s cool. I blush around her, and bring
her candy every day. It’s strange. But I know she’d never like
me, and anyways I’m still with him. I need to break it o, but
I don’t. I remain with him because it’s easier, and I know she’d
never like me. She probably thinks that I’m straight anyways.
She wouldn’t like me, so this is better.
Day 180: I end things.
I just need a break, I tell him. It’s through the phone. I’m
scared to hurt him, I led him on, I know it’s all my fault. He
deserves better, and I can’t face him. I feel slightly justied
because he asked me out over text, so it feels right to end things
the same way. It’s nally over. I feel sick but free at the same
time. I tell my friends what is happening, they say they’re sorry
but I’m relieved. ey don’t need to say they’re sorry because I
ended it. I cut the string, I broke the chains, and I’m free. He’s
still sad though. I broke his heart.
My mother is upset with me. She loved him, he was smart
and strong, more so than me. She said I’d marry him because
he’s just like my father and daughters always marry men like
their fathers. She begs me to stay friends, so I do. We’re still
friends. I wouldn’t throw away a perfectly good relationship like
that, over something this silly. But we don’t talk for awhile.
We don’t talk for awhile.
56
DeaTh
iS a highwaY
by
Paton Hudak
One of my past incarnations died in a car crash; that’s my
best guess as to why I have an innate fear of driving. Since
elementary school, I have had nightmares that involve my dad
calling my younger sister and I, asking us to come pick him up
from an unknown location. To this day, it remains such due to
the fact that we never reached it. Having only seven or eight
years on this Earth under my tiny belt, I had no idea how to
drive. But I was the big sister, so my dream-self would always
climb into the driver’s seat of my family’s minivan. I felt like
umbelina in a towering throne; the burden of the crown en-
circled me entirely. My legs hardly reached the end of the seat,
let alone the pedals. My stubby ngers did not grasp the sticky,
pleather wheel so much as rest on its surface. By some miracle
dream mechanic, I would always get the van started and have
a loose approximation of control over the vehicle for a brief
moment. Oen, I got the van out of the driveway and down the
street before we would launch into someone or something and
go careening down the hills of our neighborhood, wrecking the
neighbor’s cars and lawn decorations.
These dreams began nearly a decade before I learned how
to drive, and they only got worse the more I learned. Driver’s
Ed was a series of statistics—the occurrence of six million
crashes every year, the fact that one million of those were
fatal, the reality that smaller drivers (one of which, being 5’2”
and 100 pounds, I certainly am) are often crushed by the air-
bags meant to protect them—splayed across photos of people
who had lost eyes or noses or legs and cars that had been
balled up like smoking sheets of tin foil, and all of this was
57
delivered through a haze of weed to glassy-eyed teenagers,
some of whom had already been driving illegally for years.
Most adolescents’ incentive for completing driver’s
education is the privilege and freedom that comes with the
license; my parents told me before every class that if I would
just pass the test and get it over with, I wouldn’t have to drive
anymore. My own utter lack of faith in my own ability to
command a temperamental, two-ton beast was a given, but
I was beginning to think that the prospect of accidentally
killing someone was considered an exciting rite of passage by
my peers.
My first car came into my possession by accident. My
high school was giving away a car at the end of the year to
a random student with high attendance. I was only there,
melting in the wet heat in our school football stadium, on the
insistence of my parents; my friends and I had plans to sneak
out after the giveaway and go to lunch, then round out the
afternoon with video games and movies. Even before my full
name was called, everything went into slow motion. “Payton”
is a fairly common name, so they probably—nope, they just
called my very unique last name and most definitely meant
me. I staggered down the stairs toward the silver 2014 Nissan
Sentra as the world of metal bandstands and AstroTurf foot-
ball fields went in and out of focus like a manual-lens camera
in the hands of a child.
The rest of the event is a black shadow in my memory.
Tied to it is the feeling of my heartbeat in my white-knuckled
fists and the sounds of muffled cheers as though I were un-
derwater. Then comes the cloth seat against my back as I sat
in the car, the resistance of the brake beneath my tennis shoes,
and the ¬chi-chink of the key being shoved into the ignition
by what felt like someone else’s hand. Everything returns to
black when the beast I’ve been swallowed by roars to life and
my body is kept from leaping out the window only by my
sudden paralysis. At the end of the day, I ended up with a sev-
eral-thousand-dollar gift that made me sick to think about.
It drove me crazy that no one else thought of this as a
death sentence. The chances of dying by some of the most
58
common and acceptable fears, like snakes and spiders, are
practically zero. The likelihood of a little turbulence taking
an airplane out of the sky is around one in eleven million.
There are people who never go to the beach despite the odds
of a shark attack being in their favor at three million to one.
But my fear of being one of the three thousand people that die
in a car crash every single day—that’s irrational.
**
Two years later, my original nightmare was realized. So-
ciety had officially placed its trust in me as a responsible and
capable driver in the form of a license, and my parents called
to say that they were going to be late picking up my younger
siblings and some of their friends from school. Could I go get
them instead? Yes, I felt comfortable enough in my car on a
familiar trip, though I didn’t like the idea of having the lives
of rowdy children in my hands. That’s when I realized: my car
didn’t have enough seats for everyone. I would have to take
the minivan.
The keys jingled softly in my trembling hand as I reached
for the driver’s door with the other. Whereas my car was
something I could step down into, this monster had to be
stepped up to. But it was only a step, unlike the hike in my
dream. The seat was roomier than my car’s, but I didn’t feel
like puny Jack looking for a giant golden goose as I felt for the
gear shift. After an adjustment, my foot pressed firmly into
the brake pedal. My fingers curled around the Texas-baked
wheel. I closed my eyes for a moment, then turned the key.
Nothing happened. The car started, but I wasn’t suddenly
thrown from my metal steed or blown up in fiery regret. For a
few minutes, I just sat and moved air in and out of my lungs.
Then I put the machine in reverse, double-checking it had
fully shifted gears and that all my mirrors were in place. I
rolled down the driveway with such pain-staking caution
that I could have sworn I could feel the tracks in the tires
cyclically easing themselves across the pavement. I was out
of my home base and on the road, and neither my brakes nor
59
my heart had given out. As I rolled up to the stop sign at the
end of my street, I realized that I was ok. The vehicle obeyed
my directions without rebellion. The neighbors’ yards were
barren of black rubber marks and broken ornaments. There
were no screams of pedestrians caught beneath my wheels. I
could even see over the steering wheel, mostly.
The elementary school was a less-than-ten-minute drive
from my house, so in this case, the journey wasn’t the issue.
The destination—riddled with soccer moms, their hulking
family vans, and children scurrying between the bumpers
they were scarcely taller than, bookmarked by flashing yellow
“School Zone” signs—was the true battleground. My fingers
trembled as they wrapped around the steering wheel to com-
plete the wide turn into the pick-up lane. The minivan slid
into place. I stayed a full car length away from the next driver
and rolled toward the front entrance of the school.
When at last I reached the front, I saw the kids running
toward the familiar vehicle. My little brother yanked the
sliding metal door aside and opened his mouth to greet our
parents, but his eyes met mine instead. He stood there for a
moment before helping our younger siblings and their friends
into the van. Once everyone was loaded, I made sure they
all had their seatbelts on. I was about to ask how their days
were when my ten-year-old brother turned and said, “Payton
doesn’t like driving. Everybody be quiet until we get home,
p l e a s e .”
And they were. For the next five minutes, I was able to
focus on getting my cargo home in one piece. Only once we
had returned to the driveway and I had put the emergency
brake on, felt the beast settle, and taken back the key could I
take another full breath. The kids broke into chatter, unbuck-
led their belts and were in the backyard by the time I shut the
driver’s door.
I don’t know where my driving phobia stems from, but
I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter. If my family needs me, I am
going to find a way to be there.
60
in The Morning
by
Kendall Simmons
ere’s a warm body
that curves
around you
moves the sheets in a delicate
dance
against
your skin
Butteries
kiss your cheeks
the light touch
tickles
your mouth
e sun’s lazy
ascent
into the sky
lets you lay
for a little
longer
With eyes closed it’s easy to imagine
someone loves you
e sheets caress
the part of your body
that is
lonely
When your eyes open
the bed
is cold
61
proM’S phanToM
by
Kendall Simmons
Breathing is hard
with broken ribs
e phantom in my chest
has broken it
into pieces
to create hands
that no one else can see
Using pieces of me
to try to stop
my heart
from beating
so fast
when I look at you
and her
dancing
watching you sway with her in arms
I used to call
safe
I wish it would rain
in this gymnasium
so the only evidence of this pain
would be the taste of salt
on the upper part of my lip
63
Image 1
Deana Jones
64
Image 2
Deana Jones
65
Neither Tear Nor Mend.
Brianna Dunston
66
Migrating Omens
Emma Rhyne
67
Backbone of the Forest
Emma Rhyne
68
Changing Skins
Emma Rhyne
69
Grand Canyon
Katie Harris
70
Morbid Curiosity
Emma Rhyne
71
Safe in the Shelter of Speed
Emma Rhyne
72
Persephone Steps out of her Skin
Emma Rhyne
73
in a love STorY
by
Kendall Simmons
ere is always a beginning,
when we sat next to each other
our chairs just an inch apart.
We breathed the same air,
I felt lucky when you asked me for a pen.
I gave you the one
I wrote all my dreams with by accident.
I hoped you couldn’t feel how many times I’ve written your name.
A middle,
I got to hold your hand at the movie theater,
watched you fall asleep.
I hear you mutter I love you,
but the name isn’t mine.
I love you.
Even when you close your eyes
you don’t see me.
And an end,
I have to get used to breathing
on my own.
When I write new poems
I use my laptop, because
my pen only holds nightmares, but
I still love you.
I still feel
so lucky
to have created a love story
with you.
74
Yellow-lighT
g
irlS
by
Krista Lambert
The hot-tub’s sides were slippery with congealing dish
soap—the kind that smelled like stale lemons and churned up
a tower of bubbles so high that God should’ve gotten himself
involved, Lynn thought. (He hadn’t.) Instead the babble of
Camp Mikiwam’s counselors—and a few favored wran-
glers—rang out deep into the northern night, punctuated by
Tate’s laughter and the occasional girl’s squeal.
Lynn wasn’t among the group—not when they dumped
the slimy yellow soap into the water, not when they sang
along to Ke$ha on someone’s smuggled phone, not when
Tate did his impression of their high school’s Algebra teacher
to loud applause.
Nope, she hadn’t been among them. Instead, she was
watching from the window of the Snack Shack, where Tate
had asked if she could clean snow-cone syrup off the floor.
“Or there’ll be ants,” he’d said. His hand had played with
Ashley’s hair while he spoke.
Lynn could’ve joined them when she’d finished scrubbing,
sure, palms red from cherry food-coloring and body smelling
of Cheetos and 409. She’d thought about it. But hovering,
uncertain, by the edges of the lamplight, her swimsuit hiding
too much and not enough at the same time, she wasn’t able
to take that final step. She crept back into the Shack instead,
and waited till she saw Tate slip his hand under Ashley’s blue
nylon top to make her decision.
Quietly, carefully, while the camp workers shrieked and
giggled behind her, she snuck through the night-black Maine
woods to the Unit Leader’s cabin, sure that Tate wouldn’t
75
have bothered to leave it locked. Inside, against the wall and
beneath his mattress, just as he’d revealed to Lynn last sum-
mer (when his mattress was where they’d spent most of their
free time), was his collection of old Altoid tins and Zig Zag
rolling papers. Of course he hadn’t moved them.
Before she could slow down enough to change her mind,
Lynn snatched a tin and a paper pack and darted back to the
safety of the red spruce shadows, where she paused again to
watch the fun.
She’d made it just in time: the steam and jostling bodies
had all become too much for poor Ashley by that point, and
the girl dropped like a soft carcass onto the deck. Everyone
left within three minutes: Tate took Ashley on his back to the
infirmary while the rest of the summer workers wandered off
to shower and climb into their bunks. There was no point,
really, in continuing the impromptu Sunday-night pool party
without Tate there, and they knew it. A new batch of campers
would be swarming in tomorrow anyway, and the chance to
sleep in the meantime was precious.
So now, with the spotlights off, party over, and soap scum
drying on the artificial wood-grain planks, Lynn stepped up
to the hot-tub and placed her contraband on its broad edge.
She hoisted one leg over the side, then the other, feeling the
still-warm water lap about her thighs. This was good, this was
okay. She didn’t need the noise, the brightness, or the play.
She didn’t need Tate, that was for sure.
That was for damn sure.
She took a breath. Her hands were shaking as she popped
the lid off the canister, so she paused and clenched them into
fists until they stopped. Fuzzy moss-green clumps of mari-
juana peered up at her from the tin, looking a bit too close to
a cat’s leftovers on a rug for her taste. The smell caught hold
of the tub’s steam and rode it. Lynn looked around.
Alone.
How had Tate done this when she’d watched him from
his bed last year? When he’d told her, step by step, his own
technique? Lynn couldn’t remember. She’d never needed to,
before. She’d never had an interest.
76
Fingers fumbling in the darkness, she slipped a paper from
the pack and spread it on the tub’s edge, trying to avoid any
water droplets or lingering bubbles which might interfere. She
smoothed the thin sheet out. It felt waxy, fragile, like what she
wrapped her campers’ sandwiches in for Picnic Tuesdays.
Okay.
Still alone.
A pinch of weed between her thumb and forefinger, Lynn
slowly crumbled a dark line down one side of the flimsy
square. It shuddered in the night breeze, but didn’t blow
away. What next?
“Whoa, now.” The voice from behind her was low and a
little hoarse, as if the speaker couldn’t catch her breath. Lynn
spun. Water sloshed against her stomach as she did. “Mei.”
The camp dishwasher—Mei—had one hand on her hip
and the other clutching her ribs, shaking with silent laughter.
She was staring at the half-made joint. “Of all the people—Of
all the things that I… Chupta, bitch? What the fuck?”
Chupta. Lynn almost laughed, herself. (Almost.) Even
though Mei wasn’t from around here, she talked like a forty-
year-old native Mainer—presumably because she liked the
looks she got when local lumbermen heard things like “ch-
upta” coming out of a skinny Asian kid no taller than their
belt-loops. It really freaked them out. Lynn’d seen it.
It was pretty funny, actually. This whole thing.
And so, instead of stumbling through some bogus ex-
planation, Lynn cracked a grin. A thread of hope had begun
forming at the edges of her brain, consisting of one simple,
certain fact: Mei hadn’t been invited to the pool party, either.
Lynn gestured to the loot. “You wanna share?”
Mei, though, left her laughter like it stung and dropped
her eyes to her torn jeans. (Fashionably torn. She really had
this whole badass-punk thing down, Lynn thought.) “Nah,”
she said. “I’m clean.”
Lynn’s lungs felt tight—and she hadn’t even taken her
first drag. “Well… er,” she said, and stopped. Mei glanced
up. “I kind of… um. I’ve never tried, before—I swear. And I.
I need this job.”
77
Mei rolled her eyes. (Yeah, she definitely had the punk
thing solid). “I’m no snitch.” She nodded at the makings of
the joint. “Go nuts.”
“Oh… thanks.”
A whippoorwill sang somewhere in the pines. The two
girls looked at each other.
Lynn cleared her throat. “Coming in?”
Mei regarded the tub for a moment in the gloom. A half-
smirk made its way onto her face, and she bent to tug at her
Doc Martens. Before Lynn realized what was happening, the
dishwasher had stripped her jeans and tank top, unhooked
her bra, and squirmed out of what looked like boxer briefs.
She vaulted the tub’s side in one graceful leap; warmth sloshed
up Lynn’s chest as the water took Mei’s body in.
“I,” Lynn started, “I meant…” She glanced down at her
own checkered top, now looking dated and pathetically
prudent next to the nakedness beside her. If she took it off,
though, she knew her bare figure would look worse.
“Don’t have a swimsuit,” Mei explained when the rest of
Lynn’s sentence never came out. “You don’t mind, do you?
Yours is cute.”
“I—anks.” at was a lie, and Lynn knew it; it had to be.
When she’d rst squeezed the two-piece on four weeks ago, at the
start of summer, the earliest campers of the year had squealed at
the colors (pink and green), and christened her “Watermelon.”
The kids weren’t usually that bad; she doubted they’d
meant it to be mean. But Tate had glommed onto the name
and kept it going, booming “Hey, Watermel-Lynn!” with
exaggerated emphasis anytime he caught her eye—long after
that first batch of kids had been shipped home.
It wasn’t about the colors, for him.
She’d been much slimmer last year. Skinny, even. When
she’d danced with Tate at the August bash, his arms had
wound around her waist and across her spine with ease, his
rough palms hot against her skin. After the break-up, come
that fall, a lot of things had changed: the way he spoke when
she could hear him, the friends they shared, and this—how
her clothes fit her. (Or how they didn’t.)
78
Mei, at least, had never called her any type of gourd. Mei’d
never called her much at all, though, to be fair. Counselors
and kitchen help didn’t mingle at Camp Mikiwam, and the
most Lynn had seen of Mei before now (other than spouting
Maine-isms across the room at mandatory staff sessions) was
a dark silhouette dumping dirty water out the back doors of
the mess hall. Her name had come up now and then along the
lunch-line, but Lynn had never bothered asking for details.
Gossip at Camp Mikiwam was cheaper than STDs.
The joint was ruined, by now—soaked with tub water.
Lynn turned her back on Mei and faced the forest as she
peeled out a new paper, pretending to focus on rolling but in
reality trying to forget the slim legs and perfectly flat stomach
on display, so much prettier than any part of Lynn had ever
been.
Her fingers couldn’t seem to learn their job: licking the
edges of the sheet just made it slimy, and dark pot was spill-
ing out from either end. How on earth did people do this and
enjoy it?
Soft laughter sounded from behind Lynn, and then there
she was—Mei, with her blue-tipped hair and wiry arms—
pressing close and pulling the crinkled spliff out of Lynn’s
grasp. “I’ll take pity, just this once,” she said. “Much as I find
this hilarious.”
Lynn gave up immediately, scooting back to watch as
Mei’s long fingers twisted, rolled, and sealed the joint with
ease. “You’re good at this,” she breathed. Better than Tate
ever was, anyway.
Mei laughed again—but it wasn’t soft this time. “Why do
you think I’m here?” She passed the finished joint back and
cracked her knuckles.
“Huh?”
“Community Service, bitch. I got caught.”
“You mean…” Lynn let the horror of it wash over her
face. “You mean you’re not getting paid?” Kitchen duty at
this place was hellish. Everyone knew that.
Mei shook her head, grinning; something in her eyes had
shifted as she’d watched Lynn’s reaction to her past. “It’s
79
better than juvie, which is where I’ll be headed if I’m found
with the likes of you, you rebel.”
Lynn coughed—the earthy scent of weed was heavy in her
nostrils—and glanced around. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get
you…” She stopped. The little stick in her palm sat waiting,
motionless. “Oh, Lord.”
“What? What’s going on?” Mei reached an arm up to
cover her bare chest, eyes darting from one tree trunk to the
next.
“No, it’s—” Lynn sighed. “I forgot to bring a light.”
The sil ence stretched between them like an ocean.
Finally, Mei leaned back against the tub’s side and said, “You
weren’t lying about never having done this before, huh?”
“I wasn’t lying. This isn’t… I just, I just needed to…”
How could she explain this feeling? It was the same one she’d
had in July of last year, when she’d cruised back roads in
her mom’s mustang with Tate—because he’d said he liked
the sound the engine made, and because his own old beat-
er’s windows were always jammed. They’d taken ME-35 to
Waterford to buy some Ginger Ale, and he’d laughed (God,
he’d laughed) when she’d pulled up to the intersection. ‘That
sums you up, Lynn,’ he’d said. ‘Right there.’
Now, Lynn glanced at the naked girl across from her—so
beautiful, so bold—and blurted it out before she could stop
herself: “What sort of yellow-light driver are you?”
Mei blinked at her, skin glowing in the starlight. “Par-
don?”
“I mean, you hit the gas, right, when the traffic signal goes
from green to yellow, and you’re right there, you’re at that
perfect spot—so maybe if you hoof it, you’ll get through…?
Yeah? Well, I hit the brakes. Every time. And I just… I’m sick
of it. People like Ta—” She swallowed. “I bet you hit the gas.”
For a long time, Mei just sat there, arms slung over
the laminated plastic on either side of her, looking for all
the world like some sort of street boss, despite her lack of
clothes. Finally, she tipped her head forward to catch Lynn’s
eyes—hair falling, damp, around her cheeks—and whispered,
“I can’t drive.”
80
Lynn had to dunk her face under the water to keep her
giggles from growing too loud in the quiet camp. She saw
Mei’s mouth quirking up around the edges, saw her narrow
shoulders shake. The joint slipped from Lynn’s hand and
bobbed in the water beside them. Somewhere, an owl cooed,
low.
“Why are you even awake, anyway?” Lynn asked once
she’d caught her breath. It was past midnight by now—it had
to be—and kitchen hands had to work earlier than pretty
much anyone else on staff.
“Eh? I’m always up this late. It’s peaceful.”
Lynn raised her brows.
“Okay,” said Mei, “that, and I try not to shower with the
other girls. They don’t like it so much.”
“Say what now?” Lynn stared. Mikiwam’s showers
weren’t open-air or anything… each girl got her own stall.
The most someone might even see would be bare shoulders.
Why should that bother anybody? Unless—
“I’m queer,” said Mei. “I thought you knew.” She started
pulling in on herself, then, hunching over and shifting farther
from where Lynn sat in the confines of the tub. Her eyes were
down. “Not like I hide it.”
Lynn swallowed. “Oh,” she said. Her mind was racing—
how could anyone so pretty be self-conscious? And what was
she supposed to do, now that Mei’d… caught her up?
Across the tub, Mei didn’t seem to be taking the silence
as a good sign. “Go ahead and say it,” she told Lynn, flicking
droplets from her fingers and staring at them fixedly as they
formed ripples on the surface of the water. “I know you need
to.”
Had Lynn missed something? Was there a coming-out
etiquette class she should’ve gone to between study hall and
French? “Er… what?” God, she was fucking this up.
Mei formed air-quotes in the space between them as she
said, “‘I don’t care if you’re gay, just try not to fall in love with
me, pretty please.’” Her voice was rough.
The absurdity of it drew a laugh from Lynn, which she
stifled quickly as Mei glanced up. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. It’s
81
just—well, look at you. And look at me. I hold no delusions.”
Her swimsuit felt tight around her belly, pinched under her
arms. Now it was her turn to stare down at her hands.
But Mei moved closer, after a moment, and knelt in the
water so that only her eyes poked out, directly in Lynn’s line
of sight. She let a whirl of bubbles rise and pop around her
cheeks, lips forming words underwater that rose garbled
practically beyond comprehension in open air. They sounded
kind, though.
Lynn thought of the old tales of sirens in green swamps
luring travelers to their death—and for one second, she be-
lieved them. She cracked a smile.
Mei smirked back, sat up, and spat water in a stream onto
the deck. “Tate’s a moron, you know?” she said. “Fuck him.”
Lynn jolted. “How do you…?”
“I’m a grunt worker, bitch: I’m invisible. Like a ninja.”
She spread her hands like fans before her face. “People say
things and don’t even know I’m there to hear ’em. Tate’s an
ass.”
“Yeah,” Lynn said. She felt a secret coil in her chest un-
curl as she fished the soggy joint out from a floating clump of
foam and held it up. “This is his, you know.”
Mei looked proud. “You kifed it?”
“I mean… I guess.” Lynn shrugged. “I was pissed, okay?”
“Man, stay away from me—You’ll get me thirty years and
no parole.” The words were soft.
“Nah,” said Lynn. “I hit the brakes, remember?” She
crushed the soaked gray paper in her hand. “This is not
the sort of thing I’m good at, anyway.” Stupid non-existent
lighter.
Mei just nodded, though. “What is?”
For a long while, Lynn peered around them at the camp’s
grounds bathed in shadow. She listened to the whirring of the
crickets in the rye and shivered at the light touch of the wind.
The water felt almost cold, now, on her ribs.
Mei was waiting; she hadn’t turned away.
“I’ll let you know,” said Lynn finally, “once I’ve got some
idea.”
82
At that, her naked friend (they were friends, now, right?)
nodded, rose, and hopped out of the tub just as easily as she’d
jumped in. She scooped her piled clothes up to her chest,
winked, and said, “I’ll hold you to it.”
Lynn watched her as she strolled into the trees, bare back
shining, pale, for all the night to see.
**
When Lynn herself finally clambered from the water and
headed for Cabin 17—which tomorrow would be packed
with hyper children—she only paused a moment to toss the
ruined joint and paper-pack into a bin. The tin itself she
shoved under the pier-and-beam foundations of her Cabin’s
deck; she couldn’t very well offer the weed back to Tate, but
it still seemed somehow profane to simply… chuck it. She’d
worry about that another day. Plenty of time, still, to handle
everything. Right now, she wanted pillows and dry clothes.
And maybe, just maybe, a good dream.
But that night, Lynn dreamt of lights that turned from
green straight into red, with nothing at all coming between.
**
The next day, that week’s kids spewed out of busses be-
neath a heavy sky; clouds had rolled in from the north. Lynn
spent the afternoon cross-legged on the floor of her cabin,
playing I-Spy, Mad-Libs, and Spoons with twelve slightly
dampened tweens.
Chris McKinley, Mikiwam’s Chief of Staff, was coming
Tuesday to lead the bonfire songs, but if this downpour didn’t
let up, he’d be hard-pressed to find a log still dry enough to
light. (Mei would probably tell him he was “in a gaum,” Lynn
thought, and shook her head.)
They had chili dogs at the mess hall while rain hammered
the roof. It was hot, but Lynn wore her grey knit cardigan
over her shirt anyway, to hide the bunching of the fat along
her back. Every once in a while, she would glance over her
83
shoulder towards the kitchens, trying to catch a glimpse of
spiked blue hair. She saw none—until the dessert line opened
up and she was corralling her cabin towards the pudding.
en, from behind her, the double doors to the dumpsters
swung inward to reveal tossing trees, swirling leaves, and Mei.
A wolf-whistle rang across the room; Lynn turned, con-
fused, to see Tate grinning at the dish hand from over his pile
of beans, his gaze holding a glint Lynn recognized—one she
used to like. Beside him, Ashley’d lowered her head.
Lynn swiveled again, and—Ah. The rain had soaked
straight through Mei’s tank, revealing the clear outline of her
bra underneath. At Tate’s whistle, the eyes of every male in
the hall had landed on the clinging fabric. Lynn could see, as
if in slow-motion, Mei’s shoulders start to hunch—like they
had for that awful moment in the tub.
Lynn thought of clothes hitting the ground so easily the
night before, of Mei’s smile and the stretch of her naked arms.
Now, Mei’s fists were clenched at her sides; her body seemed
to crumple like an empty soda can.
Lynn set her jaw so firmly that it hurt. Before she realized
what she was doing, she was striding across the room, peeling
off her cardigan as she went. (Her own bra-line didn’t seem
important anymore).
She reached Mei just as Tate called out, “Aw, no fun,
Watermelynn,” but she didn’t turn. She offered Mei the grey
lump of fabric with both hands.
Mei gave her a blank look in return. By her sides, her
bony fists were clenching, unclenching, clenching again.
Maybe Lynn wasn’t the only one feeling stuck.
“Only if you want it,” Lynn mumbled. She shifted where
she stood.
Mei took the cardi.
Just then, a squeal rang out from Lynn’s right: one of
her campers had dropped vanilla custard on another. Lynn
bolted for the napkins, and by the time she’d raised her head
again, the mess-hall chatter had resumed, and Mei was gone.
Minutes later, when a from-away girl got a stomach
cramp and started crying to go home, Lynn had to herd her
84
group back to their cabin early. She watched the back doors
to the kitchen as she went, but they stayed closed.
Maybe come morning, she’d wake before the kids and slip
out in time to help with breakfast prep. The cooks might not
trust her to scramble cartoned eggs, but surely they wouldn’t
turn down an extra dish hand. Lynn set her alarm for four in-
stead of five, and drifted off to the sounds of wind and water.
**
Sometime in the night, the storm knocked out Mikiwam’s
power. It was because of this that Lynn awoke not to her
queued-up Bowie song and the pre-dawn chill, but to whis-
pering, and warm sun striking her eyes.
“Is she up? She’s up!” came the voice of Abbie, a lanky
ten-year-old from—(Lynn searched her brain a moment)—
Farmington. “Miss Lynn, the toilet won’t flush, and there’s a
trooper’s car outside.”
“Urgh,” said Lynn, parting painfully from her pillow.
“The toilet’s… There’s a what?” She nearly clipped her head
on the bunk above as she bolted upright.
“A trooper. A cop, Miss Lynn.”
“Yeah, I know what a… trooper… is…” She was at the
window, now, and sure enough: there was a periwinkle Ford
pulled up in front of the Creation Station, and an officer in
matching colors pacing near Cabin 23. In a huddle some
yards away from him stood five counselors and one very
jumpy-looking kid.
Lynn felt a vortex open in her gut. “Stay here, girls,” she
said without glancing behind her, then yanked open the door.
Soggy earth squished between her toes as she walked
across the grounds, trying her best to look natural, uncon-
cerned. She was halfway to the little group before she realized
she was still in nothing but her pj’s. Oh well. Too late now.
“Hey, Miranda,” she called to the youngest of the
counselors—a new girl who’d just started at Mikiwam this
summer. She hadn’t known Lynn last year, so Lynn liked her.
“Chupt—What’s going on?”
85
“Ah,” said Miranda, as she broke away from the others to
meet Lynn. “It’s crazy—”
“Stephen here found a tin can full of pot, just lyin’ on
the road,” hollered Sal of Cabin 3, bulldozing the rest of
Miranda’s explanation and putting a hand on the nervous
boy’s shoulder. “Handed it right to Mr. McKinley when he
arrived.”
McKinley. Shit. Lynn glanced behind her at the muddied
mess of lawn around her cabin; she hadn’t even thought about
the rising water yesterday, or how easy it might be for her loot
to be swept from its nook under the deck. Shit, shit, shit.
“Does McKinley…” She cleared her throat, started again.
“Do they know whose weed it was?” She’d joined the huddle
now and could see the glitter in Sal’s eyes.
“That’s the weird part,” said Miranda, twisting her neck
to glance at the officer, who was mumbling something into
his scanner. “McKinley was about to scour the whole camp,
roust everyone—but somebody stepped up before he could.”
“Somebody?” Lynn’s mouth was dry.
“Yeah,” said Sal. “Some kitchen aid I think. The real news,
though, is that she snitched on where she scored it. You’ll
never believe—”
“It was Tate!” hissed Miranda, this time foiling Sal’s own
reveal. “Tate Beckworth: he’s the one who brought it in. He’s
kept a whole stash in his bunk—it’s the first place the trooper
looked, after McKinley’d called him and the girl narked.”
“Oh my God,” said Lynn, squinting at the Ford sedan. If
she put one hand over her brow, she could just make out a
shadow in the seats… or was that two shadows? She started
for the car.
But the policeman was already there himself and climbing
in. He pocketed his scanner and slid behind the wheel while
Lynn was struggling to push the shout in her belly up through
her lips. The blue door slammed. The engine revved.
Miranda and Sal were calling for her to wait, but Lynn ig-
nored them and broke into a run. From the corner of her eye,
she glimpsed Ashley in an alley between two cabins, looking
like someone’d just socked her in the gut.
86
Lynn didn’t break one stride. She reached the Creation
Station lot just as Tate’s slack face came into view through
the passenger-side window. But the trooper turned his ride
around, then, and it was Mei who was lounging in the back.
She’d known it would be Mei, of course, since the mo-
ment Miranda had said somebody took the fall. She’d known,
but still…
She had to do something, say something—make them
stop—
Yellow sunlight blinked off the tinted glass. Mei turned
her head, caught Lynn’s gaze… and smiled.
From behind Lynn, the other counselors were jogging to
catch up, their breath growing louder as they approached.
They paused, though—a few feet away from her—and started
whispering.
“Look,” came Kenna’s voice. “Lynn’s crying.”
“Yeah,” said Sal. “She’s crying over Tate.”
Beyond the window, Mei’s grin hadn’t wavered. As her
driver rolled the Ford onto the gravel of Mikiwam’s entrance
road and hit the gas, she held up two fingers in a ‘peace’ sa-
lute, then blew a kiss.
No, no, no.
Lynn swallowed. She took a breath.
She raised her hand.
87
M&M’S anD oTher
S
weeT ThingS
by
Marisela Rios
ey called us M&M’s
because our names started the same.
We were small and round
in our faces. Our eyes
were little chocolates
like blue, green, and red-coated
treats we split between our teeth.
We were a pair of kids
sharing our packets of gum
and candy on the playground,
near the swings, swallowing them
faster and faster like a game
we couldn’t outgrow, so we replaced
our M&M’s with other sweet things of the same
blue, green, and red, but this time I don’t think it’s a game.
88
froM ouTSiDe
The waiTing place
by
Emma Rhyne
Hammering heels beat the dust
out of the boards, and o the stairs
as we rush to conquer the basement
of our third antique store.
Like marauders, our glittering eyes see
An opportune conquest - “Sate our starvation!” -
We’re addicted to interrupting the dust of moments.
Aha! We see a doll. She sits on her meek
throne of fruit crates. Mildew clouds her
eyes and the spores clog our lungs
with the patient reek of fear
as we, the entitled, indulge our curiosity.
...Who she is,
what sticky, loving ngers
clutched her to a trusting chest
before dropping her to rest in
this waiting place...
is irrelevant. We are here to stare,
bare-faced, in our ugly greed
as we ravage her loneliness for laughs.
89
woulD You like
To MeeT Me?
by
Emma Rhyne
I see it in your eyes
that no, probably not.
Our lives, strangely,
dier too much for us
to hope to click and so
I pull out my phone
to spare both of us
the embarrassment
of conversation as we walk,
side by side to class.
90
Breaking a MolD
by
Payton Hudak
I hovered over the girl’s bed, watching, wondering how she
would die. e universe was telling me to remain here, at this
human’s side, the next twenty-four hours or so. Bailey was a
twenty-two-year-old college student in some city or another—
some place where humans crowded themselves even tighter
than usual.
She was just beginning her day, still in bed even though her
alarm had gone o several times. Her roommate was growing
increasingly annoyed with her. I chuckled to myself—that is,
I jovially vibrated the particles along my z-axis—because I felt
the ripple in the universe caused by her roommate’s decision to
throw a pillow at her.
My kind, being eternal, can more or less tell the future, at
least for lower beings. But any time a human gets involved—all
that passion, redirected on a whim—the numbers get innitely
less certain. is prediction, however, was fullled the next mo-
ment. Did it hurt, I wonder? It didn’t look like the projectile was
suited for its purpose, if the other human meant to harm Bailey.
I didn’t think this would be her cause of death.
We can narrow it down to about twenty-four hours before
they die, so we keep an eye on them when we know their time is
coming, and we make sure we’re there when their soul separates
from their physical form. ey’re almost endearing that way,
aer being cleaved from their foul esh. I wonder how they feel
when they realize they’ve transformed from worm to winged.
I guess you could call me an angel. But not like that doll
with which humans top their aming foliage in the winter. I’m
really more of an eternal, formless consciousness occupying a
plane of reality that overlaps the corporeal human world, but
I like the simplicity of angel. “Guardian,” though—not in the
job description. My kind, we just get humans from point A to
91
point B—from Earth to wherever humans go when they die. I’m
not here to save anybody’s life.
As awful as human life must be, I had a moment of com-
passion for this creature who would die so young. I watched
as she nally shut o her alarm and crawled out of bed in the
dark. When her smallest balancing digit made sudden contact
with her bed frame in a way that was apparently unpleasant, she
yelled something short and aggressive, provoking her roommate
to sit up and yell at her.
Verbal speech is such a primitive means of communication,
it borders on painful for my kind. ough pain is not actually
a sensation we experience, of course. Humans talk so much,
it’s almost easier to keep track of when they’re silent. Are they
embarrassed that they haven’t learned telepathy aer all these
millennia? What a pitiful existence, to have to eat and sleep and
feel, always barking at each other because they’re too loud to
think properly.
ey nished their inane conversation and Bailey prepared
herself for the day in the dark, fumbling due to her innate human
limitations. e fact that humans get by with only ve senses has
always amazed me, especially given that they’re all so dismal. I
was far from all-knowing, but I didn’t need clairvoyance to know
that the red top she chose to don would not increase her chances
of nding a life partner. She radiated an odd mixture of disgust
and pride toward the clothing, as if she knew she shouldn’t be
wearing it but it had something else of value.
Humans are creatures cast from a mold. I let myself dri
through her eating breakfast, brushing her teeth, combing her
hair. I’ve seen it all done—rarely does a human’s nal day begin
dierently than any other, or from any other human’s. e only
thing that nearly registered as of interest was her writing a lovely
note for her roommate. I thought they had been arguing earlier,
but I may have been a touch distracted by my own supreme
abilities—there were countless other little human oddities less
common, if not less inexplicable, than human conict. It wasn’t
as if I cared enough to ask, even if I could.
Without a physical form, my kind can’t interact with the
physical world. I know of a few angels who have chosen to
92
manifest, but the transformation is permanent. We lose our
knowledge and memories along with our place in the spiritual
plane. It isn’t common, obviously. Who would give up this
power? It’s our approximation of death, in a way, the true fall
from grace.
I would soon arrive at a fate worse than death—a human
Christmas party. Bailey entered a large, dimly-lit building with
noise coming from the walls and sustenance either entering or
exiting each human present. How a restaurant can be considered
a place of celebration is beyond my un-Earthly understanding.
Would their midday gathering be the end of Bailey? I could feel
that she didn’t have any allergies, but there was always food poi-
soning or choking. Indeed, there were a handful of other angels
around, no doubt waiting for their own humans to expire one
way or another. But we’ve all seen a human break out or turn
blue. I hoped it would be something more exciting.
An overwhelming crowd greeted Bailey, though her red tur-
tleneck still shone through like the deer in that human holiday
song. One of her companions seemed especially excited to see
her in this particular top, judging by her relentless tugging and
squeaking; I dipped into this friend’s consciousness to learn that
she had bought the shirt as a gi for Bailey. Bored again, I pulled
back to focus again on the human the universe had pushed me
toward that day.
Other females took her aside in sequence, each letting words
fall from their lips like rushing water until Bailey would open
her mouth to respond, then turning to some other distraction
that had become more enticing than a person that soaked up all
their problems. Between each of these would come a male, but
the only dierence between the interactions was that the men
spoke endlessly of themselves. No single human caused a reac-
tion in Bailey, but I sensed her muscles tense and her head ache
an increment more with each breath. I thought it was strange
that simple social interactions were causing such a reaction.
en adrenaline coursed through her body like an electric
shock. Negative energy came o of her in waves, jostling my
particles uncomfortably. Disgruntled, I registered every change
in the environment in the past minute. I may not have been able
93
to address the problem, but I certainly wanted to know where
to direct my irritation. I settled on the arrival of another male
human, one whom Bailey had crossed her arms at and turned
from, as if trying to make herself smaller and invisible.
Scanning the surrounding human’s minds, I gleaned no
ill opinion from any of them—all seemed in admiration of or
attracted to him. Touching his mind, however, was an odd con-
trast. Not only did he think little of anyone around him, whereas
his companions were relaxed and rambunctious, he was quiet,
senses tuned as if on the hunt.
I sent out thoughts to the angels in the vicinity. Does any-
body know what’s going on with this guy?
One hovering near an elderly couple at a booth responded.
Does it matter?
I, and all my atoms, blinked. No. Of course not. I was here to
get my human from point A to point B, not to prevent or judge
or understand. ere was no point in the rest. is human was
going to die soon, as all inevitably do, and that was the end of
the story.
In the seconds my investigation took, Bailey had slipped
away. I felt her now locked in a little room inside the restaurant.
She was in the restroom, and though my knowledge of the
future assured me it was not the case, she appeared to be dying.
Her breath was irregular, and I sensed the lack of oxygen making
her eyes and limbs fuzzy. Her heart was beating all the blood it
could, deafening in its eort to keep its host alive. I knew I could
do nothing to ease her suering, but like happening upon an
insect twitching in its last moments, I was curious all the same. I
touched her thoughts for only a moment.
Panic. Like teeth clamped around legs, like a weight placed
atop lungs, like chains dragging and water rising. I was dying,
but there was nowhere to go, no enemy to subdue. en who
was holding me down?
I pulled myself back, nding that I needed to concentrate
more on the process than I had in millennia. I couldn’t be at-
tacked, crushed, or drowned. I knew this. I was still recovering
from my own confusion when I realized that Bailey’s body was
working again. Her breath, heartrate, and muscles were fully
94
functional. When I touched her thoughts, I felt not the comfort-
ing nothingness of being an angel, but an aggressive nothingness
that smothered the emotions a human should be feeling.
For the rst time, I understood fallen angels’ draw to hu-
manity. I had always thought that to know one human was to
know them all, but to spend only a single planetary rotation
observing this human would not be enough to understand her.
When she died, I would see her soul only briey before reaching
the drop-o, and I would never know what internal miscoding
or external pressure had rendered a healthy young human so
completely dysfunctional.
Bailey spent the remainder of the party circling the room.
Whenever someone ensnared her, she tapped her foot and kept
the male in her sights, ducking behind her conversation partner
if he should look her way. She declined every drink oered to
her and sang the ritual cake song beneath her breath. e rest of
them enjoyed the celebration, as well as humans can appreciate
anything. She smiled and laughed with them, but humans are
able to hide their emotions from each other. Only I saw the
lackluster behind her eyes.
Now she was driving home. Even if I couldn’t feel the cloud
in her mind and the tension in her hands gripping the wheel, I
would have been nervous for her for the duration of the drive,
due to the impressive number of deaths humans manage in their
little metal boxes. No one within a reasonable radius was texting
or drinking while driving. At least, not headed in Bailey’s direc-
tion. But I still checked my future senses every few seconds, be-
cause you never know with humans. For example, the numbers
scrambled like an interrupted radio signal when Bailey chose, at
that moment, to take a ninety-degree turn, her tires screeching
in protest. I swung my awareness around to catch up with the
new route.
It was too dark to see her tire tracks in the slushy frozen
mud, but I felt them. Gravel would work its way into her shoes
when she stepped out of her car, stumbling once again without
her sight, but able to nd the walking path to the giant metal
bridge. I only wondered for a moment what Bailey was doing
here before I knew—this was where she would die. She would
95
walk along the edge of the bridge until she stood above the deep-
est part of the river. She would climb up the icy guardrails and
stand in her soaked sneakers, the wind whipping shards of rain
into her eyes. She would think about jumping. She would slip.
A ash of that human panic resurfaced in me. If Bailey died
here and now, I would lose my chance to explore this connection,
to discern what had happened to her, to see what she would do
about it. She would lose her chance to do anything about it. And
if she realized that, if she chose not to jump—this was a mistake.
I could see her walking to her doom, halfway there now, and
though I desperately wanted to change her fate, I had no vocal
cords to call out, no hands with which to reach for her.
Even if I did manifest, what could I do? I would forget ev-
erything the moment I met her reality. I had to remember my
purpose. I tried to be loud in my own thoughts, like a human.
She brought her knee to her chest, her foot to the rail. I tried to
scream, Bailey! Bailey! Bailey!
**
“Bailey!”
e girl in red stumbled away from the rails, looking for
whoever had called her name. Her breath short and shallow, her
heart hammering in her chest, Bailey took in the ledge she had
just come down from. e person who had shouted her name
from across the bridge stumbled toward her and took her by the
arm.
“Are you okay?”
Bailey swallowed, trying to catch her breath while staring
at the other woman’s smooth, hairless head. “I’m sorry. Do I...
know you?”
Reections of the falling snow twinkled across a cloud that
Bailey’s question brought over the woman’s eyes. “I…don’t think
so. But you look so familiar.” She looked around, as if seeing her
surroundings for the rst time. “I don’t…do you know where we
are?”
Bailey had been about to ask how this apparition knew her
name, but the thought vanished when she took in the fact that
96
this person was wearing nothing but what looked like a white
sheet, soaked through in this storm, and didn’t seem to know
where she was.
“Do you need a ride?” she asked, teeth chattering now. “It
looks like you’ve had a lot to drink.”
“A ride?” It sounded as if the word were foreign to her.
“Is there someone I can call for you?”
“No, I—I don’t think so.”
Bailey took the strange woman’s arm. “Why don’t we get out
of the rain?”
e woman nodded. ey walked to the car; there was no
point in running when they were both soaked, and Bailey was
unsure that her charge was capable of running. She tottered like
a newborn as it was.
“Can you at least tell me your name?” Bailey asked gently.
“Also, how did you know mine?”
e woman’s answer was slow and quiet. “I don’t know. I
can’t remember anything. Except…”
“Except?”
“e word ‘angel.’ I don’t know why.”
“Well, Angel, why don’t we get you some hot food, warm
clothes, and sobering coee, and see if we can’t gure out where
you’re supposed to be?”
e lights of the bridge were soon far behind them.
97
The infiniTe
anSwer
by Amanda Kleiber
What makes humanity special?
A loaded question
which, in biology, they answer
with a four-item list:
bipedalism, opposable thumbs, larger brains, capacity for language.
And, as we know, mankind’s greatest achievements:
walking, pinching, thinking, talking.
What makes humanity special?
Stopping entire buses just to run
down lanes of sunowers, mirroring their proud posture.
Tiny pairs of boots splashing down sidewalks,
pausing for every puddle to make waves.
Watching sad movies simply to cry and cartoons just to laugh.
Pink, plastic amingos in friends’ yards,
a surprise party complete with your favorite avor cake,
the happy dance performed when a handwritten letter arrives
and the all too familiar struggle of attempting to roll o a beanbag chair.
What makes humanity special?
Entire days devoted to spreading soil around saplings,
sharing smiles and imagining future shade.
e unadulterated joy lighting up faces of all ages
by colored ice in a paper cone.
Superheroes knocking on your door,
plastic pumpkin baskets clutched in their sts.
e complex exchange of a secret handshake
complete with dance moves, high ves, and st bumps
saved for only close companions.
98
What makes humanity special?
Eagerly skipping to mount the backs of painted horses on braided poles
the burning anticipation of riding in circles.
Willingness to leap o edges of tall places attached to mere strings,
all for the rush of adrenaline and the right to claim insanity.
Ingesting spicy foods and refusing water when oered,
because pride is hurt by tears, coughing, or giving in.
Hearing sounds of souls in the wall and assigning them names
of friends, the famous, or infamous, all long passed.
What makes humanity special?
Hummed tunes which can be nished
by any stranger or passerby.
A cutting glare thrown to an old adversary.
e exchange of embraces aer a long day.
A breath,
a gi,
a voice,
an act,
a sign that everything is going to be okay.
What makes humanity special?
Write your list of wonders,
may you never reach its end.
99
laBoriouS living
by
Kaitlyn Sharrock
My Grandpa has worked at the shop for as long as I can
remember. It was started in 1941 as a part-time endeavor by
my Great-Grandparents. Whenever asked, Mom says it’s a “on
-
sie-twosie metal shop”, which means nothing to me, and most
people. Aer a google dive, I discovered that it is a real term,
and means the shop makes special parts that other places don’t
oen bother with. ey go from making hundreds of one piece,
to only one of another depending on the day.
e shop is like an ancient elder; it has seen unspoken
success and triumph, new life and death. It hands out its wealth
with a nicky hand. It teaches harsh lessons through barren
times, with heart-breaking, head-pounding stress and path-al
-
tering failures. It carries a legacy of hard-work and family that
my Grandpa has dedicated his life to keeping alive. is legacy
is like a ball and chain intertwined with his being.
I know hundreds of things about his wife, my Nana, the
woman who was cursed with babysitting me for most of my
childhood, but there are only three things that I truly recognize
as my Grandpa’s:
1) Warm, toothy grins whenever I appear, like I am the
exact Christmas gi he had asked for, but never expected to
receive.
2) Scruy, cheek kisses whenever we hug, which I would
normally despise, but from him it is an expected ritual.
3) e knowledge that he lived to work.
I have seen him in the pinstriped, gray and white uniform
more oen than any other type of attire. He wore it to Christmas,
church, and other sanctied events. e short-sleeved shirt and
dark pants are a badge of honor, a comfort. In many ways, they
proclaim his identity more than the name tag across his chest.
100
Grandpa has worked at the shop since he was a teen, hair
greased into a careful swirl and white t-shirts perfectly tucked
into jeans. He had a brief stint of disloyalty when his brother,
Mike, delved into alcoholic thievery. Mike began to use his
sticky-with-sin ngers to steal from the shop, leaving their fa-
ther no money to pay Grandpa anything beyond the minimum.
With nobody willing to do anything about the thievery, and the
business in a cycle of moderate success and abrupt failure, my
Grandpa was forced to leave. With four-children to support, he
moved to Washington State, abandoning the pieces of his soul
ingrained in the shop through the sweat drops absorbed into
the oor.
is stint up north ended a couple months later when my
young, rowdy, red-headed Mom answered the phone at mid-
night to Great-Grandma, who had protected Mike and caused
the whole mess, begging Grandpa to come home.
Within two weeks Grandpa was home, among giant metal
machines and water jets, this time there to stay. It took his body
literally failing to get him out of the shop a second time.
A brief period of my tweendom was spent home alone while
my parents drove around for hospital visits. I was too young to
really understand what had happened to cause it, but I know
they had to remove an insane amount of his intestines, and that
his body almost went septic. Mom still says, with a dark face,
that her and Nana were taken to the dreaded private room and
told he wouldn’t live through the night. But he did live. Sort of.
He suered in that hospital bed for almost a whole year,
sometimes barely coherent, other times so angry I barely
recognized him as the so-spoken Christian from my child-
hood. Eventually, he progressed from wheelchair, to walker,
to unsteady hospital-socked feet. He le the hospital with an
entirely new diet lled with greens that Nana was completely
invested in, and a brain that was slower than it used to be. e
knowledge was still there, but it was like he had to unlock the
chest before opening it, and sometimes the right key got lost in
a cluster of clinging silver.
Still, he put on that pinstriped uniform and returned to
work, but no one said anything when Mom started to take on
101
more of his responsibilities. ey weren’t going to deny him
this constant comfort. Besides, he was not only her father, but
the big kahuna at the shop since Great-Grandpa’s passing and
his siblings’ disconnection.
Mike was properly banned from having anything to do
with the business, while the remaining brother stupidly sold
his shares, believing they’d still allow him to be part of the busi-
ness aerwards. Grandpa’s sister, Pat, was the only one who still
had her shares, but she paid the shop no mind. She resented it,
blaming the shop and her parents for her poor upbringing. She
invested herself in nursing, believing that to be where all the
money was.
Grandpa continued working at his slower pace, his desk
a chaotic puzzle made from hundreds of pieces of paper. He
continued playing solitaire at lunch, munching on his healthy
leftovers only to coerce Mom to get him a Georgia Mudslide
Blizzard for dessert, a secret that Nana has only recently
discovered.
He continued living the only way he knew how, until
the board meeting where Pat lost her mind, as my Mom so
eloquently put it. Board meetings are always a laborious aair,
at least for Mom, but the consolatory cash all board members
receive make them tolerable events. ey occur every three
months and generally serve as either a necessary annoyance
or a battleground where people who have no idea what they’re
talking about try to interfere with people who are integral parts
of the business machine. It was a clear divide: Grandpa, Mom,
and Casey (an uncle who was practically born in the shop), and
Pat with her horde of nurse children. Mom always came home
late from board meetings since they happen aerhours and she
had to si through Houston trac, but once the clock struck
9:00, we knew this meeting had been particularly terrible.
I know there was a phone call, although I don’t remember
who initiated the phone call, my worried Dad or nosy sister
both being likely culprits, but I do remember the game of
phone hot potato and the emotional mother on the line.
e words, “I’m going to quit,” and, “she’s a bitch,” were
tossed around from across the line in a congested, tear-ridden
102
voice. ose words, and variants of them, are still regular fea-
tures around the house.
Hearing my parents insult Pat wasn’t surprising – she had
a reputation aer all. One of Dad’s favorite stories to regale us
with consists of a nervous, nineteen-year-old version of him
-
self picking her up at the ferry, the day before his wedding, and
the words, “marriage isn’t for everyone,” slipping from her lips.
It was much more shocking to hear Mom say she was ready to
quit the only job I ever remember her having.
e story came out over the next few days and I continued
to discover more details as I got older. e gist was that Pat
declared her majority control equal to God’s word and stated
that, “ings were going to change.” My favorite details were
her hands shaking as she screamed at Grandpa and called him
“Dad” and “Mike,” revealing that Grandpa was a scapegoat for
the entire family’s sins.
She didn’t mention that she only had majority shares be
-
cause she had thrown a similar screeching, cussing tantrum at
their dying mother. She might have forgotten that my Mom
was living with them at the time, and that Mom could run
Sherlock Holmes out of business. Pat had used guilt, claiming
their mother favored Grandpa, to get more shares, and then
didn’t use them for decades as she pursued her own career.
She only stepped foot in the shop for board meetings, but
now she wanted to, “change things.” And change things she did.
Pat and her children try to run a metal shop like a hospital,
forgetting the dierent hours, amount of sta, and money in
the bank. ey have created a spiral of failure that those with
experience don’t have the power to x.
And with each change she makes, my Grandpa turns more
and more into the man he was at the hospital – angry, confused,
barely living. It is like the emotional reversion has summoned
old wounds.
For the past couple years, Grandpa has been inside the hos
-
pital for weeks at a time, only to return and have another chain
added to his shackles as Pat took away his responsibilities.
Eventually, the chains became so heavy he retired, preferring
to lock himself into place than have his own blood do it for
him, slowly, painfully, and with spiteful glee.
103
A year prior, an employee of 15 years had retired. Pat threw
him a party and gied him $5,000 and a golden brand name
watch.
For Grandpa, she was content to do nothing. It was only
her son dropping snide hints in emails that led to the board
giing him a shing rod.
A gi he isn’t healthy enough to use, equal to $5,000.
Dad and I had taken to calling Pat the Red Queen since the
beginning of her reign, in honor of her merciless nature. We
toned it down for Mom, who had to intermingle with Pat for
work. Mom readily accepted the name back into the household
aer this slight.
When someone’s whole life revolves around getting up in
the morning, putting on a uniform, and going to work, retire
-
ment becomes a nightmare. Mom bought him a big, tablet-like
electronic to play solitaire on, with big letters for his 80-year-old
eyes to see. I have heard neither praise or complaint, making
me suspicious he has been in hospitals and nursing homes too
oen to use it. Aer Nana decided their independence wasn’t
as important as their health, I spotted the tablet on the dresser
in their new apartment, a measly ve minutes from my parent’s
house.
e latest hospital/nursing-home stint has lasted two
months. ey have resulted in Pat sending Mom a series of
scattered texts full of random caps, lower cases, and blank
spaces. My favorite drunken proclamations were, “He is such
a kind man,” and, “I feel so bad for him to suer so much.” As
if her regard for his suering hasn’t already been made clear.
e nurses tell Mom and Nana that Grandpa must be able
to walk before they’ll let him come home.
When Nana is busy fussing over his blankets, they tell Mom
he’s given up.
I want to disagree, I want to know that the warm grin
won’t always melt into puzzlement when I visit him and that
the scruy kiss that I don’t remember wasn’t my last one, but
I can’t.
I think he gave up a long time ago. In a lot of ways, Nana,
Mom, and hospitals are the only thing pushing him along,
chains and all.
104
BeTTer
To Be aBDucTeD
by
Harleigh McGowan
It’s easier to believe he was abducted. at, maybe, a bright
white light lled his dorm room as he slept next to me and when
it nally died, he was gone. Or maybe a silvery UFO beamed
him up with a brilliant ray of color while he smoked a joint on
the roof of the art studio. Even if he is naked on a metal slab
surrounded by Roswell Greys or Tall Whites with probes and
tools for dissection. Even if they pull out his teeth one by one
and put a chip inside his brain, at least he is away from here and
alive. At least he’s not surrounded by medical examiners using
his dental records to identify his charred body.
105
Snow angelS
a
Mong ShaDowS
by
Harleigh McGowan
Two days before the school caught on re, there was a
blizzard. We were used to snow-covered mountains lining
the New Mexican sky, but to have so much of it in April was
unusual. You laughed that morning as you opened the blinds,
and said the ve inches of fresh powder was Nature’s late April
Fool’s joke. I was just happy classes were canceled. I tried to
convince you to stay in bed with me, to wrap me in your warm
embrace. You wouldn’t have it. A walk would be good for us,
but really I knew you wanted to play in the snow. We needed
a distraction.
e campus was quiet and cast in a foggy haze. Shadows
of the contemporary sculptures distorted by blankets of snow
felt like creatures looming just out of sight. It made me realize
there was a ne line between Christmas card and horror mov-
ie, but your excitement was enough to make me forget about
what I know now were omens. Instead of commenting on the
shadow gures, you pointed out how my winter boots le star-
shaped indents in the fresh snow and said that it was as if I was
leaving a constellation in my wake. Smiling at me, you held out
open arms and as I went for an embrace, you fell backward,
laughing. Shoveling snow with your limbs’ sweeping motions,
you made a snow angel. When you got up, we could see the
red clay underneath peeking through like blossoming wounds.
106
riverBeD clouDS
by
Harleigh McGowan
I.
e sky married orange and mauve as I laid on my back covered
in New Mexican red clay and dried paint. I cupped my hands around
my mouth and shouted Congrats, but the sky didn’t care about what
I had to say. Aer a moment of cicada lled silence, I realized I didn’t
care about what I had to say either.
e orange began to fade as mauve got to know indigo and I
could feel the chemicals slowly leaving my body. I ran my tongue
over my cracked lips, imagining a dry riverbed veined with empti
-
ness.
II.
“I call those riverbed clouds,” my brother once said, his head
tilted back. I followed his gaze to the sky, overcast but shattered. e
blue breaking through.
Chin still skyward, I almost hoped to catch a glimpse of God. Is
he watching? Is anyone watching? ere is nothing between the gaps
in the clouds. Nothing but blue forever.
“You’ll have to let me steal that.”
My brother nodded then, shoving his hands into his pockets
before saying, “Only if you stop dropping acid.”
I tried to explain to him why I can’t. Adobe brick and red clay
make me want to kill myself, but how windowpane and needlepoint
give my life some color. It wasn’t until the blue was overcome by
pinks, oranges, and purples that I could let my mind be clear.
III.
I felt myself come down as the orange completely vanished
behind the mountains, knowing mauve’s new lover would soon
completely overcome her. I saw them then, three little green lights
dancing on the distant peaks. “Take me! Take me!” I shouted as I
scrambled to my feet, still disoriented from the trip, and waved my
arms above my head.
e sky still didn’t care- but, I was starting to.
107
The upSTairS
neighBorS
by
Amanda Kleiber
Rats live in my ceiling. I have yet to see a single rodent, but
I know they linger in the walls, the only thing separating them
from my gaze a too-thin layer of plaster. ey skitter about, paws
pitter-pattering down planks of wood, through insulation, and
to their nests.
Sometimes, late at night, the skittering turns to shuing,
and I know it’s the rat children in their slippers, scuing about,
hoping not to get caught by their rat parents. ey’re sneaking
into the kitchen for a midnight snack, maybe crumbs leover
from dinner if they’re lucky. And then it’s back to bed before
anybody notices they were gone. ey make no sound save for
the soles of their slippers beneath them, not a single squeak.
During the day, when I am not home, I wonder what the rats
are doing in my absence. Perhaps they throw a lavish party in
the attic. With the humans away, they come out to play, popping
open bottles of champagne and breaking out little disco balls.
ey dance the day away, free from potential capture, squeaky
laughter bouncing o the pink u crammed between the beams
that hold up the roof.
But that would be silly. Rats are never sure whether they
will have the house to themselves on a given day. By chance, a
human could drop in during the day, or one might return home
unexpectedly early, and then what? ey wouldn’t have the time
to take down the disco ball and recork the champagne without
being caught. So it must be less exuberant.
e rats, then, must have jobs. Some of them are business
rats, lawyers, doctors, and police rats. Where there are rat sales-
men, there are rat consumers. With the lawyers come criminals,
108
judges, and juries. And a rat legal system implies a rat constitu-
tion. Each rat abiding by the supreme law of the attic, vowing to
never get caught by the humans or else face a harsh penalty. e
rat police paw around, ensuring the populace is safe, and that
every furry rodent stays in line.
Although if any of that were true, I’d have heard the sirens
by now. So it must be a simpler explanation. An entire colony
would be far too complicated. No, it must be just a single family.
e unit is comprised of the aforementioned rat children,
always up to no good, their parents, a bit more responsible, and
a grandparent rat. One of the creatures moves a little slower, one
paw scraping slightly behind the other three--a limp. ey’re
happy up there in the ceiling. It’s dark and private, and they don’t
have to wonder where their next meal will come from. ey don’t
concern themselves with things like school or money or showing
o to their neighbors. ey simply focus on staying together and
working enough to see another day.
It’s almost sweet, this family in my ceiling. And I am almost
apologetic when the exterminator climbs the ladder to the attic
to get rid of them once and for all.
109
kunTe kinTe
by
Nia McCray
“e past seemed with the present, the present with the future,
the dead with the living and those yet to be born”
-
Roots: e Saga of an American Family
by Alex Haley
Mother asked me to go and hide away
she knew what raids like this could mean for me,
but I rock in a nauseating sway
waves crashing, voices crying out, moans, pleas.
ey labeled me as a strong, working buck,
one that can work the elds from dusk to dawn;
hope and freedom disappear with each pluck.
I wince with every drop of red blood drawn
by Master’s whip. “You be a good nigger,”
he taunts. “Yessuh.” My shirt clings to my wounds.
And do not let the dogs catch you— trigger
pointed at your face, bloodhounds long, loud croon.
e chains of slavery and its bondage,
my freedom is permanently hostaged.
110
BreweD
To perfecTion
by Kaitlyn Sharrock
Boiling bubbles rumble along
shaking the cauldron,
lling the room with toxic fumes.
e brew shis,
colors dancing,
like Halloween lights on a street puddle.
e concoction hits the right tone,
singing sweetly
a ghostly lullaby into the night.
I force my trembling hand,
to ladle it into
a crystalline vial’s skeletal neck.
Blisters blossom
as I swallow
and wait with stilled breath and outstretched arms.
But nothing happens.
No surge of strength, no lengthening of hair or nails,
no eyes turning wide and piercing or a richer color,
no lips turning into delicate, feathered pillows,
no weight taken or added in just the right place,
no urge to be sweeter,
braver,
smarter,
happier.
111
I am stuck being me
a failure, with nothing remarkable to my name.
I toss the vial over my shoulder and it cracks among others.
e broken glass and brews combine.
ey eat holes through the oorboards, seeping into the earth below.
I heat the cauldron again,
watch it rise to a turbulent roar,
and wonder what else it will take.
112
a Tale of woe
by
Nia McCray
“#InOurLifeTime we will ght for and alongside victims of gun
violence, and we will prevail. Forget our kids, our Neighbors
shouldn’t have to worry about this.”
- Emma Gonzales, Parkland Shooting survivor
Young children should have lived in dignity.
In a school once thought safe, we lay our scene.
Here a troubled soul caused a mutiny.
Here innocent blood made mad hands unclean.
From forth the deranged thoughts, this enraged foe,
multiple pairs of children lose their life--
their bodies ducked behind desks overthrown,
hiding from the death of a bullet’s strike.
Now fearful parents are ghting with love
the ignorant politicians. eir rage
which mourns their children’s end not could remove
the issue of gun control on our stage.
ose of us who in protest do attend,
with raised voices, ght the troubles to mend.
113
one of The BoYS
by
Kennedy Thurmond
I wanted to be skinny. I wanted to have a day go by where
my mother didn’t give me a speech about my health and diet-
ing tips and congratulate me for eating an apple instead of a
chocolate-chip cookie where I only ended up feeling smaller
rather than proud. at it’s an actual conversation we had
countless times. at she wanted me to be the little girl she
remembered from years ago. I wanted that too. I wanted to
please her. I wanted those conversations to cease forever and
to feel proud of myself. I didn’t want to look in the mirror and
feel repulsed, squinting, as I tried to imagine the girl I was.
I wanted to return to school a completely new person, un-
recognizable to my friends; super thin, golden tan, new clothes.
I wanted them to nally see me as skinny instead of hearing
about how I used to be, before my parents got divorced and we
moved states. I wanted to be skinny when it counted. When
boys looked at you and judged whether you were worth dating
or not. I wanted them to think about it when they saw me, not
just pass me over and glance at the tan legs on my friend.
I wanted to be a girl, because I had never felt that way. I
used to like that about myself. Guys didn’t think I was so, or
a baby. My brother even started calling me Larry when I was
little instead of Hillary. I was proud to be one of them. But that
was also the problem. I wanted to be teased like my girlfriends
instead of like the guys. To be fought over. I wanted to get
mad like Elody, because guys were talking about how great her
butt is, not because it’s a good thing, but because it’s worth
discussing. I wanted ‘will you go out with me’ to not be the butt
end of a joke. For boys to want to talk to me. To feel pretty.
I didn’t realize how badly I wanted it until a week before
school got out and my brother was helping me study. We were
nishing up when he took his chewed-up ball-point pen out of
114
his mouth and swiveled his chair in my direction. “You know,
we are polar opposites,” he said grinning. “Like, you’re short.
I’m tall.”
“I know, moron,” I said. “You’re lazy. I’m productive,”
“No.” He rolled his eyes. “I mean like, I’m hot and you’re…
you know?” He chucked me in the chin in his annoying older
brother way and sauntered o.
I stuck my tongue out at his back. “I could be pretty. If I
really tried,” I said.
So, that was what I was going to become. It would take
all summer to lose y pounds if I lost four pounds a week. I
realized I’d have to miss the lake trip to accomplish my goal. It
was a steep hill to climb, but I was committed.
**
I was nervous the morning I had agreed to meet up with
everyone before the trip. I had told Casey the night before over
the phone that I had decided not to go. She had screamed so
loud I had to hold it away from my ear which caused Noah to
come in and complain.
“What do you mean you aren’t going? is isn’t funny,
Hilly,” she said. I could picture her crossing her arms.
“I’m sorry, Casey Bridge.” She always liked it when I said
her full name. It made her feel powerful rather than in trouble.
“Why is it you can’t go Betrayer?”
is was the part I had been trying to sort out for an hour.
“I found out there was a job opening at the snow cone stand on
the beach. You know the one we used to love? And I start the
week we leave. My mom says it would be smart of me to work
this summer rather than laying around with my friends for
three months.” Which was true. “And I really need the money
to x the bumper on the Bronco.” is was also true. My mom
refused to pay for it, since I hit the brick pillar, not her.
“Fine. Be productive. But I’m not bringing you a keychain.”
We bought keychains every time we went to the lake. It was
a tradition. “Okay,” I said, because I knew she didn’t mean it.
She was mad, but there was no breaking the tradition even if I
115
was le behind in Seaburrow. Aerward we talked about which
swimsuits she should pack and what color she should paint her
nails, and I knew I was forgiven.
I drove over to Casey’s neighborhood around 6:30. e
sun was just starting to streak across the sky, its ngers slicing
through the morning fog. Everyone was already there loading
the white minivan.
“Larry!” Jake said as soon as I climbed out of my truck. “Let
me get your stu for you.”
“She’s not going,” Tyler said, rearranging the bags in the
trunk. is of course caught the others’ attention.
“What?” Jake spun around staring at me like I’d slapped
him or said surng wasn’t a real sport. I gave him a sheepish
smile.
“It’s not going be as fun without you, Larry,” Grayson said.
My heart skipped a beat, my cheeks ushing hot crimson,
twisting a piece of hair around my nger.
“Why aren’t you going?” Jake stepped in front of me, ruin-
ing the moment.
“I have to work. I got a job.”
“Why?”
I opened my mouth, but Grayson spoke over me. “At least
there’s one smart person in this group. Good job, Larry.”
“Was that a pun?” I smiled in spite of myself.
“If you want it to be.” Grayson winked. “Don’t have too
much fun without us.” He got in the car.
“I won’t with you gone all summer,” I whispered. I heard
Jake sco. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed over my crush on
Grayson, or if he was being petty because I wasn’t going and
didn’t tell him. Casey wrapped me up in a hug before I could
ask him, warning me not to work myself to death and to be
careful and not forget about her while she was away.
“Bye, Hilly,” Elody said before telling Grayson to scoot
down.
When they were gone, I headed to the beach to surf, snap-
ping a picture to send in our group chat, since internet was
spotty up there and we wouldn’t talk much for a while.
When I was little, Mom used to take Noah and I to the
116
beach at the crack of dawn. I think it was her excuse for skip-
ping the awkward conversations with Dad while he got ready
for work. eir divorce hadn’t been nalized, and Dad hadn’t
found a new place to live yet. She said it was because she liked
to enjoy the vibrant colors streaming across the sky at a time
when the rest of the world was in bed. Noah would cross his
eyes when she said this, and I would giggle. We knew she was
trying to prove she was keeping it all together, to be strong for
us, but she didn’t know Noah caught her crying at the kitchen
table one night aer we had been sent to bed, an old scrap book
of their honeymoon in her hands.
at was how I fell in love with surng. I didn’t mind getting
up before the sun, slipping on some of Noah’s old board shorts,
a swim shirt and helping Mom load our boards into the back of
the Bronco. I didn’t care about sand getting in my clothes or the
salt in my lungs, as long as I got to paddle out through blue water
and return to where I belonged. Surng was the only time I truly
knew who I was. It didn’t matter what I looked like, where I came
from, or who I wanted to be. All that mattered was the coming
tide. Life, however, is not like that. Life is less open minded.
**
e day my friends were headed back I had bravely asked
Grayson to a movie the next day. Noah said I had nally grown
some balls. I glared at him for his choice of wording, but no
matter how I looked, I was always going to be his little sister.
But he was right. I was a new person, with a new mind set and
new clothes. e ugly duckling had nally become a swan.
Unfortunately, Grayson must have misunderstood my
invitation, or I wouldn’t have been standing on Casey’s porch
with my makeup bag so we could get ready together. I rang the
doorbell again and shot her a text.
I heard Casey’s mued voice moments later. “Mom get the
door, please! My nails are wet!”
Mrs. Bridge came shuing up. She gave rushed apologies,
unlocking the door. “Oh, Hilly. You look lovely,” she said, ush-
ering me inside. “Congratulations. You must be pleased.”
117
“Yes ma’am.” I bit my lip. People never knew what to say
when you lost weight, besides strange compliments I never
knew what to do with. I made my way up-stairs, holding my
skirt against my legs. I knocked once at her room, loud enough
to be heard over Hey Violet’s “Guys My Age” blasting from her
speakers.
“Come in!” Casey said. I straightened my skirt, ued my
hair, and walked in. “Hilly, come pick—” She broke o, mouth
forming a small ‘O’.
“What happened to you?” Elody closed the lid on the hot
pink nail polish.
“I lost y pounds,” I said, holding my arms out. “I nally
did it.”
“No kidding, I wouldn’t have recognized you,” she said
circling me. “I don’t understand. Why did you need to lose
weight?”
“Because, I was over-weight. I’m 5’2. Extra weight on a
short person is way more noticeable. It’s got nowhere to go. But
I feel great in my skin now.”
“You know, Hilly. You look beautiful, but you looked beau-
tiful before. You realize you don’t have to change yourself in
order to be happy. You don’t have to give in to what society
thinks women should look like. Be your own person. You just
have to learn to except yourself,” Casey said.
My face scrunched. Sometimes I really hated girls. I hated
how bettering yourself made them want to bring you down. It
didn’t mean I was calling you fat, or ugly. Instead of congratu-
lating you, they try to sabotage you, or undermine your motives
by saying it was the wrong answer and you should’ve learned to
love the way you looked no matter what. Maybe loving yourself
is taking care of your body by eating right and exercising.
I was completely annoyed by the time we made it to the
movie theater. I didn’t want to listen to all the fun I missed
at the lake, or the diving rocks they found while on a nature
trail, or how they shot reworks from the lawn on the Fourth of
July. I wanted them to realize how awful they had been to me.
I wanted them to apologize. But I knew they wouldn’t. ey
didn’t believe they had done anything wrong. What did they
118
know? ey had always been skinny; had always been beauti-
ful. ey just were. No work required.
e boys were waiting by the ticket booth when we
scrambled out of my Bronco. My anger ebbed as soon as I saw
Grayson, my cheeks warming. I straightened up, shoulders
back. I was the new and improved Hilly. No more hiding. Elody
hugged Tyler like they haden’t just spent the whole summer
together, and I caught Casey roll her eyes, greeting them. at’s
when they nally noticed me; double takes and wide eyes, the
reaction I’d been waiting for my entire life, like I was a girl.
“Larry?” Jake scooped me into a hug, but it was loose like
he didn’t know the person he was holding. “You look amazing.”
e way he was looking at me made a blush spread across
my face, and I had to look away. “anks,” I said, tucking my
newly bleached hair behind my ear.
“You look fantastic,” Grayson said, pulling me into him.
My heart skipped a beat, wrapping my arms around his torso,
breathing in his vanilla scented cologne. He had never hugged
me like that before. No “bro” hug. He was what kept me going for
three months, that he would nally see me. at I would nally
be a girl he’d want to kiss. “at dress looks great on you.”
“It’s new,” I said lamely, but it made him smile anyway.
I tried wearing a dress two years ago. It was one of those
few days where I was in the mood to actually wear one without
it being a special occasion. It had been raining for weeks, and
I wanted to celebrate the sun returning, slipping into my only
sun dress and actually trying to do my makeup for once. Casey
and Elody clapped their hands in excitement, pleased I was
wearing something other than a t-shirt. I felt condent, until
Tyler told me I looked interesting and Jake asked why I was
wearing lipstick. Aer that I swore o dresses. I felt as though I
had decided to wear a Halloween costume to a Christmas party.
It wasn’t exactly the date I had imagined, but Grayson
bought me my usual—popcorn with milk duds and a Coke
ICEE—and saved me a chair next to him while I was in the
bathroom. He may have felt obligated since I was the one
that invited him, but I didn’t care. He had never paid for my
food before or saved me a seat next to him. The night would
119
have been absolutely perfect if Casey wasn’t challenging me
for Grayson’s attention all evening and Jake wasn’t staring at
me like I was an imposter, but it didn’t stop me from enjoying
the fact that Grayson was so close I found myself holding my
breath during the movie, especially when our hands would
graze when we both reached into the popcorn bucket at the
same time. I was grateful for the darkness, hiding the burning
in my cheeks.
I was tanning with the girls the next aernoon when a
shadow passed over my face, blocking out the sun. Water be-
gan dripping on to my legs and I sat up grumpily, putting my
shades down so I could see. Jake was standing there, frowning
at me. “What?”
He pursed his lips. “Can I talk to you?” He ran a hand
through his dark hair, water droplets inging o.
“Why?” I wanted to be as tan as possible by the time school
started, to distance myself from my natural, milky paleness. I
was tired of being a ghost. And Jake was blocking me from it.
Every minute counted.
“Because,” he said. He was irritating me. “It’s about
Grayson.” at caught my attention.
I followed him to the Crab N’ Go Snack Shack that was
attached to the snow cone stand I spent most of the summer
working at. “What’s wrong with Grayson? Is it about his birth-
day tonight?”
“Huh? No.” Jake shook his head like he was running out
of patience with me, which annoyed me even more. He was
interrupting me. “I just think you need to be careful. Grayson
and Casey, they’ve kinda had this thing going on since July. I
don’t want you getting caught in the middle of it.”
“Are you implying that if I did, I’d lose to her?” I crossed
my arms, nails digging into my palms till little crescent moons
formed in my skin.
“No! I just don’t want you getting hurt is all,” he sputtered,
trying to dig himself out.
“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you big brothering
me. I have Noah for that.” I started to walk o, but he grabbed
my arm. “Let go.”
120
“I care about you Hilly,” he said which made me know he
was serious, but I was sweaty and angry, and wanted him to
leave me alone, so I said something I knew would hurt him.
“At least I’m willing to fight for the person I’m in love with.”
He’d had a crush on Elody last summer, and Casey wasn’t
supposed to have told her, but she thought it was funny. Elody
picked Tyler, since he was forward about what he wanted.
He let go, drawing in a breath. I had got to him. “At least
I’m not self-absorbed,” he said. I kept walking, kicking up sand
as I headed back to my towel. I wasn’t gonna let him see me cry.
Never again.
I was out jet skiing with my guy friends. We had rented
them for the day, but we only had two, so we had to take
turns. Grayson and Tyler had been hogging both of them for
an hour, and I was getting impatient, stuck on the dock with
Jake and Noah. Finally, Grayson came around the corner to
dock.
“Where have you been?” I was beyond agitated.
“Sorry, Larry. Tyler wanted to race.” He slid o, giving me
an apologetic side hug, before bouncing o to celebrate his win
with Noah.
I had just backed out when Tyler showed up. “Dude! e
babes are here!” he called out to Grayson, waving his phone
that was stued in a zip-lock bag in the air before instructing
me to get o so they could take “the babes” for a ride.
“No,” I said, looking to Grayson for help.
I knew he would take my side. He wasn’t a jerk obsessed
with girls. He would make the right choice and see what a pig
Tyler was being. He stood there going back and forth between
the two of us. “Larry—”
“No! You two were gone forever, and it’s my turn now.” My
heart plummeted.
“Come on, Larry. You can have it back when we’re done.
I promise,” Grayson pleaded, making it sound like I was being
completely unreasonable.
I scrutinized him for a moment, furious, hands clenching
the handlebars. “Fine,” I spit, forcing him to swim out to me if
he wanted the jet ski.
121
Aer that, I realized I was and will always be one of the boys.
And I hated it. ey irted with Elody and Casey, teasingly,
but never with me. e thought of me as dating material never
crossed their minds. And suddenly, I wanted to be beautiful
and gain their attention. I had cried for an hour, as I explained
it to Jake, and I felt so weak and babyish aerward.
I decided on a tight-tting royal blue strappy dress and
wedges to wear to Grayson’s eighteenth birthday party. I arrived
a little late since I had to ght Noah for the Bronco keys. He
wanted to teach his girlfriend to drive stick on the way home.
I refused to sit in the back seat for two hours watching that. I
was driving or he wasn’t going. Grayson’s birthday was always
the biggest party of the year. Noah never missed it. Mom told
him to hand them over, and I stuck my tongue out at him once
her back was turned.
e girls were standing near the snack table holding plas-
tic cups and whispering when I spotted them. “Hey,” I said,
smoothing down my dress.
“Hot,” Elody said slinging an arm around me. “I’d date you.”
I grinned, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Casey was smiling too, but something about it seemed o,
like she was wearing her evil scheme face.
“What’s up Casey?”
“Nothing. You look gorge. Let’s go raid the snack table.”
She looped her arm through mine, walking too quickly for my
wobbly legs. I wasn’t used to heels, much less in the sand which
kept siing under my uneven weight. She handed me a cup.
“Here. You look like you could use a drink.”
“I don’t drink C,” I said righting myself once we came to a
stop.
“Oh, that’s right. Have a cookie then,” she said trading me.
“I’m actually trying to lower my junk food intake.”
She took the cookie from me, stung it in her mouth. “Are
you sure? ey are so good.”
“at’s okay,” I said uneasily. “I think I’m going to go nd
Grayson and tell him happy birthday.” I couldn’t tell if Casey
was acting this way because Grayson had genuinely paid atten-
tion to me and she was actually jealous or if this was her being
122
a girl. Either way I was already tired of it. is was how I looked
now. She was just going to have to get used to it. I snagged a cup
from the table and marched o in search of the guys.
Grayson was chatting with a group of people from school
when I walked up. “Larry!” he called, pulling me into his side. I
sipped on my drink as they talked, the taste bitter in my mouth.
“But anyway, Tyler, your form was way o earlier.” ey were
talking about surng.
“Whatever! You wiped out the most today.”
“What was he doing wrong?” I glanced up at Grayson, who
was rolling his eyes.
“It’s hard to explain. You had to be there,” he said.
“I surf you know. I think I could gure it out if you give a
description,” I said, annoyed. “Hey, anyone in need of another
rell?” Casey said, ouncing her way into the circle.
Grayson removed his arm from around my waist immedi-
ately, his back straightening in her presence. Everyone raised
their hand except Jake.
“You know what, I’ll come with you for extra hands.” As
Grayson followed aer my best friend, my heart ripped in half;
Jake was right. I was going to get hurt.
I could see him watching me from the corner of my eye. I
shrugged it o and forced a smile. “I think I’ll go too.”
“Larry, you shouldn’t be drinking. You’re underage,” Jake
warned me.
“You’re drinking.” I reminded him, gulping down the last
swallow of beer. “Wait up, guys!”
I heard Jake’s footsteps behind me.
By midnight I was a little tipsy, my head swimming, so I
sat down by the bonre, warming my hands. I didn’t think to
bring a jacket for aer dark and I was regretting my thin dress. I
noticed the new keychain Casey had gotten me on my key ring,
realizing I hadn’t seen her or Grayson in a while. I stood up,
shuing from group to group asking if anyone had talked to
them recently. Maybe they had gone into the house to get more
chips. No one was allowed in unless you were with Grayson.
I gave up aer twenty minutes, nding it hard to focus.
I took my shoes o, and walked along the shoreline, inging
123
shells into the water. e music from the house and conver-
sations bounced o the water, traveling through the darkness.
I watched my thin silhouette stretch across the sand in front
of me. I picked up another shell, dusting the granules of sand
away, bringing it up to my head, prepared to lob it, when a
familiar lilted laugh leaked into the night several feet away. I
froze. Casey.
I followed the sound, dark gures morphing into my view
on a picnic table under two palm trees. We used to eat lunch out
here on weekends when we were in eighth grade. We weren’t al-
lowed to go to the main surng spot yet, and Grayson’s parents
could see us from the house here.
I ducked behind a few bushes outlining the trees. ey
were talking with their heads bent, like they were whispering
and didn’t want anyone else to hear, even though no one else
was around but me. I couldn’t see faces, but I knew it was them.
Casey and Grayson. She had won, and I hadn’t even really
had a chance to be a part of the ght. He kissed her, slow and
passionate. Tears pricked my eyes, and I backed away, hands
over my mouth, sprinting away from them as fast as possible.
I chunked the stupid shell that was still in my hand into the
ocean. I headed toward the Bronco to go home.
“Hilly!” Jake pushed through the throng of teens, chasing
aer me. “Wait!” I must have passed him and not said anything.
“Go away,” I said. I didn’t want to hear him say I told you
so. I didn’t want to talk to him about it. I wanted to curl up in
my bed and cry my eyes out. I wanted to pretend today never
existed. I wanted to eat a quart of ice cream and not worry that
I would gain some of the weight back I’d worked so hard to
lose. I wanted Noah to have been the one to see me, because
he would’ve known not to talk to me as we headed out. I had
texted him I wanted to leave, but he hadn’t responded.
“What’s wrong?” Jake was next to me now, matching my
pacewith his annoying long legs.
“I don’t want to talk to you about it. Wouldn’t want to worry
you with my self-absorbed problems.”
“You can’t drive yourself home like this.”
“I’m ne.”
124
“Larry, you’re not. You’re drunk, so stop being a baby.” He
picked me up bridal style, unlocking my car.
“I didn’t ask for your help and stop calling me that. Just
go back to the party and leave me alone.” He sat me down in
the passenger seat, shutting the door. I felt nauseous suddenly,
placing my forehead on the window, until he got in and backed
out. “You were right.” I said.
He didn’t say anything. I knew he felt bad for me, which was
worse. He walked me to my front door, gave me the keys, and
headed home. He didn’t live far so I didn’t feel terrible about
him walking home in the dark. I took a cold shower before I
threw up right there in the tub, my knees wobbling. I popped
some Advil in my mouth to help my headache and crawled in
bed before the tears returned in chest racking sobs.
I wanted to be mad at Casey the next day when we were all
out surng, but I knew it was really my fault. ey had gotten
close over the summer, and I tried to come in and steal him
away from her aer two months of them being a “thing.” I
never told her I was in love with him, only Jake.
We were walking to get drinks from the Crab N’ Go, the
two of them holding hands, Jake quietly keeping an eye on me
when I stepped on a broken shell, letting out a strangled scream
before plopping down in the sand.
“Oh my gosh! Hilly?” Casey bent down, gripping my shoul-
der. I saw her gag at the blood owing on to the sand.
Jake bent down examining my foot, before scooping me up
like he did last night and taking me to the nurse’s station. I held
my foot, moaning in pain. Casey and Grayson followed more
slowly, still in shock.
ey placed me on a cushioned table, cleaning my foot,
and rubbing bacterial wipes over the wound, before wrapping
it with gauze. “It’s not as bad as it seems,” the nurse said, smiling
reassuringly at me. I nodded, biting my lip, trying not to cry.
“We’ll go get you a snow cone,” Casey said, ushering
Grayson out the door. e nurse handed me a cup of water
before following aer them. I let the tears leak out then.
“Does it hurt?” Jake squeezed my knee, worried.
I shook my head. “I’m so stupid.”
125
“Why?” Jake sat down in a swivel chair.
“I wanted the guys, or more importantly Grayson, to see
me as a girl for once. I wanted to feel beautiful. I wanted to
be something he wanted. But nothing really changed. It all felt
worth it for about ve minutes and it all went to my head.”
“I like that you aren’t super girly. You just need to realize the
reasons to have done all this should be for you. You’re healthy.
You’ve gained back your condence. You aren’t hiding your
frame behind baggy t-shirts anymore,” Jake said reassuringly.
“But I want to feel like a girl. So, I thought if I looked the
part, I’d nally feel it.”
“Do you?”
“No, because now my outsides don’t match my insides.
Instead, I lost myself.”
“Hills, you don’t have to t perfectly into a stereotypical
girl in order to be a girl. You’re a Hillary. You’re all your own,
and that’s why I love you.” Jake smiled, his cheeks ushing
uncontrollably.
“You—what?”
Jake mashed his lips to mine, his hands in my hair. My
stomach dipped, electric pulses shooting throughout my body,
and I melted into him. I had been self-absorbed way before I
became pretty. I had missed all the signs, that he had always
been there for me, had loved me, payed attention to me like
I had always wanted. I only counted it when I believed it
counted, excluding Jake the entire time because I didn’t believe
someone could love me when I didn’t love myself. Bettering
myself wasn’t my mistake. It was all my reasons. I did it for
selsh wants. I had been blind. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the
beholder’ had always sounded so stupid to me, but I just hadn’t
understood it. It’s when you’re nally able to look in the mirror
and happily say that’s me. It doesn’t matter how you get there as
long as you get there.
126
whaT iT TakeS
To geT To You
by
Sandra Carranza
My car broke down along the empty dirt road,
at the edge of conifers and narrow creek,
so, I walked the one hundred feet to reach
the brown-bricked house with the red front door.
My tennis shoes scraped against the white rocks
of the driveway – a dog barked somewhere –
and my hand lied the rusted doorknocker
– three times – until someone opened the door.
A new nurse this time, but she knew of me –
the only person who cared enough to visit.
Led me through the house – as if my childhood photos
were not the ones hanging in the hallway.
She led me to your rocking chair, Father,
where you sat facing the backyard,
hair a bit grayer – eyes a bit more lost –
but wrinkled face smiling as you called
Caroline, darling.
Somehow, you managed to nd Mother
before you found me.
And for now, that is enough.
127
eMpanaDa
by
Angela Galvan
Ingredients:
1 cup Philadelphia cream
1 cup of butter
2 cups of our
1 can of dulce de leche
2 cups of granulated sugar
Step 1: Mix 1 cup Philadelphia cream + 1 cup of butter
We had done this many times. We learned how, and how
not to make these pastries. Each region makes them dierently.
Sometimes they are made with corn instead of our, or meat
instead of caramel. But for others; our sweeth. Tooth domi
-
nates. Our mother has redened what was to her the traditional
Mexican empanada with ingredients she now has access to in
a new country, along with my sister and I who follow like two
chicks behind mother goose. Once we see the yellowness of the
butter, turn into a light cream, then we know we’re ready for the
next step.
Step 2: Mix 2 cups of our into wet ingredients
We sprinkle our carefully on the wet ingredients. is is
nothing like the original empanadas. House rule number one,
no speaking English in the house. Ask my mother to pronounce
all purpose baking our. We disregard this knowing she cannot,
and that to her all our is the same, as it all comes from the
lady across the street who sold only our. We mix this passing
the bowl to each other, asking “Are you sure its not only one
cup?.” We laugh at the doubtfulness. We push ahead as we
feel the hard work our parents have overcome to make these
empanadas in a world of which they dreamed.
128
Step 3: La Tortilladora
A tool we can call our own, the root of our country
stretches over the border. Let us remind you that it is not lost,
it sits on our kitchen counter the way a microwave would on
any other kitchen counter. Next to it a molcajete, laughing at
the blender being used to grind your spices. is was a gi
from my grandmother to my mother the day she got married.
She was the last of ten children to leave and decided that was
the way to go. We pick up our tortilladoras and joke about who
will take it rst, once we are married. ere is nothing here that
doesn’t feel right, evolving from making the typical day to day
tortilla, we learn to develop the use of this for other foods too.
Placing circular balls of dough, we compress into wide 4 inch
“tortillitas”.
Step 4: Add dulce de leche into dough
You know when your Hispanic friends are talking in
Spanish and you ask them to translate, they simply say “oh it’s
not the same in English.” You try to act like you don’t care but
you do, which is, exactly why you should try this. Our caramel
does the exact same thing. We add this creamy paste with a
spoon, careful not to hurt the dough underneath. We smile
as we do this, licking our ngers when mother isn’t watching.
When she looks, we smile as we are aware of our parents desire
to keep us from being too well known with the new world
around us. We keep these traditions close to us. We think of our
words being only ours and laugh at the way our ingredients lay
far behind customer’s eyes. We are okay with it. We giggle as
we see the underestimation of these ingredients, along with my
mother who laughs at the thought of her adding a hundred year
old pumpkin lling recipe instead.
Step 5: Close empanada
We start o with forks and “empanada stamps” in order to
close the pastries. We sit in front of the oven counting the ones
who survived the hot temperature of 325 which caused the
lling to spill out through the indented fork masters. All but...
129
all but one pan. e empanadas which my mother closed o
by twisting the dough with her ngers. We joke about cutting
her hands o before she dies in order to nish these empanadas
without the messiness the oven creates for us. She laughs, but
we worry at not being able to show our own kids the lessons
our mother taught us.
Step 6: Coat Empanadas with Granulated Sugar
We take turns removing the hot pans out of the oven, fast
enough to keep them hot when rolling them into a bowl of
granulated sugar. is imitates the drops of sweat and tears my
parents produced to achieve the American Dream. A dream in
which our own aspirations includes fullling parents. We don’t
use spoons and forks to do this as it adds time, instead we ip
them like shes with the hard tips of our ngers. Managing to
learn the twist our mother had created, we are at peace with
who we have become.
Step 7: Share
“Where are you from” they ask, amazed to see a white face
with a Spanish accent. “Tamaulipas,” We say expecting the
quizzical expressions on hearing the name of a place they’ve
never heard of before. e place that lies under the Mexican
borderline, underneath the state they claim to know so much
about. I forgive this ignorance as they take another bite of what
they call an empanada. We have given this recipe out numerous
times. We laugh at the thought of our neighbors attempt to top
these o with powdered sugar. And to our own friends who
don’t want to purchase the Mexican caramel. What they don’t
understand is that this dish comes with a story which is told
within the recipe itself. A sweet breading with a crunch that
imitates the breeding of an American pie, a caramel lling that
doesn’t stick to your teeth like candy apple, but melts in your
mouth like a Hershey Kiss would in your pocket. We top it o
with a crystallized coat of sugar not powdered, but granulated,
enough to cover and brighten the nal look of the pastry. ey
see Mexico, but we see compromise.
130
ToSS of The Sea
by Rebecca Miller
e woman in the boat
sets out over the blue,
ready for, by all appearances,
a calm trip with little trouble.
e surface of the sea
is serene, peaceful, but
underneath it churns
in a whirlpool.
e tension builds
until it is too much.
Waves rumple the surface
growing
bigger
and
bigger.
e boat tosses
on the uneven surface
back
and
forth
it pitches, rolling over the swells.
e woman holds
on for as long
as possible.
131
She does what she can,
bailing out water,
wrestling to steer
the boat.
She sits there,
the waves
surrounding and pounding
her and she wonders
how much more
she can take.
133
conTriBuTorS’ noTeS
Sandra Carranza is from the small town of Hemphill, Texas and
is currently a sophomore at SFA. She is pursuing a major in Mass
Communications with a concentration in Journalism and a mi-
nor in Creative Writing. Most of Sandra’s poetry centers around
topics like love, heartbreak, family, and being Latina.
Rebecca Chatskis was born and raised near Dallas, Texas. She
is a Creative Writing major in her senior year at SFA. When
she’s not writing, Rebecca enjoys playing videogames as well as
designing and sewing costumes for conventions. In June 2019,
she got engaged to her long-term partner, Jesse Russell.
Arianna Doughty is just starting her third year at SFA as a cre-
ative writing major. She grew up in the small town of Bastrop,
Texas. An area that during her adolescence was ravaged by
wildres. One of which was used as inspiration for Town of Fire.
Brianna Dunston is currently a freshman majoring in Creative
Writing.
Margaret Godfrey is a freshman at Stephen F Austin State Uni-
versity. Originally from Galveston, Texas, she found her passion
for helping others through healthcare. She is a pre-nursing major
and is uent in American Sign Language.
Katie Harris is a sophomore at SFA with a criminal justice major.
She grew up in Austin, TX and enjoys reading and hiking in her
free time. is photo was taken at the bottom of the Grand Can-
yon while on a 4 day family backpacking trip. Katie was carrying
a 35 pound backpack at the time!
Payton Hudak is a senior at SFA and an International & Intercul-
tural Communications major with minors in Modern Language
and Creative Writing. She enjoys fantasy and sci- stories, travel,
and crocheting for her friends and family, and especially learning
new things.
134
Deana Jones is a senior psychology major at SFA. Commuting
from her hometown of Luin, she hopes to use her major to
gure out how to help other people, as well as herself. When
she isn’t in classes or at work, you can nd Deana continuing
to dabble in vector art, advocate for mental health and illnesses,
write for various publications and herself, and claim all of her
neighborhood stray cats as her own (which they would disagree
with, but they don’t know any better. ey’re cats).
Amelia Kleiber is a freshman at SFA studying English with a
double minor in Secondary Education and Creative Writing.
Originally from Katy, she hopes to teach and publish novels in
the future. When Amelia isn’t reading, you can nd her playing
guitar, singing, and spending time with family and friends.
Brice Kohleriter is a free speech advocate, writer, and public
speaker. He is a Junior pursuing a degree in Marketing and will
graduate in December of 2020. He founded the First Amendment
Club and participates in poetry slams on campus. Eventually, he
hopes to publish his own allegorical ction novel.
Krista Lambert grew up in Luin, Texas, and is a Creative
Writing Major at SFA. She has previously been published in SFA’s
Humid 12, and SUNY Fredonia’s e Trident. She’d like to ded-
icate “Yellow Light Girls” to her sister Brenna, whom she misses
very much. Krista enjoys reading stories, listening to music,
pampering her vicious cat, and generally wasting time. She’s very
excited to be part of this year’s edition of Humid!
Nia McCray is a Creative Writing major at SFA. She is from Katy,
TX and this is her second year as a Lumberjack. Her hobbies
include reading, writing, and music. She has been playing the
cello since she was 11 years old. She is super grateful to be in
HUMID 13.
Harleigh McGowan is a Senior Creative Writing undergraduate
currently working on her senior thesis in poetry. She hopes to get
her master’s degree in Library Science so she can live out her life
surrounded by books.
135
Rebecca Miller is a sophomore in the creative writing program
at SFA. In her spare time, Rebecca enjoys reading, walking in
the woods, listening to music, and binge watching TV shows.
Rebecca hopes to one day travel the world and write about her
experience.
Shaylynn Packard is from Chireno, Texas, and currently a
senior. She is completing her bachelor’s degree in English with
a Creative Writing minor. Once nished, she is moving to
Northamptonshire, England to pursue a career in publishing
alongside her ancè.
Meridian Parham is from Buda, Texas—a town south of urban
Austin. She is a Creative Writing major in her second year at
Stephen F. Austin State University. She’s wanted to be a writer
since she was seven years old and she’s so happy to follow her
dreams, here at SFA.
Emma Rhyne is a freshman Creative Writing major enjoying her
rst semester at SFA. Although her hometown of Bullard (near
Tyler, for anyone not in a thirty-minute radius) is tiny, the stories
of the town inspired her love for writing. She loves photography
and making people laugh with corny puns.
Marisela Rios is from Lytle, Texas. Her major is Creative Writing
with a double minor in English Literature and Art. She is a Senior
and will graduate in Fall 2019 with a Bachelor’s in Fine Arts.
Kaitlyn Sharrock is a senior and majors in Creative Writing.
She is from Katy, Texas, and currently lives o-campus with two
cats and two sisters.
Savannah Shelton is a sophomore at SFA currently working
towards her BFA in Creative Writing. Her hometown is Westpha-
lia, a tiny farming community in central Texas, where her closest
neighbors are cornelds and gravel roads. She spends most of
her time procrastinating on her writing projects and reading
fantasy novels.
136
Kendall Simmons is a Junior attending Stephen F. Austin State
University. She is a Creative Writing Major. In her spare time, she
reads a lot and daydreams way too much.
Taylor Smith is a third-year Creative Writing major from Hous-
ton, Texas. Taylor plays the piccolo for the Lumberjack Marching
Band.
Allison Swaim is currently a freshman at Stephen F. Austin State
University. ey are majoring in Chemistry and enjoy writing
and art as hobbies. Allison has also received two gold keys for
their poetry in the 2018 National Scholastic Art and Writing
competition.
