a warning
I did not scream out on purpose,
I only wanted to know
myself. I only hesitated long enough
that the choked whisper I once breathed
crawled down my throat
and found a home in the pit of my stomach;
it contorted into something more horrid
and escaped from my parted lips
without my permission. It did not ask
for forgiveness, and neither will I.
I won’t wait any longer and
I won’t ask you gingerly.
I will warn you not
to make the mistake of thanking
your extinguisher. For when you speak
too softly, you won’t recognize the voice
that echoes back. When you fear
what this world has to offer, it has no choice
but to pass you by. Do not be afraid
if heads turn or if jaws are agape.
If you must shout to be heard, please,
stand from the highest hill and
scream!
The Lighthouse
The lighthouse stands alone
where the fog dissipates
Bare wood is left exposed
beneath its peeling paint
The grounds have gone unkept,
untouched, scorned, unloved
Overnight one beam of light
will pierce the sky above
Serving as a beacon
to the souls that wash ashore
The tide seeps in and out again,
revolving evermore
With tempting arms outstretched
if the end approached us now
Would you face the ambiguity
or escape its grasp somehow?
Is it better to be static
then to face your greatest fear?
As the lighthouse stands alone
I wonder why we’re all still here
Infection
Her eyes are delicate sapphires
that would be clear enough to see
through, if they weren't too pristine
to gaze upon. Each time she nears a mirror,
a divine figure readily greets her: the embodiment
of elegance and quintessence of grace.
Her presence is magnetic. She is a spark
that ignites wonder. I could only wish
to be near her, to study her laughter and poise.
As I’ve aimlessly wandered the Earth I have searched
for small truths. One stone of knowledge
she has taught me, still tucked
in my pocket for safe keeping.
Beauty of the soul is infectious
Who will you infect?
7 Across
Rodney Cann couldn’t. He couldn’t muster the courage to ask his boss for a promotion, or even a raise, though he’d been working at Bloomfield publishing for nearly eleven years. He couldn’t afford to move to a building where the upstairs neighbors didn’t host tap dancing practice every night, (at least by the sound of it). He could barely even use a pencil to do the daily crossword, considering that two weeks prior he’d broken his wrist from tripping over his own foot. It seemed in every sense that Rodney’s life had been properly stuck in a rut. That was, until a certain morning in early October when an opportunity presented itself.
Many people think that October is the most favorable month of the year. The weather is typically forgiving and the leaves are at their most beautiful. On the morning of October 5th, the weather was not forgiving. Rodney arrived at the office at 8:47, entirely soaked as he had not brought an umbrella. This allowed him plenty of time to get a cup of coffee from the breakroom before nine, a habitual part of each morning. Several men were gathered in a cluster, engaged in what seemed like a fascinating conversation. This was out of the ordinary.
“What’s all of this about?” Rodney questioned. Half a dozen heads turned and voices quieted as Rodney made his presence known. James Merridan poured and handed Rodney a cup, as his one good hand was carrying his briefcase.
“Surely you’ve heard the news by now Rod?” Rodney’s glassy eyes showed no recognition. How was he always the last to know about anything? “Crofford is holding open interviews for editor-in-chief, Doil’s just announced his retirement. Honestly, I’m surprised it's taken him this long. You know, I would think you’d be a shoe in!” James claimed with sincerity in his gaze. James was Rodney’s one confidant in the workplace, a friendship that had gone steady for years. Although in the back of his mind, Rodney wondered why James would tell him this and not go for the position himself.
For the rest of the day, Rodney’s mind wandered. He thought of every day that he had worked like a dog and had nothing to show for it. How his life was centered around a job that had given him nothing in return. Now, he had a chance to change that, to climb the ladder. To prove to himself that he wasn’t a failure, he shouldn't have gone into finance, and it wasn’t too late to take control of his life. If he couldn’t do this one thing, what was the point of anything at all?
That evening as he walked from the office to his bus stop, he picked up a copy of the New York Times. Though the rain had finally ceased, a thick layer of clouds let no light through. He made this trip every day, but somewhere along the way it became a chore. So, Rodney practiced the art of noticing. A woman pulled her child to keep up with the crowd. His eyes were red as if he were crying. He saw two teenagers sharing a cigarette, a lady in a fur coat, a man in a suit on a phone call, and an elderly couple holding hands. Each person so different but perfectly themself. Through all of the people around him, he couldn’t help but notice all of the different ways his own life could’ve turned out. As his thoughts began to spiral and his mind became more interesting than the world around him, he nearly stepped on the shoe of the person walking in front of him. Rodney noticed that this man had rather striking features, but that only stood out to him. He not only carried an identical briefcase to him, but sported a very similar trenchcoat and hat. Rodney chose not to address this and strike up a conversation. After living in the city for so long, he had learned that if you speak to a stranger on the street, they’ll think you’re either trying to sell them something or you’re planning to mug them. He noticed that the man’s stride had all of the confidence and purpose that he lacked. What he didn’t notice was that this man took the exact same route home as him.
Rodney spent the rest of what was left of the evening preparing for his interview in a panicked frenzy, talking to himself, going over an answer for any possible question that might be asked. When he had finally exhausted every possibility, he surrendered himself to the couch with a cup of tea in hand. He began the daily crossword as he did every night to quiet his mind. His writing was especially shaky, not only because he was limited to his left hand.
1. Across; French Chemist known as the “Father of Modern Food Preservation”
Rodney couldn’t help but notice how unusually quiet the upstairs neighbors had been this evening. He had grown so accustomed to the noise that it's absence became painfully obvious. In that moment, he felt even more alone. He turned the TV on just to hear someone’s voice. He wondered if he would ever become entirely acclimated to living alone.
3. Down; City with the slogan, “What happens here, stays here”
The phone began to ring. Rodney contemplated answering it. There was a strong likelihood it was either a telemarketer, a wrong number, or his mother. Although his mother usually only called him in the morning, even then rarely. Like any sane person, he had a disdain for phone calls. He let the call go unanswered. If it was important, I’m sure they’d leave a message. There was no message left. Not even one minute later it rang again.
7. Across; German word for an identical stranger, directly translates to “double walker”
Though he hadn’t completed even one half of the puzzle, Rodney gave it up for the night. The answering machine had no messages. Instead of feeling lonely, Rodney felt a shift in mood, something entirely different. A feeling that has been felt by most people, though not often. The feeling when all sense and reasoning tell you that you’re perfectly safe, but the hair on your neck still stands up. When you feel a thousand eyes watching you from the shadows. When coats hanging on chairs create shadows that you mistake for monsters. When you check behind the shower curtain, just in case there’s someone waiting to get you. Of course, there never is, but you can’t truly know until you check. When the phone rang for the third time, Rodney picked it up immediately.
“Hello? This is Rodney-” A woman’s voice was on the other line.
“Hi! I’m Dierdra, I think you left your briefcase on the bus this evening. Your name and phone number were written on the inside, and I figured you were probably missing it.” Rodney glanced at the side table by his corduroy couch. His briefcase sat there unbothered.
“Hold on one moment. I’ll be right back.” He dropped the phone without a second thought and scurried to the table. At first, this made no sense. Then, he wondered if he had unintentionally stolen a stranger's briefcase. It was a very generic looking briefcase. It was slightly worn, but still in good condition. Dressed in tan leather, it had two clasps. As he flipped it open, his eyes were immediately drawn to the inside flap. Sure enough, there his own name and phone number were displayed, and inside all its contents were undisturbed. “Well this really makes no sense at all because here I am looking at my briefcase right now and I’m quite certain it’s my own. Are you sure the name said Rodney Cann, or that you dialed the number correctly?” There was a pause on the other line.
“Yes, I’m very sure. This is really bizarre, I-I’m sorry to bother you. Um, have a good night then.” And before he could respond the line was disconnected. Rodney was the type of person who believed that every strange phenomenon had a logical explanation which could be proven through science. Of course there could be more than one person who shared his name, or a similar phone number. Better yet, it could’ve simply been a strange, humourless prank phone call. Both scenarios were far more likely than anything sinister. Nonetheless, as Rodney laid in bed that night, he thought of how likely it really was, and it didn’t seem likely at all.
He became aware of each breath he took. Even the gentle ticking of the clock became deafening. He couldn't help but check the time obsessively. By half past two, sleep had entirely evaded him. Laying in bed with only the company of his progressively panicked thoughts was suffocating. Rodney recalled advice he had once heard from an article, that if you suffer from insomnia and find yourself unable to calm your mind, to change your setting. It seemed to step away and get some air was the only rational thing to do. Afterall, he wasn’t a fan of warm milk.
Without even bothering to change out of his pajamas, Rodney dared to venture out.
He thought to himself that this might have been the only time he’d seen the city at this hour. It was completely devoid of people, but he found company in the presence of the distant lights. This was an entirely new perspective. He did not know that the city lights were not his only company. He still had a few moments to cherish, as he was blissfully unaware of his stalker. He walked along a path which led from the more congested part of the city, to the less urbanized area. He knew of a place which he visited frequently when he was a different, younger man. A bridge overlooking the river by which the city was founded.
As the time passed, Rodney thought of how rarely he left the city. His daily routine had become so inflexible. Countless hours had been spent at his desk without even a window to look out of. Could this be the tipping point? It becomes all too easy to forget about your own free will. He looked up at the view of sparkling buildings from afar. Then, he leaned over the railing and looked into the deep black water rushing over jagged rocks. It was then that two large palms violently pushed against his back before there was a second for Rodney to form a thought.
Moments later, a man with an average frame and height stood alone on the bridge. Rodney had not known that it was the same man who had reached his leg out and tripped him two weeks earlier, leading to the pesky fracture in his wrist. He had not known that it was also the same man who had earlier lost his briefcase. Now, he did not know anything at all.
Crofford announced the new editor-in-chief less than a week later, Rodney Cann.
Though James was elated for Rodney, he was also bewildered. On paper, he was the same old Rodney, but in every sense he had changed. He carried himself differently, with his chin held up higher. His charmingly awkward gait had vanished. His smile lines were replaced with a smirk. The sparkle in his eyes was dulled. It even seemed that he had fewer grey hairs on his head and that his clothes were less wrinkled. All of these things might have never been noticed, except by an exceedingly perceptive person. But, each of them were exactly what had made Rodney himself.
Do it Yourself
Each autumn, winter, and spring I find myself longing for summer. Of course, everytime that summer rolls around, the freedom is never as great as I’ve pictured in my mind for the last nine months. Though the summer is still young as I’m writing this, I haven't had my fair share of adventures yet. Instead, I’ve spent obscene amounts of my time watching David Lynch’s Twin Peaks with my brother. I think I realized that I spend way too much time on my phone when watching tv started to feel productive. At first I felt the show was too slow paced, but now I think it’s grown to be one of my all time favorites.
A common setting of the show is the Double R diner. On screen the main protagonist, Agent Cooper, raves about the diner’s famous cherry pie what seems like a dozen times. Every time it's mentioned it seems more delicious than the last. My brother and I think that if there was one fictional food we could try, that would be our choice. Now that he’s home from college and has time on his hands, he decided that he would attempt to bake a cherry pie himself and let me decide if it was worth the hype. I thought that was a splendid idea.
So, together we went to the grocery store and searched for our ingredients. Neither of us really knew much about baking anything, or cooking for that matter. We definitely hadn’t learned from anyone in our family; my mom barely even knows how to use the stove. By the time we arrived at the store in person, the task of having to actually buy each item to assemble into a warm, gooey dessert seemed daunting and tedious. Afterall, I’ve heard before that a good pie is not only a relatively difficult dessert to bake, but also considerably time consuming. Then again, I’ve never made one.
We checked the time; it was already nearing eight o’clock. According to our calculations, if we made this pie from scratch, we’d barely be eating it before ten. Even then, there was no guarantee that it would turn out edible. It was almost like gambling. If we made it ourselves, there was a chance it would turn out far better than any store bought pie and live up to the promise of the world's most delicious pie that we had been imagining for days. There was also a chance it wouldn’t turn out at all. The second, safer option was to buy a frozen pie. It would surely be good, but short of greatness.
I’ve never been much of a risk taker. We left the store with a frozen, pre-made cherry pie and preheated the oven as soon as we got home. It was delicious. A word of advice, if you want something done right, don’t do it yourself.
“Memories of the Earth” by Andrew Robin. Mid American Review. vol. 42, no. 2, 2024.
Robin’s, Memories of the Earth, is a richly imaginative piece formatted in monastics and couplets. As I read the first few lines, vivid images quickly formed in my mind of the creatures of the Earth. This poem truly gives the reader a different perspective of the home we all share and take for granted. Though it has been commonly forgotten, despite its importance; the Earth never belonged to mankind. We are only lucky enough to share its natural beauty and resources with the rest of the planet’s inhabitants.
The plants and animals have an ancient method of coexisting. A common theme that Robin displays is the musicality in how the Earth’s creatures live harmoniously. He opens with the line “It is in the animals:/ memory like great music” (35). This metaphor for the circle of life beautifies some innate aspects of life that can be unappealing. It is a fact that very few things have any permanence, but that is what gives them value. He also recalls, “I have known the atoms of strangers/ lifted from the earth” (36). This line especially resonated with me. Each of us has more in common than we think. We are all a collection of atoms with a limited time on a planet that has given us more grace than we deserve. If we treat it with the respect it has given us, our time has a deeper meaning in the grand scheme of things. We never truly leave the Earth, our atoms will be reused by it, and I think that is the most beautiful sentiment that I found in this poem.