Embedded Files
Welcome to the Narrative Writing tab of the Crest website! Here you will find a variety of pieces by the many talented students of OPRF. To view the full story, click on the text.
Please be advised, the pieces presented here may contain sensitive or serious content.
2025
Untitled- Tommy Unsell
Every day I get up, every day I go to work, every day I come home. I wake up long before I get up. I still haven’t gotten used to living and sleeping alone, and with no one to wake me up when I sleep too late. I drive to work. I have to; there aren’t any local trains and the bus lines all seem to end near my house. I have to drive, taking away the opportunity of sociability and horror that public transportation gives. The last time I went on a train, I watched as an old man walked between cars and fell off with a gust of wind. I’m not sure if it was the electricity of the rails or the wheels grinding him up that killed him. It didn’t make the news. When I arrive, the parking lot is empty.
When I’m at work I’m not there. I leave through the double doors of the wastewater treatment facility seemingly just after I walk in. If someone were to ask how my day was, I honestly don’t think I would be able to respond in any meaningful way. I enter, I wade through hours of grey fog, occasionally brushing against something of substance, I leave. I drive back the way I came, everything the same except for an empty bus with a blank marquee that wasn’t there when on my first trip. I park in the same spot, not that I couldn't change it, as there aren’t any other cars parked on the street. The permit is cheap, and my house is the only one without a garage. I wave the remaining fog from my eyes as I walk inside.
Today the fog condensed, melding from water vapor suspended in air into a mist, then a stream, and then the floor was covered in a foot of water. But I could see through the water. I could see the facility clearly, in a way I haven’t since I first started working here. The fog acts like a memory, obscuring parts that are unimportant and revealing ones that it deems useful. I clearly remember my first day here. I took a tour through all of the areas I would need to work in, and looked at them long enough for them to create an impression in my mind, one solid enough to use as a guide when the fog rolled in. Now the fog both clotted and thinned into somethings that could be felt; that meant today was an important day. Something wanted to be seen.
My responsibilities can be summed up in two words: I watch. I watch as my auxiliaries follow their own guides, pheromone paths common to the ones that speak most frequently. I watch them in the small dining area reserved for those who, like me, came prepared. The others go out to restaurants I’ve never seen, to eat things I can’t imagine because I’ve never watched them bite into whatever flesh the day brings. I watch to make sure nothing goes wrong, and because I watch, nothing does. It’s easy to watch when everything is grey. A shape may pass by to look at me at this crucial point in its journey, where everything that isn’t water is waste. When the fog clears, I go from watching to scouring the corners of the pools and the masses that float in them, going further to the grit of the concrete and the soft rot of the organics that you grind down your sink, even further to the beings that perpetuate the rot, bacteria and other microorganisms, further still to the single bacterium, brainless, living, eating, helping. Purification through putrefaction. When I let myself think, I often wonder how similar the ones floating in the water are to the ones in my intestines. Similar enough that they would eat me alive if they had the chance, I think. I don’t blame them. It’s their job to clean, as is mine.
The fog doesn’t condense for no reason. It wants me to see something, to carve it into my mind for later. So I saw it. There was a commotion; that’s the only way it could be described. Any sort of individual thought or meaning was lost in the spasm of limbs and words that gushed out when a hand decided to emerge from the water. Naturally, an arm followed. Soon enough it was a full entity that now floated in our pool at high tide. Parts of her still looked alive. She pulsed with breath, belonging not to her but to her former intestinal intimates, the bacteria. She glistened with a substance not too dissimilar from sweat. The flowing water moved her the way muscle once did, though now it was out of her control. In fact, if you ignored the smell and the blanched eyes, you could very nearly believe she was still with us, and if you squeezed your brain and tilted your head just right, she was almost beautiful.
As supervisor, my job was to watch until circumstances arose that necessitated a change from observer to participant. Soon after the initial clamor, I made my way down to the shallows, wading through pristine water and people alike until I reached the mouth of the deep. She washed up in one of our main pools, so most of the people that worked here had the opportunity to see. If I were more cynical I’d say they tore her apart with her eyes, but I know that wasn’t true. Sometimes, we have to give our fellow man credit for their restraint. Sometimes we don’t. I know they watched without lust, not even the morbid lust for death and the dead that exists within all of us. It comes up with the same force and acidity of vomit, a dead hand shoved down our throat and triggering our gag reflex. Some of us keep it down better than others. I try not to throw up my intrigue as I kneel down, wetting my knees to get a closer look. Should've brought my waders. Before I can do anything, I realize everyone has gone. This wasn’t the fog, I could see everything very clearly, there was just nothing to see. I would check my wrist to see if it was after hours but I make a point not to wear a watch. There are no clocks in my house, too many things tethering me to something as abstract as time. I prefer the real. I prefer the dead skin in my hands. With nobody here to watch me, I’m proud to say I don’t change. I don’t let loose some hidden desire to enervate the little humanity that is left in her. I cast off my human desires for such things a while ago, when I resigned myself to be the person I am today. All I have to do is hold her. My job is to clean, my purpose is unknown. Every day I get up, every day I go to work, every day I come home. This job doesn’t give me purpose, it just gives me life. And I don’t want life right now. Wherever she is seems like a much more peaceful place. She doesn’t have to provide for herself, she doesn’t drive to work, she doesn’t eat the leftovers. I know now, I do not crave death, it’s something else. I crave unbeing. I do not want her, I want to be akin to her state of existence. Existing without being. That sounds nice.
The last thing I touch as a person is her skin, stepping into the murky water of the waste pool with her in my arms. My head goes under. I can’t come back from this. I will not regret this.
I’m gone.
Untitled-Madison Hart
Every girl has seen her at one point or another in her life. To the naive, she's a friend. Appearing in the mirror at their lowest, whispering her sugared promises to the tearstained faces. “I'll make you beautiful, my dear.” The grin stretching up to cheekbones stained with blood would croon through the glass. “All you have to do is listen to me.”
And so the naive accept, clinging to the hope that the woman whose midriff is smaller than a pinky (albeit suffocated with measuring tapes entangled around her) could help them look like the magazines do.
“You want that dazzling smile like the girls in your movies, sweetheart? Drink bleach. Gold really isn't your color, darling.” She would murmur to the girls. So they listen, swilling bleach around their mouths and praying to not swallow any. But the fear would be worth it, if they lived. Sure enough, their teeth were left a pristine white if they were still breathing afterwards.
“You want to be pretty, my darling? Starve. Food affects that thin waist so highly prized.” And the desperate listen, refusing to eat and growing gaunt; the measuring tape held in high esteem becoming ensnared around the poor soul's torso until they can't breathe. But it got results, did it not? A waist no wider than her finger.
“You want an entrancing grin? Cut your mouth. Nobody loves a girl without an extraordinary smile.” The woman would purr, tracing the outline of her own smile reaching to the corners of her eyes. So the girl took a knife and carved into her face, the smile ending at her cheekbones.
“You want to be happy, to be wanted, to be loved? Break the glass. Free me and all of your wildest dreams will come true.” She croons to the girls, their bloodied lips and bleached teeth struggling to make out words as she inched closer to the separation between them.
Her bony fingers slowly pressed against the glass one by one, reaching out for the girl. “You're so close to having it all… you don't want to throw this away now, do you? What a waste that would be.” she tsked. The girl nodded, hesitant at first but growing more frantic by the second. She grabbed the nearest object and threw it at the glass, cracks beginning to form on it.
“Again. Again.” The woman would command, the cracks spreading with each blow landed on the glass. the glass shattered, sharp edges flying out from the frame. The woman laughed, reaching out for the girl and pulling her through the now-shattered barrier between them before quietly putting her hand over the girl's nose and mouth, waiting for her eyes to close.
“Goodnight, princess. Thank you for letting me out of that prison. After 200 years, I feel almost guilty putting you in.” She hissed, throwing the girl into the area behind her and lifting herself out of the mirror and into the bathroom before removing the frame. All that was left was a blank wall above the counter.
Within a few minutes, the only signs of there ever being another girl was the broken glass on the floor and blood spatters on the sink.
And what of the girl? Doomed to wander, peeking in mirrors and watching the naive. Whispering her condolences to the innocent, her sugared promises hanging in the air between her and the tearstained face in front of her. “I can make you beautiful, my dear.” The grin stained with blood would croon through the glass.
“All you have to do is listen to me.”
Untitled-Peter Kohout
“The sand’s getting in my clothes, on my skin; it’s sticking everywhere. Don’t you have a blanket or something we could lie on instead?” he said. “I don’t want to come home covered in red dust.”
“Sean, relax. We’re already covered in the stuff. Besides, you shouldn’t focus on what’s down here; focus on what’s up there.” He pointed to the sky. “There, in the west, do you see it? It’s Deimos. The small moon.”
“So what.” Sean replied. “It doesn’t even look like a moon from here.”
“Man, you never appreciate the small things. Seems like you’re more of a Phobos guy,” he responded. “Look, there’s Earth. In the middle, right above.”
“I miss Earth. Don’t you miss Earth too?” Sean asked.
“Not really. I mean, it’s a lovely place, but I’m happy where I am. The villagers, they gave us a free house, good food, and cute girls. One of the old ladies knitted me a little scarf,” he said.
“Eoin, you’re so materialistic. We’re on a mission trip, and the biggest thing that’s taking up your mind is food and girls. It’s all just about taking and not giving anything back to the people. Where’s the holiness in that?”
The area went silent as Eoin thought for a second. The bugs in the dunegrass around them chirped. “Look, think about what we’re doing. We’re giving them the message of Jesus Christ. It’s a one-way pass to eternal life in paradise. And all they have to do in return is give us some basic amenities. If anyone’s giving too much, it’s us.”
“Father Xavier would be disappointed. You know he taught us to do service without expecting anything in return, right?” Sean continued, “He always said that taking something as payment for spreading the gospel is just as bad as stealing, if not worse.”
“Sean, you never paid attention when he taught us back at home,” Eoin retorted, “you have no right to tell me what he said.”
Sean bounced back, saying, “I’m sorry, I just think that–”
“Can it. It’s not worth arguing when we’re out here just trying to enjoy things,” Eoin stated. Sean shrugged in agreement, and the two went silent for a second to take in the environment. After a moment of peace, Eoin said, “Besides, when you think about it, our service is more than just the Bible and stuff. We’re helping uplift them, make them better people.”
“What do you mean?” Sean questioned.
“Us being here, showing them who we believe, what we wear, how we act. We’re civilizing them,” Eoin said. Sean grimaced. Eoin continued, “But don’t you know what I mean? Earth invented so many great things, and what did Mars do? Nothing. All I’m saying is that showing them who we are will make them more like us. Advanced.”
“Are you calling them primitive?” Sean inquired.
“That’s a dirty word, but maybe I am. I don’t know. I just see them and know that we are, at the end of the day, a little smarter. Maybe a little better.”
Sean protested, saying, “That’s pretty rude to say. In fact, it’s kind of racist. I’m sure if the villagers heard that, they wouldn’t be too happy.”
“They don’t speak Terran,” Eoin remarked.
“You’re missing my point. That line of thinking, that one group is superior, starts wars. It’s more dangerous than bullets,” Sean explained.
Eoin dismissed Sean, saying, “We’ll be fine. It’s peacetime; life is easy. Everyone can talk things out. Nobody’s going to go to war over us taking what’s rightfully ours.”
Sean, by this point tired of arguing, shrugged it off. “I can’t do this with you man. When we’re both dead, I don’t want to hear anything about how we got shot with primitive bullets.”
"Anemoia" - Mark Jung
"Anemoia" - Mark Jung
Right now, you are here, but when and how did you arrive in this place? Those details sift through your hands. It's like the thoughts before sleep, familiar, but you can’t clearly remember what or how.
Beneath buzzing white bars of light, an ashen door faces you. Opening it reveals a grey matrix of offices on the other side—nothing special. So familiar, yet why? You have never worked in an office before, nonetheless, the mechanical clicking of the printers and occasional rings of the telephones are oddly well-known.
As you delve deeper into the complex you notice the utter lack of sentience. No people sit behind the desks in the chairs. The absence of texture is uncanny. This place is unnervingly pristine; the leather of the chairs seems uncreased. The walls and ceiling are solid grey lined with panes of tall dark windows. It's raining outside. The air smells faintly of dust and rain-soaked concrete. Cool condensation clings to the dark smooth glass, which leads to where again?
Anyway, you continue wandering without backtracking. This place seems like a place people are meant to pass through, not linger. Tranquil, but unhospitable. A hundred blank computer screens and empty chairs still encompass you until in the shadow of a glance you appear to be walking somewhere else.
As you turn a corner, the office walls fold into the deep blue of a night sky. The faint sounds of rain give way to the distant grinding of old swings. Now a new setting has materialized— it is night—a mesh of curving ladders, slides, and primary colors. Pale light gleams through the fog that writhes around the structures. Beyond the fog, you can almost hear echoes of children's laughter. Enormous spores of red and white mushrooms are speckled around the place. You can’t see clearly, but there are lights past here. This could be anywhere, but “somewhere” is a concept just out of reach; only here exists heavy and present. Wherever here it seems so familiar yet just out of reach, like the tune of a forgotten lullaby.
You keep walking and eventually find yourself in a meadow of lush, tall grass. Darkness shifts to light as the sun starts to take its daily voyage. Brilliant daffodils bloom over the grassy hills, and a winding central road void of travelers threads between them. The air is now completely clear of the night fog, and there is a tender breeze. Continuing along, you spot a delivery truck and decide to investigate. On closer inspection, nobody sits behind the wheel, and it is in mint condition. Everything is untouched and clean, from the tires' tread to the car's small recesses.
In the distance, there is an outline of a neighborhood etched into the meadow. As you approach, you notice each house exactly resembles the other as if they are reflections of each other. They all have simple porches painted all white, and plain garden fences line each property. A gravel path leads up to the front entrance of one house. In the unreasonable silence of this place, the crunching of gravel underfoot is unnervingly audible.
At first, you knock on the door, but after a couple of minutes of nobody answering, you twist the doorknob, and the door easily swings open, sliding silently on seemingly well-oiled hinges. Inside it is faintly remembered. The place smells of musty old carpet and is lit by buzzing yellow lights. It vaguely reminds you of something. The central staircase’s polished wood railing, the cold bathroom tiles, and the rooms are all perfect replicas of those from your childhood home. Only they are half empty like partially forgotten scenes from childhood.
Everything in this house is almost right, but there’s a certain hollowness to everything. The living room is virtually empty except for two polished hard oak chairs. On one sits a whirring VHS television, and on the other a small seat cushion. A small lamp rests on the floor without an accompanying nightstand. Weird.
Everything seems off, it's as if all the pieces of a puzzle no longer fit. You realize the lights are a little too bright, and the TV static is just a bit too dense. Outside the sky is no longer a shade of blue but now a blend of purple like the inside of a deep bruise. The grass is too green, the air too still. Nothing is right. Back in the house, the hallway feels too long and impossibly narrow. The quiet that hangs in the air, an emptiness that engulfs every corner, is not an absence of life, but rather a deficiency of any meaning. An old memory, warped, corrupted yet not forgotten.
The hum from the television continues to vibrate the air around you. Images flicker on the VHS’ static screen. Nothing clear or understandable, just flashes of light and shapes. Edging closer, you peer down into the screen to decipher it, but to no avail.
The television flickers for one last time. Just before the screen turns black, you think you see someone. It's yourself, your face, but distorted. Veiled by some sort of ancient unknowable filter, smiling at you. It reminds you that you were never supposed to remember.
"Thoughts I can never say" - Olivia Reynolds
A month since you left the calendar pages flipping, the echoes of laughter fading, but your heart, it was gone long before the goodbye.
i drown myself in distractions, music too loud, television lights flickering like memories too bright to ignore.
i try to pack you away, like the summer clothes in winter, but you linger like a stubborn scent, clinging to the walls of my mind.
your eyes once my stars in the night sky, they drift now, a galaxy too far, too distant to touch.
I replay every moment, each word, each smile, haunted by the ghost of us, your first girlfriend, your first kiss,
my first heartbreak, and it all feels like a riddle i can never solve.
i know i was young, clumsy in love, the way i tripped over my words, yet i still kissed you, still held you close as if the world would stop, as if our hearts were meant to twine together forever.
but time, it seems, has no sympathy for dreams.
i’m left here, with pieces scattered around, too broken to fix, too imperfect to love again. you were a canvas of kindness, each stroke beautiful, a portrait of everything i wanted.
i paint my grief in shades of longing, the colors of your laughter echoing through empty rooms, and i’m sorry,
for all the ways i fell short, for not being the one you could hold onto.
my heart whispers your name like a prayer, a plea, even when the silence answers back with questions. did you ever love me?
or was i just a chapter, a fleeting moment in your textbook of existence?
you were my perfect, and i stand here, left in the ruins of our story, a monument to what we could have been.
i wonder if letting go is a sign of strength, or a surrender to the inevitable, but with each passing day, i struggle between the two, an anchor in waters too deep.
maybe it’s time to unearth my heart, to face the tremors of love lost, to find myself again, though it feels like i’d be digging through memories,
each shovel full a reminder of who you were, and how you broke me.
so here i am, a month gone, and a heart still tethered to the past, wondering if love will ever wear off
or if it’s meant to linger, like the ghost of spring when winter still holds sway. i need you out of my head, but even now,
i love you,
even if you haven’t for a long time, and perhaps that is the hardest truth to hold close, you were beautiful inside and out, and i,
i’m still learning how to be whole again.
In the End.
By Anja Frickx
In two hundred years time, all sources of energy have become insufficient, fossil fuels exhausted, sun blocked by emissions, and the wind hardly blows anymore.
Instead, the mass eruptions of volcanos have produced another power source, lava.
Lava flows where ancient rivers once flowed, and slowly but surely the Earth has begun to dry up.
Not all water is lost however, a group of humans known as the Waterwalkers protect the remaining headwaters of Earth. They have been in contention with the Lavadwellers: the stewards of the lava. They have never agreed on any matter, from food sources to housing requirements, or environmental protection.
The Lavadwellers and Waterwalkers cannot exist by themselves however, one needs water and the other power, so an agreement has been made; once a year the two sides will meet upon the newly unearthed Mid Atlantic Range, at the top of the highest point, as the meeting draws closer and closer, Seraphine Lavadweller and Kit Waterwalker can both sense something will change, but neither is sure what.
The two of them finally met on that peak, and it was barren, in the past others had suggested building a monument, a building, anything to mark that there were people there and would continue to be people there, a mark of Humanity still extant on this barren Earth. This was the one thing both leaders agreed on, as they both believed that the follies of humanity should not be remembered on this version of Earth.
Their eyes met, smoke burned to water-filled, and something familiar passed through that connection before it was smothered.
“Lavadweller.” Came snarled from Kit’s lips, as she sat down first attempting to gain superiority.
“Waterwalker.” Evenly fell from Seraphine’s, as she continued to stand, maintaining her perceived upper hand. “Shall we continue with our agreement from last year? We do not feel as if it needs updates.”
“Of course, you would think that, you lava rock shard.”
A sigh fell from chapped lips, “Only you would dare to call me a scion of misfortune my briney dear.”
“You took advantage of m-, US! We had a loss of food supplies, and suddenly you wanted to double the water! You of anyone should know how precarious the water situation is!”
“As if you didn’t try to do the same thing.”
“Don’t you try and turn this back on me!”
The two of them continued to glare at each other, neither of them wanted to concede anything, as time moved closer and closer to their inevitable ends, the paper on the table everpresent.
Nothing had prompted them, but without a word, the eyes cooled, the paper was reviewed, and nothing seemed to change.
Seraphine started walking out first, the lava rivers had been getting out of control recently and she had to start wrangling them unless she wanted more complaints levied at her head.
“Where did we go wrong, my dear?” She heard from behind her, and with a sudden stop and screech from her boots, she turned on her heel to restart the argument, but the eyes behind her were soft, water-filled, not in a defiant way, but this time in a sad way.
Seraphine stood there, and only responded with a simple, “We both did this love, now we have to deal with the consequences.”
“I wish we were still on the same side.” Kit stood up to leave, her boots were not modified to work with lava, only to travel across the slowly receding water of their homeland.
When their backs were turned, the two started their separate descents down the mountains, their thoughts plagued by the other. Kit kicked herself for foolishly showing her cards barely getting any concessions, while Seraphine’s thoughts were of a past long gone by, one with laughter, and no threats of lava invading the world.
How long the times without her had felt.
How long had it been?
Only a decade.
Sergeant Gerald
Sergeant Gerald
By Alexander Ventura DeWolfe
Report 1:
D-Day, Omaha Beach, June 6th, 1944
Operation Overlord
Omaha Beach was the day we officially met outside of basic training. I saw their faces in the barracks, but nothing true. I saw them for the first time while we stood there in the landing craft, listening to the vicious, unseen waves of France crash beneath us. I held a Thompson submachine gun lightly in my hands, and I looked to my right to see three of our rifle men. An M1 Garand, a Carbine, and a Springfield carried the same way. My biggest friend in the army, a guy with shoulders like a blacksmith, went by the name of Benny. He stood behind me with his BAR.
“ Tommy, I’ll see you on the beach!” he called out. Our medic carried nothing but an M1911 pistol, and he crouched down, holding his cross with shaking hands. We thought we were going to die.
Then there was Sergeant Gerald, the leader of our squad. A grease gun in his right hand. In his left he carried a photograph, but none of us knew what it entailed. He had no such expressions of fear or hopelessness. He gave us our orders with a blank face.
“ Clear the beach quickly, and find mortar holes immediately. Tommy, stay at my side. If you lose your weapon, find a replacement!”
I jolted slightly at the sound of my own name. There wasn’t time.
“ Thirty seconds! God be with you!” the landing craft manner screamed as bullets and shells began to whistle around us into the ocean. The craft stopped, a whistle blew, and then the door in front of me collapsed with more shouts. Instantly machine gun fire was upon us. I felt as if all fifty men flooded outwards into the shallow water, and collapsed with explosive shots. I did as my Sergeant commanded. I hid behind wooden obstacles in the water and on the shore, and flew into mortar holes alongside him. I felt like his right hand man. As other landing crafts landed, flocks of soldiers fell down like stocks of corn, the menacing sound of the MG42 being the last thing they heard.
We couldn’t get any tanks on the beach. I fired my Thompson at the German bunkers, but it did next to nothing. Men laid down and prayed profusely, and the wounded ones shouted for their mothers or other family members. Our squad stayed together, scaling the sand slowly and approaching the barbed wire at the end of the cliff. Benny lost his BAR, but found a replacement quickly, along with a bangalore, using it to seize a gap in the wire. We filed through one by one, and made our way to the Germans who killed us by the hundreds. The final stand offs were blurry, but one thing was for certain. After D-Day, the beach was ours.
Report 2:
Quadalcanel, The Solomon Islands, Oceania, September 12-14, 1944
The Battle of Bloody Ridge
We spent months in The Solomon Islands after D-Day. Moist swamps, palm trees, beaches, streams and long grass was all we saw during that time. There was one silver lining. We were friends now, rather than the scared boys we were on D-Day. We knew everything about each other. Our dreams, our hopes, our families, and our grieves for our fallen soldiers. Sergeant Gerald smiled at me a lot as we trudged through those islands, and I smiled back; luckily the others didn’t notice or make any judgements.
After we set up camp, Benny was showing me pictures of his family. More specifically, his girlfriend.
“ She’s really something,” I said to him.
“ Yeah. We are supposed to get married when I get back.”
After that Sergent commanded us to move out. After a quick showdown with a squad of Japanese in a nearby stream, we lost a man, and we grieved him in our own ways. His body floated very still in the tropical water.
In the night we arrived at Edson's Ridge. And at midnight, that is when the Japanese hit us at full force in The Battle of Bloody Ridge. We put only a little over eight hundred boys, including me, against the Japanese front line of three thousand five hundred. We all crouched in a wide trench only about knee deep. Benny’s BAR blasted with fierce embers, and I watched as clip after clip was removed from my Thompson. Sergeant Gerlad was beside me once more.
Halfway through I was out of ammo. I ran with haste into the forest upon command, but soon found a Japanese rifle swung to my face. I fell down, and the enemy aimed at me for a final time, but it was Sergeant Gerald who saved me. He smiled at me again, helping me up.
Report 3:
The Ardennes, Western Front, Belgium, December 16th- January 25th, 1945
The Battle of the Bulge
After The Battle of Bloody Ridge, our morale as well as our forces were torn down. We spent our final months with the Japanese cleaning up artillery lines and clearing out fortresses. But in November it was back to Europe once again. This time Belgium. All I knew about them is that they created French Fries.
The Battle of the Bulge was where it officially ended. A mash up of snow, trees, tanks, guns and artillery. There we got a bunch of new soldiers. Two hundred thousand to be exact. Boys like us called them three week wonders, because that was all the training they had, and it wasn’t enough. In ditches and trenches of white we found ourselves being constantly bombarded by artillery shells. I held my Thompson in my hand for dear life. Frost crusted on my fingertips, and my helmet became one round icicle of freeze. Sergeant Gerald was beside me once again. His face was blue.
“ I guess this is it, Tommy.” He didn’t call me private. Only by my name. A grenade entered into the ditch next to us, and snow engulfed me from the explosion. I rose above the gap to try to get a better shot, and that’s when it happened. A bullet through my helmet. My skull instantly became a waving cave of pain. I fell into the snow, and Sergeant Gerald hovered over me. He knew I was going to die. Before I blacked out, he pulled out the photograph he had from D-Day.
“ This is what I wanted all along. Something for you and me after the war.”
His voice was quiet. Before I could see what it was though, my eyes faded to darkness.
In the End.
By Anja Frickx
In two hundred years time, all sources of energy have become insufficient, fossil fuels exhausted, sun blocked by emissions, and the wind hardly blows anymore.
Instead, the mass eruptions of volcanos have produced another power source, lava.
Lava flows where ancient rivers once flowed, and slowly but surely the Earth has begun to dry up.
Not all water is lost however, a group of humans known as the Waterwalkers protect the remaining headwaters of Earth. They have been in contention with the Lavadwellers: the stewards of the lava. They have never agreed on any matter, from food sources to housing requirements, or environmental protection.
The Lavadwellers and Waterwalkers cannot exist by themselves however, one needs water and the other power, so an agreement has been made; once a year the two sides will meet upon the newly unearthed Mid Atlantic Range, at the top of the highest point, as the meeting draws closer and closer, Seraphine Lavadweller and Kit Waterwalker can both sense something will change, but neither is sure what.
The two of them finally met on that peak, and it was barren, in the past others had suggested building a monument, a building, anything to mark that there were people there and would continue to be people there, a mark of Humanity still extant on this barren Earth. This was the one thing both leaders agreed on, as they both believed that the follies of humanity should not be remembered on this version of Earth.
Their eyes met, smoke burned to water-filled, and something familiar passed through that connection before it was smothered.
“Lavadweller.” Came snarled from Kit’s lips, as she sat down first attempting to gain superiority.
“Waterwalker.” Evenly fell from Seraphine’s, as she continued to stand, maintaining her perceived upper hand. “Shall we continue with our agreement from last year? We do not feel as if it needs updates.”
“Of course, you would think that, you lava rock shard.”
A sigh fell from chapped lips, “Only you would dare to call me a scion of misfortune my briney dear.”
“You took advantage of m-, US! We had a loss of food supplies, and suddenly you wanted to double the water! You of anyone should know how precarious the water situation is!”
“As if you didn’t try to do the same thing.”
“Don’t you try and turn this back on me!”
The two of them continued to glare at each other, neither of them wanted to concede anything, as time moved closer and closer to their inevitable ends, the paper on the table everpresent.
Nothing had prompted them, but without a word, the eyes cooled, the paper was reviewed, and nothing seemed to change.
Seraphine started walking out first, the lava rivers had been getting out of control recently and she had to start wrangling them unless she wanted more complaints levied at her head.
“Where did we go wrong, my dear?” She heard from behind her, and with a sudden stop and screech from her boots, she turned on her heel to restart the argument, but the eyes behind her were soft, water-filled, not in a defiant way, but this time in a sad way.
Seraphine stood there, and only responded with a simple, “We both did this love, now we have to deal with the consequences.”
“I wish we were still on the same side.” Kit stood up to leave, her boots were not modified to work with lava, only to travel across the slowly receding water of their homeland.
When their backs were turned, the two started their separate descents down the mountains, their thoughts plagued by the other. Kit kicked herself for foolishly showing her cards barely getting any concessions, while Seraphine’s thoughts were of a past long gone by, one with laughter, and no threats of lava invading the world.
How long the times without her had felt.
How long had it been?
Only a decade.
A Letter to Partisanka Slava
By Sofia Fitzgerald
Dear Partisanska Slava,
The walk to get to you has somehow been ingrained in my head almost my entire life. You exit Babushka’s building from the back, turn left down the dirt path, past the tiny playground and water pump, until you reach the large black dumpsters and the crows that like to hang out near them. Although I suspect those crows enjoy waking people up at the crack of dawn more than they like hanging around the trash.
You turn left again, down the side of the building until you get to the pothole-riddled street. The sidewalk does not offer a reprieve from the potholes; it’s somehow the same and worse than the road. You have to watch every step to ensure you don’t trip on a crack, something I have done far too many times. As you turn right and walk down the street, you pass the small convenience store filled with the best stationary and other quick goods you may need. Take another right and walk down a small, quiet street for two or three blocks and suddenly you are there.
I would place money on the fact that I have likely taken this route to you over fifty times in my life. If I reach as far back into my memory as possible, going to the earliest days of consciousness, you are there. You have a vice-like grip on my mind very few memories have, but I fear that you are starting to slip away.
When you cross Trostyanetsky Street the sidewalk gives way to a red gravel path, and you are quickly enveloped in trees. Tall, fragrant pine and birch trees surround you from each side and the ground is covered in pine needles and pine cones. It only takes a few minutes of walking down this path to feel as though you are no longer in the city, the occasional loud honk from a car the only reminder that you are not in some mystical forest. You have multiple soccer fields next to each other that you can pass on this specific path, except I’ve never seen a soccer game being played. There always seemed to be white styrofoam RC planes flying precariously, wobbling as though they were about to fall, or kids running around with kites trying to catch the suffocating summer breeze.
When you continue past the soccer fields and back into the trees, you don’t pass much for a while. It is mainly silent save for the birds and the crunching of your feet against the path, and occasionally you’ll pass other people trying to enjoy the outdoors only in the cooler hours of the day. Although the sun may be setting, the humidity is still oppressive, leaving you longing for a drink.
Finally, you come across a small amusement park, arguably my favorite part of you. That amusement park has been the same my entire life, I swear not a single thing has changed about it. The first ride you see is a larger roller coaster akin to the dragon one that always seems to pop up at state fairs, although this one is not a dragon. I would argue that it is much more thrilling than that dragon, going higher, faster, and turning corners much more dangerously. This is admittedly a low bar, but it made my mom scream the last time we rode it, and I am confident that it would still create a rush of excitement and adrenaline in me today.
When continuing, the amusement area opens up more, and the gravel path turns into a larger red-stone walkway that encompasses much of the main center of you. On the left, there is the backyard trampoline, shoes scattered on the grass surrounding it as little kids jump and fall on unsteady legs inside. I did the same thing when I was little, not quite old enough to handle the more exciting rides. As all parents do, my mom would stand there, watch me jump around, and ultimately drag me out when it was time to go home, much against the wishes of four-year-old me.
Close to the trampoline on the right side is the little kid train, the bright paint in need of a new coat. Just like the trampoline, this is the same as when I was a kid, as if you knew that as I grew older the nostalgia would tear at me. The train still passes through a colorful, albeit aged, shed on the same loop as it did when I was a kid.
Right after the train, there are the three spaceships that swing back and forth, meant to be a toddler-friendly version of the giant boats that go impossibly high and steep at carnivals. Admittedly, your amusement park is something meant for smaller kids, but it is still possible to make it work as you enter adolescence.
For example, there is the flying chair ride, which I managed to lose a Croc on as I stupidly went on it without taking my shoes off. Luckily it hadn’t flown over the fence enclosing the ride, but my cousin and I almost peed ourselves from how hard we were laughing in the moment.
…
When walking from this direction of you, the amusement park acts as a gateway into your main hub. As you continue toward the three small lakes, there are vendors selling food, drinks, and toys, as well as sit-down places where you can rest your legs. I will never forget the giant cotton candy I would buy from this one cart closest to the lakes, where the fluff was bigger than my head.
One time, on our last full day in Kyiv, my mom had walked to you to bring me a final cotton candy since I couldn’t make the trek following a foot procedure. I know for a fact the purple and orange fluff was huge, but when she finally got home and I received it, it had become hard and brownish, having been unable to withstand the heat and breeze. Undoubtedly, that was one of my favorite memories you gave me, even if the cotton candy didn’t taste that good and my foot was in excruciating pain.
The hub seems to end right as you reach the lakes, where there are cattails far taller than me dotting the banks. The lakes are full of life, with people cooling off in their waters, birds swooping down to find their dinner, frogs croaking along the edges, and swan boats dotting the waters. The smell of barbecues people were hosting nearby infiltrated the air and an overall sense of happiness always seemed to exist here. I wish I hadn’t taken that for granted from you.
…
The last time I visited you was in 2019, a five-week trip following years of Babushka coming to Chicago. “Angsty” 11-year-old me seemed to think that it was better to hold weird classist ideas about Ukraine while being a moody grouch than to enjoy the trip in a place filled with many memories and a rich culture that is technically a part of my culture. I know now, after having some years of reflection, that at the time I was having a lot of inner turmoil after a rough fifth grade, which led me to show my emotions in an aggressive manner rather than what I was truly trying to parse through in my head. I even did it to you, despite you being tied with first for the best parts of that trip and all my memories of Ukraine (it’s hard to beat the Hydropark). I will never live down thinking of you as janky and rundown those first few times I visited you on that 2019 trip.
I would like to say that I would have cherished you more in 2019 had I known that war would break out in 2022, but I am not confident in that statement. I think the change in my attitude stemmed from war’s beginning, and experiencing in real time what it felt like to lose something without giving it a proper goodbye.
I am so lucky to have yet to lose any of my family as casualties of this war, but the scars it has left will be hard to erase. If I choose to think about it, I can still feel the panic I felt as I watched the very first clips of bombs falling on the night of February 24th, 2022, the despair of watching my mother cry as she called my brother who was also sobbing through the phone. I can still feel the way tears stung my eyes and slid down my cheeks as I cried to my teacher about how scared I was. I still have moments where I am walking around the neighborhood and have to stop, because suddenly I feel as though I am walking down Babushka’s street and cannot differentiate memories from reality.
I’m not even fully Ukrainian, but the beginning of the war created a longing for that part of me I had never felt so strongly before. I was watching a place I had a connection to and had memories with, even if they were few in number, change. I quickly realized that if I were to ever return, I would not be returning to my memories. I would be returning to a new place, a phoenix emerging from the ashes.
That realization made me change my attitude. I was suddenly desperate to cling to anything I could remember to maintain the vision of what Kyiv was for me as a child. I was mourning the loss of a place and wanted to use you as a reminder of a happier time. Remembering and writing to you is a way for me to keep the memory of Ukraine’s greatness alive, and feel more connected to a place I may not return to again. You act as an anchor for me as I navigate feelings of shame for not appreciating this part of me enough, as I deal with my grandparents and all their quirks, and as I try to feel “more” Ukrainian. That is not to say I want to renounce being an American, I don’t, but I don’t want to shy away from the fact that I grew up with that second atmosphere. I don’t want to ignore that some of my beliefs, ways of life, and interests stem from you and all the other parts of Kyiv I have physically been to and been to from the experiences and stories of my mom and family.
If I am being honest, it is incredibly hard for me to put all that I am feeling into words. On the one hand, your nostalgia and happy memories are a source of comfort in a time when it feels like a part of me is being destroyed and reconstructed into something I will not recognize in twenty years, but on the other hand, you are a heavy thing to think about. I hold the difficult knowledge that if I ever return to you and Kyiv, things will not be the same even if you are lucky enough to not be physically marred. While I am not personally experiencing this war and am too young to fully understand, I am learning that such conflicts still leave a heaviness on people and places that are difficult to erase. Even if you are in the same or better condition than when I last saw you in 2019, I will be unable to look at you the same way as I once did because I know what you experienced and I had to watch it play out live on-screen thousands of miles away with no way to help.
I carry the weight of knowledge and memories, which is both a blessing and a curse.
I miss you,
Untitled
Untitled
By Claire Hansen
Cadence was dreaming as she often did. She had been sitting in a lecture, braiding the
front strands of her hair and thought to herself that she was quite bored. The professor's voice
had become background noise and she seemed to float away from her seat, which she knew
was impossible for the fact that she was currently writing with her favorite pen. Seated. It was
just happening again, she reminded herself.
Looking down through the fog, Cadence could see herself - at least the physical version
of herself - still sitting at the desk. Sighing, she let it happen; let her soul exit her body till she
could see–feel her new surroundings which, as always, was an empty void. Cadence no longer
sat in a classroom but hovered between space and (maybe?) time. She hadn't quite figured it out.
Pushing aside clear mass, she staggered upwards till the air got dense and Cadence
could feel herself compacting. Minutes later, she tucked her eyeball back into the socket and
reset her shoulder into place. In her final seconds of being only partially alive, Cadence let
herself tolerate the thought of staying here. What exactly here was, she hadn't figured out. The
time she had spent floating in an abyss had been pleasant, even though she presumed what
would happen after would be painful. Perhaps she would implode, or the opposite, her skin
would melt off awfully slow.
The first time Cadence had accidentally exited her body was when her mother had died,
or, to be exact, a week after. She was thinking about everything her mother would miss and how
she would continue life with the absence of such a figure. Cadence felt as though it would be so
easy to just join the leaves in the wind, capture their essence and simply float away on the
breeze because even the idea of living felt heavy. And then it happened. It wasn't on purpose,
but one second Cadence was sitting on an old couch, and the next second she couldn't hold
onto herself. When she had returned minutes later, exhausted–not that she had actually left–
she puked onto the floor.
Now, realizing she was running out of time, she mustered whatever sleepy energy she
had left and pulled herself back into reality.
Brooks nudged her with a crazed look in his eyes, “what the fuck was that? It looked like
you were being possessed but you know... gently. Like the reaper was having a hard day too”.
Cadence had the sense that she wanted to laugh, despite the situation being
concerning, “Oh uh, I just have something in my eye.” Rubbing her eyes, Cadence glanced back
to the front of the room where her professor continued to ramble on. Of course. How would the
teacher notice she had left? It had only been for a couple seconds when she had ventured too
far and could no longer control her present body. Cadence tried to concentrate on what was
going on in class but ended up guessing what each of her classmates would do over the
summer - which was fast approaching.
Cadence stared into a girl's eyes from across the room. She was popping blue bubble
gum. Each bubble rose with energy before dissipating feet above. Her angular eyes slid over to
hers before scrunching her nose as if to say, what do you want? Rolling her eyes, Cadence
resettled into concentration and quickly scribbled down the notes from Brook’s pages, right as a
horn sounded. Brooks stuffed his notebooks into his bag, “So what really happened?” he asked,
raising his thick eyebrows.
“You know, if I knew the answer to that I would have told you–”, Brooks sighed, finishing
Cadence’s sentence, “because it's happened before.”
Cadence smiled in confirmation, slinging her backpack onto her shoulder, “and... I
wouldn't purposely leave my physical body if I had a choice.”
The two walked out of the school into the familiar sunlight. Cadence knew she didn't
grasp the concept of what had gone on in the classroom, but she didn't really care to be honest.
As far as she knew it only happened to her so why did she have to deal with it. Why not just tuck
it in the back of her mind? Avoidance wasn't the best strategy, but sometimes the worst just has
to work.
"Therapists Now Consider 'Like-Button' as a Valid Form of Therapy" - Nathan Gerou
"Therapists Now Consider 'Like-Button' as a Valid Form of Therapy" - Nathan Gerou
(This is a satirical piece)
SANDUSKY, OH— Suggesting a new and viral wave of treatment for those, particularly teens, with what the University of Arizona declared an “Insufficient amount of digital validation.” When asked about the research that went into their studies, lead author Batholemew Martimore, described how his team of ChatGPT graduates studied the dopamine levels of males and females across various ages over a course of time in which case group 1 was given devices with a link to their social media accounts and case group 2 who were not. In the study, they found that teens in particular had a dramatic decrease in dopamine production which led to discomfort, aggression, and even depression.
On the contrary, Martimores's team found that when the youths were fed notifications indicating that other people on social media “liked” or “followed” their public accounts, their brains were flooded with massive amounts of dopamine and serotonin. This hormone increase made the teens excited, happy, and more social than those whose devices were removed.
The results of this study confirmed Martimore's hypothesis that teens today need a daily dose of “digital validation” to live happy and healthy lives.
In the months following their study, a new craze entered the mental health and therapy world. This craze was the result of a new form of therapy called “the Like Button.”
When asked about this new wave, Dr. Shaniqua Brown, Therapist, and Psychology professor at the University of Dimmsdale reported that the “Like-Button” provides depressed and anxious teens with a dopamine increase so large that they reported being “the happiest I’ve ever felt!” This solution to teenage depression supported the largest decrease in teenage depression since cocaine was added to Coca-Cola products in 1885. Dr. Brown introduced us to one client in particular, who found her transformation to be nothing less than a miracle. Mitchelle Smith, 16, was a high schooler who was diagnosed with one of the worst cases of teenage depression that Dr. Brown had ever seen. “This child was so, torn… I couldn't do anything but feel the absolute worst for the young girl's mind. But after I introduced her to the Like-Button, her whole life changed.” Dr. Brown elaborated that before this life-changing method fell into place, Mitchelle had trouble with her emotions, love, and even simply getting out of bed most mornings. After this new treatment, Michelle was able to go places, show her confidence, and find new friends.
In our interview with Dr. Brown, she informed us that therapists use “Like-Bots” to add likes artificially and follow their client's accounts. This mode of treatment supplements the client with the validation that they need to live without depression clouding their mind, or, in the most extreme cases, “Crashing-out” which includes unnecessary aggression towards altercations and isolation from other people in their lives. Clients find that other natural forms of dopamine boosts don’t fulfill the need for the intoxicating hormone that their viral digital platforms provide. “When my posts don't get to my norm of 1,325 likes, I like deadass crash out ‘n shit. It genuinely pisses me off. But ever since my mom made me see this therapist chick, my shit been blowin' up. I think it has to do with how I feel n shit” said Crocker High student Gerald White, 14, who finds that his social media accounts are what led him to gain the privilege of being valedictorian for his middle school.
Another form of treatment that therapists worldwide have been using to fight this battle with dopamine, is group therapy through Instagram Live. By using the worldwide platform, teens who drop to low dopamine counts have the option to go live to a group or random audience who can give them the likes and follows that they need to get them through plane rides, car trips, or what teens have regarded as the worst, family car trips.
Many teens have found that their need for this validation is no longer what the generations before them experienced. “I can't, like, enjoy nature and stuff, that’s boring. Plants don’t give me brain rot, I can’t rizz up a dumbbell, and hanging out listening to music won’t boost my aura. I need to be on TikTok, it’s what I do 24/7” said Chris Brohnson-Johnson III, 5, who when informed of our story was very verbal about his thoughts.
We have found that this bout against dopamine levels is a long and strenuous fight where every method, idea, and form of validation within ourselves has been lost to the opponent. These teenagers, forced by their parents, are reluctantly finding ways to slow down their need for dopamine. Whether it be by slowly lowering their standards surrounding their online content or moving to long-form content to increase their attention spans, these teens must learn new methods to gain the validation that they need.
The Sword or the Plow by Erik Dean
Chapter 1: Ghosts
Summer of 1246
Bodies strewn across barren plains, thick with the stench of fury of those who killed and were killed. Two scores. Two scores I’d slain that day. Two scores of rats, rats with families of their own, wives and children to go back to, to tell tales of battle, and to stay up late reading bedtime stories with. None of them would ever see their families again. None of them would ever grow old, love again, wake up in a warm bed on a cold morning, take a sip of a cool drink.
I can’t let him go down that path.
“Honey, you were yelling again,” she whispered softly.
I held my head in my hands as I sat on the edge of my bed. “Honestly Cornflower, I’m alright. Sorry for the noise.”
With a look of pure pity on her face, she looked me dead in the eyes and sighed. “Valbrandr, my love, I’m going back to bed. Don’t hesitate to wake me if you need something.” After receiving a grunt of affirmation, her breathing fell back into the soft rhythm of sleep.
I stood up slowly, in an attempt to delay my inevitable disturbance of the peace. I creaked through the house in the same manner, attempting to minimize disruption, reaching the stout oak rectangular door that had stood there for decades, unflinching, a barrier between in and out, work and play, day and night. I turned the knob only a quarter before I felt the slight tap of a young one’s paws on my shoulders.
“Can I come Dad?” he asked.
I turned around to see a young mouse who, not even two seasons ago, couldn’t get close to touching my shoulders, a mouse who was my pride and joy, a mouse who was my primary motivation to keep going, a mouse whom I am proud to call my son. But also, a mouse who was up past his bedtime.
“Martin, look outside.” I watched as he craned his head towards the window and, with wonder in his eyes, gazed longingly at the moon and the stars. “Now, what do you see?” I asked, hoping for the correct answer, that the moon was out, and so it was late, and so he should be in bed.
“The North Star, Dad,”he replied with a matter of fact tone.
Nodding my head, and longing for a breath of fresh air, I gave in. “Alright, Martin, come with me.” He scampered out and took a seat on his barrel, now barely accommodating him as he’s grown. “You know, Martin, all you see here will someday be yours,” I said as I gestured to the vast golden fields in front of our home. “If you work hard, you’ll one day find fulfillment in these fields as I have now for many years.”
At this proclamation he frowned. He turned away from the wheat fields, and once again instead turned to the night sky, sprinkled with all sorts of beautiful light. “But Dad, I wanna be a warrior like you were, taking down vermin and gettin treasure and stuff!” He emphatically stated as he turned to look me dead in the eyes. “I'll be just like you we-”
Without thinking, I cried out “NO!” And in an instant, the look of wonder in Martin’s eyes was replaced with condensation as he welled up with tears, attempting to hide his true feelings. He once again looked to the stars for an answer, a proper response, a way to calm his dad, to earn his respect, to be a son his father was proud of.
But on that night, no answer came, so he cried. And as he cried, Valbrandr looked for the words to comfort him, to reaffirm his love for his only son, but, finding none, he instead shed a tear, one of only a few he’d ever shed, knowing that on that day, he had sent his son down the wrong path, and he had no way to stop him.
++++++++++++++++++
Chapter 2: Ambition
Winter of 1249
It was the 18th day of the penultimate month when Martin and his friends began to plot. They gathered in basements, in corners of public squares, in bakeries, in dining halls. Cornflower had become so worried that she was bedridden, and nearly inconsolable, acting as if she had already lost Martin. And no matter how much I tried to tell him what he was doing, that his mother was worried sick, that he was missing his chores, that I just wanted him home more, he was unflinching.
A week later on the 25th he began to stash his leftover food in his pockets and take from the pantry more than what he would eat. Maps, annotated with notable locations and paths, strewn across tables. And while we knew that there was something afoot, that they would attempt to leave, and consequently we used all our authority to try to keep them here in beautiful Evergreen, we couldn’t get through to them.
And it all came to a head on the eve of December, as I sat in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling, praying that my son would have some sense about the situation, a practice that became a habit in the past weeks, that I heard footsteps creaking through the house. I quickly grabbed my things and tiptoed through the house, to the grand oak door.
“Martin.” I stated.
Jerking about as if he had just been pulled by a string, my son looked down at me, now having grown far greater in stature.
“I have some things for you my son, and more importantly, some words.”
At first, he scoffed, “What could you possibly have that would be of use for me?” he asked, not looking for an answer, as he moved to leave, treating me not as a father, but a hindrance.
Acting swiftly, and grabbing hold firmly, I pulled him towards me by the midriff of his arm, and in the process, caused a moment of fear to break through his veil of indifference, presenting itself on his face. “Martin, I know not of your plight, or your reason for leaving, and I do not pretend to, but allow your old man to give you some parting gifts.”
Reluctantly, he closed the door and looked me dead in the eyes. “Make it quick,” he said, in a manner that attempted to appear unflinching.
“Martin, you are the North Star in my sky, and while I once would’ve done anything to keep you here, I now realize that you must journey yourself to learn the lessons I once did as a traveller and warrior. And for that reason, I bestow upon you my sword, which I have not had need of for many moons, but have kept in fine shape.” In one swift motion, I pulled the sword from the emerald encrusted scabbard it spent many years in, and handed the hilt to my son. “The sword is the warrior’s most important tool, and I have you here one of the best.”
There was a look of awe, and perhaps pride, in his eyes as he took hold of the blade that was crafted by my grandfather decades ago.
“And finally, my dearest son, I would impart unto you some wisdom that I hope will help you find some purpose and clarity in your journey, and throughout your life; the question of how to live one’s life, to kill in battle, or to raise wheat, to flock sheep, or to steal from others, that is a question that has vexed me for years, and while I don’t claim to know the answer, I can tell you this: taking another’s life benefits no one. The sword must be a tool of defense, not attack, of peace, not of war, and I implore you, nay, beg you, to make it useful only with the intent of protecting others, not for sport, or pure self interest. There is no enemy that deserves to die by the end of your sword, nor a friend that doesn’t deserve its protection. Listen to me now Martin, my son, for even if you are to forget all I have just told you, remember this:
“Your only true enemy is yourself.”
And as Martin took a last look at his father, one who had scarred him deeply, he nodded, and left, in the dead of night, without a word.
"""Believe me" - Leena Nagaraj
“What brings you here today?” I sat there wrapped in a swirl of thin blankets. My eyes drooped from medicine, and I was unsure of what to say. “My head hurts so bad I can't sleep.” Masks and gloves littered the counter like fallen soldiers, the paper beneath them as dark as a grave. The rhythmic beeping of machines, the prick of the IV in my arm, and the distant murmur of voices lulled me in and out of consciousness, my breaths shallow and ragged. I felt hurt that it took a trip to the hospital for my father to believe that I was feeling sick. My headache had pounded for days, immobilizing me to the point where I couldn't sleep or eat.
My parents argued and the words felt like knives that cut me, leaving me wounded. Couldn’t they at least take it outside of my room? I felt myself reduced to the little girl I used to be, hiding in the bathroom while they fought and threw things at one another. I covered my ears with my hands. Even when I was in the hospital, they didn’t stop to notice me. I sat up and swayed for a second and then began to pass out, when my mom caught me. “Can I please have some quiet?” My dad shot me an apologetic look while my mom rolled her eyes. The nurse came in and switched off the light, enveloping us in darkness. I held onto the bed, unsteady and exhausted. It had taken until 3 am to get a room and my feet had become heavy with sleep.
The doctor told me that I was severely dehydrated and that they would mix up a cocktail of medicine to give me through an iv. I focused on the beeping machine and tried to tune everything else out but ended up listening to the voices outside my room. The sound of babies crying, people screaming, and doctors talking filled the rooms. I had never been anywhere that felt so alive. The nurse took blood samples from my sore arm and did tests on them to see what was wrong with me. My stomach knotted itself and my heart raced. Outside my room, the halls stretched almost indefinitely, masked people flooded each entrance, wheeling carts of medicine from room to room. The nurses circled around me like a flock of ravens, competing for a piece of bread. I grabbed my notepad and scrawled a drawing of a maple leaf crumbling in the autumn air. In private, I pulled off the paper hospital gown and shivered, grasping for my clothes. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as my mom helped me out of bed and into the hall. As I walked down that hall, I dreaded going home with my father because I knew that he’d be upset with me. He hadn't wanted to take me to the hospital.
Before my hospital visit, my dad had told me to “just go to bed” so I tried, but as I nestled in my soft sheets, my head had become heavy with discomfort. I began to cry in frustration because no one had listened to me for days. It felt like releasing a thousand rivers by lifting a dam. I had never felt this much pain before and nobody had believed me. My windows let in pools of light that surrounded my bed. I told my dad how I felt through tears and he apologized and said he would take me to the hospital right away. Sometimes people treat you like you're fine when you're not.
Untitled - Blaire Brown
We were children.
July 4th, 2009, the year Michael Jackson beat it all the way up to heaven, the year a
Black man actually had the chance of being president.
We huddle into the wooden shed with stars carved into all of its four sides. There is only
space for two, another body and this rackety structure of wood might detonate. We sit
criss-cross applesauce, our legs grasing one another. Her knees bark textured scratching mine.
“I got the best ones I could find,” she utters, sweeping bronze bangs out of her eyes.
Her youth stained bag contained $82.54 of the finest fireworks in Holly County. The bag reeked
slightly of chlorine like she had left it to drown. I wish I had the courage to go buy them myself,
to make myself seem all adult like. But Clarisse was always better at asserting herself, the type of
thing I avoided.
Amazed with her feat I replied, “It’s perfect. I can’t believe they let you buy all these
without identification.”
“Guess I just have that effect on people,” she laughed.
With ropes for french braids, her hair wouldn't stay in place. It was like it didn’t want to.
Sometimes I noticed before she did, my brain wired to appreciate her beauty. To reach the level
of intimacy where I could slide my pointer finger across her forehead and through to her ear,
was something you’d only see in the movies.
I slid the bag closer to me. Dust traveled with it. Amongst the darkness, we arranged the
fireworks around us in a lopsided oval.
“You’re gonna love the Roman Candle. My dad told me about it. They’re furious balls of
color that shoot out at light speed. And the second you think it’s finished, another ball fires out
and bursts into a million pieces,” she remembers.
I try to imagine it as best as possible. Her words tightrope through my mind creating a vision of
this starpower. I'd love to remember this forever, the endless memory of our pubescence
watching ribbons of red, white, and blue glaze the sky. I feel around in the pockets of my cargo
shorts and my fingers pull out a ball of lint the size of a penny.
“I’ll be right back, I wanna grab my camera,” I said, waking my legs up.
Her head whipped around quickly, her braids slapping against her bleached cheeks.
She replied, “Hurry back.”
I jolted out the wooden box and down the manmade trails of Camp Crown River.
With the faint glow of a waning gibbous, I scoured for that disposable. Amongst my drool soaked
pillow case and mountain of gingham boxers, my camera hid from me. Clarisse was waiting on
me, which took precedence over the virtue of cleanliness. I began to walk with a purpose, almost
ripping a hole in the screen door.
That’s when I saw it. Through the thick of the woods a light stood out to me like a UFO
coming to take me prisoner. From zig zags away, I could see it fading in and out like it needed
someone to feed it. My feet were drawn toward it, entranced by its pallid conviction. It wasn't
until I saw the smoke where I realized that the beam was a fraud, a flame.
Now, my feet scurried too fast for my sweat glands to keep up. As I got closer I was hit
with waves of heat, an uncomfortable warmth similar to when you soil your bed. I wove through
the spineless trees to be met with a brave sound. I recognized her voice immediately, her lisp
ridden vowels screaming for help. Part of me was surprised she could even get this loud, a voice
that regularly spoke in a whisper even when she didn’t have to.
I returned her call, “I’m here, I’m here.”
Her scream swung in and out of a cry. It smelled like a bad campfire, the smell of lumber fried
every hair in my nostrils.
“I'm scared Mac,” her voice shook.
Courage boiled up from the tips of my toes all the way up to the flat top of my shagged
mullet. I took advantage of that fuel, snatching the ancient door handle. It crumbled in my hand
simultaneously with the roof of the shed. Her voice began to get smaller and smaller and
smaller. Clarisse went from a roar, to a shout, and back to her whisper. We switched places, my
voice glass shattering, hers absent. A part of me wanted to be in there with her, to see if
underneath all the charr I’d be able to recognize her. I wondered if the silhouette of her elf
pointed noise and thin lips would still be intact.
Her favorite superhero was Poison Ivy, she would’ve done anything to have red lockes.
Clarisses mother said she could dye her hair when she turned 16. She was only two years short,
just two.
I waited outside for two hours for someone, anyone, to find the wreckage. The
paramedics took five hours to remove her body from the scene. What they unleashed from that
wooden hell was not my Clarisse but the shell of someone I used to know. I’d like to remember
her differently, I’d liked to have known her longer than I have to remember her. Instead she
becomes the woman who whispers to me in my dreams, the mean ghost story of Camp Crown
River.
That night we were just kids, we wanted to see the fireworks up close. I told the police
the same thing when I was questioned. A little spilled lighter and bottled immaturity, nothing
more, nothing less.
"Untitled" - Aaron Smith
Smoke flies from a nick-nack, broken, shabby cabin. Warm glow emanates from a fireplace I stoked deep in the night, ambers flicker and heal my crackling skin. Sun gently nestles me awake from my comfort on the old oak floor. First, the sniffle in my ear, then a slimy nose swipes my face, a rough tongue strokes across my eyelids. Black and white fur mob my morning grog. 10 feet to my left bacon sizzles on a cast iron pan, spitting grease to the ceiling. A fluttering lake washes slowly, stepping out, moist pine caresses my feet, dirt lodging its way into the crevices of my feet. Smooth mossy cobble glides under my feet. Jangling in my right hand is a glaring red-and-white tackle box. A familiar glassy pole lays flat in an encrusted watermelon-colored boat. Gasoline fills my lungs, I rumble with the boat engine, grease sloshing at my feet over the glazed water. Wind grasping at my hair whipping my baggy shirt like a kite.
In the distance a rocky outcropping stood out, 3 large pine trees standing strong, tilting at almost impossible angles. A sharp cliff edge, dropping 30 feet into the jagged maw of rock, and a small calm bay, infested with rock bass. Rowing the last 50 feet, little fish skitter away fearfully before curiously following the rusty green boat. Inching fearfully towards the cliff edge, I cast long and far. Water crashes against the maw of rocks, splashing high up and tickling my bare feet. Winds waged war on my hair, throwing it in every direction. Not much action from the cliff edge, after the sun began its steady beat high above, I decided to move to the bay, lapping water glosses up to my calves, sand begins to creep its way around my feet. Finding a comfy rock, I sit, I wait. Fish tauntingly nibble my bait, the line jitters, and pulls. I wait. The line goes taught, reel, pull, repeat, the fish bounces from the surface into my lap. Spiky scales prickle my palm. I give the fish a kiss (yes I’m a fish kisser), and toss him into the now rippling water. I cast, then wait. I guess I don’t fish to catch, I fish for the ebbing and flowing of cool water on my legs, the sand etched into the crevices of my feet, the wind gliding across my coarse hair, the morning rain foggy in my nose. I fish to catch myself, to find myself in a moment.
"Untitled" - Tommie Unsell
I was born in a hostel in the worst part of town, with a hangover. I had nothing, not even parents. I had one shoe for most of my life. Sometimes I would go out to the harbor, not to play in the water, but to put my face up to the cargo containers and talk to them. One told me about all the money I would make with my plans.
I lived in the dumpster behind the hostel. My best friends are an antique mug and my tie. They sleep with the little voices nestled in my head. I started to organize my thoughts into a large chest of drawers. The voices never went away, but they started helping me figure out all the different parts of my mind. I learned I needed to be a cop, a friend, an icebreaker. I think I’ve ended three people in my life.
I lived with an old woman on the coast. My partner (ambiguous) sold some things of his to get me an apartment. The old woman is blind. My partner needs glasses to see. I shot a man’s eye out to save his life. I think he’s my best friend (for now). I started going to church, i.e. an EDM venue with a small area in the center surrounded by water bowls. There, it was silent. A man lived in the ceiling and gave me sermons. I saw God there, but he didn’t look like I thought he would. I have a fear of apricots now, after I found gum wrappers and notes with their smell in the pockets of my pants.
I lived rent-free in my apartment. My partner (former) was shot. His replacement was a small boy who couldn’t read nor shoot. He says he hates cops like me, probably because his dad is a speed dealer. Yet he still followed me to land’s-end, and back to our church. I prayed to the computer for a while. Went to the pawn shop, sold my things. My gun, my pens, my postcards, my paperwork, my mug, the pin from my mother, my shot put ball, and my partner’s handkerchief. $68.59 in total. Plus 18 years of service, 216 completed cases, and my now 5 confirmed kills, that makes for a lot of weight off my mind.
My friends and my mind tell me I used to own a house up on Marvel Hill. I had a wife who looked like the virgin Mary. I can’t imagine going to church and seeing her in the windows, staring at me. After she left me, I couldn’t go to confession again. I wasn’t alone in the booth.
I learned how I had to kill the part of me that had still-living spirits following it around.
How bad it must have been for me to need to die, to be new again. My neighbors tell me the night before I died was full of partying and screaming in my room. I sold my gun and crashed my car into the river. I drank until my face froze up, then broke the windows and collapsed. I slept there until my body remembered what it was like to feel, and woke to a police siren, sleeping in a hostel in the worst part of town.
2024
"""Drosera" - Ainsley McConnell
He had strayed too far.
He could tell, from the way the scalding gusts of toxic gas pushed harder against his dust-streaked spacesuit, from how the burnished aluminum of his ship faded into a haze of scarlet. He was close - so close - to the point mapped out on the inside of his helmet, marking his location in a tiny dot of white.
The plant could feel it too. Its roots pushed against the teflon ties holding it to his back, striving for the dust of its home - the dust that made the engineers back in Florida have to put extra filters in his respirator to keep it from the astronaut’s lungs. They seemed so distant now, the aeronautical engineers who showed him how to manage the ship’s controls lightyears away, his own family resigned to an unfathomable distance. And yet he was close. So close.
A stab of melancholy nearly made him double over as he neared his goal, realization striking harder than even the gathering winds. Once those roots found their home, he would never see it again. The lustrous purple leaves that had sat beside him while he copied the day’s data into spreadsheets would never again lend their color to his monotony. It was selfish, but for a moment he wished he had never came. He wished he had never found that seed sitting in a crater in his tomato garden, never answered its call to his curiosity. Watching the first violet leaf unfurl under the glaring lab lights had been the happiest moment in his life, and yet it had landed him here. Staggering under the blazing skies of a planet that wasn’t his own.
The dust swept across the landscape in lonely trails, whipping past his visor. Above him the sky faded to a dark purple - the planet’s atmosphere wasn’t thick enough to shield it from the looming void of space. There were no stars. Hazy red clouds blotted them out like water on ink, diluting their familiar glow in harsh brushstrokes. In the ship he had spent hours, perhaps even days, in front of the only window looking out into the abyss, trying to find the one dot of light he had looked upon every single day not so long ago. He had refused to believe it was too far for his eyes to see.
If he closed his eyes, focused on the heat permeating his insulated layers, he could pretend that it was summer in Florida. The humidity was high. His daughter’s hair always tangled on those days, and it would take Margaret close to an hour to braid her hair for school. He could hear her grumbles even from across the stars.
“One of these days I’m going to cut it all off,” She would say. Little Lily would squirm around in protest, earning her yet another aggrieved sigh.
“No! No, I like my hair!” She would -
His feet stilled. He knew the words, knew the way Lily always argued, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. His brows furrowed. It hadn’t been that long since he’d seen her, had it? Only a few months. And he had been busy the months before that, studying the plant. But he had seen her, right?
He blinked. His shoulders ached with the weight of the plant, the straps digging into his flesh even through the suit. Perhaps he should put it down for a while. Just so that he could rest. It would put him at ease, he thought, to see those purple leaves, a remnant of a life’s dream in a life that lived too far away. Perhaps it would help him remember why he was here.
Distantly, he noticed that the white dot on his helmet had moved past the designated drop point. Some other interface projected on the glass might have been flashing angrily. Maybe something was wrong.
“I should go back,” He said to no one. Or perhaps he was wishing the plant heard, understood, forgave him for his conceitedness. He found his feet wouldn’t turn.
He had strayed too far.
The roots dug into his spine through the plastic. Even through layers of carbon fiber and teflon, the plant’s homesickness bored holes into his bones, filling his lungs with longing. He felt, strangely, that he could hear crying. Layered deep beneath his thoughts and his breath and the wind howling an elegy, someone was grieving.
He blinked. Something cold stole a path down his cheek.
Closing his eyes, he tried to manifest that humid morning again.
“One of these days, I’m going to cut it all off,” Said Margaret. Her voice seemed quiet. Behind him, a single quiet crack. Something dug harder into his back, pushing painfully against the shoulder muscle.
“One of these days, I’m going to cut it all off,“ Said… someone. Margaret. That was her name, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he picture her face? His breath was coming faster, the clamor of cascading air drowning out the voices in his head.
“One of these days, I’m going to —“
The popping of broken plastic was lost in the din of the planet’s winds, yet he could feel that there was now nothing else keeping the plant from leaving him. Only space.
He wouldn’t give it. This he thought with more conviction than his curiosity had ever mustered. Foot dragging in front of aching foot, he pushed against the otherworldly winds. He could no longer tell the difference between the roar of breath dragging through his respirator and the gale’s aberrant howling. It didn’t matter. Every moment more that he could feel the roots on his back, see the brilliant leaves in his periphery, he felt like he was living his entire life’s dream over and over again. He wouldn’t leave it here alone. He couldn’t. He had strayed too far, much too far, to go back now.
And yet, it was never his decision to make. In that way it was foolish to have tried to defy it. In that way he could have expected the weight on his back to grow heavier, pulling, dragging him into the dust. The engineers in Florida were hardly more real than a dream to him as the filters in his suit cracked on impact. He had never had a say in what the plant did, not even under those glaring lab lights far, too far, away.
“One of these days - “ Said a voice he could no longer recognize, from a place he could hardly recall. But he knew why he was here. He was here to set it free. It was all he had, and yet he would set it free.
I’m sorry, he thought, as he carefully took out a pocket knife, placidly sawing through the last of the straps holding it to his back, not quite knowing who he was apologizing to. He wanted to face it. He wanted to see those violet leaves unfurling in a different light, before he had to leave it. He would never leave it. He needed to leave it. He couldn’t leave it. He had strayed too far. And yet there was nowhere else, no stars with their worlds and the worlds with their own worlds, that he could possibly have strayed from. There was no place in the entire unfathomable universe he would rather be.
Carefully, he undid the final straps and turned to face its splendor. Leaves like the very last moments of a sunset. And in the center - a bud, the color of dawn, the color of the scalding earth beneath his feet. He watched absently as the roots anchored themselves into the dust.
He couldn’t help but smile. Who wouldn’t? He was home. Whose cheeks wouldn’t drip with water that had rained and evaporated and rained again millions of times on foreign soil? Whose knees wouldn’t hit the same dust, hoping perhaps, that he too would take root and flower and never see blue skies again? The only colors he knew were the red sky, the red soil, the red unfurling bud, and those transcendent purple leaves. When he looked down at his hand he was happy to find that it too was stained red. The unnatural white of the glove drained away under its spread.
He could hardly even feel the roots puncturing his chest, and yet he was grateful for the connection they provided as he watched the bud bloom. The heat rushing in through the holes - that was love, wasn’t it? Something that makes your heart ache and your mind spin and your insides scream with a message unheard. Petals of sharp scarlet unsheathed in elegant jaws, and it really did look like a sunset. The leaves looked like clouds against the rusted, fading sky. If the moment in the lab was two hydrogen atoms fusing into helium, the sight before him was an entire star, a supernova of incomparable beauty.
The astronaut closed his eyes. He inhaled one last breath of hot, humid air through his broken respirator, smiling as the plant took him home.
Image by Olive Merrill
"Liminally Bubblegum" - Anja Frickx
The thrum of her AC unit forced the muscles in my arms to contract, causing goose pimples to form on my arms even though I had a thick sweater on. The red glow of her lights soothed my blue addicted eyes as it bathed the room in a light that would have seemed dangerous if we hadn’t been sitting together.
We were both doing separate things, her playing Animal Crossing, the soft clicks of well-used buttons echoed her words, maybe I’d pick out a sound effect or two, as she played sometimes my eyes would stray towards her screen as she went around that make-believe island, distracting me from my own task, drawing character outfits on my phone. My cold fingers kept skidding across the warm screen, messing up a line here and there as I got used to the new software, but those mistakes were easily fixable, a simple slightly violent tap undoes my messed-up line, two fingers will do, she tells me.
The thing that united us was my laptop, covered in stickers, one made of paper with the signature of one of my friends, an axolotl happily swimming, a glass of whisky with a dumb pun, with its fans cycling away by our socked feet, New Game! flashing across the screen, our faces illuminated by the girls on the screen trying their best to get a video game out on time, as we talked about anything and everything.
From character stories to hated game mechanics, music we liked to text to speech bots trying to sing, our legs were practically overlapping as time passed, documented by the light disappearing from the window right by her head. We hadn’t met in person a lot, the smell of chlorine was still prominent in her hair, only talking over texts and a rare voice call when both of us were free. The two of us were incredibly socially shy, but we grew comfortable around each other.
Our conversations about 3d modeling, inspired by the show we were watching, filled the air with organic noises, unlike the only other noticeable noise, which was the mechanical buzzing of the AC keeping it cold by the standards of a sticky early August, no cicadas with their lullabies, nor crickets chirping keeping us up. Even the wind with her eternal presence had stopped blowing that night giving us the silence we so desperately desired.
The show we ended up watching, New Game!, was found after a long road of searching, like trying to get to Southern California with a map of northern Wyoming in hand. Our heads pressed together crowding the screen as we hunted for a show to catch our eyes, switching from one website to streaming service, to another website, back and forth, looking, hunting, cutting through their offerings faster than a hot knife through butter.
It had to be something special, something neither she nor I had watched, interesting enough to keep our attention, but boring enough that it could become background noise to our conversations. Our eyes darted around the screen, our minds jackrabbiting around trying to sate our desires to watch, know, and do.
What really can you do at 2 am as two fifteen year olds?
We breathed the air of freedom, no one else was home. Only her and I left to roam the halls.
Time continued to pass as it typically does.
Our next course of action was decided by the growling of our stomachs, loud, and begging for food. The route they charted was downstairs to the kitchen, bumping our shoulders together, letting out quiet bursts of laughter, hearing the thumps of our feet on the stairs as we rounded the corner and turned on the kitchen’s overhead lights. The white LED bulbs forced a head rush, slightly blinding me, leaving me a bit disoriented and consequently waking me up on the sleepiness induced snack run.
The lights gave the room a liminal feeling, unlike the seemingly violent, yet comforting red glowing throughout her room, Evangelion poster, and Hatsune Miku littering the pink walls gave the room character, almost its own personality, not far from the slightly unsettling kitchen, only up the stairs and to the left.
The kitchen when illuminated at night seemed sterile, almost like an IKEA room model rather than a home. It felt more like a room in an old video game with outdated graphics, no entities created by code. The items scattered around the room tried to tell a different story: they screamed someone had lived here, the mix and match glasses, the plant that sat soaking up the sun, the calendar marked with important dates, and the notes stuck to the fridge.
The space left me unsettled like I was intruding on something, until she grabbed my arm and asked me what I wanted to have, the list sitting in our heads, as we chuckled and started to find and take.
We hurriedly collected our prizes from the fridge and cabinets, waiting for the microwave to hit 29 seconds, so the loud beeping didn’t give us away to the ghosts lurking around the house. Snacks securely in hand we took off running up the stairs, giving pirates running back to their ship, treasure in hand, the government at their heels, a run for their money. The fingers holding the food, getting colder or slightly burnt, switched the lights off as we ran.
We curled back up in her bed, the air mattress lay long abandoned a few feet away, no sheets had even been put on it, and a singular sad blanket sat on top of it, thrown to one corner.
The two of us reveled in our bravery, New Game! was left silent, abandoned, as we stuffed our faces. The tanginess of warmed-up orange chicken, the sweet styrofoam taste of the fortune cookies, the scratchy feeling of the fortunes on our tongues spelling either our doom or a philosophical quote that left us in stitches trying to figure out what it meant.
The show was restarted with a simple press of the space bar, shoulders impossibly close, our calm breathing interjected with speech, the reacquisition of her Switch, she played then I played, back and forth like a pendulum lulling us to sleep. We kept this calm repeating cycle up until we heard the loud bang of the door downstairs and the murmur of her parents getting home at a late hour.
We scrambled to shut everything down as if we were a front for spies who had gotten sold out by one of their own, the clumps of shoes climbing the stairs spurring us to go even faster. The door opened as we curled up against each other, the laptop barely had been closed in time which contributed to the silence filling the room as one of them turned the corner and saw us and assumed us to be asleep, our breaths previously racing with adrenaline schooled to be calmer, mistaken for sleep, so they closed the door leaving us alone as they went upstairs to their room.
Soft giggles permeated the air as we had gotten away with what we thought was the perfect crime. Yawns soon overtook those giggles, goodnights were whispered, eyes were closed, and I left the waking world behind, her not far behind me.
That night I dreamt of the ocean, on a rainy afternoon, the blue of the rain and the ocean replaced with the comforting red shades of her room, and all I could do was smile.
"The Lake" - Clara Dodge
"The Lake" - Clara Dodge
Snow slumbers in heaps, bickering with my yellow rain boots. They gnaw at the frozen sand like teeth on stale bread. My eyes ache, the sky blinding me as it blends into the lake. Geese bend into letters across the coastline. Stragglers.
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt Birthday.
Alice stomps, splinters the frozen reservoirs pinned into pockets of sand. I shudder at the reverb, louder than snapped bones, press open palms to my ears. My tendons thrum like untuned piano strings and she shouts something I can’t hear. She beckons me to race her. Vibrates with giggles and her grin. I stay where I am. I like watching her run, another dark goose in the gray light.
Her bare feet leave marks like lipstick-stained kisses as her arms flutter. Butterfly wings. Cold air chafes her arms into goosebumps. She abandoned her coat in the pickup. Her feet are pale purple. Dusty eyeshadow. She kicked off her shoes, peeled off her socks. Her leather sketchbook convulses with her footfalls in her overall pocket. An essential.
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt Birthday. I am half their life behind them and they don’t recall being eight.
I collect stones, my raincoat pockets soaked with them. I sieve through the sand for more. I am a sandpiper, sauntering with wild hands. I sit on a flaking log and line them up. Divided by shape. Smooth to irregular. Horizontally, smallest to largest. Vertically, light to dark. I chew on my sleeve, swing my legs. Inspect the dappled reflection of the sun on the icy lake. Molten sunflower petals seeping. In July I crashed into the clear tide, my own moon. But it is December now and mom demanded I dedicate a wide berth to the water’s edge. A plummet through ice as deadly as gravity.
Still, it allures me.
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt Birthday. They are sixteen now. Our mother’s eldest and my father’s dismay. My lovely curiosities. Soon they will leave me and molt into tangible creatures.
Whitt races against Alice. Long muscular legs panting. Auburn hair burning against the soot sky. He crackles with triumph as he passes the boulder they set as the finish line first.
“That’s not fair!” Alice whines. “I should have had a head start. You’ve had so much more practice than me.”
Whitt shrugs. “Join track with me if you want practice.”
Their conversation fades, drowned in the frozen lake. Sculpted of mirrors, fragments of fleeting reflections. The sun, the sun, the sun.
Alice perches beside me. I don’t notice until she speaks. “I think I should use that canvas you gave me to paint the beach,” she says. “It’s even prettier than last year!” I smile as she taps my nose. She always does that, as if in place of my name. Su-zie. Su-zie. She vigorously flips the pages of her sketchbook to a blank one. Hungry. I observe, motionless, as she defaces the page with charcoal scribbles. It wrings into a scene. Rough, angular. Then flawless.
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt Birthday. The beach breathes, serene and callous and beautiful. My present to Alice was a canvas taller than me. She will paint it with this afternoon scene, my acrylic figure inconsequent in the corner.
I run to the fringes of the ice, crouch down. Crumble it like broken glass with my fingertips. Lacerating. I have no gloves.
Whitt takes a photo of me while he thinks I’m not looking. The click captures my attention. Later he has the film developed and leaves the photograph in an envelope between pages of my bird-watching guide. I am camouflaged in the portrait. Feathery blonde hair lost in the snow. A transparent girl in a neon coat.
Alice completes her sketch, fingers darkened with charcoal. A streak on her cheek stark against the monotone. She shivers. A child of December who feels a kinship with August. She revels in heat and vibrant colors. In winter her exposed skin quivers in the embrace of the daggered arms of winter. Lined with ice like shrapnel.
“Come on,” Whitt huffs, taking her hand and pulling her to the truck. “Be reasonable.” She rolls her eyes.
“It’s not that cold.” Crosses her arms.
“It’s almost time to leave anyway.” He turns to me. “Why don’t you come with us, Suzie?” I shake my head without looking back.
Whitt sighs. “I’ll be back for you in a minute.” I watch as they climb up the slope and out of view.
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt Birthday. I study my reflection on the ice. My cheek leaks, wet with melted snow. Snowflakes encase my fingers. Lace patterned gloves. I study them as they dissolve. Droplets race down my arm. I am a May baby but the winter loves me.
I take off my treasured rain jacket. I remove the boots that hang loose on my feet. I shed my socks and fold them neatly. My bare feet burn like cold skin submerged in a hot bath, feverish and frozen. Warmth’s wrath.
I skirt the edge of the lake. Entertain venturing into forbidden lands. I skate out a little, eyes on my dragging feet. Numb. I look up and observe nothing. The creak of the ice is floorboards in the night. A lonely sound whose only companion is the wind. And the sounds of me, my breaths and squeaking muscles and skidding feet. I am singular in this expanse of emptiness. Void. Extraordinary. I am an infant and the ice cradles me.
I pirouette, like how I dance in my socks in our living room. Whitt snaps photos of my routines. He conceals them for me in hidden places to discover. Sealed in envelopes. Protecting me with his spit, a painless blood oath. He and Alice are only half mine, fathered by a shadow. I wonder if Whitt remembers when he braids my hair, entwining my youth into his.
A buzzing noise crescendos above me. An airplane. I bounce with excitement. My toothy grin infects my body, a seagull swooping for crumbs. I dart after the sound. Soaring on the ice. Slipping. I am every levitating thing. A wandering umbrella. A dandelion seed. I search for the silhouette of the plane’s wings peeking through the cloud curtain.
The ice ruptures.
It splits, torn stitches, jagged. I submerge to my waist. Seething seeds, sprouts breaking my skin like the earth. Seething seething seething. My jeans slurp thirstily at the lake. My heart oscillates. Do seagulls crash and drown? Do they freeze and forget their buoyancy?
I scramble out of the water. Crawl backward away from the glacial canyon. Peel off my jeans. My thighs and calves are scarlet like blood and the rust on the pickup. Blushing at the betrayal. My toenails are blue the way the sky should be. There is no sensation in my feet.
I collapse, a deflated birthday balloon. Labored breaths. Stationary in time like the waves that solidified on the shore. Infinite like Alice’s footprints with no fear of the waves. I close my eyes to the gray sky. The wind screams. I become the water. The sky. I blur away. It feels just the same as flying in my dreams.
Arms gather me like dried weeds, a wild flower’s corpse.
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt birthday. I am the December bouquet I always gather at the end of our escapades.
Whitt heaves me onto the beach. Driftwood. I blink, disoriented. His face is taut. “What the hell, Suzie!” No half-anger for his half-wet half-sister. No half-concern. Everything is full. Vaster than the number of grains of sand on the beach. “Are you okay?” he pants.
I nod. He rubs my legs dry with my coat. The sand encrusts my skin like lichens grasping onto tree limbs. The grain’s invasion on my skin is suffocating. Sandpaper on wooden planks. I squirm away. Wince as I pull my legs to my chest. “What’s wrong?”
There’s a gash on the back of my left knee. Skin mangled by ice. Sand mingled with blood. I maneuver my leg to show him. He delicately traces the wound. His finger comes back red, liquid he wipes away on his corduroy pants. Even my blood doesn’t understand vividity. Cardinal feathers plucked into veins of brown. He ties one of my socks around my knee. “We’ll clean you up when we get home.”
My teeth chatter. I burst out laughing nervously, unbridled as the cracked ice. He groans, “Oh my god.” Throws up his hands, surrendering to my vexing nature. Weeds are notorious for their persistence. “I am never taking you to the beach again.”
He gathers my jacket, wraps it around my waist. He folds my pants, my sock. Doesn’t offer my boots back. He knows I will refuse, sand between my toes. He stuffs my things into his elderly backpack, threadbare graying hair.
“Here, I’ll help you up.” He extends a hand. I hobble to my feet, my leg stinging. He steadies me, then crouches down. “Now, come on,” he sighs, waving me close. “I’ll give you a piggyback to the pickup.” I mount, sucking on a stray chunk of my hair like a spiral lollipop I beg for at the fair every fall.
Today is the same as every Alice and Whitt birthday. I ride on Whitt’s back, a horse trotting through the wildness.
This year I am his rounded wound, the world Atlas bore. We are silenced. His hand shakes as he pushes hair out of his eyes, a buzzing cicada wing. It doesn’t occur to me that fear smothers the words from him. I grip him tighter than muscle leeching onto bone.
We arrive at the truck, Alice still barefoot and coatless. I smell her smoking before I see her. Breathe into my sleeve. She smokes at the picnic table near where Whitt parked. Glaring at the bright and absent sun. Grinning broadly when I wave to her. Untamed. I want to be her. She is whole. Whole to a brother and mother, no fragments sunk in blood.
“Alice, put that out,” Whitt grunts as I slide off his back. She drops the cigarette on the ground and bends down to pour sand over it. Buried. She gets into the truck. Passenger side. Scoots over to make room for me. I hobble in behind her.
She notices the bloody sock. “What happened? Are you okay?” She smooths my hair. I stare out the frosted window, finger the glass. I want to go back. To the beach that is like the sea. To the place that sees me whole. The way the stars watch us above, silently.
Whitt slams the driver-side door behind him, punctuating his sentence. “Idiot.” Idiot idiot idiot. “She swam in the lake.” The ignition lights.
Alice chortles, leans around me to press my nose like a stone I smoothed in my palm. The cigarette smell envelopes me. Su-zie. “Sounds exciting,” she sighs. She breaks down in laughter. I smile with my teeth over my bottom lip.
Whitt backs the truck out onto the road, silently fuming. “Lighten up, Whittier.” She leans into him and tousles his hair. “Just a bit of water.” Just a bit of water. Just a bit.
He slams the brakes. “It’s not funny!” he shouts.
I turn my eyes to the metal bed of the truck. We are frozen. “You can’t be careless.” I think he is lecturing me until he adds, “You prance around coatless, she’s going to copy you.” His eyes melt down his face. His cheeks burn red. “She could have drowned.”
My voice is barely audible. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. Doesn’t accept it. The words meaningless from the wrong mouth.
We are suspended in silence. His breaths are the loudest. Finally, “No, I’m sorry.” He wipes his face with his shirt, a reset record. Play it from the beginning, maybe the story will speak differently. Maybe his sorrow won’t sound the same.
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt Birthday. Whitt drives, the road whirrs past us, drones. For once he doesn’t play the radio. For once Alice is silent.
I lay my head in Alice’s lap and suck on the end of my braid. I drift into dreams. I wake in a field of amber grass. Golden sun. Speckled lake in the summer. My reflection is not my own. My hair is dark and my eyes are warm. Alice’s face. I blink and the water freezes. I fade back into myself. Alice calls out to me in the distance. Suzie. We hit a bump and my eyes jolt open. Half-awake.
“Suzie, wake up. We’re almost home.”
Today is the same as every other Alice and Whitt Birthday. We get home and I find a new photograph taped to my bedroom door. I’m at the playground, oozing up an oak like sap. I’m in motion, a blur. Half in the frame. Half out.
“Jester’s Macabre” - Adam Curtis
“Jester’s Macabre” - Adam Curtis
The Jester waited patiently, flipping a freshly sharpened, pearl-hilted dagger idly in his gloved hands, catching the razor-sharp steel as it flew towards his flesh. Ever since he was a boy forced into an ill-fitting motley, he’s become familiar with this type of feeling, the taunt of steel so close to his flesh. The fear of slipping, of the wealth ridden blade falling just a hair too close to his wrists, was all too similar to working in the center of power for thousands. For nearly as long as Jester had known, their laughs ringed hollow in his ears.
But the Jester knew his job, and completed it with the practiced grace of a master of his craft. He was allowed to be at the center of one of the most powerful kingdom’s the world had ever seen, walking the same walls and under the same bricks that sheltered powerful nobles for centuries.
I am powerful. The Jester lied to himself, his face contorting into the ghost of a snarl. I am seated at the table of gods.
But that wasn’t the truth, and deep down, he knew that. Just hours ago, The King made that fact very clear. The Jester paused and closed his eyes.
Bells jingled playfully from his hat as The Jester pushed the heavy, gold-inlaid, oaken door open, revealing an old, frail man hunched over a table, bathed in candlelight. As The Jester walked in slowly, the man made no sign of noticing his entrance.
“Your Majesty?” The Jester called out into the darkness. “You called for me?”
“Come over here.” His gruff voice ordered. The Jester obeyed immediately with practiced loyalty. “Tell me: how long have you served me?”
“I have always served the crown to the best of my ability,” The lie came easy, like a leaf drifting peacefully down a river. “Though I have served eighteen years in this position, your majesty.”
“Hmm.” The King grunted, looking up into The Jester’s eyes. For a split second, The Jester’s smile faltered, noticing The King’s suspicious glare, like a thousand daggers piercing his back. “Then tell me, boy, why would a man like you need to leave the castle tonight?”
The Jester’s throat screwed itself shut, choking away any words that could’ve escaped his traitorous lips. He swallowed nervously. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” The King snarled, sitting up in his chair. “The woman you’ve been seeing. Do you have the slightest idea who she is?”
The knives in his back drew closer, their sharp tips brushing against his spine. “I-,”
“I know your plan. You wanted to sneak her into the castle tonight. You were planning on letting this girl, a common peasant, walk in the halls of kings,” The king explains. “Am I correct?”
The Jester, fearing the blades at his back, bowed his head. “Y-Yes, your majesty.”
“You should consider yourself lucky,” The old man sighed, and held his head in his hands. “Treason is a serious crime. If my guards didn’t catch her first, you’d be facing the same punishment.”
“Treason?” The Jester croaked in silent realization. The question tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. “What happened to Anne?”
The King’s face drew itself into a cruel, grim line. The Jester knew his answer before the old man’s condemnation exited his cold, cracked lips.
The Jester opened his eyes, stopping the knife in an instant. Carefully, he lifted the knife closer to his face, and gazed into his reflection, trapped within the blade. On the other side of the steel mirror, a man stared back at him, his face contorted into a frown, with dark, strained lines drawn across his face, hidden behind a layer of white make-up. The face looked almost exactly as The Jester remembered it. He could imagine a kind, playful smile curling at the corners of the image’s mouth, and the twinkle of harmless mischief twinkling in its eyes.
But he didn’t see a playful smile on the image’s lips. He didn’t see mischief in the image’s eyes.
He saw murder.
The Jester was patient, though. He could wait like a coiled snake playing the part of a rabbit. He’s faced a thousand injustices in his time. He could wait, living on the fact that this one he’s faced would be the last The King would ever commit again.
“You killed her,” The Jester said.
“I did no such thing,” The King said firmly. “I punished a criminal for a serious crime. A crime you nearly committed yourself.”
“You killed her,” The Jester repeated, quieter, and to himself more than his love’s murderer. “She was innocent, and you killed her.”
“I am growing tired of this folly,” The King snarled, standing from his seat. “You think that the peasant was innocent? Are you willing to take her place? Even so, nothing will reattach her head to her shoulders. Accept it. There’s nothing you can do.”
But The King was wrong. There was something he could do.
“I am powerful.” The Jester whispered, barely louder than a strained snarl. “I am stronger than you could ever imagine.”
The Jester wasn’t powerful in the normal sense of the word. But that didn’t matter. He had his knife, and he had his knowledge.
The Jester smiled softly, and closed his eyes. Oh, the things he knew. He could topple empires with that kind of information.
In fact, he might as well indulge in a little chaos himself.
The Jester thought of himself as a fair man. He did his part as any other subjects did. He danced. He sang. He told jokes. He smiled and bowed as they laughed, the bells in his hat chiming playfully.
Every man has their limits, though, and his were crossed a long time ago. Now, it was his turn to return the favor.
He smiled softly at the mirror version of himself, in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as he heard The King’s meeting come to an end. Gently, he tucked the blade into his waistband, and pranced up to the great hall’s oaken door.
The Jester was used to being on the sidelines, but it was time for him to enter center stage. Today, he would make his last performance:
“The Jester’s Macabre.”
Image by Genesis Galloway
"Trader Joeseph's" - Tommie Unsell
On his hourly shelf inspection, Trader Joseph’s employee Michael Abrams found something odd. After searching 27 cans of Joe’s Os for parasites, disease, or anything else that could result in a class-action lawsuit, his 28th can yielded mold. Red, mushy mold. He rushed back to his superior, Jesamine Lucina Rosalyn Smythe. “Madame Smythe, you have to see this! It is really important!!” he said in his submissive retail worker voice.
“What is it, peasant?”
“I found a mold on the pasta, it was disgusting and made me feel abstract emotions.”
Without further hesitation, Jesamine gestured to her attendant, who proceeded to pull out a pistol and put Abrams down. His lifeless, unfulfilled body dropped to the floor, oozing several fluids of varying density. “We shall observe this mold.” The two went off.
After the 3 minute walk, they arrived at the canned goods section. After the attendant retrieved her looking glass, she observed the can of mold. “Miss, he was wrong. The ‘mold’ he spoke of was just the pasta sauce that it came with.”
“Oh.”
The next day at 8 o’ clock, the Trader Joseph’s opened again. The aisle home to dry beans, wet beans, and canned goods was sparkling more than usual, and nothing was out of the ordinary. There were 108 cans of Joe’s Os on the shelves (which were also TJ’s brand), warmed gently by the patented Cherenkov light fixtures. Behind the scenes, the break room was a sight to behold, with the employees exiting their daily prayer. As always, Jesamine had led the prayer with the ferocity of a rabbit in heat: always multiplying, and the subject of many similes. Michael’s corpse was propped up near the corpse pile, adjacent to the “01 days since last employee mishap” sign. He was a man taken before his time, a man whose pockets were never lined. Nobody cared about him, least of all his fellow employees. They were too concerned with the men who complained about how hot the freezers were, or how cold the coffee bath was. The real enemy of Jesamine, and by extension Trader Joseph's, was human stupidity. The customers don’t know that freezers work by pumping out heat, or that hot coffee led to the downfall of McDonald’s. Even Michael Abrams didn’t know what spaghetti sauce was. Nevertheless, his fellow employees abided by the company motto, “Quid futuis, cur apud me es? Exi nunc.” and avoided the same mistakes as their counterpart.
At 1 o’ clock, there were 97 cans of Joe’s O on the shelves. The food court was packed from the lunch rush, with thousands of people of all shapes and sizes lining up for their meals. Ever since Trader Joseph's was given government funding, it had become an oasis of commerce that outshined even the famed “In-N-Out Burger” of the American Southwest. Everyone in a five mile radius was hoping to get the famous BLTJ (bacon, lettuce, tomato, and jerusalem artichoke) with a side of unleavened bread. This Trader Joseph’s in particular had become famous for a combination of Barq’s root beer and coffee creamer, a concoction known as Coffee Beer by the locals. At 1:30, the bell rang and all the diners stood up to sing the pledge of allegiance. Singing it in schools had fallen out of favor after the war, but Jesamine found it to improve morale. After all, the people making food for the troops should be filled with the spirit of free America!
At 3 ‘ clock, the personal shoppers in service of the irradiated and bedridden 1% were interrupted by a mild to moderate ruckus in the southeast section: vegetarian and gluten-free options. Jesamine was taking her afternoon nap of approximately 47.5 winks, but her attendant was wide awake, fully prepared to cause grievous bodily harm to anyone that interrupted her liege. She heard the noise, however, and decided it could perhaps be important. She crept into Jesamine’s room using the password, RudyXD69. Even though she made frequent visits in the night, the room never ceased to amaze her. The wallpaper was complex without being tacky, and it paired excellently with the decorations. There was a colonial era theme, with several paintings of former US presidents like Abraham Lincoln and Rutherford Birchard Hayes (her personal favorite). Jesamine herself slept on a bed of peacock feathers, with the bedspread patterned to look like the redesigned American flag. She was stirring in her sleep, although it could have been from the dreams rather than the explosion.
“Miss, wake up. I think there was an incident.” Jesamine slowly rose up, bending only at the waist, in the fashion of a vampire. She appeared as if she was never asleep in the first place.
“Ah, the horse must have gotten in. Or was that a dream I had…it gets hard to tell these days.” The attendant just stood there with a dearth of bewilderment; she had become used to these kinds of conversations. She resolved to just walk out of the room, expecting Jesamine to follow her. She did.
The journey was quick, as the only aisle separating them was filled with pallets upon pallets of mayonnaise. The scene they came across was quite demented, dubious, and/or droll. A large man wearing jodhpurs and a pleather jacket lay tied up with expired red vines. Around him were two employees and three customers. The customers were clearly spooked, but Jesamine’s loyal workers were trained to handle anything from an intelligent hamster to an unintelligent hamster. Jesamine was not new to intruders; just last week a swarm of shrimp found its way into the fountain. It took hours to stop them from leaping out and attacking customers’ eyes. Jesamine was wondering not how, but why such a man would come here. She said, “I wonder not how, but why you would come here.” He stayed as quiet as a corpse. She leaned in closer to deliver her monologue. “Any one of my enemies could have sent you, as I have made many in my life. What sets me apart from every other manager is that I have passion in what I do. I have faith in myself. Even though my employees range from idiotic to barbaric, I have faith in them. You have nothing in your life. Even as you sit here in my store, tied up with edible BDSM gear, you are not the cornered predator. You do not have nothing left to lose. You never had anything in the first place.” As she backed away, her staff knew what to do. They gathered and carried him away, and by tomorrow he’d be on the corpse pile. On the way back, Jesamine’s attendant spoke up.
“Miss, that man back there, I think he was dead before we got there. He wasn’t breathing or struggling when they took him.”
Knowingly, Jesamine responded, “Of course he was dear.”
“But I thought-”
“Don’t think. Thinkers don’t last very long.”
"Tell No One" - Kemaria Freeman
The vibrant color of blue lit up the rather monochrome setting. A color that was easily contrasted amongst the soft hues of gray in the atmosphere, azure steadily being withdrawn from the vast sky. Holding a bouquet of flowers daintily in hand, a young woman stood stiffly on the patch of fresh dirt feeling firm and uneven beneath her feet. She stared at the flowers she held for a few moments examining the seraphic glow of them before crouching down. Letting out a prolonged sigh she placed the flowers down upon the dirt gently, scared that if she were to be too rough with them they might just wither away and die; because of her. Reaching out she slowly pressed her fingers against the headstone that read, “In Loving Memory of Evelyn Monroe: A Loving Mother, and Sister”. The marble felt excruciatingly cold beneath her fingertips as she trailed them over the fresh engravings. Even as she traced her hand onto the headstone it never once left behind any smudges.
“I brought your favorite flowers…” The woman whispered solemnly, voice wavering as she let out the words that had been plaguing her consciousness for weeks now. “I know it’s my fault.” The saddened look in her eyes altered into something else. Something akin to resolve. Rising to her feet the young woman decided then and there what she was going to do. “I’ll fix this. I promise. You can rest now.”
Hesitantly she began to walk away from her mother’s grave. Eyes shining in what dim light was around as they wandered over all the other lumps of rock in the ground. Most of the people she was related to could now only be identified by something as trivial as something you could easily find on the pavement. An object people disregard, step on, and walk by. Well, that and memories. But she knew memories would never be enough to mask the suffering you feel when you lose someone—replaying blissful, significant moments in your mind until it physically hurts too much to visualize them any longer. That’s the genuine feeling of loss. After all, the most difficult part of losing someone is learning to go on without them.
An adolescent girl strode into the shared home of her and her mother. When she turned and locked the door behind herself she gazed around to see if she could spot her mother anywhere. She clamored for her mom to see where she might have been in the small abode.
“I'm in here, Vida!” Evelyn called from the dining room, sitting in a wooden chair that creaked softly under her weight. When she saw her daughter walk into sight Evelyn smiled brightly at her and put down the book she was reading. “How was school?”
“It was fun.” Vida shrugged indifferently. “...We talked about… our family lineage in history. Grandparents. Our parents.”
Evelyn acknowledged immediately what had her daughter bothered. “Come on. Sit.” Vida slowly sauntered to the table that sat in the middle of the dining room and took a seat next to her mother. Vida was aware that her mother wouldn’t want to converse about her father. She never really did. Whenever Vida asked her mom questions about him she would always answer them vaguely, not truly giving the girl enough information. Whether that was purposefully or not Vida did not know. “I was thinking we could take a trip somewhere. Since summer break is coming up soon. Anywhere you want.” This was what the mother always did. She successfully evaded questioning from her daughter by giving her things she wanted. As she was only thirteen years old it made it a lot easier to influence her thoughts. It was almost as easy as leading the demure gullible cattle to its demise. Vida didn't need to worry about those types of things anyways, she always had her mother around to take care of her.
“Anywhere?” The girl asked for confirmation. She was used to taking trips frequently but this was the first time she was allowed to choose. It didn't matter to her anyways because she always got to go somewhere she enjoyed. Evelyn nodded her head, curly head falling over her brown face. Her mother always had a beautiful and youthful face that Vida often admired. “We’ve never been to Rome.” The girl suggested, part of her always wanted to go to the country of Italy.
“Then we’ll go there.” Evelyn smiled as she reached over and held Vida’s hands excitedly. Vida smiled back gleefully and hugged her mother, forgetting all about what made her upset when she came in the door.
Driving home had much more of a melancholy feel than it had been at any other point in Vida’s life. Now all there was to do was assimilate her daunting thoughts while she attempted to submerge her emotions deep down. Yearning for them to go far enough away to never again resurface. Shaking her head and taking a deep breath she tried to focus on something more uplifting. Currently, she needed to concentrate on driving so she could get home. There were numerous things she needed to fix that were her responsibility. Every passing day there was a straining feeling passing through her body. One that continued to weigh down upon her shoulders and asphyxiate her with every passing moment. Everything is so messed up right now. She thought to herself. It’s because of what I did. And Mom paid the price for it.
Ceaseless ringing blared through a woman’s ears as she hung her coat in her apartment. Heaving out a long breath she reluctantly walked over to the phone and answered it. She went to speak and ask who it was but before she got the chance the person on the other end interrupted.
“Vida? Vida are you there?” The sound of a distressed voice reverberated through Vida’s ears as she tried to figure out who she was on the phone with. “It’s Mae.”
Vida’s confused face instantly twisted into recognition. Oh, so it was her aunt. Vida just knew this call would end in a headache for her. “Aunt Mae?”
“I just heard about what happened.” Funny since I left you a message about it weeks ago. Vida thought bitterly. Mae breathed shallowly. “Evelyn is… she’s really dead?”
“Yes.” Vida swallowed the lump in her throat as she spoke to her aunt. It took almost everything in her not to just hang up the phone on Mae so she could stop thinking about it completely. If Mae cared she would have picked up the phone when Vida called her weeks ago.
Mae let out a loud sob as she asked, “How did this happen.” She had only now decided to listen to the voicemail her niece had left for her and to find this out so suddenly had surprised her immensely.
Vida hesitated. She didn’t want to talk about how it happened. She would have to carry the truth around with her for the rest of her life, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Her mother’s sister deserves to know though. “Someone…” Vida put a hand up towards her face, absentmindedly running her hand over her face, and she sat down on her couch. The handset cord stretched further since she was farther away. “There were these people.” Vida started again, and she could still hear her aunt softly crying over the phone, but she knew she was still listening to what she had to say. She wanted to know the truth about what happened. “Bad people. They broke into the house while I wasn’t there and… “ Vida knew she didn't have to finish before Mae got the notion of what transpired next.
“That’s horrible.” Mae cried. “Why would someone do that to Evelyn?” Vida suddenly shifted uncomfortably in her seat, guilt again obscuring her vision. She remained silent, not having the heart to answer that particular question. Her heartbeat resonated loudly within her ears as she let out heavy breaths. “How could this happen to her?”
“Listen I– I have to go,” Vida muttered quickly into the phone rising to her feet. Before her aunt even had the chance to respond she abruptly slammed the phone down effectively ending the conversation. Vida put a shaky hand to her mouth sniffling softly, as she tried to stifle any form of a cry that would try to escape from her mouth. How could she even begin to tell her aunt that it was her fault that her sister was dead?
“How come you never want to talk about Dad?” Vida asked her mother one day. They both sat comfortably on the couch in their living room, watching movies. Vida had this question on her mind for a while but every time she asked her mother evaded questioning by changing the topic. It was as if just the action of verbally speaking of him brought an atrocious taste to Evelyn’s mouth. One that burned like vicious acid would if you were ignorant enough to mess with it. She removed her eyes from the television to look at Vida but before she got to brush off the topic Vida added on what she’d said earlier. “You can’t keep refusing to answer, Mom. I deserve to know. I’m 16. Perfectly capable of handling myself.”
Evelyn shook her head dejectedly as she paused the movie they were watching. “I know you’re not a child anymore, Vida.” Evelyn turned her body around so she could face her child fully and show that she was giving Vida her attention. After all, this topic was of vital importance to her daughter, while Evelyn often found herself wishing she could rewrite history. However, Vida, who was idly seated in front of her, was a by-product of that regretful history. “But… I don’t know if I should tell you because… it’s not anything you’d like.”
“I can handle anything you tell me,” Vida said surely. She just wanted to know more about the person her dad was. But little did she know, ignorance could be bliss. Knowing was oftentimes simpler than not knowing. Deciding whether or not you want to know a dire piece of information that could rearrange your whole existence. But it was much easier for someone who had nothing to lose.
Evelyn didn’t say a single word for a minute, trying to figure out how to tell Vida what she wanted to know. “Your Father wasn’t a good person.” Vida continued to blink at her mother curiously holding off on asking questions until she needed to. It would be better for her to get all the facts of the matter before she came to any surmise that would only prompt her to inquire more about her mother’s story, involuntarily wasting time. “There’s this secret that we have in the family. It’s been passed down from generations. And it’s a very dangerous secret.”
“What do you mean?” Vida asked as she wondered if Evelyn was even being serious anymore. The reality of the situation was confounding to her moderately opened mind. It didn’t make any sense to her. To nurture a supposably threatening secret like that for years, did not seem practical. If it was so dangerous why was it passed down in her ancestry like it was some old, tacky, family heirloom?
“I mean that– this isn’t just a secret you can tell people,” Evelyn said.
“Yeah, but that's kind of how secrets work, right?” Vida chuckled humorlessly, concluding that this wasn’t exactly something to joke about. For a brief moment she could feel her pulse intensifying beneath her skin, veins relentlessly palpitating as the sensation seemed as if it crept up into her cerebrum, making her vision appear obscured.
“No, that’s not it.” Quickly Evelyn tried to explain better. Vida’s face was utterly transparent. Anyone could tell just how troubled the young girl had seemed. But only the mother could know just what had transpired that could cause such overwhelming emotions to be fixed in her daughter.“This secret could cause our family trouble if it were to ever get out to the wrong people. And your Father, he was one of those people.”
“He wanted to hurt you?” Vida queried not wanting to believe what she was hearing. “Hurt us? Just because of a secret?” Now even more confusion was displayed upon her delicate features.
Evelyn nodded sorrowfully. “Yes.”
“What is it?” Vida pressed. When she saw her mother shake her head indicating that she didn't want to tell her, Vida spoke firmly. “What is this secret?”
Evelyn knew she could trust her daughter, she was old enough to know this stuff, but she wanted to protect her and make sure she was safe. It was her duty as a mother. But maybe if she knew everything it would be better. She might be safer knowing the truth than not knowing it. “You can’t tell anyone. Ever.” Evelyn emphasized.
Vida nodded her head, “I won’t. Promise.”
But she did tell someone, and it cost her everything.
"Light Without Color" - Jessica Li
"Light Without Color" - Jessica Li
The Sun set two weeks ago.
Since then, the towers have been cold and dry. People rarely risk stepping out into the streets without their thermal suits, their TSs. It’s far too cold to be walking around in basic Arctic winterwear.
After the nuclear winter began sixty or so years ago, temperatures around the year have fallen around fifty degrees Fahrenheit, but, surprising to most, they stayed that way. Our warmest summer temperature since the beginning of the long winter came only a couple of years ago, during which it rose to around 12 degrees. This was enough for people to come out and go on walks, putting tiny cracks in the icy roads with their special spiked boots. It also had people worried that the flare stacks and enormous refinery wheelers would crack the ice off the shore and fall into the water, even though they were designed with that in mind. The ice never broke, thankfully, but it wouldn’t matter if it did.
Some of my neighbors in the towers say that the sixty-year winter will finally end once a wheeler slips into the sea. My coworkers and I, however, are among those who know what’s under the ice. We know that they really sit on the ocean floor, balancing on thin pillars of steel alloy that skulk slowly just above the ground.
The beginning of the winter has marked some of the worst cold for us. Faraway weather reports are rare, but systems on the Russian mainland have reported Temnere Outpost’s temperatures at negative 50 degrees since the beginning of the nuclear winter. Myself and the rest of the inhabitants know how far the government needs to downplay it.
People figured that the toxic clouds of the nuclear winter would last only a few years. They greatly underestimated humanity’s destructive power. The average temperature in the winter months has settled around negative 118 degrees Fahrenheit. Without proper gear, you couldn’t walk once around the base of the smallest tower without your blood freezing. Without proper guidance, you couldn’t go to work without getting lost, gliding blindly across the slippery sea. And without proper heating, you wouldn’t last a night without freezing in your sleep. Nobody here has ever been deeply concerned about their own lives, for they had either grown up in the harsh conditions or trained in a year-long course just to spare themselves from the elements. Sometimes I wonder how we must appear in the face of the post-war climate researchers that venture out here and think, yeah, it’s as bad as they told us it would be.
Getting good heating is rarely ever a concern, but the power goes out just often enough for me to constantly worry about my father’s life. Lukyan, with graying hair and blurry, bygone eyes, is bound to a wheelchair — his legs are too old and brittle for him to move much anywhere. I always replay the same nightmare in my mind. I would head to work miles and miles away from him, and the power in the towers would drop. No power, no heat, and he would succumb to the cold. The thought gives me chills, as if my soul fell to the same icy wind — as if my spirit were to pass alongside his. I can’t bear to lose him.
So I work — every day, six days a week, nine hours at a time. An extra hour comes from commuting across dozens of miles of ice-covered ocean, of gray-white lifelessness, but it’s all necessary. Every able-bodied man and woman in the towers has their job. They work to keep themselves, their loved ones, alive. If they don’t work, they don’t contribute to the city. If they don’t work, they lose their power, as it’s cut off from their apartments. They lose heat for their homes. Winter slips through the walls, creeping on icy legs, preying on the profitless.
I work to keep Lukyan alive. He lives to keep me alive.
My father very well may be the only thing that motivates me. I wake up early and make him breakfast and lunch for later; meanwhile, he thanks me and reads news updates on his wrist-tablet. I check on the small set of tubes and wires that run into his arms and legs. If he has medicated fluids that need refilling, I’ll grab some from the closet. I often think about how far those packages full of fluid must travel to reach us. Since so few real medical centers still exist in our country, boxes of resources come from faraway postwar places that seem fictional to me: Canada, The U.S., The Oceanic Republic, Britain, Brazil. For every box we get, I say a prayer to the delivery man.
Following a short moment to relax, I unplug the thermal suit from its plug in the suit cabinet and outfit myself with it, keeping the helmet off at first. “Take care, Nikola,” he says after I kiss his forehead on my way to leave. I always check the huge, whirring heaters in the main room on my way out. I was taught how to recognize a faulty one, and I’ve since taught that skill to my father. I’ve taught him about the fourteenth floor safety heating room. I’ve explained to him that each tower has a backup generator that solely powers the heating in that central room should the power go out. I even taped a tiny map of the short route to the room so he can wheel himself there if I’m not at home. But I worry that he doesn’t retain my advice. I worry that all he knows is me.
After stepping out, I take the elevator to the ground floor, where snow piles up against the windows, sometimes all the way up to the third story. I’m usually among the first people to leave in the morning, which means I may be responsible for activating the door plowers. It’s easy, thankfully — there exist a few buttons in the so-called “airlock” that we use to turn them on. It’s loud, but it’s fast and automated. After waiting a few moments, the white dust is cleared, the plowers reset, the airlock makes a noisy farewell hiss, and I step out into the ghostly void.
Technology has given me so much to be thankful for. The TSs weigh only around sixty or seventy pounds, and make you look like an astronaut. They’ve become smarter over time as well. In the past, I’ve had to, like every other commuter, wipe the ice and snow off the console of the Seaglider to see the GPS. I’m now thankful that the latest TS models have an interface on the inside of the helmet. It’s said that this vehicle was originally designed solely for us workers to get places, but it’s since become a more popular alternative to ice skating and snowmobiling elsewhere. The only fuel for our wheel-less machines exists at the jobsites, so everyone dedicates a bit of their paycheck into gasoline produced at the wheelers themselves. Parking lots in the refineries have become fuel stations to account for this. Nobody makes the mistake of forgetting to fill up their Seaglider tanks. If you run out of fuel during your commute, you’d either be stranded until a rescue tow can get you, or worse, stuck in your apartment in the main city. It’s awful imagining the dread that these trapped-at-home workers must feel. Unless your neighbor can bring you fuel from the job, you can’t go to work. And after some time, not working becomes the real killer.
After leaving the airlock, I walk for only a couple minutes to the Tower 15 Garage where my Seaglider is parked. Only 19 towers loom at Temnere Outpost, and ours lies on the outskirts, so it’s easy to drive from the ice roads straight off onto the Arctic Ocean. Roads are purposefully left coated with a thick layer of icy glass so that the Seagliders can easily surf them. The gliders are fairly quiet, which is nice when you’re trying not to be bothered, but it makes you feel deeply alone and lost as you skim across the ocean ice at a hundred miles an hour.
With the endless winter night, the skies are hushed to a numbing dark gray, as ever-present clouds are lit up by the white lights of the black towers. Heard through the sound-conversion system of the thermal suit is a remarkable silence broken by a low whistling wind, and by the grumbling chug-chug of the Seaglider.
During a few random nights throughout the year, the dim, melancholy clouds give way for an atmospheric light show. Auroras reflect vaguely onto the ice, and, behind them, the Milky Way sits humbly and beautifully. I’ve seen these phenomena only a handful of times throughout my life. With the constant brightness of the towers at night, these spectacles can only be seen far away from the city. Some of my coworkers have taken their shift off just to glide out somewhere on the Arctic Ocean and sit for a while, marveling at the sky while they have the chance. I often recall a time about a decade ago in which I did the same. I sat in my TS for hours, staring up at the sky. I made sure to take pictures for my father, but upon seeing them, he mentioned that he just missed the love that was brought by the Sun. Whatever, Papa, I had thought, knowing that he recognized the same beauty in the night sky that I did. Every time I travel to work, I wish I could see that colorful brilliance in the sky, even just for a short while. But today, a thick layer of clouds hides them, and so I ride briskly into the blankness of the Arctic Ocean.
Forty entire miles make up the empty route, occupied only by occasional tiny reflectors and whirling streams of snow. In the distance, a flare stack in action creates a faint vermillion smolder. Distant rumbling and whining of enormous machinery is barely audible, yet always familiar. The faded crimson lights of the wheelers can be seen spread across the horizon. The Seaglider drones on, and the GPS console shines onto my helmet. Ice screams and whips under the blades.
The briefly long drive helps me think, although there’s never really much to think about.
After almost thirty minutes, the ominous darkness of my assigned refinery appears on the horizon. A single blinking red light six hundred feet in the air solemnly welcomes me behind a thin cloudy mist, and signs up ahead direct me to Employee Parking around the rumbling treads of the wheeler. It’s necessary to turn off the accelerator of the Seaglider a while before you actually intend to stop, since the low friction on the rubber blades allows it to slide for thousands of feet before coming to a standstill. After it stops and I drag the front cable of the machine up a small ramp into the refinery itself, I park the Seaglider and insert the thin fuel nozzle, being sure to double-check that it’s actually filling up the tank. I head through my usual airlock, locating my assigned TS compartment and carelessly stuffing the suit into it. None of the other workers here really seem to notice me. Those who have already arrived are grabbing coffee and briefly chatting before going to their stations, and the few stragglers who stayed a short while after the 10:00 pm-7:00 am night shift are sleepily clocking out.
I haven’t bothered to really make friends with any of my coworkers. In fact, hardly anybody has. Once every few weeks, the jobs of the workers are reassigned depending on which refinery or flare stack needs some specific worker. A few days ago, I was “shuffled” into Site 2E, one of the larger and deeper-drilling refineries. They needed a few skilled electricians to go around certain active parts of the refinery and check up on the circuitry that makes up the vacuum columns and distillation units. I’ve known only circuits and electric parts for most of my life — it seems I’m the man for the job.
And so I get to work. After arriving at 7:45 am, I have just enough time to grab coffee from an empty break room and put on the gear at my assigned “worker’s closet.” Here, I find all the special gadgets and items I may need for work: circuitry gloves, a faded blue worker’s helmet, my electrician’s door badge, my electrician’s toolbox, stained working boots, a headlamp, earplugs, a faceguard, a specialized modern Refinery Navigator (that cursed tool; it also tracks the amount that us employees work… our lives depend on its accuracy), and the daily instructions sheet, printed straight out from a tiny printer box tucked away on a shelf in the back. It tells me exactly which spots to examine and which errors I should expect to encounter. I strap the Navigator to the back of my hand and it directs me to my first location: a huge distiller … nearly on the opposite side of the refinery. I groan.
Here we go.
I work tirelessly with few breaks until 5:00 pm, inspecting jumbles of wires inside hidden fuse boxes and prying open machinery to prod at the circuitboards inside. Nothing was really wrong with the equipment. Some wires needed resoldering, and a few tiny machines were unnecessarily running on backup energy. All were manageable problems. There’s never been something I couldn’t tackle.
When the time strikes 5:00, my Navigator buzzes and comes up with a special message: “Congratulations! You have finished your shift for today,” followed by a route back to my assigned closet. I sigh. Sometimes I prefer to work rather than head home on time, since working guarantees that I’ll be keeping Lukyan safe. Of course, it’s a silly thought — heading home guarantees his safety just as well. Once in a while, I’ll be working hard, focusing on my goal enough that I’ll miss the congratulations from the Navigator and work for an extra couple hours. Thankfully, there’s no punishment for being an especially valuable employee, and Lukyan sometimes forgets to panic when I don’t come home on time.
I clock out around 5:30. By this point, some of the younger evening shift workers are starting to arrive. They already seem as exhausted as I am.
After grabbing my TS and stepping out, I head over to 2E Garage 1, where I had parked every day since being shuffled here. My Seaglider, thankfully, has plenty of fuel for getting home, and I begin to glide through that great abyss again. There hasn’t been any change in the atmosphere since this morning—the sky remains as soulless as it’s ever been. I leave the rumbling of the refinery in the kicked-up flakes of icy dust behind me and speed home.
In sharp contrast to the mornings, my drives in the evening help me actually think about something. Lukyan, trapped at home, has been without me for almost twelve entire hours. Surely he must’ve been driven insane from being alone for so long, I always think to myself. Thoughts like these move in violent currents through the blood in my skull. I rush home in a race against the thoughts that drag me back.
Distant orange flares and flickering red lights snarl at me.
Not long after the white-red haze of the towers appeared on the horizon, I appear once again at the Tower 15 Garage, hurrying so slightly to the main airlock. Text on the helmet interface flashes “END OF ROUTE” for an instant before I instinctively shut it off. After getting through the doors, I take off the TS and tuck the helmet under my arm, pressing the buttons that call the elevator down to the ground floor. Electronics were still working in the tower—a good sign; it was likely that Lukyan hadn’t faced any issues. Still, I ascend in the elevator, worried about him. “What if?” is a question that’s constantly bothered me to an extreme extent. It’s been the arrow in my Achilles’ heel.
After getting to the 14th floor, I rush to our apartment to greet Lukyan. Opening the door, I see that he remains safe and sound. Sitting just across the room from where I had left him, still in his wheelchair, he wheezes, “Hey, Ni-... Nikola.” With his old age, he’s found it more and more difficult to form words and speak. But I always understand what he tries to say.
“Hello, Papa,” I respond with a warm smile.
“Wh-... w- … how wa- …how was w-work?”
“Same as always, you know that.” I kiss his pale hand before checking the fluid packets tied to two small posts on the back of his wheelchair. Every packet has plenty of the medicine he needs, and the tubes aren’t tangled or otherwise broken. “Did you miss me?” I ask.
“Of- …of c- …of course,” he says. I chuckle. We don’t talk quite as much as we used to, simply because we both understand that trying to have a conversation would be difficult for him. When we do talk for a while, it’s always slow, and centered on something he reads in the news or a movie he watched while I was at my job. In the scarce time I have free to spend with him, we’ll watch those movies together.
While making dinner for the two of us, he murmuringly rasps about the Reestablishment Plans that countries such as Russia and the U.S. are retrying. After the Great Nuclear Conflict had ended, many among those of us who remained learned to appreciate the influences we had on one another. We learned that we should peacefully coexist. But others, who, even after having the demise they created slammed into every portion of the planet, continued to think only of themselves. They thought of money and how much of it was owed to them. They thought of blame and enslavement, and how they could exploit it for their personal gain. It seems that even in the face of armageddon, some unnatural people could still find a way to disagree with each other. But Temnere Outpost, as freakishly unnatural nature is here, houses only natural people tasked with an unnatural challenge. As unfortunate as it is, we slave away to stay alive. If only nature understood how exploited it could be.
And within the horrors of the human world, I find peace with Lukyan as I serve him dinner spoonful by spoonful. He’s stopped feeling bad about needing to be cared for all the time. He knows I don’t mind.
For the couple of hours we have to unwind in the evening, we play an old card game called Dve Armii against one another. The game itself had its roots in our family. My great-great-great grandmother, named Alina, invented the game after supposing that the classic game War was just too simple for her. She passed on knowledge of her new version of the game to the rest of the family on the condition that they NEVER explain it to people outside the family. This promise was kept. As I was told by my father many times, competitions would be held between my great-uncles and aunts, great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. Women would chat during family reunions while brothers fiercely contested each other at the side table, hurling heavy Russian swears at one another. All the while, old Alina would sit solemnly in her leather chair, unaware of the vast effect that Dve Armii would have on her future kin.
Lukyan wins the game. Despite being an aging man, he always manages to win, even when it seems victory is close for me. We play a second game — he wins that one. Game number three, and he wins a third time. I’m about to challenge him for a fourth game when I notice that he’s practically drifting off to sleep. It leads me to wonder how a man so sluggish and forgetful all the time can outperform me in a game we both grew up with.
Putting Lukyan to bed isn’t as hard as it seems. His wheelchair is specially designed so that I can pull levers and push buttons to “recline” it. I wheel him over to the side of the main window, his favorite spot to rest, and position him at a comfortable angle. Pulling a tiny lever on the side slowly swings his feeble legs up a little and brings his upper body back against a pillow I grabbed for him. The tubes and fluid packets are undisturbed. I help him put on his sleeping mask and ask him if he needs anything.
“Thank- …thank you, Nick,” he replies, simply.
He dozes off as I turn out the lights in the apartment. I always leave one light on, however. This light is a much older lamp, given to him as a gift from Lukyan’s brother decades ago. It isn’t as bright as the modern lights throughout the rest of the house, and that dim brightness and orange-yellow color can’t be adjusted, but that, oddly, seems to be the beauty of it. Something about this tiny lamp fills the room with melody and warms my heart like a bonfire.
I trudge over to the bedroom and crawl into bed. Lying still in the darkness under the covers allows me to think more than I do at any other point in the day, about vastly different things than usual. In a struggle to be heard the most clearly, my rarely-used imagination clashes with the sounds of the evening shift workers arriving home outside. The faint chug-chug of a few dozen Seagliders turning in for the night lulls me to sleep.
I dream. My thoughts are put to work.
I dream of a brilliant, singing moon, casting light from the horizon straight through the main window in the living room of our apartment. I stand in the powerful moonbeam. It’s warm, calming, but it almost feels as if it’s pushing me down into the floor. Silver strands of bright moonlight dance on the distorted walls. I stare into the moon itself. It’s large enough to fill most of the main window, as if it was right on the other side of it. The orange accent lights in the apartment flicker and shut off. The song that it screams at me is noisy, intoxicating, and I suddenly start to feel dizzy. But before long, the music transitions into a droning squeal.
The squeal is familiar. I’ve heard it before. I sit up in bed, and the same screaming falls on conscious ears. My dark room flashes with bright white lights, illuminating everything and casting enormous shadows for an instant every second. The piercing, metallic cry wails on.
Something is wrong… something is seriously wrong… my thoughts fade away.
I stumble out of bed and through the bedroom door, oblivious to the condensed vapor that fills up the air in front of my face with each staggered breath. Bursting into the living room, I immediately notice that the dim lamp is off. The high-pitched droning drowns out all my unusual thoughts, but it can’t cover up my constant worry for Lukyan. I locate him in the same spot in the living room. He isn’t moving.
“Papa, wake up!” I yell over the alarm. He groans quietly in response, and upon touching his arm, it feels cold and empty. I stand in disbelief for a moment. For once, I try to think, but nothing appears in my mind. Panic boils the blood in my ears. It directs my hands with cold puppet strings towards the handles of Lukyan’s unsteady wheelchair.
Hysterics steal control of my body. My vision becomes translucent and distorted as I rush Papa down a bright corridor I barely recognize. There isn’t a single clear thought in my head. For what feels like forever, I only know some wild delirium that I had never expected, nor wanted, to feel.
The night came and went in a flurry. It blew past like a storm of snow, shoved up and down by the winter wind.
I remember little about what followed that night. I recall being lost on the fourteenth floor, searching for the central room through the blackness as battery-powered climate alarms slammed my senses with brightness and noise. I remember little about how cold it was in those haunting hallways, and even less about how warm it was in the central room. I remember little about the paramedics in terrifying white suits bursting through the central room doors several minutes later, grabbing the cold and sickly and carrying them away.
Lukyan went with them. I never saw him again.
— — —
The Sun rose two weeks ago.
A month has gone by since I learned of Lukyan’s passing. Because of his fragility, he succumbed to the cold far quicker than some of the other victims in our tower. The outage was significant and impacted an entire quarter of the city. An emergency shelter was established in the much larger central rooms of Towers 10 and 11, not far from my empty apartment.
For a long while, I worked sightlessly at the Sites I had been assigned to. I wasn’t sure what to think. I wasn’t sure if I could think at all.
Every night since Lukyan died, I’ve been sure to turn off every last light in the whole apartment, including the tiny lamp, before heading to bed. I’ve lied awake for hours, not because thoughts kept me from sleeping, but because I’ve tried and failed to find something meaningful to think about.
My mind has become a barren, gray haze. It’s become windows on the ground floor, covered in snow from the outside and impossible to look through. It’s become the winter night sky, full of silent clouds, concealing wondrous miracles I haven’t really bothered to ever comprehend. It’s become the peeling paint on my electrician’s toolbox, and the black stains on my working boots. It’s become the colorless, curious marbles of Lukyan’s eyes. It’s become the brilliance of my bedroom, echoing with the cry of the false moon.
I stopped going to work. Lukyan was my motivation; now, I have little to work for. If I work for myself, I work for a man without a soul, without a mind, without a worthwhile thought in his head. If I work for myself, I work to keep a husk from dying.
When winter seeps through my windows, nothing will awaken me. No alarm will scream to keep me alive. But the clouds will part for me. The moon of my dream will shine through. The stars of my memory will smile.
I expect to see the auroras soon.
"Methacrylate" - Tommie Unsell
I think each cut got deeper, but it was so long ago, I couldn’t be sure. As I pushed away from everyone around me, focus fell from my own body. There was a pack of bandaids in the bathroom for when I was finished, and my parents were waiting upstairs, wondering what I was doing. I wanted to think they would never know. As I hobbled up the stairs, my semi-prepared lines flowed into place as they always did. To my mother I was always fine, I was never doing much, and I didn’t need anything. I passed by her in the office, waiting with her usual hopeful gaze, hoping her son would say something to her for once, but I can’t stomach change. Whenever I tell them the truth, everything changes. When I was around 5 years old, my cat went missing. Assuming I had let him out, my parents grilled me on where he was. My cries of “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him!” fell on deaf ears as they saw him moving into the backyard, where I had checked before. To them, I had lied, and their punishments were what I got for telling the truth. It was harder to be truthful after that. I tried to ignore my mother as I put the scissors back in the box, and grabbed a few bandaids, then a few more.
I didn’t know it then, but I would find out that mentally unstable kids usually form relationships with each other in certain, predictable ways. A common one was a caretaker and a dependent, childlike, spiraling burnout. I learned this in the partial hospitalization program, where they taught us to use gauze and bandages, but even those couldn’t keep me from the friends I hurt, or the people who took care of me because I couldn’t take care of myself. I texted my friend for support.
The small paper tabs at the end of the wrapper were harder to open than they normally were. In this dark, the wax-coated paper backings and casings blended in with the bed. I flicked on a small clip-on lamp and could finally see. My walls only had scattered decorations, mostly gifts from my grandparents to a person that used to thrive in this room. Flash Gordon strips even though I didn’t read comics. Blank spaces that would soon be filled by drawings from the hospital, from camp, and everywhere else that my mind didn’t know how to handle. Every shift of movement I made wracked my body with pain, until all I could do was let the blood soak through the patchwork of bandaids on my sides, and fade into my dreams.
I barely woke up the next morning, looking down to see the sheets stained with something that would never come out, arranged in neat streaks. Mornings were always hard for me, both to get out of bed and to live through. I knew that everyone outside of me could take one look at me and decide who I was. If they treated me like I treated myself, I don’t think I could live. Tomorrow, I convinced myself, I would wake up early to empty my trash. Maybe get rid of a few extra things, the things that turn my life from a senseless drag to a hell of my own design: scissors, knives, pills, and all the friends that weigh me down. I can’t though. I don’t want to be empty.
I brushed by my collection of flannels on the way out. I had learned to put one on before coming downstairs. The high-waisted pants I wore squeezed on my cuts, making it even harder to walk down the stairs. I wanted to get out the front door as fast as possible, to hide the pain for the walk to school so my parents didn’t have to see it. I think it was because I cared for them. Back then, I did.
After I left, my friend had finally gotten back to me. My screen filled with “i’m sorry I missed your text are you okay are you safe did you clean it up i’m sorry.” I didn’t matter now. The path of my next few months had been sealed with methacrylate and vinyl resins, waiting to be opened by a version of me who wants to be better.
"How to hold a hand" - Lyra Schaafsma
Twenty feet away, there’s a twine bow around a white woven basket sitting on a table covered in pearly white lace.
It reminds me of my cousin-in-law. Larissa getting down on one knee and putting a pink pearled bracelet around my wrist. Her eyes are hazel brown and her lashes are long and curled. Twin twirls of brown hair frame both sides of her face.
The basket is filled with radiant sunset-colored zinnias and alstroemerias. The smell of mud and grass surrounds us as my mom and I hike with hands intertwined like how the shadow of branches and leaves fit together. The motion of pink and yellow petals falling to the ground.
The smell of pine trees are sharp, but sweet like sips of Grandpa Harvey’s peppermint Schnapps while sitting on a hay bale. Mom and I chew on hay and talk about the cow born with two heads and no ass. He tells me to “remember to never make an ass outta myself, except if it’s for the people I love. Then it might be okay.” I giggle at that and put a fresh piece of hay in my mouth.
I find a goiter on a tree and use it as a hand grip. My legs wrap around the trunk and I pull myself up off the ground. My feet push against the tree next to the one I'm climbing. The space is small enough that I can walk up in between two trees with no branches.
I wonder if all the branches fell off so my mom and I could build a fort and cover it with a cat-hair-covered blanket.
We take off the blanket on windy days, so we can wrap up in it. That way, we can also see the sky in between the sticks.
When I make my way down the tree my hair is frayed and dirt highlights under my eyes and on my hands. My palms are sticky and feel like the sandpaper squares my mom used to use to teach me how to level off an uneven table. I never was quite sure how the table got to be so uneven. Maybe it was all the people around it: the sound waves from the reggae music, spilling orange juice on it in the mornings, and banging our hands on the table after telling funny one liners.
One brown speckled petal catches the wind and lands on the tip of my nose. I spit on my hand and wipe under my eyes.
My mom and I walk in our lightly dusted, and now slightly dirty, hand-me-downs that we keep folded under our beds. A couple faces turn in our direction. My hands go in my pockets and they don’t want to move like an ATV low on gas. I yank them outta my pockets with everything I have left and I grip the bottom of my shirt.
A white dollop splats in between the lace and on the hardwood table. A goldfinch squeaks “Po-ta-to chip” at two times speed.
Yellow tinted string lights loop around wooden posts, just like the ones we put next to the hammock in our backyard, so we can read when the sun goes down. We pull both sides of the hammock together to shield our bodies from the mosquitos.
A mosquito bites my left pinky finger.
A few hands go up to gesture hellos. Barefoot with a silver leaf ring on her toe runs in our direction. I look up to see my Aunt Nancy wearing an off-white dress covered in green splotches and leaves. Next to her is my aunt Ronda wearing white pants and a black shirt with white swirls on one half and floral patterns on the other half. The whole shirt is outlined in red stripe patterns.
Her hand is holding every crease and line and space in between each of my Aunt Nancy's fingers.
My hands are moving faster than my speech, they go close to my heart and then they’re up above my head. I want to tell them about the sappy tree I just climbed. I want to know if they brought mango Margaritas to taste in between Ay’s and Macarenas.
There’s a clean creased black button-down, black tie, white shirt that pushes through their hands and past ours which I recognize only as my cousin, Steven. I giggle when I think of his name, “I hope Steven will be leavin’ soon”.
My mom smiles, but her hands stiffen up into fists, her dirt and sawdust painted nails pushing down slightly into her palm. He stands between my aunts like their hands become fire when they touch.
I think that’s true like s’mores and singing Bob Marley by the campfire, but I know he thinks it’s like boiling hot water spilling on your hand.
His stone cold face tries to exorcise our demons and he spits next to our shoes, close enough that we’re in the splash zone, but just far enough he could say it was an accident. I think he thinks his spit is holy water.
We uncomfortably hold the hands of him and his parents, Uncle Jim and Aunt Joanne, who used to look at us like they’d turn gay or stop believing in god if they touched us too long.
Their hands grasped the side of our hands and did not intertwine in between our fingers. I could almost hear them whisper “love the sinner, not the sin” in between lighthearted conversations and laughs.
I hum, “Three little birds” and clasp my molasses-covered hand to my mom's sawdust one.
Image by Ashley Brown
"pure slang and shoe game" - Patterson Grant
While the morning is dark, and the highway roads are bumpy, I sigh. The red Toyota SUV jerks, swerves and flies me around down highway 92 since I was too lazy to put on my seatbelt. To me, summer is walking down Michigan Ave, window shopping with friends; not driving thirty minutes to the Southside of Chicago wondering what you did wrong to be going here. I shouldn’t dread the darkness waking me up because “correction camp” was at 8:00 am. I wasn’t built in the hood. I wasn’t created for the violence and slang that came with the city.
“This camp will be better for you. It’ll help you connect with your hood side.” Those eight words resonate an echo in my hollow brain. It’ll help me connect with my hood side. A long way of saying: I’m not black enough. The stars are no longer visible - saying goodbye to one another, akin to me and my mother this morning - and the sun is rising, bringing a source of light to this eerie car. Of course, the radio is broken, adding to the greatness of my day, forcing the thickness of silence to clog my ears. I’m spoken to but don’t speak. Instead, I give subtle 'yes’ to questions I don’t know. I can see my chauffeur, a talkative lady I assume, mouthing her lips; the plum lipstick on her teeth as she smiles words. I envy her smile: I copy the curve of her lips in my brain printer, saving it as my smile for meeting what my mom wishes I was.
If I was given the choice to go here, the curved walls of my room would replace the janky, rusted SUV. My twin bed with green sheets would comfort my body instead of the ripping leather cushion. The chirping crickets I feed my lizards at night is what I am yearning to have again, while I’m instead stuck with two snoring children to the left of me - a snot bubble pulsing in and out of their noses simultaneously, reminding me of The Shining twins. It doesn’t help that there is construction on the road, forcing my legs in the direction of the child next to me as we coast above cracks in the hood. Cement mounts the potholes and the scent slaps my nose hair follicles in the face. Why can’t I be the hole? The cement covering my body would give me a reason to not be in this car which is on the verge of breaking down on the shoulder of the road.
The reflecting sunlight on her phone blinds my eyes as the GPS reads 2 minutes. 2 minutes until I’m surrounded by Jordan Retro Shoes fresh out of the box accessorized with sentences leaving out important vowels; things I am not used to. The stiff silence in my ears is now replaced by screaming children, the thumping of basketballs grazing the cement, and chirping birds bringing me back to my early mornings of Elementary School; a faint sense of peace. The plum purple lips signal me out of the car as the SUV doors automatically open. Overwhelmingly hyper pre-teens laugh as if they are so familiar with each other; this is their neighborhood, so why wouldn’t they be? I get chills on my shoulders from my paranoid eyes as they observe my surroundings. The feeling of comfortability, to me, seems foreign. “This is going to be a piece of cake,” she would say; but the weird stares at my straightened hair, busted air force ones and jean shorts tell me differently.
My feet carry my legs down the narrow hallways as I hum a tune to keep me sane. Remembering scorching hot sand burning my feet, trying to dive to hit the white and blue volleyball that ended up on my face; remembering all the summers that started better than this one. The floors are freshly polished, smelling of artificial citrus oranges making my head ache as I scan my surroundings. Three children no older than sixteen carry flaming hot Cheetos and cheese, the tiger on the bag joyous to be there accompanied by his black sunglasses, while the girls talk amongst each other. The silhouette in the middle has hair that seems longer than a ten-foot rope and dark dewy, milky skin. Her outfit seemed.. Boujee, with tight black ripped jeans and a white graphic tee paired with red Jordans. At that moment I wanted to be her. She fit in; she was the blueprint building this camp. The mastermind architect, building her lair. I must have missed the memo since I look nothing like her. I look out of place. Thoughts aside, to please my mother I walk towards the three girls remembering the plum-toothed smile. “What is that? It looks so soggy and gross.” If impressions were getting an F in History class, I would have done so well. I’m not religious, never will be, but I pray zip ties are holding my mouth shut. I pray my guardian angel will sense helplessness. I pray I was never here in the first place since if I vanished I would not have been asked, “Why you sound like that?” I quickly translate her vocabulary mistakes too, why do you sound like that, for better understanding.``Sound like what?” I choke on my words as they form a hairball in my throat. All itchy and irritated.
“White.” White? I double-check the fronts and backs of my hand, having no other choice but to do so considering I’ve never been this young experiencing teenage girls making fun of how I talk. Weakness fills my bones and I do nothing but internally cry, “Well if I was from Australia and moved to America then I would sound different.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. If you were from Australia… really? You’re not from Australia, you’re from Oak Park. A white town. It feels as if the Joker threw laugh gas directly at the three musketeers in front of me. The green and purple smoke replaced the brightness of the cracked lights above me, and all I can do is think about how many more times I have to come here. Approximately 36 days. 5.14 weeks. Too long.
The crinkling of the flaming hot Cheetos bag haunts my soul as I support myself back outside to hopefully catch my chauffeur. The whirring of the engine lets me know I’m stuck here for half my summer. The woman who insisted on conversations about God knows what is taken away into the abyss, leaving me isolated. I regret not listening to her stories and questions because maybe, just maybe the Toyota would have stayed for 10 extra seconds and I would have had an escape. Yet, instead of window shopping, I stare out the window; my breath and remorse creating warm fog on the window sill. While I could be with friends, I’m stuck with being the outcast because I have not a single pair of Jordan shoes. I don’t know slang. I don’t know how to prepare comebacks in my head after being called white; I don’t know how to be black.
"Floozy" - Iris Henry
I was at the big wooden table with my grandparents, a steaming lobster tail and pile of shrimp tempura before me, with the smell of salt water and the sound of crashing waves. The moon shone on the endless plain of ocean outside the window beside me. ¨Julie, don’t touch your food before praying, dear,¨ Nana Natalia said.
I put down my fork, closed my eyes, and held my hands together as Nana prayed about being thankful for this trip and our food. I listened to our private chef cleaning in the kitchen and played with my long dark hair. I had been waiting for this trip since I was three, when my brother got to go on his dream trip. He went hiking in Iceland. It felt like he was gone forever; but now he’s been at college for almost a year, and I’ve hardly noticed. Costa Rica is definitely not as cool as Iceland, but I love the beach and animals, so it seemed like a no brainer.
Eyes closed, I thought back over my unbelievable first day. I woke up to Nana stomping up the stairs and into my room. I had been lying in my silky soft sheets with the window open letting the breeze kiss my face. Nana scolded me. ``Come down and watch the sermon. Did you forget it’s Sunday?¨ I had so much jet lag from the flight it felt like torture. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. 7 am. Watching a sermon for three hours on the TV instead of going to the beach was not the best start to my trip. I had planned to sneak off to the beach or at least my bedroom, but Nana Natalia stayed with me the whole three hours. I almost fell asleep again, but she noticed. ¨Julie! Pay attention.¨ Roused, I was in a worse mood than before. It felt like forever when I heard the TV finally switch off.
After that we ate breakfast, and Nana told me I could get my bathing suit on. I dug through my suitcase. I knew coming with them meant I could only wear one-pieces. I found the most flattering one: black with a cutout in the stomach and a low back. I pulled on shorts and a button up shirt and went downstairs. I couldn’t wait to get in the sun. When we got to the beach, I took off my clothes only to look up and find Nana staring at me with her judgemental look.
¨Do you want me to take you bathing suit shopping later? Your mom can always pay me back,” she said. ¨That one looks too small. I don’t want people to think you're trying to say something by wearing such a tight suit.¨ She raised her eyebrows. ¨I saw some really cute tankinis we could buy.¨ I wanted her to shut up so bad.
¨OK,¨ I said. Under my breath, I added, ¨old lady.¨
¨What was that, dear?¨ she asked.
¨Nothing, Nana.¨
I was about to head to the water when she spoke again. ¨Looks like you put on a little weight this year. Have you been keeping up with your running?¨
¨No, Nana, I haven’t run since 6th grade when I did track. It really wasn’t my thing.¨ Then I ran to the water, unable to be near her a second longer.
I almost didn't notice when Nana finished praying, but looking up at her almost made me lose my appetite for the incredible dinner. It was actually my favorite food, specially requested. And though each bite tasted like heaven, I didn’t savor it. I couldn’t wait to go to bed. I shoveled each bite in as fast as possible and placed my plate back in the sink for the chef to clean. I ran up to my room and heard my phone ring. Mom. I picked it up reluctantly. I heard her chipper voice on the line. ¨So, how’s it been? Are you having so much fun? Have you seen any cool animals?¨
¨Not really, but it's been good,¨ I answered. She never asked me questions at home. She was always at work or asleep.
¨I’ve been doing so well on this new project. Things are looking good. . You’re gonna be able to do trips like this all the time now.¨ She sounded like a broken record, always talking about her stupid job.
¨Cool." I said. Zero enthusiasm.
¨So sorry, Jules. I’m getting a work call, but I’ll ring you back tomorrow.¨
¨Love yo-¨ I tried to say as she hung up. I couldn’t stop thinking about how selfish she was as I tried to fall asleep.
I woke to the soft sound of rain pattering. I heard the jungle noises as I became fully aware: monkeys that howled like dogs and bird sounds I couldn’t quite recognize. I walked downstairs to breakfast where I was served pancakes with syrup dripping down the sides.
¨How about a game of cards since we won’t be able to go outside today?¨ Papa asked with a grin.
¨Sounds like fun,¨ I said. I looked out the window to see a light drizzle. I didn’t understand why we couldn't go outside. Another morning wasted stuck inside, because of a little rain. But I finished my food and cleared my plate so we could start the game. We called Nana, and she walked in with the game “Settlers of Catan.”
¨How about this?” she asked. I recognized it from family game nights in the past and was not excited. But we got the game going, and somehow I took the lead.
¨You’ve really improved your board game skills haven’t you, Julie?¨ Papa asked. I responded with a giggle. It's all luck.
I was about to win when Nana pulled out a monopoly card and took all my resources.
¨Shit!” Without thinking, the word came out, loud enough for Nana and Papa to hear. They stared at me.
¨Julie, go to your room right now,¨ said Nana. I stood and turned to leave. ¨This is all because of her mother,¨ she mumbled to my back. Before I had a chance to respond, she continued. ¨She’s always been a bad influence. I knew she couldn’t handle being a mom. She puts her job before you. Me and your grandpa gave up on her years ago.¨ I looked back in disgust.
¨Well, you’re the one who raised her,¨ I said.
¨Julie!¨ Nana shrieked. ¨It’s not my fault she was always chasing boys and getting into trouble.¨ She paused. ¨No wonder she raised a girl like you.¨
I gasped. ¨You're such a bad grandma. Grandmas are supposed to be nice!¨
Nana got up and approached me with a very serious expression. We stood face to face staring at each other. Papa had already left to “get some fresh air¨ because he couldn’t handle us. Nana’s white hair in an ugly bob cut was practically touching my face. Our matching blue eyes were locked together on each other.
¨It’s clear your mom never spanked you.”
Without thinking, I thrust my arms forward, knocking her over. ¨Leave me alone!¨ I yelled.
She tumbled to the floor, falling on her backside. I realized what I’d done and jumped towards her, wanting to help. But before I could do anything, she was back on her feet, running towards me. She held my hands behind my back and began to slap me repeatedly on the butt. I was shocked by her strength. How was her tiny body, half my weight, able to push me around?
¨Natalia! What are you doing?¨ Papa asked in horror. He returned at the perfect moment. Nana let me go. I ran to Papa like a scared puppy, afraid she would come after me.
¨She’s a very sinful girl who needs to be taught a lesson,¨ Nana said. ¨She pushed me to the floor.¨
¨Papa, I don’t know what she’s talking about.¨ I began to cry. ¨I would never try to hurt Nana.¨
Nana’s face is red. ¨You little liar! You are just like your mother!¨
¨You’re being crazy, Natalia!¨ Papa says. ¨Julie, why don’t you go to your room and rest a bit?¨
¨Ok, Papa,¨ I said. I ran up the stairs and listened on the balcony over the kitchen.
¨You need to get help,” said Papa. I listened, gleeful, as he lectured Nana on modeling God’s love until they went into their room.
I went to my room to see if it was sunny yet, feeling nauseated by the morning’s events. I couldn’t imagine how I would ever face her again. Then, I knew what I needed to do. I practically dove into my suitcase and rummaged through piles of clothes. I knew I brought it. I got changed and strutted down the rustic wooden stairs. ¨I’m going to the beach,” I called, wearing the tiniest bikini I own. My olive skin was completely exposed. Nana glared from across the room. I ignored her and continued walking toward the door to the beach, where I spent the rest of my day.
The sun had already left the horizon by the time I came back to the house. The smell of fresh roasted salmon filled the air. My sandy, wet hair was hanging over my newly tanned back. At last. I smiled at Nana and Papa, already eating. ¨I’ll be down soon. I’m gonna take a shower first,¨ I said as I headed up. When I came back, they were already in bed. I ate, accompanied only by the sound of the night sea and tucked myself into bed.
I woke up to my phone ringing. Of course, it was mom. ¨Jules, are you ok? I heard what happened with Mom.¨ She sounded worried. ¨She is not allowed to ruin your trip. I’m coming.¨
¨What do you mean you're coming?” I asked.
¨Nana is not ruining this for you. I told her to come home, and I’ll finish the trip with you.¨
¨When are you coming?¨
¨Late tonight. A coworker hooked me up with a flight.¨
¨Thank you.¨ I said. I meant it.
¨Love you. Bye.¨ Mom added a kissing noise.
¨Love you too,¨ I said.
The call ended. I sat up in my nest of sheets and pillows. I walked downstairs with the same confidence as yesterday. I ate breakfast and put on the same wet bikini. I went downstairs, ready to ignore Nana and her comments. ¨Such a floozy,¨ she muttered .
¨Joke's on you, Nana. I don’t even know what that is.¨ I said it loud and clear.
I spend another beautiful day at the beach. I waded in and soon spotted a school of fish through the crystal clear waters. I tanned my back while napping on a pink towel. I noticed a tall boy with dark skin and fluffy brown hair. I sat up, one knee poking in the air, hands holding me up, sunglasses covering my eyes. ¨Hey, can I get your snap?¨ He asked, blushing. A group of boys behind him giggled.
¨Yeah, sure.¨ I handed him my phone with a smile.
¨Thanks,¨ he said with a huge grin.
He handed back my phone and ran back to the group. I stood up, dropped my sunglasses, and ran towards the water. It wasn’t long before the boys followed me in. I spent the rest of the afternoon with them until returning to the house for the night.
I woke up with a smile and walked to the kitchen to grab breakfast. My mom was sitting by the counter, half asleep. I ran and threw my arms around her, tears in my eyes. She held me tight. ¨I’m so sorry, Jules. I should have known she would act this way. She’s always been like this, but it seems to be getting worse.¨
¨I can’t believe you came.¨
¨Let’s go to the beach,¨ Mom said.
¨Where’s Nana?¨ I asked.
¨Not here.¨
We both laughed. We headed to the beach together. I wore my tiny suit, and Mom didn’t even notice. We sat side by side in the sand. ¨I’ve missed you, Mom.¨
“I knew I should have been the one to bring you, but it was going to be hard with work.”
“I mean ever since you’ve been promoted,¨ I explained.
¨I know. I’m gonna start focusing on us more.¨
¨But don’t stop. I love how hard you work,¨ I said.
We walked barefooted to buy meat on sticks from a street market. When we finished, my mom pointed to an ice cream stand. When we returned to the beach, the boys were sitting right by our towels. The fluffy haired boy grinned at me. I glanced at my mom, who lifted her chin towards the group, telling me without words to go talk to them. I ran over, kicking sand behind me. The boys snickered and poked the fluffy haired boy as I approached.
Title and author in process of being included with this piece
Let us go then, you and I; put on your backpack, walk out the door with me, hold my hand as we make our way; wait for me, now cross the street; brush your bangs away; look up at your new teacher; it is okay to be nervous; take a breath and go inside; school will teach you about the world; listen, let it all sink in; but I will always be back when the day is done; you will tell me all about it; taking chances will give you strength, but people around you will help you when you are lost; questions are important and I will always try to answer questions that you bring me; being scared is normal, remember to use your head; you are smart and clever, just know you will be fine; it will all work out in the end even if you do not believe, trust me; There will be time, there will be time / To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; this change in school will be good for you; but what if I can’t make it?; like I always say, you are a kind smart human and will find your path; I am there to help you find your way; big jumps and changes are challenging for everyone; I have made it though before and so can you; if everything was the same nobody would grow; we need to grow for life goes on;
meeting people will expand your knowledge more than I can do for you on my own; there is no shame in not having the answer right away; making mistakes helps us become the people we are; I know all the new faces are hard for you, but find the crowd that fits you and it will get less hard, trust me; To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair; longest time away from me; four days to be exact; I am rolling down your window, I know you are afraid, but people want to meet you; turning back is not always the best answer even when there is a challenge; grab your bag and follow me, I see your friend just over there; these four days will teach you a lot, learning where you came from and how your story differs from others around you; why you came into my life, all the way from Guatemala and how not everyone can say the same; but here there are other families that had the same experiences as us; you will connect to them in ways not everyone can; know that we will always be a family; but our family of three is not the whole world even if we both want it to be; just staying within our yellow brick walls or even in our town will not allow you to be the best person you could be; I know that leaving is a challenge, but the other option is far worse; but still it is hard, trust me; Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; get out of bed; brush your teeth; put on “real pants,” and head down stairs, where I will have your lunch; say goodbye to me before you close the door; when the school day is done and you are back home say hello to your mother and tell her about your day; do your work; come for dinner; put your napkin on your lap; go to bed, and prepare to do it again; routine is good and beneficial, but someday it will change; it could come out of nowhere; I know you do not like that and neither do I, but life will happen and it’s okay to cry; not everything can be controlled even if we think it can; good and bad can come from change, but do not get so stuck that you need everything to stay the same; nobody can know when something will happen and trying to control it will not let your life happen; if you are open and prepared for the unknown it will all work out, trust me; and I will always quote our poem to you; Do I dare to eat a peach?; missing out because you think you cannot is not how I want you to be; not everything is life and death, not everything will work; not taking a chance will keep you in one spot and not moving forward; yes some things could set you back, but knowing that you did not try is more of a letdown than not doing it at all; we want our lives to grow but treating every choice like it is the end of the world will limit us in the end; it is okay to not succeed, take the chance and what happened after is what matters most, trust me; life will have its ups and downs, and trying something is always better than sitting back and watching life go on without you; take the step and see what happens, that is the best we can do; but most of all remember that you are good enough for me which means the world needs you; so let yourself be free; I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me; I think the mermaids will sing for me; but did they sing for him?
"Light Without Color" - Shea Richards
The Sun set two weeks ago.
Since then, the towers have been cold and dry. People rarely risk stepping out into the streets without their thermal suits, their TSs. It’s far too cold to be walking around in basic Arctic winterwear.
After the nuclear winter began sixty or so years ago, temperatures around the year have fallen around fifty degrees Fahrenheit, but, surprising to most, they stayed that way. Our warmest summer temperature since the beginning of the long winter came only a couple of years ago, during which it rose to around 12 degrees. This was enough for people to come out and go on walks, putting tiny cracks in the icy roads with their special spiked boots. It also had people worried that the flare stacks and enormous refinery wheelers would crack the ice off the shore and fall into the water, even though they were designed with that in mind. The ice never broke, thankfully, but it wouldn’t matter if it did.
Some of my neighbors in the towers say that the sixty-year winter will finally end once a wheeler slips into the sea. My coworkers and I, however, are among those who know what’s under the ice. We know that they really sit on the ocean floor, balancing on thin pillars of steel alloy that skulk slowly just above the ground.
The beginning of the winter has marked some of the worst cold for us. Faraway weather reports are rare, but systems on the Russian mainland have reported Temnere Outpost’s temperatures at negative 50 degrees since the beginning of the nuclear winter. Myself and the rest of the inhabitants know how far the government needs to downplay it.
People figured that the toxic clouds of the nuclear winter would last only a few years. They greatly underestimated humanity’s destructive power. The average temperature in the winter months has settled around negative 118 degrees Fahrenheit. Without proper gear, you couldn’t walk once around the base of the smallest tower without your blood freezing. Without proper guidance, you couldn’t go to work without getting lost, gliding blindly across the slippery sea. And without proper heating, you wouldn’t last a night without freezing in your sleep. Nobody here has ever been deeply concerned about their own lives, for they had either grown up in the harsh conditions or trained in a year-long course just to spare themselves from the elements. Sometimes I wonder how we must appear in the face of the post-war climate researchers that venture out here and think, yeah, it’s as bad as they told us it would be.
Getting good heating is rarely ever a concern, but the power goes out just often enough for me to constantly worry about my father’s life. Lukyan, with graying hair and blurry, bygone eyes, is bound to a wheelchair — his legs are too old and brittle for him to move much anywhere. I always replay the same nightmare in my mind. I would head to work miles and miles away from him, and the power in the towers would drop. No power, no heat, and he would succumb to the cold. The thought gives me chills, as if my soul fell to the same icy wind — as if my spirit were to pass alongside his. I can’t bear to lose him.
So I work — every day, six days a week, nine hours at a time. An extra hour comes from commuting across dozens of miles of ice-covered ocean, of gray-white lifelessness, but it’s all necessary. Every able-bodied man and woman in the towers has their job. They work to keep themselves, their loved ones, alive. If they don’t work, they don’t contribute to the city. If they don’t work, they lose their power, as it’s cut off from their apartments. They lose heat for their homes. Winter slips through the walls, creeping on icy legs, preying on the profitless.
I work to keep Lukyan alive. He lives to keep me alive.
My father very well may be the only thing that motivates me. I wake up early and make him breakfast and lunch for later; meanwhile, he thanks me and reads news updates on his wrist-tablet. I check on the small set of tubes and wires that run into his arms and legs. If he has medicated fluids that need refilling, I’ll grab some from the closet. I often think about how far those packages full of fluid must travel to reach us. Since so few real medical centers still exist in our country, boxes of resources come from faraway postwar places that seem fictional to me: Canada, The U.S., The Oceanic Republic, Britain, Brazil. For every box we get, I say a prayer to the delivery man.
Following a short moment to relax, I unplug the thermal suit from its plug in the suit cabinet and outfit myself with it, keeping the helmet off at first. “Take care, Nikola,” he says after I kiss his forehead on my way to leave. I always check the huge, whirring heaters in the main room on my way out. I was taught how to recognize a faulty one, and I’ve since taught that skill to my father. I’ve taught him about the fourteenth floor safety heating room. I’ve explained to him that each tower has a backup generator that solely powers the heating in that central room should the power go out. I even taped a tiny map of the short route to the room so he can wheel himself there if I’m not at home. But I worry that he doesn’t retain my advice. I worry that all he knows is me.
After stepping out, I take the elevator to the ground floor, where snow piles up against the windows, sometimes all the way up to the third story. I’m usually among the first people to leave in the morning, which means I may be responsible for activating the door plowers. It’s easy, thankfully — there exist a few buttons in the so-called “airlock” that we use to turn them on. It’s loud, but it’s fast and automated. After waiting a few moments, the white dust is cleared, the plowers reset, the airlock makes a noisy farewell hiss, and I step out into the ghostly void.
Technology has given me so much to be thankful for. The TSs weigh only around sixty or seventy pounds, and make you look like an astronaut. They’ve become smarter over time as well. In the past, I’ve had to, like every other commuter, wipe the ice and snow off the console of the Seaglider to see the GPS. I’m now thankful that the latest TS models have an interface on the inside of the helmet. It’s said that this vehicle was originally designed solely for us workers to get places, but it’s since become a more popular alternative to ice skating and snowmobiling elsewhere. The only fuel for our wheel-less machines exists at the jobsites, so everyone dedicates a bit of their paycheck into gasoline produced at the wheelers themselves. Parking lots in the refineries have become fuel stations to account for this. Nobody makes the mistake of forgetting to fill up their Seaglider tanks. If you run out of fuel during your commute, you’d either be stranded until a rescue tow can get you, or worse, stuck in your apartment in the main city. It’s awful imagining the dread that these trapped-at-home workers must feel. Unless your neighbor can bring you fuel from the job, you can’t go to work. And after some time, not working becomes the real killer.
After leaving the airlock, I walk for only a couple minutes to the Tower 15 Garage where my Seaglider is parked. Only 19 towers loom at Temnere Outpost, and ours lies on the outskirts, so it’s easy to drive from the ice roads straight off onto the Arctic Ocean. Roads are purposefully left coated with a thick layer of icy glass so that the Seagliders can easily surf them. The gliders are fairly quiet, which is nice when you’re trying not to be bothered, but it makes you feel deeply alone and lost as you skim across the ocean ice at a hundred miles an hour.
With the endless winter night, the skies are hushed to a numbing dark gray, as ever-present clouds are lit up by the white lights of the black towers. Heard through the sound-conversion system of the thermal suit is a remarkable silence broken by a low whistling wind, and by the grumbling chug-chug of the Seaglider.
During a few random nights throughout the year, the dim, melancholy clouds give way for an atmospheric light show. Auroras reflect vaguely onto the ice, and, behind them, the Milky Way sits humbly and beautifully. I’ve seen these phenomena only a handful of times throughout my life. With the constant brightness of the towers at night, these spectacles can only be seen far away from the city. Some of my coworkers have taken their shift off just to glide out somewhere on the Arctic Ocean and sit for a while, marveling at the sky while they have the chance. I often recall a time about a decade ago in which I did the same. I sat in my TS for hours, staring up at the sky. I made sure to take pictures for my father, but upon seeing them, he mentioned that he just missed the love that was brought by the Sun. Whatever, Papa, I had thought, knowing that he recognized the same beauty in the night sky that I did. Every time I travel to work, I wish I could see that colorful brilliance in the sky, even just for a short while. But today, a thick layer of clouds hides them, and so I ride briskly into the blankness of the Arctic Ocean.
Forty entire miles make up the empty route, occupied only by occasional tiny reflectors and whirling streams of snow. In the distance, a flare stack in action creates a faint vermillion smolder. Distant rumbling and whining of enormous machinery is barely audible, yet always familiar. The faded crimson lights of the wheelers can be seen spread across the horizon. The Seaglider drones on, and the GPS console shines onto my helmet. Ice screams and whips under the blades.
The briefly long drive helps me think, although there’s never really much to think about.
After almost thirty minutes, the ominous darkness of my assigned refinery appears on the horizon. A single blinking red light six hundred feet in the air solemnly welcomes me behind a thin cloudy mist, and signs up ahead direct me to Employee Parking around the rumbling treads of the wheeler. It’s necessary to turn off the accelerator of the Seaglider a while before you actually intend to stop, since the low friction on the rubber blades allows it to slide for thousands of feet before coming to a standstill. After it stops and I drag the front cable of the machine up a small ramp into the refinery itself, I park the Seaglider and insert the thin fuel nozzle, being sure to double-check that it’s actually filling up the tank. I head through my usual airlock, locating my assigned TS compartment and carelessly stuffing the suit into it. None of the other workers here really seem to notice me. Those who have already arrived are grabbing coffee and briefly chatting before going to their stations, and the few stragglers who stayed a short while after the 10:00 pm-7:00 am night shift are sleepily clocking out.
I haven’t bothered to really make friends with any of my coworkers. In fact, hardly anybody has. Once every few weeks, the jobs of the workers are reassigned depending on which refinery or flare stack needs some specific worker. A few days ago, I was “shuffled” into Site 2E, one of the larger and deeper-drilling refineries. They needed a few skilled electricians to go around certain active parts of the refinery and check up on the circuitry that makes up the vacuum columns and distillation units. I’ve known only circuits and electric parts for most of my life — it seems I’m the man for the job.
And so I get to work. After arriving at 7:45 am, I have just enough time to grab coffee from an empty break room and put on the gear at my assigned “worker’s closet.” Here, I find all the special gadgets and items I may need for work: circuitry gloves, a faded blue worker’s helmet, my electrician’s door badge, my electrician’s toolbox, stained working boots, a headlamp, earplugs, a faceguard, a specialized modern Refinery Navigator (that cursed tool; it also tracks the amount that us employees work… our lives depend on its accuracy), and the daily instructions sheet, printed straight out from a tiny printer box tucked away on a shelf in the back. It tells me exactly which spots to examine and which errors I should expect to encounter. I strap the Navigator to the back of my hand and it directs me to my first location: a huge distiller … nearly on the opposite side of the refinery. I groan.
Here we go.
I work tirelessly with few breaks until 5:00 pm, inspecting jumbles of wires inside hidden fuse boxes and prying open machinery to prod at the circuitboards inside. Nothing was really wrong with the equipment. Some wires needed resoldering, and a few tiny machines were unnecessarily running on backup energy. All were manageable problems. There’s never been something I couldn’t tackle.
When the time strikes 5:00, my Navigator buzzes and comes up with a special message: “Congratulations! You have finished your shift for today,” followed by a route back to my assigned closet. I sigh. Sometimes I prefer to work rather than head home on time, since working guarantees that I’ll be keeping Lukyan safe. Of course, it’s a silly thought — heading home guarantees his safety just as well. Once in a while, I’ll be working hard, focusing on my goal enough that I’ll miss the congratulations from the Navigator and work for an extra couple hours. Thankfully, there’s no punishment for being an especially valuable employee, and Lukyan sometimes forgets to panic when I don’t come home on time.
I clock out around 5:30. By this point, some of the younger evening shift workers are starting to arrive. They already seem as exhausted as I am.
After grabbing my TS and stepping out, I head over to 2E Garage 1, where I had parked every day since being shuffled here. My Seaglider, thankfully, has plenty of fuel for getting home, and I begin to glide through that great abyss again. There hasn’t been any change in the atmosphere since this morning—the sky remains as soulless as it’s ever been. I leave the rumbling of the refinery in the kicked-up flakes of icy dust behind me and speed home.
In sharp contrast to the mornings, my drives in the evening help me actually think about something. Lukyan, trapped at home, has been without me for almost twelve entire hours. Surely he must’ve been driven insane from being alone for so long, I always think to myself. Thoughts like these move in violent currents through the blood in my skull. I rush home in a race against the thoughts that drag me back.
Distant orange flares and flickering red lights snarl at me.
Not long after the white-red haze of the towers appeared on the horizon, I appear once again at the Tower 15 Garage, hurrying so slightly to the main airlock. Text on the helmet interface flashes “END OF ROUTE” for an instant before I instinctively shut it off. After getting through the doors, I take off the TS and tuck the helmet under my arm, pressing the buttons that call the elevator down to the ground floor. Electronics were still working in the tower—a good sign; it was likely that Lukyan hadn’t faced any issues. Still, I ascend in the elevator, worried about him. “What if?” is a question that’s constantly bothered me to an extreme extent. It’s been the arrow in my Achilles’ heel.
After getting to the 14th floor, I rush to our apartment to greet Lukyan. Opening the door, I see that he remains safe and sound. Sitting just across the room from where I had left him, still in his wheelchair, he wheezes, “Hey, Ni-... Nikola.” With his old age, he’s found it more and more difficult to form words and speak. But I always understand what he tries to say.
“Hello, Papa,” I respond with a warm smile.
“Wh-... w- … how wa- …how was w-work?”
“Same as always, you know that.” I kiss his pale hand before checking the fluid packets tied to two small posts on the back of his wheelchair. Every packet has plenty of the medicine he needs, and the tubes aren’t tangled or otherwise broken. “Did you miss me?” I ask.
“Of- …of c- …of course,” he says. I chuckle. We don’t talk quite as much as we used to, simply because we both understand that trying to have a conversation would be difficult for him. When we do talk for a while, it’s always slow, and centered on something he reads in the news or a movie he watched while I was at my job. In the scarce time I have free to spend with him, we’ll watch those movies together.
While making dinner for the two of us, he murmuringly rasps about the Reestablishment Plans that countries such as Russia and the U.S. are retrying. After the Great Nuclear Conflict had ended, many among those of us who remained learned to appreciate the influences we had on one another. We learned that we should peacefully coexist. But others, who, even after having the demise they created slammed into every portion of the planet, continued to think only of themselves. They thought of money and how much of it was owed to them. They thought of blame and enslavement, and how they could exploit it for their personal gain. It seems that even in the face of armageddon, some unnatural people could still find a way to disagree with each other. But Temnere Outpost, as freakishly unnatural nature is here, houses only natural people tasked with an unnatural challenge. As unfortunate as it is, we slave away to stay alive. If only nature understood how exploited it could be.
And within the horrors of the human world, I find peace with Lukyan as I serve him dinner spoonful by spoonful. He’s stopped feeling bad about needing to be cared for all the time. He knows I don’t mind.
For the couple of hours we have to unwind in the evening, we play an old card game called Dve Armii against one another. The game itself had its roots in our family. My great-great-great grandmother, named Alina, invented the game after supposing that the classic game War was just too simple for her. She passed on knowledge of her new version of the game to the rest of the family on the condition that they NEVER explain it to people outside the family. This promise was kept. As I was told by my father many times, competitions would be held between my great-uncles and aunts, great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. Women would chat during family reunions while brothers fiercely contested each other at the side table, hurling heavy Russian swears at one another. All the while, old Alina would sit solemnly in her leather chair, unaware of the vast effect that Dve Armii would have on her future kin.
Lukyan wins the game. Despite being an aging man, he always manages to win, even when it seems victory is close for me. We play a second game — he wins that one. Game number three, and he wins a third time. I’m about to challenge him for a fourth game when I notice that he’s practically drifting off to sleep. It leads me to wonder how a man so sluggish and forgetful all the time can outperform me in a game we both grew up with.
Putting Lukyan to bed isn’t as hard as it seems. His wheelchair is specially designed so that I can pull levers and push buttons to “recline” it. I wheel him over to the side of the main window, his favorite spot to rest, and position him at a comfortable angle. Pulling a tiny lever on the side slowly swings his feeble legs up a little and brings his upper body back against a pillow I grabbed for him. The tubes and fluid packets are undisturbed. I help him put on his sleeping mask and ask him if he needs anything.
“Thank- …thank you, Nick,” he replies, simply.
He dozes off as I turn out the lights in the apartment. I always leave one light on, however. This light is a much older lamp, given to him as a gift from Lukyan’s brother decades ago. It isn’t as bright as the modern lights throughout the rest of the house, and that dim brightness and orange-yellow color can’t be adjusted, but that, oddly, seems to be the beauty of it. Something about this tiny lamp fills the room with melody and warms my heart like a bonfire.
I trudge over to the bedroom and crawl into bed. Lying still in the darkness under the covers allows me to think more than I do at any other point in the day, about vastly different things than usual. In a struggle to be heard the most clearly, my rarely-used imagination clashes with the sounds of the evening shift workers arriving home outside. The faint chug-chug of a few dozen Seagliders turning in for the night lulls me to sleep.
I dream. My thoughts are put to work.
I dream of a brilliant, singing moon, casting light from the horizon straight through the main window in the living room of our apartment. I stand in the powerful moonbeam. It’s warm, calming, but it almost feels as if it’s pushing me down into the floor. Silver strands of bright moonlight dance on the distorted walls. I stare into the moon itself. It’s large enough to fill most of the main window, as if it was right on the other side of it. The orange accent lights in the apartment flicker and shut off. The song that it screams at me is noisy, intoxicating, and I suddenly start to feel dizzy. But before long, the music transitions into a droning squeal.
The squeal is familiar. I’ve heard it before. I sit up in bed, and the same screaming falls on conscious ears. My dark room flashes with bright white lights, illuminating everything and casting enormous shadows for an instant every second. The piercing, metallic cry wails on.
Something is wrong… something is seriously wrong… my thoughts fade away.
I stumble out of bed and through the bedroom door, oblivious to the condensed vapor that fills up the air in front of my face with each staggered breath. Bursting into the living room, I immediately notice that the dim lamp is off. The high-pitched droning drowns out all my unusual thoughts, but it can’t cover up my constant worry for Lukyan. I locate him in the same spot in the living room. He isn’t moving.
“Papa, wake up!” I yell over the alarm. He groans quietly in response, and upon touching his arm, it feels cold and empty. I stand in disbelief for a moment. For once, I try to think, but nothing appears in my mind. Panic boils the blood in my ears. It directs my hands with cold puppet strings towards the handles of Lukyan’s unsteady wheelchair.
Hysterics steal control of my body. My vision becomes translucent and distorted as I rush Papa down a bright corridor I barely recognize. There isn’t a single clear thought in my head. For what feels like forever, I only know some wild delirium that I had never expected, nor wanted, to feel.
The night came and went in a flurry. It blew past like a storm of snow, shoved up and down by the winter wind.
I remember little about what followed that night. I recall being lost on the fourteenth floor, searching for the central room through the blackness as battery-powered climate alarms slammed my senses with brightness and noise. I remember little about how cold it was in those haunting hallways, and even less about how warm it was in the central room. I remember little about the paramedics in terrifying white suits bursting through the central room doors several minutes later, grabbing the cold and sickly and carrying them away.
Lukyan went with them. I never saw him again.
— — —
The Sun rose two weeks ago.
A month has gone by since I learned of Lukyan’s passing. Because of his fragility, he succumbed to the cold far quicker than some of the other victims in our tower. The outage was significant and impacted an entire quarter of the city. An emergency shelter was established in the much larger central rooms of Towers 10 and 11, not far from my empty apartment.
For a long while, I worked sightlessly at the Sites I had been assigned to. I wasn’t sure what to think. I wasn’t sure if I could think at all.
Every night since Lukyan died, I’ve been sure to turn off every last light in the whole apartment, including the tiny lamp, before heading to bed. I’ve lied awake for hours, not because thoughts kept me from sleeping, but because I’ve tried and failed to find something meaningful to think about.
My mind has become a barren, gray haze. It’s become windows on the ground floor, covered in snow from the outside and impossible to look through. It’s become the winter night sky, full of silent clouds, concealing wondrous miracles I haven’t really bothered to ever comprehend. It’s become the peeling paint on my electrician’s toolbox, and the black stains on my working boots. It’s become the colorless, curious marbles of Lukyan’s eyes. It’s become the brilliance of my bedroom, echoing with the cry of the false moon.
I stopped going to work. Lukyan was my motivation; now, I have little to work for. If I work for myself, I work for a man without a soul, without a mind, without a worthwhile thought in his head. If I work for myself, I work to keep a husk from dying.
When winter seeps through my windows, nothing will awaken me. No alarm will scream to keep me alive. But the clouds will part for me. The moon of my dream will shine through. The stars of my memory will smile.
I expect to see the auroras soon.
"Fridays in October" -Anonymous
"Fridays in October" -Anonymous
The speaker pulsed through the colors of the rainbow and sat silently on his lap. He fiddled with the side as the blue, green came and went. Standing in the doorway, I watched him sit on a small couch, which was worn, but comfortable looking, as if many people had sat in it before and left a piece of themselves on it. I looked over to my cousin who had said we should go over but something made me stop in place.
“What do we say?”
She looked at him, thinking, and eventually turned back to me and said, “I don’t think we have to say anything.”
We walked up when orange, yellow disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. Looking up, he offered a small smile so sad I felt that spiky ball in my throat form and was glad we had settled on not saying anything. We sat on either side of him and matched the speaker in its volume but watched his fingers still press hopelessly at the buttons on the side and top.
Because music is going to make this day better, right?
When purple, pink lit his hands up, leaving their mark on him, we wrapped our arms around his sunken shoulders and felt his hands stop. Pulling back and just sitting next to him, we were there for what seemed like hours, watching people come in and out of the room.
Red, orange surfaced while people looked sadly at the photos, a beautiful display of all 17 years, their hand holding that of another tired, sad face. Other people would smile when they came across a picture that reminded them of a happy moment and would turn to share. It reminded me of the story of when he asked for two different pictures to be taken on senior picture day. In one he smiled normally, and in the other he made a stupid face, which he then proudly brought home to my uncle and told him that it was the picture that would be in the yearbook. I remembered laughing hearing that story and laughing even harder after seeing the picture with his warped smile and overly-widened eyes. I looked across the room and felt a squeeze in my chest as I saw the formal, good picture sitting on the table with his big smile that you always wanted to see, the one that felt contagious if you ever got it out of him.
Yellow, green, blue: I remembered feeling guilt-ridden about the fact that every time I saw my mom, my heart picked up and I quickly left the room we were in or looked in the opposite direction just to prevent myself from thinking about what this was doing to her. Then the look she gave me when we made eye contact; I saw her shoulders collapse and her face fall, which pulled me to her. I slowly walked through the arranged aisles of chairs; I hugged her while her sobs shook my body, trying to fight the burning in my throat and the pooling in my eyes as I stared at the dark walls all around us, pulling the happiness out of everyone here.
Her hands squeezed the back of my new purple dress which we had just recently bought and I forced myself to keep breathing in and out in a rhythmic pattern, each exhale pulling the tingly feeling up my throat and towards my eyes. We looked in the mirror of DSW trying on a low pair of black heels, my first pair of heels, somehow not as exciting as I had imagined.
“I think I’ll wear this dress to the wake and the all black one to the funeral,” I said, planning my outfits for the next few days like they were normal.
Purple, pink. A lady with a low, twisty, up-do brought another pointless tissue to her eyes and a man in black suit and nearly reflective shoes handed out hugs as if it was the only thing he knew how to do. But most of all we sat, not waiting for anything, just sitting.
My eyes floated up, across the hallway, and into the next room. I pictured it sitting at the front of the room, slightly elevated, with a few kneelers in front of it: the large, black coffin. I was sitting in that chair again, the one with the cold metal frame that gave me the chills and the dark brown cushion providing close to no comfort. I saw them file in, one by one, in full uniform. Strong, tall, hockey playing high schoolers with tears in their eyes and no play or coach to tell them what to do in this situation. They stood at the front, each one getting a moment to silently walk up and say what they needed to say.
I had never seen anything as sad and never would as I looked at them, not laughing or celebrating a goal, or throwing a casual insult at each other like 15 highschool boys should when they were all together in their uniform. They should not have been crying, wiping tears, and saying goodbye to a teammate in the middle of a funeral home on one Friday in October.
I pictured the family standing next to it, rooted in place, receiving hugs and words that floated right through them. And I could then understand why he was here, fixing this speaker, for just a second of a break.
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
No title -Patrick Healy
No title -Patrick Healy
An abrasive fog horn rolls across the black waves as a tanker lolls on its path, trudging through the night. “It looks like a monster. Where's it going?” I ask my dad.
“Asia, probably,” he replies as he steadies his feet, “This boat is not kind to me in my old age.”
“I don't think the sea is kind to anyone.”
“Yeah,” he quips, “you're right.”
A silence falls, broken only by the waves caressing the boat. The rest of the crew on our ship had fallen silent. The symphony of the sea fills the air in its wake. The plan was to board a charter boat, fish for twelve hours off the coast of LA, catch whatever we could, and enjoy the vacation spent between father, son, and any friends we made along the way. The almost set sun contrasted with the rising stars was evidence of a long time spent out fishing, which caught my attention.
“The stars are nice. It really puts you in perspective, a small dot on a page type deal.” I say as I lay back on top of the ship's cabin, gazing away from the skyline of LA, its color almost as bright as the setting sun. Away from the massive dockyard illuminated with its lights, cranes, and stevedores. Away from the fishing boats, hugging the coast and casting their nets for the night. And finally, towards the open ocean, dark as night, devoid of light, stretching for as far as the eye could see. It was illuminated only by the glimmer of a few lonely tankers, dwarfed by the vastness of the sea. A sense of calm washed across me as I leaned against the ship's side, lightly holding my fishing pole and letting it sway in the wind.
“Such is the allure of fishing,” my dad said wistfully. “Fishing takes you to beautiful places; it's not really about fish. The beauty is in the journey and the freedom it provides. It's kinda poetic.” A seawater spray leaped toward us, bringing the smell of brine.
“What's poetic?” I ask, shifting my body to look at him.
“Fishing really has very little to do with the fish.” He smirked, satisfied with his clever remark. He then stood and cast his glittering squid into the depths of the world's end with one grand sweeping motion. He did not catch anything despite his due diligence, as did I or anyone else aboard. Soon after, midnight arrived, and it was time to go. The captain rang the bell, and a sharp noise pierced the night. As the docks came into view, I began to reflect. As I disembarked from the boat, I thought about what I had just done. Absorbed in thought, I barely noticed step after step rhythmically hitting the asphalt, segmented only by an occasional yellow line. As I closed the door to our black rental car, I asked, “Did you like that? What we just did?”
My dad, being the good parent he is, said, “Of course I did! Paddytime is always a happy time for me!” He paused; the good-natured smirk left his slightly unkempt white beard. Replacing it was a concerned look of a parent, “Did you?” he asked, nervousness creeping into the edges of his voice.
“I was cold, tired, bored, and I wished I had caught something. But it was strangely enjoyable.” The car hit a bump on the coastal LA road, jolting my thought. The sheer cliff was mere feet away on one side, and beautiful lavish estates flanked me on the other. The juxtaposition reminded me of my thoughts. “It sucked; at points, I hated it, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.” And with nothing tangible to show for our efforts, we returned home.
"During the Strike" -Afton Jennings
Context: In France controlled Algeria, a war has broken out. Algerians, who are tired of the colonization of 130 years, are fighting back against the French. Taking control of this war is the National Liberation Front, or FLN. They have little ground against the French, who have full armies and planes for their bombs, and who have been taking Algerians and torturing and killing them. In return, the FLN and other Algerians have to turn to guerilla tactics, or what is now called terror.
During the Battle Of Algiers, a prominent battle the French would eventually win, the Algerians hold a strike to convince the United Nations that they care about their independence. In Europe, a majority white and European council is ready to decide whether Algeria belongs to the French or not.
I stare out of our window at the Casbah. The streets are empty - those that weren’t requisitioned for work are still obeying the strike. The strike will be broken tomorrow, or at least that’s what Father said when we watched our neighbor’s son get forced into a truck. He’s nearly the same age as me, and Mother says I should just be glad it wasn’t me.
I work in the European quarter, for a nice enough French woman. She won’t discuss the FLN with me, and I refuse to mention my family to her. Sometimes she’ll use my name and almost freeze, like she’s forgotten I’m Muslim like the rest of them. She hasn’t seen me for five days. I might be out of work after this strike.
If I’m out of work, I’ll probably try to join the FLN. I don’t like guns, and I don’t really trust the FLN - not since I saw the quiet girl who lived near us taken away for prostitution - and that’s probably the one reason I haven’t joined up so far. I want Algeria to be free as much as the rest of them, I just don’t know if I could stomach killing a man.
Of course, it’s something that I can learn to stomach. We’ve all learned to stomach bombs and the checkpoints to get to work and being called names for the crime of being brown in the country that belongs to us. I’ve learned to stomach the sight of bodies.
“Basem,” my sister says, cutting through my thoughts. I’ve been listening to her moving around behind me, clearing up cups and dishes. “Are you going to help, or are you going to dream?”
I roll my eyes, moving to help her gather up the cups for washing. “I’m thinking.”
“About what? There are thoughts in that head?” she flicks my forehead, laughing all the while, and I laugh too. It’s a bit forced. “Is this about the strike? Did Baba get to you when he talked about Pierre firing him? Are you worried about Jeanette?”
“No, I don’t mind if I lose my job.”
“That’s also a problem.”
I frown at her. “I’m not thinking about my job, Samia. I’m thinking about the United Nations.” Samia sighs, taking the dishes to the sink and setting them down. “Do you think they’ll understand the strike?”
“Are you asking me if the strike will work?” Samia says, “because I don’t know. The United Nations doesn’t know us. They know the French. They trust the French. But the strike is big.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I told you I didn’t know, Basem. What do you think that means?”
I sigh, leaning back and watching her wash our dishes. When she notices that I’m not doing anything, she throws a rag at me and gestures to the wet dishes. “They took away Hakim the other day,” I say as I pick up a plate and start to dry. “He probably won’t be coming back.”
“He won’t be. Don’t be a dreamer. We only need him to stay quiet before they kill him.”
“Who even gives them the authority to do these things?” I ask, but I know it’s a foolish question before Samia even scoffs. She shoves a cup at me.
“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re older than me, you’re so dumb. No one gives them authority. Do you think we gave them authority one hundred thirty years ago? Do you think we went ‘you seem nice, Frenchmen. Rule Algeria for us’? No, idiot! They decided they were in charge, then they went and made a bunch of rules that benefit them.”
She grabs the rag from my hands for the sole purpose of swatting me with it, and I recoil from her. “Alright, alright. You’re so smart, Samia, please forgive me, Samia.”
“Do you think the strike will work? You’re asking me, but you didn’t ask yourself.”
I falter. She’s right, it’s a hard question to answer. Why do I expect her to have the answers when I don’t? “It’s big. It’ll show the United Nations that we’re serious,” I finally decide, “they can’t ignore all of us, and they believe that people should be free.”
Samia clicks her tongue. I don’t understand what she’s trying to say, but I know she’s saying it. I can also tell she’s going to change subjects. Samia is easy to read, or at least I know how to read her easily. “What would you even do if Jeanette fired you?”
“I don’t know. Join the FLN, I guess.”
Samia scoffs. “Do you even know anyone who’s in the FLN? Do you plan to parade down the streets declaring your intentions?”
I feel a rush of hot blood flow into my cheeks. “No one here would turn me in,” I bluster.
“You’re too cocky, Basem. You’ll get yourself into trouble. I know you’d throw up if you had to pick up a gun, and no one’s entrusting your clumsy fingers with a bomb.”
“And you? Would the FLN want you? You’re a woman, and I don’t think you could handle a gun either.”
“I could! I could handle a bomb too, if it came to that! No one would look under my chador if need be.” Samia huffs and turns her head away from me.
“So you’re going to join the FLN, Samia? Risk yourself like that?” I know I sound ridiculous, expunging the risk of the FLN when I just said I’d join myself. But there’s a difference between me and Samia. She’s my younger sister, I’m not going to let her run around and play with bombs. I say as much, making Samia scoff again.
“Maybe I’ve helped out before. You don’t know everything I do, Basem.”
I grab at her shoulder, spinning her around. She exclaims in protest, trying to stomp on my toes. “Don’t tell me you’ve blown something up.”
Samia wrenches out of my grasp, grabbing a cup and scrubbing at it furiously. “Don’t you want to be free, Basem? You’re a dreamer, don’t tell me you think Algeria is going to be free just because we didn’t go to work. France fought in Indochina and lost. We can win here, but they have bombs and soldiers and they kill people indiscriminately. They’ve given themselves the right to murder. Marvel at the empty streets all you want. It won’t bring Hakim back.”
I stare at her turned back as it dawns on me. If Samia knows the FLN, she can get me in! I can’t have her doing stuff to help when I go to work every day for French people who pretend nothing is happening and call me slurs in the same breath. “If you’re in the FLN, you can get me in with the FLN.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Samia! Please, I can’t let you do this alone.”
Samia scoffs, again. It’s a rough sound, the same as when I do anything she deems as stupid. “They’ll catch and torture you, Basem.”
“Not if I’m careful.”
“You’re as careful as a cow. They’ll notice you, the Arab boy, and take you in, and then you won’t come back. Do you remember what they do to people who they don’t trust? Farid did nothing but lose his papers, and now his wife cries every night. She’d be happy to see me shoot a policeman in the head.”
“And they won’t catch you?”
“Do you honestly think the French can tell Algerian women apart? I look religious and suddenly I’m the same as any religious woman to them. That’s how Hamida gets guns to the leaders.”
“You seriously want to go out and give guns to people who have killed?”
“That is the point, Basem. I don’t think I could even consider putting you in contact with the FLN if you react like this to the mere idea of guns. Do you misunderstand what the FLN does?”
“They fight back!”
“They kill people who break their rules. Could you ever put a bullet in another Algerian?”
I stumble over an answer. Samia looks at me with a self satisfied smile. “Could you?” I ask.
Samia turns away from me, dunking a plate into water. “Come here. You have more dishes to dry.”
I approach her, taking the wet plate and running the rag over it. I look at her profile, noting that her eyes are turned away from me. “I’m sorry, Samia.”
“Let’s just pray the United Nations listens to us.” There's something about her tone that says she doesn’t think they will. She’s probably right. I can’t bear the thought of my sister with a gun in hand, and if the United Nations doesn’t appreciate the strike, that’s surely where this will go. That or the French will kill us all.
“If they ask you to bomb somewhere, would you?”
“The French have already bombed us,” she says, which is a nonanswer. I don’t like it, but she won’t answer any more of my questions, so I’ll stop asking them. I dry the dishes and pray that it’ll be alright in the end. Maybe we’ll win this battle. Hopefully we’ll win the war.
"Thoughts while doing my makeup" - Anonymous
I am starting to get sick of existing as a woman. I read an essay recently, by Jia Tolentino, about how we’re at the latest stage of capitalism – where selfhood has become a resource. I realized I was watching Gilmore girls just because I want to be the type of person who watches Gilmore girls (turtleneck sweater-wearing, tea-drinking, cozy fall perfection).
I hate that we all have to encapsulate our identities with what we consume. Are you a claw clip green juice yoga type of girl? Or are you a Sylvia Plath tote bag vintage store type of girl? Or put differently, do you have an eating disorder, or depression? I have to admit, I’m stealing part of this from another essay I read online, which I discovered through a video essay on toxic femininity and femcell culture by Mina Le – go watch it. Then again, I am an amalgamation of every woman I’ve ever admired (credit to a tweet I saw sometime in the past few years). I’m writing this all because it keeps swirling around my head and I feel like I need to get it down on paper. The truth is, I love being a woman. And part of me really loves trying to look good. But in Jia Tolentino’s words, it’s hard to tell how much you love something when it really amounts to a mandate. I’m tired of spending my weekends recovering from my weeks. I’m tired of the culture that resulted in my friends staging a walk out because the culture of sexual harassment at our school was so entrenched.
You might be wondering what my point is. I’m not really sure. Maybe I’m writing about the Internet, and how identity has been so commodified. Maybe I’m writing about how I’m not even writing this, I’m voice typing it on my phone while I do my mascara, which makes me feel prettier, but irks me. Why do I need to be prettier? Why do I need to be able to pull up the camera on my phone and look good? What is “good?” Why did we decide, at the fulcrum between fatphobic People magazine articles and the era of body positivity, that everyone has to be beautiful, instead of making beauty matter less? Part of me wants to spend my life writing about this, but then I wouldn’t be making any money, so what would be the point of that? At least, when I am scrolling down endless social media feeds, I’m generating money for advertisers, supporting the economy. And really, what can I complain about? I know I’m much luckier than people in a lot of different places in the world. But I also know it’s dangerous to think it could always be worse.
I no longer like how I look when I don’t have concealer on. After I saw videos of girls contouring their noses, I went out and bought contour. Now I don’t like how my nose looks without it. I wish I had enough self-confidence to resist this. By the way, I hope I’m not coming across as self-important. I don’t believe myself as good of a writer as the women who have made me think about all this. And I don’t think I could be published in the New Yorker, like they have, though I would love to aspire to that, but again, the money problem.
I’m tired of questioning if how I spend my time is worth it. I feel like everything has to be “worth it” now. What is the point of watching a movie if those two hours gave me no tangible “benefit?” What is the point of exercising if I’m not making my body look “better?” I have the sneaking suspicion that this twenty-first century female existence is going to become untenable very soon.
If I were a better writer (or if I had any free time), I could package all the points I’m trying to make here in a scathing short story, with lots of beautiful imagery and an actual plot. But I’m not, so instead I’m writing this, and tonight I’ll do my skincare with products that take up far too much of my budget, because the fact remains that what’s inside my head is still, still, less important than what I look like.
"To Rest and Live in Peace" - Jessica Li
"To Rest and Live in Peace" - Jessica Li
At this moment in his life, being haunted was the least of Sawyer’s worries.
Sawyer could see ghosts of all kinds, the ones that blessed and guarded the souls of their relatives, those that lingered inside the attractive yet foreboding house down the street, and the fabric costumes donned on the 31st of October. Of course, the latter wasn’t unusual, but to him, real ghosts weren’t either.
They only appeared when they wanted to be seen, which wasn’t very often. Like humans who have a hard time facing their mortality, ghosts also struggle with accepting their past material existence. Privacy was a strong preference, even for Sawyer, who walked among the living and the dead simultaneously. However, people tend to forget that ghosts were also human once. They enjoyed routine, and anything that strayed from it needed to be scheduled in advance. Ghosts crave human attention every once in a while, especially if they don’t have any living being to watch over, or in the most notorious of cases, torment. It is surprising how much of a laugh one can get from knocking over their own urn like a house cat.
Mostly out of desperation or curiosity, some of these life-withdrawn ghosts would reach out to Sawyer for counseling. These sessions usually consisted of talking about long-lost loved ones whom they were separated from, dreams shattered by their pesky mortality, giving closure when the living had already been gifted it, and Sawyer humiliating himself in front of strangers who saw nothing but a middle-aged man who adored the sound of his own voice.
It was a misty Thursday afternoon, just after the rain had fallen, darkening the pavement beneath Sawyer’s feet. The air was heavy, with a hanging scent of petrichor that was the only pleasantry of the scene. Sawyer was unremarkable in every setting, with curly brown hair, and a thin layer of facial hair on his chin, and above his lip. Unaccustomed to the chill of the northern cities, he wore layer after layer of sweater vest, khaki trench coat, and wool sweater.
Today’s client was a special one, an old friend from when Sawyer still ignored the ghosts that floated past at the train station or the dark alleyways, who were both fully aware and undoubtedly confused by his presence. In other words, it was a long time ago.
His client, or rather, clients plural, insisted on meeting in their hometown, a place where Sawyer was not particularly happy about returning to. “Mostly because of the weather,” is what he would continue to tell himself.
Walking up to a modern cafe downtown, Sawyer paused outside the window. The room could only fit five table sets in the main area, each equipped with plush green leather seats and a metal stand that held salt and pepper shakers filled to the brim. Black and white photos dappled the wall, an elaborate history pasted next to the chalk-written menu, attempting to give the cafe a bit of experience. Sawyer lifted his head to see a cramped balcony crowned the building, covered with large umbrellas and metal chairs. The name was written in swirly letters that no graphic designer would ever endorse, and the business itself would probably be replaced by the end of the month. But all Sawyer cared about was that it wasn’t familiar.
Nodding to the workers, he made his way toward the stairs that led to the balcony, even though he was almost completely sure it wasn’t even open to customers during this season. He found a round table and dragged an additional two chairs over. The scraping blared into his ears as he set them down across from his seat. Small drops of water slid down and through the grates of the seats as Sawyer made a futile effort to dry it off. The metal sent a chill through his body as his hands touched the cool frame. He felt better standing.
Sighing, Sawyer let out a fog of breath. The city was nothing like he’d remembered; perhaps it was better that way. Usually, in blank spasms of consciousness, Sawyer could make a philosophical revelation or wonder about the most ordinary of things to keep himself entertained. He would hypothesize about the illusion of time and space or what that pigeon on the road ate for supper yesterday. Perhaps a bagel. Unfortunately for him, his mind was on constant hiatus at the moment.
As he stared up into the gray sky, he heard a series of footsteps approaching. He turned to see a small boy with messy brown hair, dressed in denim overalls that were slightly too long at the ankles. Holding his hand, a young man with a shaved head and deep bags underneath his eyes approached him. His face was thin, cheeks sunken into his skull, with pale skin that resembled ash rather than biological matter. He was almost certainly on drugs or ill with death, or both.
“Long time no see,” Sawyer greeted. He kept his face stoic, and his voice flat. In any other session, they would introduce themselves to one another, but there was no need. The child and young man ignored the chairs prepared for them.
The young man spoke in a demeanor that did not match his appearance, “If I’m being honest-”
“Oh please do,” it was half plea, half dare.
“I was almost surprised when you agreed to schedule a session with me,” the boy continued, unfazed by Sawyer’s tone. He took a translucent lighter out of his pocket, flicked the wheel, and stood there. Sawyer tossed him a box of cigarettes that he kept in his pocket, turning around immediately as he held the apparition of the flame to the tip. The ghost placed it to his lips and blew out a puff of smoke, even though the cigarette itself remained uncharred.
“You and me both.”
“Don’t act so excited to see us.”
Sawyer exhaled sharply, tapping his foot against the ground to a quick tempo. Suddenly it was becoming warmer outside.
Unable to sit still, the child had floated across the roof to look over the edge. Even though he hadn’t touched the floor, he was moments away from tripping on his pants. While Sawyer admired the naivete and innocence on display, this also left him alone with the older boy.
“I know you’re upset with me, Sawyer,” he said, “It doesn’t take a telepath to see that our presence is causing you a bit of discomfort.”
“Ghosts. I’m still getting used to them.”
“You overcame your phasmophobia years ago.”
“Right. You should know.”
They weren’t always like this. They used to know each other like the back of their hand. They did everything together, ate together, and stared out the window contemplating their life together. They were each other. Now there was a hidden wall between them, blocking out the other. One that Sawyer had given up trying to climb.
“If you’re here for the same thing as last time: no, Mom still hasn’t forgiven you, yes, Olive is keeping her promise of not speaking about you, and I could care less about what happened to you.” Sawyer hoped that that would be the end of it. It usually was. “Can I go now?”
The ghost looked surprised, even though this information wasn’t anything new or unexpected. While the ghost had had a promising past, he had gotten in with the wrong people, at the wrong time in his life. After dropping out unknowingly and spending the rest of his college fund on alcohol and pills, he returned home only to take what was left of his mother’s savings to do away with his withdrawal. Sawyer still remembered the look on her face when he left, the remnants of her son dying along with him. She was broken in a way that no one could describe. Her heart was shattered, while the rest of her body held on hopelessly as the base crumbled. Now she could barely move out of her room, and her older daughter was stuck being a caregiver at age twenty-two while the world moved on without her.
“I guess I shouldn’t be too shocked.” The ghost put the cigarette to his mouth again, closing his eyes as he exhaled. Sawyer shifted, not being particularly fond of the odor that seemed to fill the air. He turned his attention towards the young boy, who was busy tracing water droplets on the railing.
“I will ask, why did you bring him? I mean, it just seems like you’re looping in someone else who didn’t ask to deal with this. Once again.” Sawyer didn’t really need an answer. He was just glad that there was something else to mitigate the discomfort of this interaction. Even then, his mind still wandered, wondering what the ghost may say. To teach him a lesson. To make Sawyer pity them. To prove to Sawyer that he was doing one thing right in his life.
Or maybe, the child just wanted to tag along.
Sawyer’s legs became numb as standing began to be uncomfortable. The silence was starting to feel intentional.
“I don’t know, honestly.” The ghost stared at his feet. They were bare, bony, and struggled to support his weight. His entire body looked like a corpse, and not because he was dead. Although he couldn’t feel the sting of the cold ground, it was a feeling he knew all too well while living on the streets. “That night when I had started using, Mom called. I hadn’t gone to my classes that day. I hadn’t eaten. I didn’t go to bed.”
“I know. I was there when Mom was on the phone with you.” She had asked if he was doing all right and if he was making any friends. She asked if he needed food, or help with his courses. He was lucky that she hadn’t done a video call, or else she would have seen the piles of clothes stacked on his desk in place of his books, or the stains on his bed sheets from where he spilled his last bottle of beer or dropped his last cigarette. From her perspective, she imagined a young adult who was probably awake studying for his next exam, working hard to become the lawyer he had dreamed of being. He had told her that he was fine and that he needed to sleep, knowing full well that he hadn’t gotten any for the past three days. She had said that she understood, and quickly hung up after saying goodbye and a non-negotiable ‘I love you, no matter what.’
“I kept asking myself. Why did I get into the things I did? Why didn’t I tell her that I needed serious help, even though I knew she would do her best to make everything better? Why did I hide it from her until it all went crashing down, until she began blaming herself for not noticing?” The ghost’s eyes darkened, and his jaw trembled. Sawyer was having none of it.
“Well, it’s nice that you’re becoming self-aware. Then tell me why, because while I appreciate this new epiphany, it doesn’t change the fact that you made my life a living hell.” In the past decade, Sawyer had nowhere to go, no one who would see him, and no means to further his life anywhere forward. He had a mother and a sister who wanted nothing to do with him, and without higher education, money was tight. It was worsened by the fact that no one would hire someone who dropped out, much less one who was a former druggie and alcoholic. “You died, and then left everyone else to pick up the pieces and deal with all the shit you left us with.”
“I don’t know, Sawyer.”
“What?” The words were too common to answer such a big question. ‘I don’t know’ is used when you can’t solve a mathematics question. ‘I don’t know’ is used as a filler for dry texts and conversation. ‘I don’t know’ wasn’t supposed to be used to give the reason for the regrets in someone’s life. It wasn’t supposed to be the end of it. It wasn’t supposed to be the phrase for closure.
“I said I don’t know. I don’t know why I did the things I did.”
“That can’t be the answer, there’s got to be a better explanation.” All his life, he searched for answers. Why did he throw away his future and break away from those who did nothing but love and support him? If anyone would know, it would be his past self. “I don’t accept that.”
The ghost sighed, and called over the young boy to leave. “Then I guess I’ll see you next year. To try again.
"The Path of a Flower"- Abby Cockerill
A young girl squatted down, her long brown hair curtaining her face as she bent over a white flower. She examined the plant, checking thoroughly for any brown spots as she did to the flowers before. She decided that this one met her standards and plucked it from the small dirt patch it once resided in. Holding it loosely, she gently touched the soft petals. Her fingers carefully ripped one from the stem and dropped it to the ground. It floated back and forth, descending slowly before finally reaching the cement.
She kept dropping them as she continued stepping down the street in her silky ballet slippers, leaving a reminder of where she’s been. The ribbons that loosely wrapped around her bony ankles were tied into messy bows she did herself, one of which was slowly coming undone with every step.
She readjusted her light blue JanSport backpack that would match the sky on a sunny day. Her mother had sewn her name in bright red string, right above the label.
‘Ellie,’ it read. The girl hated that it didn’t mean anything.
It had a broken zipper that never fully closed and it was filled with only the essentials. Fruit snacks. Her cat stuffed animal with matching ballet slippers strapped onto all four of its feet. The five dollar bill she got from the tooth fairy.
She kept her head angled towards the crumbling sidewalk, preferring to look at that rather than the boring, monochrome sky that melded with the buildings who wished they were taller.
She skipped onto a raised beam of cement, carefully balancing on the edge. The girl glanced up quickly scanning the horizon for the bus stop she was looking for. Spotting the glass booth covered in peeling cologne advertisements and fading graffiti was rather easy considering even dull paint stuck out against the less colorful backdrop. She sat down on the dust covered bench, swiping off a couple of soggy french fries. Her bag fell down between her feet and she reached down to check that the crumpled five dollar bill was where she left it. Reassured, she grabbed a fruit snack pouch and zipped the bag back up as far as the zipper would allow.
The fruit-shaped gelatin squished into pieces between her molars, sliding between the empty spot where one tooth should be. The lights above her flickered as she sat, eating her snack and kicking her feet back and forth and back and forth. The ribbon on her shoe was dangling now, caressing the ground with its soft fabric.
A group of bright haired teenagers strolled on the opposite side of the street coming out from an old record shop. The sign above them rattled in the harsh wind. They were laughing and chatting loudly, splitting the sea of people.
They crossed to her side in the middle of the street, not even bothering to look if there were cars. The girl watched with curiosity as they walked closer. There were four of them, walking in a diamond shape, an impenetrable group. A boy with blonde hair and light blue jeans led the group, sipping a bottle of coke and laughing occasionally with the others. A girl with short green hair and a boy with long orange hair walked side by side. They were arguing about something important and yet not important at all. The girl in the back was taller than the rest of them, looking slightly down as she smiled at her friends, laughing lightly at the two arguing.
The coke bottle made a series of loud clanking noises as it was tossed into the metal bin standing adjacent to the bus stop. The remaining liquid spilled into the bag.
Her feet stilled, as she finished her last fruity gummy, watching them slowly stroll in front of her. The blonde boy pulled out a key fob and clicked a button. A car a couple buildings down beeped.
The short-haired girl and the long-haired boy glanced at each other and then started off sprinting, screaming ‘Shotgun’ at the top of their lungs. The blondie laughed again and started jogging to catch up but the tall one slowed down in front of the girl.
“You ok?” she asked.
“Yeah,” the girl replied softly.
“You got parents?” the tall one questioned again.
“Yeah,” the girl repeated. She reached in her bag to pull out another pouch of fruit snacks.
“They around here?” she continued questioning the young girl who had now opened the pouch and started munching on a grape flavored one.
“No,” she said with a full mouth.
“Well where are they?”
“At home,” the girl replied shortly. She held out the small pouch to the tall girl, “You want one?”
“Uh no… Thanks though,” she replied. The young girl nodded and went back to eating. She looked up and the tall girl seemed concerned, or maybe confused, the girl couldn’t tell.
“So uh, if your parents are at home… Then why are you here? At a bus stop?” she asked, brushing off the seat next to the girl to sit.
“Cuz,” she replied shortly before popping an orange flavor into her mouth. The tall girl poked her head out of the booth to look down the street and then back at the little girl.
“You need a ride?”
“No, I’m ok,” she said. The taller girl slowly stood up, her bones groaning as she did. She ducked back out of the bus stop booth and looked back at the girl.
“You sure? I don’t think the bus comes today,” the young girl looked down the street like the other girl did before, eyes searching for something she couldn’t find.
“Really?” she asked looking up at the girl.
“Yeah,” she confirmed. The long-haired boy stuck his head out of an old-looking red car. The paint was chipping and beginning to reveal a silver color.
“HURRY UP GRACIE,” he yelled before ducking back into the car.
“Yeah yeah I know,” she muttered back. “So are you coming?”
“No, I think I'll wait, just in case,” she said, reaching over to put the empty plastic pouch in the trash can. The tall girl nodded.
“Alright.”
The street was quiet after they left. Only the music the wind was playing as it brushed against the buildings remained. There was a park, a little ways down from the bus stop. The sounds of adults and children laughing and screaming, running around the small plastic city, flew with the wind.
The little girl looked down the street again, hoping to see the one thing she was waiting for. The fumes of car exhaust fogged the street. The bus was either hidden in the smoke, or not there at all.
I probably have time, she convinced herself.
She hoisted her bag onto one shoulder and stepped out of the hooded bus stop.
The girl made her way towards the commotion, only tripping twice on the loose ribbon from her ballet slipper. She set her bag down on a bench near the playground and reached in to grab another pouch of fruit snacks. When she had settled onto the bench, she brought her foot up to redo the bow on her shoes.
She wrapped the silky fabric around her ankle and tied it into a lopsided bow. She double knotted it for good measure. When she looked up, there was a boy about her age standing in front of her, staring.
“Hi,” he said, wiping his nose on his long sleeved shirt covered in dinosaurs.
“Hi?” she said back slowly, opening the snack pouch.
“Can I have one?” he asked, gesturing to the gummies.
“Sure,” she replied, unzipping the bag in order to feel around the bottom of the bag.
“I like your cat, he’s got nice shoes,” he announced.
“Thanks,” she handed the snack over to him and he took it eagerly.
“My dad doesn’t let me have these,” he said, smiling and ripping the packaging open. “Says there’s too much sugar or something. But that’s the whole point, you know? And he was like ‘Well it’s not good for you so you can’t have it.’” He paused for a moment to stuff 3 in his mouth, “And then I said but why not? And you know what he told me?” He looked at her expectantly.
“Uh, what?”
“He said, ‘Because I said so.’ Can you believe that?!” he exclaimed in disbelief, shaking his head as if it were the greatest tragedy in the world.
“Anyways,” he said, swallowing the last of the gummies, “Wanna play cowboys?”
They tied their horses up to the post outside of the bank. It was a dry day in the west, just like every other day. The two cowboys made their way up the dusty pathway, their hands resting on their belts.
“You ready to rob this bank?” her partner said in a terrible western accent. She tipped her hat in a silent nod. They kicked the doors in and held up their weapons.
“Everyone stay where you are, this is a robbery!” he exclaimed. The people must have been terrified considering how happy one of the cowboys was to be robbing a bank.
“I’ll get the money, you stay here and make sure no one leaves,” the girl said as she made her way to the back. She collected the money into the bag on her hip. The money was almost completely gone when the girl heard a high pitched scream. The girl ran out to see what had died and saw the boy pointing into the sky.
“What's wrong?” she asked.
“The alien police, they're here!” he said, pretending to faint.
“The what?”
“The alien police.”
“How are there aliens in the west? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Cuz aliens are cool, duh.”
“But they don’t exist in the west. The west is like super old and stuff.” the girl complained.
“So? I want them to.” he smiled.
This guy is stupid, the girl decided.
“Yeah, but you can’t have everything you want, especially when it doesn’t make sense,” the girl said to him.
“Then you don’t have to play with me.” He pouted and stomped away to where his parents sat. She could hear him whining to them from where she stood.
She sighed and went back over to her backpack to pick it up.
The sun had started to peek out from behind the clouds, not shying away from the people on the ground. The girl’s feet had started to hurt. Her ballet slippers, which had been painted a dark brown by the sidewalk, were carving blisters into her ankles.
The street had been emptied of people and chatter. Even the wind had decided to leave for the afternoon. The girl strolled once again down the street, finding contentment in the solitude.
The bus stop bench creaked as she sat, knees tucked up to her chest. The french fries had disappeared.
She gently unwrapped the ribbons from around her ankles and peeled off her ballet slippers. A hunger settled in the bottom of her stomach as she reached down to place her shoes in her bag and rummaging around in her bag left her empty handed. She had run out of snacks and a harsh stomach cramp from the amount of gummies she had eaten had creeped into her ribs.
I can’t believe Mom was right, the girl groaned.
She took one last look down the street. A sigh escaped her as she picked up her bag, partially zipped.
The girl made her way home, leaving the street, skipping barefoot on a path of flower petals.
I wonder what’s for dinner.
"Roses"- Nainoa Ohata
I love to watch the world as the sun sets.
It gives meaning to life and lies as we see our end. Today, horizon is set ablaze by gods who must be furious with the state of the world. Neon glow of street signs light coming night, hope in darkness. The awning provides protection from watching eyes above, floating odds and ends. I pass a number of characters, vignettes of the lives they must’ve led, cybernetic arms, eyes, legs, holding vapes, cigarettes, contempt.
One in particular piques my interest, I watch vibrant pink flick as hair across her face. In her metallic left hand rests a round ball glowing through spots of geometry. Hoping to be sly, I lean against a nearby wall and pull out a pad of paper. From hidden in my pocket, the edge of a chunk of graphite emerges and arches out her shape. Her half shaven head, confidently slim shoulders, the way her legs cross as she leans.
Worry takes over. I slide the pad into inner pocket and hide my graphite, hoping I can slip away.
Quick steps try to escape the scene all together, that the sooner I’m gone the less likely I’m noticed. Stale water splashes upward as alleys become paths.
The moon is revealed in tandem with stars that wish to be as beautifully bright. Somewhere out there, there are people. Looking down to earth, my alley path, from bases built on moons, and creations of little gods that orbit our planet and traverse our solar system.
Walking into a wall keeps me grounded, and my eyes jump to ensure I’m unseen.
“I’d tell you the year, but I don’t know it. It doesn’t matter, doesn’t make a difference.”
My studio apartment is cold, I’ll admit, but warmer than skinny concrete walkway. My jacket gets thrown onto chair, the pad and utensil, desk, me, my bed. It’s overly stiff, but mine, and I ponder the -. I ponder as I watch shadowed people dance through many colored curtain on my ceiling. The whole world seems to spin as I consider the flow of shadows movied by concrete ceiling.
I force myself upright, ridding the trance as I stare through glass membrane. Moving to my chair I push aside my pad to clear my mind and make myself feel better about the decrepit nature of all this.
“The first time we met, roses were in bloom. Don’t you remember?”
I stepped from the staircase, lobby, of my oh so wonderful apartment. There was a slight drizzle that dared dampen our city. I watched from below as tiny water-bodies sailed from on high to greet my face. I blinked and the haze was gone.
I walked back to where I saw you the night before. Tracing steps through tight streets packed with bodies. I told myself I was looking to get a better sketch of your ‘unique-ness’. When I saw you again you were standing outside that same building. The service window was shuttered closed with metallic sheet. You stood with your foot up and another cigarette hanging from beneath your fingers. Do you even smoke? Or don’t you just stand there looking as picture-scene from 1990’s movie.
You’d seen me before. I know. You never let on, but when you looked at me I saw knowing in your eyes. My face must've flushed because I always hope to watch but never to be watched-seen by eyes. Eyes such as yours. They were brown, plain. How intense you made them.
I ran home. Ran. To try and escape from that scene.
From that place. To me it was you.
“It was springtime and the sun seemed barley to rise.”
The rain hadn’t stopped since that night. Occasionally it would happen, when rain would go on for weeks on end. I didn't mind the wet, the cold. I came back. And again you looked at me and I saw strength, quiet, solid. I stared, and my face must have flushed.
“How many times did I come to stare at you?” before, —
You approached, flicking away a burnt end. You were tall, and everything about you began to swirl. Now, all I remember is pink brushed from your face, brown from mine. Lacing fingers, warmth as the spell of rain pushed on. The inexplicable feeling of pulling away from your lips, as the world falls from nothing to you. The sensation of smoke in my lungs as it snakes around you to ghost by neon light.
“We lived” in the day wrought by street signs. By haze of smog, and whirring of floating nonsense.
The buildings - walls - of the streets I called ours became colors in the presence of advertising words and symbols. Your face lit, as you laughed and I thought it might get stuck in that stupid smile. And mine creeped out, forcing my muscles to something uncomfortable. I thought I just might find comfort in it, you.
“Roses-” die. Right?
Now I Iook into your eyes, and brown fades. Even pink fades to blonde.
I’m holding your hand.
I know, I know.
But you vice back at me. I look into your eyes, and you stare at mine. Filled with fear. I might as well have been holding a gun to your head, or mine.
And I was.
Your lips shake, and I brush away the hair covering your eye.
We are denied by the rain, and surrounded in mud, muck, and it enrages me. You deserved better. You deserve better.
My hand is pressing into your side, kidney.
I’m applying pressure.
The water still bleeds to red. My whole body is numb anyway, completing actions in background as I stare to drink in your face.
The sky doesn’t cry alone. And help was never on its way. Your lips move but I can’t hear.
I can't hear.
I lean in and the softness of your words wriggle to perception.
Your shuddering turns to something worse, your fear turns too, your blood, your eyes, your words.
I am caught in the rain. For how long? How should I know.
The rain falls to cover me in tears. With them I cry.
The world is painted in graphite.
"Full Circle"- Henry C. Hagedorn
Forever dreaming about airplanes and their lights,
When it’s foggy and rainy and the year is 2015;
When the air smells of water:
Clicking your stories through the tappings of drops on oak leaves and fogged car windows.
Forever watching the highway’s lens-flare lights through those smudgy, half-opaque, light gray lenses on my dad’s car;
Forever are mine and my sister’s hands guided —
Through airport security —
And down a time I remember more traveling to than being in.
Forever will the trails of my festival birth fool me in late winter
As leaves bud off of the bark-dead fingernails that trees reach to the sky —
And drape to the ground begin to show specks of green at their ends;...
O’ brave little green soldier,
Clutch your fist and squeeze it, push and fight for the beauty of living,
And sprawl and breathe and let the sun pass through your body:
The chlorophyll giving the sidewalk viridescence —
As your vernal soul tells us we’re ready to breathe summer’s kind air —
For the first time in 6 months.
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