METAMORPHOSIS

League for Innovation in the Community College2018 – 2019 Student Literary Competition

Hosted by Kirkwood Community College

METAMORPHOSIS League for Innovation in the Community College

2018-2019 Student Literary Competition

Hosted by:

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Clock hands, fingerless omnipotencewhy not melt, Dali-like, in this too hot kitchen?You’re embarrassing the onions,unchopped, unfried, still boldin their cellophane skins,sure of their secret.

Steamy panes belie productivity, but the neighbor lady will see no chicken in this pot. Just a twig ofcinnamon boiling in its murky soup,so small, yet yielding the aroma of fat, sugared buns oozing calories, camaraderie.

Upon my carpet I construct the coffeehouse, the literati benton errata, pruning prose, eating danish, lickingsugar from each other’s dripping fingers.

Not stymied by desireI am pencil thin, a cipherupon a white page, drawingtheir esteem, their brazen loveto my pure expressionthe very thingitself.

And then the fragrant mist blasts a-part, the kitchen door rattles and Mrs. Knappnauer hoversabove me, a question mark for eyebrows, forehead ruled in lines of inquiry, and I un-melt all at once, only ablesoftly to answer, “onions.”

The clock reaches out its hands as if to lift me from the rug whileshe visits the damp pantry beneath the backstairs and returns, holding in each yellowed hand as she bends over me a lusty Vidalia.

She does not speak, yet seemsto say I know. Some flat afternoons a dash of paprika whisks me back to the high-ceilinged roomsof my old home, dark palmettowallpaper in the hall, soup simmeringon the wide iron stove, my father’sflannel embrace lifting me highabove the rose patterned rug, small feet dangling in the air….

But, I want to say, memory is notthe same as desire.

She shrugs as I rise and grasp the onions. For a moment we stand, elbowsawkwardly touching, watching the foggy windowpanes melt, their small streams of condensation run-ning in rhythm with the clock.

First published in Not a Muse: The Inner Lives of Women, a World Poetry Anthology, Haven Books 2009

Still Life with OnionsMarianne Taylor

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IntroductionWe chose the theme of metamorphosis for this year’s anthology because literature regularly performs the miracle of transforming ordinary things in our eyes. In this collection, you’ll see a jackalope postcard, a cherry bamboozled drink, a heart attack, and more, and each emerges differently than it appears in any other context, just like the necktie and buns on our cover.

A community college is a place where we hope students themselves metamorphize, fundamentally changed by the ideas they encounter and produce there. When Kay Ryan was poet laureate of the United States, she focused her national project on community college students. Ryan said, “I always think writers will come from the most unlikely sources. Maybe that is because I was educated in a community college; I didn’t look a bit promising and I got to be poet laureate of the United States.”

In the spirit of transformation, I have framed this anthology with the work of an artist (Arbe Bareis, who painted the cover art) and a poet (Marianne Taylor, who wrote the epigraph poem) here at Kirkwood who are transforming their own vision by creating works in collaboration with each other—seeing how the same ideas shift when brought to life in words and then art, or the other way around. This resembles the spirit of play the writers in this anthology bring to a Starbucks date, a nursing home meal, a Scholastic book fair, and more. In the particular pairing presented here, it was Taylor’s words which came first and then Bareis put the idea to paint. Both try to get at how art somehow arises out of everyday objects. Taylor reflects, “For Dali, ‘melting’ may be desirable, as it situates one in a creative space, disconnected from the dictates of clocks or meal preparation.” The neighbor in the poem interrupts that, but art nevertheless emerges, much like many of our community college students produce art despite, and out of, the kinds of troubles depicted in these pages—from PTSD to poverty to dying parents—things that can lead to despair but here lead to art.

I would like to thank Sherry Sklar for her enthusiastic and careful oversight of this project, each of the local coordinators who publicized the contest and thus inspired our students to write, and the many student contestants whose work inspired us, their teachers. Finally, I thank you for reading, and I hope you find the pieces included here, in small or big ways, have a transformative effect on you.

Lisa AngelellaCoordinatorKirkwood Community College

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Table of Contents

PoemsFirst place: “No One Wants to Clean the Dishes” ................................ Alex Dodt, Maricopa Community Colleges: Mesa Community College

Second place: “fuse oxygen”...................................................................... Alex Wildman, Sinclair Community College

Third place: “Ode to the Biannual Starbucks Date”.............................. Sarah Osborn, Central Piedmont Community College

Short StoriesFirst place: “Dark Water”........................................................................... Claire Bathurst, Kirkwood Community College

Second place: “Sanctify”............................................................................. H. Bohlinger, Delta Community College

Third place: “Inertia”.................................................................................. Arthur Arboleda, Foothill-De Anza Community College District: De Anza Community College

One-Act PlaysFirst place: “War Within” ........................................................................... Ismerari Jaramillo, Dallas County Community College District: Richland College

Second place: “Banana Smoothie Republic”............................................ Rachael Sage Payne, Seattle Colleges: North Seattle Community College

Third place: “Salvage”.................................................................................. Trent Randol, Anne Arundel Community College

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Personal EssaysFirst place: “Minding Mother” ................................................................ Valerie Neal, Maricopa Community Colleges: Mesa Community College

Second place: “Home”.............................................................................. Arina Stadnyk, San Diego Community College District: San Diego City College

Third place: “The Books that Brought Insights”.................................. Lizeth Mendoza, Dallas County Community College District: Eastland College

Local Winners............................................

League Board Colleges..................

Cover painting: Arbe Bareis

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Poems

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Poetry Judge

Todd Boss is a poet, public artist and film producer in Minneapolis. His poetry collections are Tough Luck (2017), Pitch (2012) and Yellow Rocket (2008), all from W. W. Norton & Co. His poems have appeared in the New Yorker, American Poetry Review, Poetry, and NPR. He is the recipient of McKnight and Minnesota State Arts Board grants, the Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award, and the Emily Clark Balch Prize from Virginia Quarterly Review. His large-scale public artworks include a building projection, a major installation in the Mississippi River, and a virtual reality train ride through Minneapolis-St. Paul. He frequently writes libretti for composer Jake Runestad, the most recent of which was premiered at Kennedy Center. He is the founding Executive and Artistic Director of Motionpoems, a nonprofit production company that has turned more than 120 contemporary poems into short films.

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No One Wants to Clean the Dishes Alex Dodt

& it’s been three weeks now. The sink is a man-made cenote, a ceramic city of sludge.

Tonight, I ate cereal with the cap from a milk carton.I used the statistics on the nutrition label

to paste together biographies —serving sizes as heights and weights — for missing kidsfrom the 90’s. Their pale faces on the carton whisper:

the greatest denial is absence.

The first time I tried surfing, I fellinto a riptide that smuggled me out to sea

where the sun & the moon play tug-of-warwith the hulls of fishermen’s boats & future waveslive in the back of a dolphin’s throat.

As I floated, I made lists of everything I had

ever learned: long division, the French Revolution,how to stop

drop & roll & when to breathe inside the mouth of an unconscious person.

That was when Mom still insisted on cleaningthe dishes herself. After dinner, we handed her our licked-clean plateslike porcelain credit cards & ran into the darkto play hide-and-seek. Now, when I visit,

nurses serve us brittle cuts of turkeyon picnic plates.

She carries a knapsack to every meal, filled with copiesof old recipes, ingredient lists penciled on 2x4” notecards.

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She leaves one on the table for the chef.

Soon, she will forget how she ever made caramel sauceor to not touch a hot plate when it’s put down

or who I am. Then, we can finally eat the familiarmeal for the first time,

talk about how small bites taste differentafter a sip of Riesling, & be freed

from cleaning up, from carting each other around like goldmedalists who can’t let glory go

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fuse oxygen Alex Wildman

notice all the little fibers of broken thoughtstreaming in perfect violence from beneath my tongueI only want to sing in the keys that matter to mebut I only cry in cracked volume

who told Pinocchio to sit in front of the furnace?I’ve been watching him burn slow since my dad diedbut that was forever agoa history embedded in infinite fire

I am now an easy knifea king blade, a handle of weapon

Every day I singAnd I do it only for me

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Ode to the Bi-Annual Starbucks Date Sarah Osborn

& Emma is so good but she doesn’t need me anymore,won’t ride when i’m driving, likes to be behind the wheel so leaving is on her terms.

she says it’s easy to learn to love black coffeewhen you find out you’re lactose intolerant.

you learn to cut your losses, she tells me, do whatever keeps you safe.

me & Emma both got voids but she learned quickerthat filling something empty with more emptinessdoesn’t make it full.

she found what her body couldn’t take & let it go. she cut the bruise off. she grew back.

i am growing back still.

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Short Stories

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Fiction Judge

Matthew Salesses is the author of the novels The Hundred-Year Flood (which was an Amazon Bestseller, Adoptive Families Best Book of 2015 and a Thought Catalog Essential Contemporary Book by an Asian American Writer) and I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying, as well as three forthcoming books, Disappear Doppelgänger Disappear, Craft in the Real World and Own Story: Essays. He is an assistant professor of English at Coe College.

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Dark Water Claire Bathurst

When I was seven years old I almost drowned. I reached for a water skater taunting me just beyond my reach when I tumbled face-first into the muddy river. Slimy tendrils of seaweed wrapped around my legs and chest and pulled me down as I thrashed and grabbed for the boat. The cold water enveloped me, and my chest began to burn. I opened my eyes. There was the dirty water, the seaweed waving in the current, and there, down in the riverbed, a shadow. It stirred, sending clouds of dirt towards the surface, and moved closer. In the few seconds that I saw it, it was titanic, horrible. One melon-sized eye gazed up from the depths. My grandpa seized me, pulled me upward, and then sunlight. All that summer I refused to go near the river and kept my curtains closed so I wouldn’t have to see it. The shadow in the water filled my thoughts, taking me back to the cold, muddy water no matter what I was doing. I created a ritual to keep the monster at bay—whenever I felt it creeping near, I would whisper it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, until it slunk back to its watery cave. As I grew older I forgot all about the monster. I spent my days baking lefse with my grandma, a short and sturdy Norwegian immigrant, and fishing with my grandpa. My grandpa was a retired field biologist and held a reverence for the river. He would slide the oars silently through the water, moving slowly to not disturb the various cranes, beavers, and loons that lived in the river. Sometimes he would rub his binocular lenses on his flannel shirt and squint through the eyepieces, signaling for me to be quiet. “There’s a kingfisher,” he would say, pointing. By the time I was twelve, I could name all the birds that lived near the river and list their habitats, diets, and migratory patterns. What I remember the most about living by the river was the midnight boat trips. On hot summer nights when I couldn’t sleep, my grandpa would sneak into my room with a twinkle in his eye and whisper, “the river is calling, Grace.” And we would leave, making sure the screen door didn’t squeak as we left and ran down to the dock. One late night in July, I decided to rearrange my bookshelves. I moved around my collection of geodes, fossils, animal bones, and dried flowers carefully pasted to cardstock. Next, I moved on to my books. The heat and boredom gradually melted away as I arranged my shabby paperbacks by color. My hands lingered on a particularly worn book. Wildlife of Eastern Minnesota, warped and faded from countless hours in my mother’s backpack. She and my father died in a hiking accident when I was too little to remember. “Grace?” Grandpa stood in the doorway holding a lantern. “You up for a little fun?” I smiled and set down the book. “Let’s go,” I whispered. The night was warm and full of life. Bullfrogs croaked in the tall grass and

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loons cried out on the water. We walked down the path to the river, breathing in the air sweet with honeysuckle and gazing at the sky heavy with stars. Grandpa’s rowboat was sheltered by drooping willow trees by the dock. We sat down with the lantern between us and pushed off into the dark. We didn’t speak as we glided over the smooth black surface. The night held a special kind of magic that didn’t exist during the day, and we both respected its subtle power. The oars cut through the water noiselessly and we drifted further into the stillness. A sharp mourn pierced the air. A loon was close by, but it was too dark to see. As I gazed across the dark water, I remembered the monster I thought I saw nine years ago. “Penny for your thoughts?” Grandpa asked, voice slow and gentle. I slapped a mosquito on my arm. “Do you remember that time I almost drowned?” I asked. “I do. That was one of the scariest moments of my life,” Grandpa said. “It’s amazing you weren’t traumatized by it.” “When I was under the water, I thought I saw a huge shadow. Like a sea monster or something. I was so afraid it would find me and eat me, I had nightmares,” I said. Grandpa slid the oars through the water. By now, the yellow porch light was barely visible. “I believe that you saw something. There’s a whole world out there that hasn’t been discovered yet.” I smiled. “Are you saying I really did see a sea monster?” “Maybe not a monster, but a giant eel or a fish. If you look closely, the river is full of mysteries. That’s what I loved the most about working in the field—finding that hidden side of nature few people get to see.” The silence settled in again and we let the chorus of bullfrogs take over. The lantern illuminated a small circle of water around us. We were headed towards the center of the river where it divided into narrow channels and islets. It was easy to get lost in those channels without an experienced guide. The woods here grew strong and wild, and as we glided down a channel it seemed that we were in the midst of a dark jungle. Grandpa guided the little boat down one passage and the next. He stared ahead into the darkness, pausing to look for an owl or listen to a cricket. Soon we were drifting down the inner passageways of the river, farther than we had ever gone before. The sound of rushing water came from ahead. “Grandpa, do you know where we are?” I asked. “I may have taken a wrong turn,” Grandpa said. “But we’re not lost. At least I hope we aren’t,” he chuckled. The sound of water crashing over rocks was louder. “We’re not heading straight into the rapids, are we?” The rapids were impossible to maneuver through in the daylight. Traveling them in the night was asking for death. “I think the rapids are farther west, but let’s turn back to be safe,” Grandpa said. All was quiet except for the flowing water. I strained my eyes looking for

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signs of the rapids, but it was too dark. Far away, something moved. It looked like a huge shadow, almost as if—the boat wrenched violently to the side, sending a spray of water over my head. The rapids. Grandpa tightened onto the oars as he tried to turn the boat around. The current was too strong and the boat crashed into another deadly rock. Cold water soaked into my T-shirt. I clutched the side of the boat as we flailed down the rapids. Water flashing in the moonlight arced above our heads. In the lantern light, Grandpa’s eyes shone. “Hold on, Grace,” he shouted. Another crash. I screamed and blind panic wriggled into my chest. We were going to die. The boat capsized and the water hit me with a cold shock. Underwater it was silent and I felt the current drag me down. I kicked my sandals off as I struggled toward the surface. My lungs burned. Jagged rocks scraped my legs, but I couldn’t feel the pain. I slammed into a rock, bruising my ribs. The rock was slippery as I pulled myself up, but I finally broke the surface and gasped for air. All around was cold, dark water soaking into my skin and crashing over the rock I clung to. “Grandpa!” I yelled. There was only the water. The bank was only a few yards away. If I kicked off the rock at an angle, I might make it. I paused and took a deep breath. My feet found the side of the stone and I closed my eyes as I pushed off, praying that I wouldn’t bash my head into a rock. It was all over in a few seconds. Somehow, I had managed to reach the bank without getting caught in the current or hitting my head on something. I staggered to my feet, coughing. Sand stuck to my wet skin. I hugged my arms together and stood still, shivering in the warm summer air. “Grandpa?” I called. The word fell through the dark and disappeared. I was alone. The lantern, the boat, and Grandpa were nowhere to be seen, and I was more alone than I had ever been. The dark seemed endless, and I was trapped in the middle of it. Panic gnawed its way into my stomach again. All the days spent fishing and baking lefse drifted away in the current as I felt the weight of death settle down around me. There was no one to help my parents when they were crushed by that landslide years ago, and now there was no one to help my grandpa as he sank down to the bottom of the river. Something shifted in the water. There was a low rumble as if the riverbed itself turned in its sleep. I stood frozen as something huge and shadowy rose out of the rapids and slowly waded through the water. It was covered by shadow, but I could feel the black claws reach towards me, the milky eyes stare into mine. It’s not real, it’s not real. Goosebumps ran up my arms even though the night was warm. The minutes felt like hours. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, or else I’d shatter into a million pieces. Moonlight reflected off the shadow and revealed glimpses of its shape. A milk-white eye set deep in the skull, a rigid jaw lined with needle-like teeth, Grandpa’s pale body at the bottom of the river. My parents bruised and broken under a heap of stones. It’s not real. “Grace?”

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I turned around. Grandpa walked towards me on the bank, holding the lantern. His flannel shirt was torn and muddy, but he was alive. “Grace, are you okay?” Grandpa asked. I ran to him. “Yes, yes, I’m okay.” We embraced in our damp and sandy clothing. The shadow had retreated now and there was no sign that it was ever there. Still, I couldn’t stop shivering as we made our way down the bank to the overturned rowboat. And as we set off into the night again, I kept my eyes on the lantern so I wouldn’t have to look into the water.

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Sanctify H. Bohlinger I flop down on the bed and cough, dust filling the air. Man, I didn’t realize how long it had been since I’d slept in my old bedroom. My once prized oak-framed, floor length mirror was now dirty and worn, a sign of the years which had passed. I found my childhood teddy bear halfway stuffed into a box and grabbed it out instinctively. I rocked it in my arms as I eavesdropped on the harsh and angry whispers of my parents downstairs. “Andrew has lost his damn mind. I absolutely will not stand for this,” my father said in a too-loud whisper. I cringed at his use of my birth name. Man, I really needed something new to call myself. “As long as he’s happy. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal to you. Isn’t that everything you wanted for our child? His happiness?” My mother let out an exasperated sigh. “I know it will take some getting used to, but for God’s sake, Ben, at least try.” My father huffed and puffed, insulted that she would imply anything but. I heard her footsteps stomp toward the stairs and I hurriedly began taking my clothes out of my suitcase and putting them in the dresser drawers. The soft cloth was comforting, soothing the gut-wrenching anxiety my father’s anger instilled in me. “Hi, honey,” my mom said in a sing-song voice. “Would you like to come down for dinner? I made your favorite—meatloaf!” I mulled over the situation I just eavesdropped on. “No, thanks, Mom. Not hungry.” I’m awoken the next day by the cool tones of marimba. My phone was ringing. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I answered it, and Ginger’s sweet voice filled my ears. “How’s it going, sweetheart?” Ginger asks, in her gentle voice. “Have you had time to unpack?” I smile and close my eyes. “Yes, I have, thank you. They took it a little rough, but I’m okay.” “You’re quiet, is everything okay?” I can imagine her worried look, her twirling a lock of auburn hair around her finger. “Yeah. Just hard to be myself here. Kentucky isn’t exactly the trans capital of the world. It’s just hard to believe that anyone here will ever really accept this.” We discuss our previous days and Ginger recounts to me a story about the cats’ shenanigans, swatting at bugs and terrorizing birds outside. This makes me snort with laughter and my hand instinctively covers my grinning face. My mom walks in and I tell Ginger goodbye. She asks who I was on the phone with. “Oh, just Ginger,” I say, smiling sheepishly. “Are we carpooling to the service? I know we had volunteered to help set up.”

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“Yeah, actually, I think Dad wanted to all ride together.” She paused, seemingly trying to figure out how to word her next question. “By the way, what did you plan on wearing?” She finally asked, looking down at her twiddling fingers. I looked up from my phone at her wrinkled, aging hands, avoiding eye contact. “Well, I brought a dress,” I finally reply. “I just—you know, I don’t want to take any attention away from the service, so I…” She trailed off, trying to think of what to say. “If it would make you feel better, I can wear something else. I’m sure it would help the situation with Dad.” I had tears in my eyes. Not wanting her to see, I glanced out the window, watching tiny specks of people trudge through the snow on the streets below. “You know he still loves you, it just…it’s going to take time to get used to, sweetheart. You have to understand, this is difficult for your father.” She stood silently for a moment, then quietly made her way downstairs. I dressed silently and readied myself for the storm which would ensue. The pastor droned on about the immaculate and miraculous birth of Jesus Christ for what felt like hours. I stood up to use the restroom. I could feel eyes follow me to the back of the church, so I hurriedly made my way down the aisle and toward the women’s restroom. The stares were never this scathing back home in California. I missed the security of my home dearly. The soft light and scent of old candles greeted me as I walked through the door, lulling me into a false sense of security. The men’s room never smelled this nice, and I took a little comfort in knowing I would never willingly have to demean myself again by stepping foot in disgusting men’s spaces. I would never miss the uncomfortable, seemingly endless minutes of standing at a urinal with filthy, grunting men surrounding me as we did our business. Oh no, the time for that has passed. Instead, lovely floral scents and lipstick-adorned smiles accompanied the femininity I so admired, rather than the masculinity I held in contempt. I smiled giddily to myself, washing my hands with the cloudy lavender soap. Checking myself in the mirror, I noticed another woman walk in. The realization hits my gut like a stone. ‘Aunt Jenny?’ I think to myself, ‘I haven’t seen her in years.’ I see the realization in her eyes when she finally comes to understand who is standing before her. “A-Andrew?” She says, visibly confused. I cringe at my name but manage to keep it together. I slowly reach for a paper towel and dry my hands. “Hello,” I say, with a smile. What else can you do? Convincing others of where I belong is not exactly my prerogative—nor do I think it would go over too well. I could feel my confidence shrinking by the second. There was a long pause. “N-Nice to see you again,” she stammers, and hurriedly closes herself into a stall. I finally exhale and gather myself to be in the public eye once again. After that awkward fiasco, I hightail it back to my seat in the pew with my parents. The pastor is now reciting the day’s passage, a selection from the book of Galatians. “But when the set time had fully come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, that we might receive adoption to sonship.” I felt

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my father’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my face. I turned to him and tried to smile, tried to show him I’m still me, but he looked away in disgust. My heart fell. It took everything I had in me not to tear up from his blatant rejection. To block the tears, I tried to think of better times, a time when I knew he still loved me. “Dad, go long!” I was twelve years old again, my father and I playing in the yard. He was also tuning up the family car, an old minivan, big enough to fit my parents and me inside. He wiped the grease from his hands and walked toward me, laughing to himself as I ran to get the football I had just thrown. “Come on bud, let’s go inside. I think your mother has some dinner ready for us.” He waved me inside, only stopping me to wipe some dirt off my shoulder. “You’re doing pretty good out there, son. You should try out for the high school team next year.” I smiled and nodded, grateful for the compliment. We headed inside together, the smell of meatloaf greeting us at the door. So much had changed since that day. Now when he looked at me, all he saw was a disappointment. Something to be ashamed of. A son who had failed him. I couldn’t say I blamed him. The service concluded, and we piled back into the car. My mother and I tried our best at some light conversation, but his attitude was oppressive and aloof. We rode in silence most of the way home. Sitting down at the dinner table, everyone was eerily quiet. We prepared to say the prayer, my mother grabbing my right hand. My father hesitated, then gently laid his hand over mine. I smiled at him, trying my best to gain back his affection. He cleared his throat. The best he could muster was a slight nod with downturned eyes. Dinner was quiet, as expected. My mother did her best to bring us together, but I was too nervous to say much other than small gestures of agreement. “Didn’t you like the service today? I thought it was so beautiful; I think they got a new nativity scene. It looks different than the one from last year. Don’tcha think, Ben?” My father wiped his hands on his napkin and cleared his throat. “Yeah, looks new. Beautiful.” He looked at me as he said this, and I smiled, hopeful that he was being sincere. My mother continued, “Oh, and the decorations were so pretty! I’ve always liked the lights and candles they put up for the Christmas season. What do you think, sweetie?” She squeezed my hand. “Uh, yeah. Very beautiful. It was nice visiting again, it’s been a while.” I smiled and nodded at both of them. My dad piped up. “Yeah, it has been a while for you, hasn’t it? Maybe Father Joseph will have some recommendations for churches in California. I’ll have to ask for you.” I offered to do the dishes, if just to be alone for a few minutes and stay in my parents’ good graces. I put my headphones on and tried to think about how I’d be home in just a few days. In the silence between songs, I heard my father raise his voice. I slid one side of my headphones off of my ear and listened intently. “He’s our only son, Rebecca. How am I supposed to let go of that? All

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he’s done since he moved away is distance himself from us and become someone completely different. How am I supposed to just accept that? I miss my son.” He was pacing the living room. I accidentally clanged some dishes together, and his voice grew quiet. “It’s not that I don’t want him around. I just want him to be normal again. This isn’t normal.” “She is just growing up, Ben. I don’t know what this is about either, but maybe we should just try to get along. I know how hard this is for you. It’s hard for me, too.” She walked into the kitchen and I did my best to pretend I hadn’t been listening. I feared my father’s wrath but felt hopeful that maybe he would come around. I didn’t feel I deserved it, but I would be grateful nonetheless. As my mother walked past, I turned around to meet her. Tears in my eyes, I mouthed a ‘thank you.’ She smiled and hugged me for what seemed like forever. I could smell her perfume, a floral scent, and it calmed my fast-beating heart. She grabbed my hand, and we ascended the stairs together and sat on the edge of my bed. “It means the world to me that you are trying,” I whisper, not wanting to make myself upset again. “I just wish he would come around to it, or ask me questions, or even pretend like he knows who I am.” My mom smiled at me and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “You know I will always support you, no matter what.” She rubbed my back while I cried into my hands. “I know this is hard for your dad, but I do think he will come around. He just needs time, sweetheart. You know, this wasn’t something that was around in his generation.” I nodded and wiped the tears from my face. “I appreciate you calling me ‘she.’ I know it’s not an easy switch.” “Well, that’s who you are, isn’t it? I think it’s important that we respect everybody, just like I taught you when you were little.” And just like that, I felt the hope restored in me. I never really questioned the relationship between my mother and me before, but I didn’t realize how on board she would really be with me transitioning. It made my chest ache with a bittersweet love. “Go to sleep for now,” she urged me. “We will sort this all out tomorrow.” She smoothed my hair and kissed my head. I smiled as she sashayed out of my bedroom. Suddenly drowsy from all of the tears, I crawled into my soft, comfortable cocoon of blankets and fell into a deep sleep. Ginger called the next morning to check up on me again. We had been texting sporadically, but I think she was lonely at home by herself. “She really said that? Oh honey, I’m so happy for you!” I could hear the smile in her voice, and it was infectious. “I know it isn’t the best of circumstances, but at least someone is on your side! Did you tell her about the name?” Shit. I had forgotten to bring it up, and at the best time for it, too. “No, I haven’t told her that I want them to pick my name. I just don’t know that my dad will be on board, you know? He keeps giving mixed signals to me and arguing with my mom.” I sighed, exhausted by the emotional turmoil this visit home

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had brought. “I just want him to care about me again, you know?” “Well, I know you don’t want to hear this, but even if he doesn’t get on board with it, I’m sure your mom would be honored. Don’t let him get to you, okay? I know how insecure this makes you.” She knew me too well. Truth be told, I was insecure coming here in the first place. His comments and coldness had only made its grip on me stronger. We said our goodbyes, and I hung up the phone. My father appeared in the doorway as I pressed the ‘end call’ button. Startled, I said hello, uncertain of what was to come next. “Who was that?” He asked, clearly already standoffish. “Ginger, my girlfriend,” I replied. “We met at school.” I held my breath as I awaited his response. He looked at me with a confused expression. “If you like girls, why didn’t you just stay a boy? That doesn’t make any sense.” He turned to walk away, but I called after him. “Who I love is not determined by who I am, Dad. I can explain-” He waved his hands dismissively. “Whatever you want, Andrew. Whatever you want.” Him saying my name felt like a slap to the face. He walked away from me, not even bothering to close the door behind him. I closed the door, sat on my bed and closed my eyes. His words felt like a punch to the gut, like he really did not care to try at all. I wanted so badly to not care how he felt, to not internalize the way he treated me, but my childhood memories of our relationship refused to allow it. I could hear the football game on downstairs—Berkeley versus Brigham Young. It took me back to a time when I never questioned my father’s love for me. I had been applying for colleges for months now, with a lot of success. Unfortunately, though, I hadn’t heard back from the one school I was truly interested in—University of California Berkeley. I was impatiently awaiting my letter and the chance to tell my father, my biggest supporter. One uneventful day, just as I was getting discouraged about the school’s response, I arrived home at my usual time. There, waiting for me, was a sheet cake decorated in Berkeley Blue and California Gold. My dad was there waiting for me, a big, goofy smile on his face. “Congratulations!” He exclaimed in his booming voice. “I’m so proud of you!” Remembering the joy of that day almost made me forget the situation at hand. I wondered if Mom had heard what he said. I didn’t have to wonder long, because shortly after, she came upstairs to get me for breakfast. “Ready for breakfast?” She had on a red apron over her pajamas, on which she had wiped copious amounts of powdered sugar. “Yeah, I am. Hey, mom?” She looked back at me. “I was just thinking about how my name isn’t really a girl’s name, and I was wondering…” I trailed off, uncertain of how to word such an unusual request. “I was wondering if you and Dad had any suggestions.” I could see tears well up in her eyes as she processed what I had said. “Let

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me see if I can find our old baby name book. We can sit down after breakfast and take a look. How’s that sound?” I smiled and nodded. Together, we descended the stairs into the sweet and aromatic kitchen. My father was waiting for us at the table. He had already begun eating and was just finishing up by the time we got downstairs. He looked up at us, raised an eyebrow, and looked back at his plate. “I’m going into town this morning. I’ll be gone a while,” he said, gathering his plate and silverware. “Ben, Andrew wanted to spend some time with you and me. I was going to get out the baby books.” My dad nodded his head, but he didn’t turn back to look at us. “I heard,” he said, gruffly. “Not interested.” “That’s fine,” I said, finally finding my voice. “We can handle it without you.” Both of my parents turned to me with looks of surprise on their face. I picked up a plate and began filling it with my breakfast. “No one can make you do anything you don’t want to. Don’t worry, I’ll be gone before you get back.” After a few moments, he finally made his way out the door and into the snowy driveway. My mother was quiet for a long time. “You know,” she finally said. “Andy can be a girl’s name.” After breakfast, she brought out the baby name book they had picked my birth name from, some twenty-five years ago. She laid it gently upon the table and opened it to the girls’ section. I sat across from her as we scanned the pages. As promised, when we were done, I packed my things and headed to the airport. My mother cried when I left, but I promised to fly her out sometime soon. She could meet Ginger, our cats, see what life can be like when you begin to love and accept yourself. Waiting in the airport, I decided to grab a cup of coffee to keep me awake on my flight home. I stood in line for a few minutes, scanning the menu for whatever seemed the most comforting. “Hi, can I help you?” the barista asked, a beautiful young woman in a green Starbucks uniform. I glanced down at her name tag and smiled. “Elizabeth? That’s what my mom named me, too.”

•

24

Inertia Arthur Arboleda

“Are you Castor Cruz ?” asks a man who I believe is a security guard. The more I look at him, however, the more I realize he isn’t. It’s probably because of his haircut. Security guards have a certain kind of haircut. “Yup, I’m Castor. Should I just go in here?” I ask as I point at the door he’s supposedly guarding. He nods and tells me, “Sit and wait for your session to start.” “Alright, awesome, thanks,” I say nervously. I realize any three of those words would have sufficed for a one word response. I walk into a fairly small looking office space with your regular office furniture culprits: a desk, chairs, and a stock photo framed for motivation. I look around the office but there’s honestly not much to look at. I look at the framed stock photo, and it’s hilarious. The picture is a bunch of fists in the air with YOU DID IT typed in Times-New Roman. Honestly, this would’ve been one of the rare occasions that comic sans would’ve actually made something better. The formal typography on the cheesy photo looks kind of awkward. The thought leaves my head as I hear footsteps coming from the direction of the door. The door opens and a businesswoman walks in. I should really stop profiling people based on attire. This woman can be anything she wants to be. It just so happens that she’s wearing a navy blue blazer, black pants, and is holding a clipboard. It honestly might just be the clipboard. “Oh wow, what a small room,” she says cheerfully, but unimpressed. Her eyes find her way to me, and she brightens up the space with her smile. “Hi, you must be Castor!” She eagerly walks over and shakes my hand. “Yep, that’s me. And you are?” “My name is Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.” She sits behind the desk and lays the clipboard flat. “Okay Castor, I have to be honest with you,” she says as she shakes out her hands, “I’m a little nervous. It’s my first day on the job, so I’m sorry if things don’t go a hundred percent as planned.” “Oh no,” I say, trying to put her at ease, “Don’t worry about it.”She smiles at me with pursed lips and says, “Thanks, I really appreciate that.” “Well, we already know you’re Castor, but I just need to ask you some questions to confirm it’s you, okay? I don’t want to be giving out the wrong information.” She picks the clipboard back up and starts going down a list of my information. “Last name Cruz?” “Yes. Castor Cruz.” “Twenty-three years old ?”

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“Yep.” “College student?” “Mmm hmm.” “Pacific Islander?” “Filipino.” “Family ?” “My mom, sister, no dad.” “Significant others?” “Ex-boyfriend.” “Great,” she says, “Well, not great. I’m sorry, but this appointment is definitely yours. You can only imagine how awkward it would’ve been if we got your information mixed up.” She chuckles, and it’s kind of adorable. “Yeah, I guess that would be pretty bad,” I say, chuckling back. “Okay, Castor, so from what it says here on my file, you fell asleep driving home from work, crashing into a divider, killing you. Is that correct?” “. . .” I open my mouth to speak. “. . .” I close my mouth and replay her words in my head. “Is that correct?” I don’t know, is it? She can read me. She knows I have no idea what’s going on. “Don’t you remember anything that happened before this meeting?” I shake my head. “Do you know how you got here?” “I don’t...know. I was, uhm...I thought this was my therapy session...” “Oh no,” Charlie says, clearly distressed. “ I died?” “I’m sorry, honey. I thought you knew,” Charlie says as she frantically scans her clipboard again. “Oh, I know what it is. It says here that you suffered a tremendous amount of head trauma before you died. It’ll probably take you awhile for everything to come back to you. It’s very common here. I’m sorry I totally missed that.” I think back and realize I can’t...at all. I don’t remember anything before walking into the room. “I can’t believe I died in a car accident,” I whisper to myself. Charlie looks back at her clipboard. “Well, specifically, and ironically, it was your airbag that killed you. You suffered head damage, but ultimately it was your airbag and a small amount of metal.” Killed you. Those words are harsh. Charlie continues, “It says you were supposed to bring your car to the dealership for a faulty airbag but you never did.” She says this in a tone as if she’s tiptoeing around me, as if she doesn’t want to put any blame on me. I know it is my fault, though; I should’ve brought that car in for maintenance a long time ago. Damn, that’s what got me?

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An airbag? I got maybe four letters in the mail telling me about how the airbag’s faulty pressure will send shards of shrapnel flying towards me. I let my head fall after realizing the gravity of the situation. “Oh fuck, I died...” “I’m so sorry, this is my first time.” “Uh, it’s okay,” I say even though it definitely is not. “This is my first time dying.” This reminds me of that awkward framed stock photo. I look at the stock photo again with a deeper sense of context. I stare at it in confusion. YOU DID IT! I point at the awkward stock photo and say, “So, like, is this meant to be like congrats, you died?” “It’s corporate, all the rooms have them.” I’m trying to remember the last moments of my life, but I just remember being angry. That’s not good. Who wants to die angry? “So what is this,” I ask nervously, “Is this heaven or hell?” “Oh honey,” she says nonchalantly but also kind of endearingly. “Neither. It’s just business.” Oh cool, that’s great. This one ultimatum in life I was led to believe everyone gets judged for just doesn’t exist. It’s just business. “So I guess you’re wondering what you’re doing here in this office, right?” Charlie asks. I study her again. She doesn’t look so much like a businesswoman anymore. She looks more like a therapist now. “I’m here because you’re supposed to help me?” She nods her head. “First of all,” she says as she clasps her hands together in a form of sincerity. “I’m so sorry,” she says for the fourth time or so. I’m still trying to take in the whole dying thing. I don’t think I’m going to get over the whole dying thing. “Are you here to tell me what happens next ?” “Close. I’m here to show you.” She stands up, pushes the chair in, and starts pacing a little bit. “I can only help you if you’re completely honest. Can you do that?” Can I be honest ? I mean, I died, so there’s no reason not too. “Yeah, I can try.” I say. She stops in front of me and smiles. “Good, let’s get started then. What moment do you regret the most in your life?” Oh wow, maybe I wasn’t ready after all. I stare into space for a moment until Charlie calls back to me asking, “Are you okay?”

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“Yeah, I think I remember how I died,” I tell Charlie. “Okay, talk to me about it.” My chest tightens, and I don’t know if I can put what I feel into words. I just sit and stare for a bit. My breathing speeds up a bit, and I think I might start to cry. I don’t like crying, but I do it a lot. “Are you okay?” “Yeah I just need a second.” I hunch over for a bit and try to control my breathing. I feel the tears welling up. I can still cry even if I’m dead!? This really sucks. I do a breathing technique Chase taught me once to deal with anxiety. I cross my arms and fold them in towards me and breathe in and out. I repeat the process, breathing in and out, slowing my breath with each one. The tension in my chest starts to recede. I bring myself back down, and I’m calm again. Or, well, as calm as I can get right now. I use this opportunity to just get the words out there and get over that stress before the anxiety comes back. “My boyfriend and I got into an argument on the phone while I was driving home.” “What was the argument about?” Now that I’m dead and nothing really matters, it’s almost embarrassing that I held onto something so useless. “If I had to summarize it, he wanted me to quit my job, move on with college, and come out of the closet.” Charlie raises an eyebrow at the amount of content I just threw at her. I can tell she doesn’t know where to begin. Honestly, I didn’t know either. Our relationship was a lot of things. We kept trying to talk about our problems and things would get better, but it would only be temporary. We never really ever solved anything. Or, well, I never really solved anything. Chase usually knew what to do. Chase had the answers. I just never budged. I was comfortable. I didn’t want to find a new job, I didn’t want to move to a new city for school, and I didn’t think I was going to ever come out. Looking at all of it now, it all seems so...petty. “Hey, I have a question,” I say to Charlie. “What is it?” “You said I have to be completely honest with my answer, right?” “Yes, I did.” “What if I don’t know what it is specifically? I have so many regrets, what if I choose the wrong one?” I know I’m Charlie’s first case and she might not have all the answers, but I need some guidance. “You’ll know.” Well, that was incredibly useful. She can tell that I’m not satisfied with her answer, so she continues. “I’m sorry; that was incredibly vague. When I died, and I was sitting where you are, I knew instantly what my moment was.” “How could you be so sure?”

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“Because it’s where all my problems stemmed from. Everything traced back to this one moment in my life.” That was a lot more useful than her previous answer. “Thanks. Give me another moment to think about it.” “Take your time, Hun.” I clasp my hands together and do my best to concentrate. Silence fills the room. If I have to pinpoint a specific moment, I better get it right. I remember what Charlie said earlier and try to find where everything started. When did I start losing momentum? Then it comes to me. “I know what it is,” I say. “Good, tell me about it, in as much detail as you can remember.” “Chase and I were driving home.” “Oh no, another car.” “Well this one doesn’t end in a crash. Well, it kind of does. A metaphorical crash. We were driving back from our college campus trips. Both of us had gotten into the same universities so we did kind of like a little road trip to visit all of them and see which one we liked the best. The one we ended up liking the best was San Diego, and Chase was really pumped for it. He loved the beach, and surfing was something he did a lot of back home in Hawaii, so it was perfect for him. He was always talking about where we should look for housing, what kind of jobs we can look for, all the new friends we would meet. It sounded great at first, but the closer we got to that reality, the more scared I got.” “Scared?” Charlie asks. “Scared of what?” “Change. I loved having the same group of friends, I enjoyed doing the same kind of work. I liked having things be familiar. I just wanted to live in the moment. The problem was that I wanted to live in the same moment over and over again.” “That’s a fear a lot of people deal with. It gets the best of people sometimes.” “Yeah, well, that’s not the worst of it. A majority of people don’t have to deal with hating change and being a closeted gay at once.” “Oh.” “Yeah. I loved Chase, but I wasn’t ready to come out yet. He told me it was okay and that times have changed, but that’s the thing. I don’t like change.” “So how did this car ride end?” I think about the car ride again. How stupid was I? How stupid was the whole thing, actually? It’s not fair. I realize now that this one mistake did change the rest of my life forever. I’m a walking waste of an opportunity. “I ended up not going to any of the colleges I got accepted to. I made that decision after we had a big fight in the car ride home. I stayed in my hometown while Chase moved all the way down south, eight hours away. We were still together, but it was the beginning of the end, pretty much.”

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Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’m so stupid. I sold myself short because I was scared. I was scared to live my life. Look at me now, I don’t even have a life anymore. “Is this the moment you regret the most?” Charlie asks. “Yes, no question about it.” Charlie claps her hands once, almost like a hurrah. “We can finally get somewhere. That was a lot of back and forth dialogue,” Charlie says while giving a soft chuckle, almost as if to undermine that fact that we weren’t just talking about a moment I regret the most. She’s really good at lightening up the mood. “Let’s get going,” Charlie says. I stand, but I’m confused. “Where are we going?” I ask. “We’re going to that memory. The moment you regret the most.” “We can do that? That’s possible?” “The afterlife exists. I think that’s a strong testament that anything is possible.” Charlie walks over to the other side of the room where a white wooden door has now appeared. I definitely remember this door not being here earlier. It looks like it doesn’t belong in this room. Charlie opens the door and it’s filled with darkness. Darkness that goes on forever. “Alright, Hun, go on in,” Charlie holds the door open for me and gestures for me to walk through. “Umm.” “It’s okay, it’s perfectly fine. You’re already dead, what’s the worst that could happen?” I walk through and look back, and Charlie gestures me to go further. I keep walking. I keep walking until all I see is darkness, and I start to panic. What if Charlie is a total liar, and she just sent me down to hell? I mean, she did say anything was possible. Through the darkness shines a small light. The light pierces through my eyelids, and it takes me a while to open them. I open my eyes, and I’m in a car. My eyes are still taking a while to adjust so I try to look around. “Hey babe, you’re finally awake.” I know that voice. It’s Chase. Hearing his voice makes me want to cry, but nothing’s coming out. I try to move my head but it doesn’t budge. What’s happening? All of a sudden my head moves on its own. “Hi babe,” I say. But I didn’t say it. Or, well, I don’t think I did. My arm starts moving towards his, and I find his hand. I’m not doing any of this. I mean, I’m not complaining, but it’s not me. My eyes finally adjust to the light and I’m looking at his face. He’s so handsome. I missed you so much. I feel like crying again, but nothing comes. “So have you thought about changing your mind?” Chase asks. Oh no. I remember exactly where this is going. I’m not living this moment,

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I’m reliving it. I can’t change anything. No, this isn’t fair. I want to say yes. Say yes, dammit! “C’mon babe, not this again. Can’t we just enjoy the ride home?” I say. Fuck. Chase bites his lip again, just as I remembered, knowing this is where we start our argument. After this moment, our relationship turns cold. After this, my life begins to slow to a stop. He becomes disappointed in me, he’ll start to see that I lost my drive. This is where I begin to lose momentum. Suddenly, we’re not driving anymore. I look around to see that we’ve stopped in the middle of the road. I realize I can finally move my own body, and I look to Chase. He isn’t moving. We’re frozen in time. “So how much did that hurt?” I’m shocked to hear Charlie’s voice, and I find her sitting in the back seat. “What’s happening, Charlie?” “I need you to feel this. I need you to feel the regret. Do you feel it?” I nod my head. “I want to change it.” I start crying for real. Charlie smiles, “Good, hold on to this feeling. Hold onto it for dear life.” I Charlie raises her hand and starts twirling her hand counter clockwise. I look around and see we’re going backwards on the road. No, not just backwards on the road, but in time. Chase rewinds, and it honestly looks a little funny. “What’s happening?” I ask. “You’re getting another chance, Castor.” Impossible. There’s no way. “So I didn’t die?” “Oh no, you did die. In your last timeline they’re currently holding your funeral.” “My last timeline? So this is some time traveling thing now?” “Not exactly. Think of it as you getting an unlimited amount of chances.” “Chances to do what?” “To live a fulfilled life. One in which you don’t die early. One where you live happily ever after.” “Wait, so are there a bunch of different versions of me in the afterlife?” “Not exactly. Once you live your fulfilled life and you enter the afterlife for the last time, you’ll regain all of your other experiences as well.” “That’s very confusing.” “I know, I’m sorry. Don’t worry about that, though. You’re getting another chance at this.” I nod as I think I understand what’s happening. I get to keep trying until I get it right. “This is important, though,” Charlie says. “When I let time run its course again, you will forget everything that happened right after you died.” I’m alarmed and worried by this. “Won’t I just forget everything and mess it up all over again?’ I ask. “That’s why I needed you to pick this crucial event. The moment that

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counts. Let’s hope the moment you regret the most is heavy enough for you to feel in this timeline.” I get it now. “That’s why you need me to hold onto this feeling of regret? So I can take it with me to this new timeline and hopefully fix my mistakes?” “Exactly,” Charlie says. “Will I see you again?” I ask Charlie. “Oh, definitely,” she says smiling back at me. I smile but then realize this means I’ll end up seeing her when I die again. “Are you ready?” she asks. “Do you have any final questions?” I think I’m ready. There’s so much I want to ask, but the feeling of regret is fleeting. “I’m ready.” I smile at Charlie, and I say, “Thank you.” Through the darkness shines a small light. The light pierces through my eyelids, and it takes me awhile to open them. I open my eyes, and I’m in a car. My eyes are still taking a while to adjust, so I try to look around. “Hey babe, you’re finally awake.” It’s Chase. “Hi, babe,” I say back as I smile. My arm starts moving towards his, and I find his hand. My eyes finally adjust to the light, and I’m looking at his face. He has such a handsome face. “So, have you thought about changing your mind?” Chase asks. I look at his face, and he’s looking back at me for an answer. I look at Chase. I look at Chase past all the anxiety and fear. I look past all of that. I think about how much I love him and how much he loves me. Suddenly I can’t see anything else except for him. I smile at him. I smile at him, and I nod. All the worry on Chase’s face melts away, and he smiles back at me, too. I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes mine back as I feel the momentum of this moment pushing me faster and farther than I’ve ever gone in my life.

•

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One-ActPlays

33

Playwriting Judge

Dare Clubb is associate professor of playwriting, dramatic literature, and theory at the University of Iowa and is co-head of the Iowa Playwrights Workshop. He has taught at Princeton University, Barnard College, the New School for Social Research, and Jawaharlal Nehru University, and was a University of Iowa Faculty Scholar from 2009 to 2012. The Yale Repertory Theatre, Juilliard, and the O’Neill National Playwrights Conference have performed his plays. He received an Obie for his play Oedipus in 1999.

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War Within Ismerari Jaramillo

Characters:HENRY: father, recent veteranCHARLIE: son, twelveOLIVIA: mother

Setting:Typical American Home

Time:3 months after the Iraq War

The stage represents Henry’s room. There is an open closet where clothes are tumbled all over the floor. There is a small child dressed in a clearly oversized army uniform looking through the closet. He grabs a black box, opens it, and takes out the gun inside. He goes to the mirror pointing the gun, making gunshot noises and yelling out commands. He trips and accidentally shoots his ankle.

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

Gunshot

Child cries.

Was that my gun? (HENRY runs into the room.)

Where’s Charlie? (OLIVIA runs into the room.) Oh my God!

Charlie, what the hell? Are you okay?

I’m sorry, Dad.

God damn it, Charlie. (He picks up the gun, puts the safety on, and places it back in the black box.)

(kneels next to CHARLIE) D-Don’t worry, sweetie. Everything is going to be fine.

That’s right. (HENRY puts the black box up high in his closet and shoves things around.) Ugh, Charlie you messed up my whole closet. Where’s my aid equipment?

OLIVIA takes out her phone from her pocket and begins to dial. HENRY hears

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HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

this and turns around immediately.

What are you doing?

(stands up) What do you mean what am I doing? I’m calling the ambu-lance.

And why the hell are you doing that? (gets right in front of OLIVIA, towering over her)

So the doctors can come help Charlie.

You have a doctor right here. I’m going to help him.

He needs a professional.

HENRY slaps the phone out of her hand.

Henry!

I’m certified to treat wounds, Olivia. (He points to a framed certificate on the wall.) Don’t ever call me unprofessional again, is that clear?

But this is our son we’re talking about.

(goes back to his closet and continues searching) Exactly. If anyone’s treating him it’s going to be me. He deserves the best skills.

That you don’t ha—

(softly grabbing his mother’s leg) It’s okay, Mom. I trust Dad to help me.

Oh, honey.

Here it is! (He opens a white box and takes out gauze and sanitizing wipes. He begins to press the wipes on the wounded area.) This is going to sting.

Ahh, it burns!

Henry, what are you doing to him?

I’m trying to prevent infection.

Stop it! He’s in pain. We need to get him to the hospital.

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No we don’t. I can stop the bleeding. (wraps gauze tightly around the son’s ankle) See? It’s not bleeding anymore. He just has to rest his leg and keep it elevated. (He carries CHARLIE on to the bed and puts a pillow under his ankle.) Why the hell did you go digging in my closet for a gun? That shit’s a mess now.

I’m sorry, Dad. I just wanted to try to impress you.

And you think getting yourself shot was going to do that?

No, it just happened.

Of course it did. You don’t know how to properly handle a gun. I have rules in this house for a reason, Charlie. This is what happens when you break them.

Henry, stop yelling at him!

Oh, you think he deserves a cookie for this, Olivia?

He deserves to go to the hospital.

You and your damn hospital. I did not go through medical training to not know how to heal a simple gun wound. You think I didn’t do this a million times in Iraq?

I don’t care what you did in Iraq. This isn’t a random soldier. This is our son. I’m calling the ambulance.

No, you’re not.

Yes, I am.

OLIVIA runs and picks up the phone. HENRY grabs her arm.

I told you there’s no need for an ambulance.

Let go of my arm.

Only if you promise you won’t call.

All I’m going to promise is that I will do what it takes to help my son.

That doesn’t include calling a hospital.

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

37

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

I think it does.

I know it doesn’t. I have things under control, okay?

I don’t think you do.

Well, who the hell are you to be the judge of that?

His mother, now let go of me, and let me do things right.

No! (pins her against the wall)

Ow! Henry, you’re hurting me.

Stop it, I’m fine, okay! (grunts) Just stop.

(lets go of OLIVIA) See? He’s fine.

(rubbing her arm, which is now turning purple) What is wrong with you? Can’t you see he’s still in pain?

He’s a man. He has to learn to deal with pain like a man.

He’s a boy.

I’m fine, Mom. Really. It’s okay. I have to learn to be a man like Dad said.

That’s right, son. You have to learn to be tough, and that’s sir to you, got it?

I will, sir. I’ll be tough just like you.

No, this is not okay. How could you have been so irresponsible to leave your gun somewhere Charlie could get it?

Don’t try to blame this on me. I have rules to keep this house in order. (stands in front of CHARLIE) Now if Charlie here had followed these rules, this wouldn’t have happened, would it?

No, sir.

Did you learn your lesson?

38

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

Yes, sir.

And will this incident ever be repeated?

No, sir.

Stop that. Charlie, just tell me, honey. How did this happen?

I just wanted to see all his military stuff, but then I kept finding more and searching even more, and then I found a box with the gun in it.

Did the box have a lock on it?

No.

Really, Henry? You couldn’t have even put a lock on a box that has a whole gun in it?

Well, when I make rules, I expect everyone to follow them. (turns to CHARLIE) I shouldn’t have to lock it because you shouldn’t be disrespecting my authority and breaking my rules.

O-Of course not, sir. I’ll never do it again, I promise.

Oh, I’ll make sure of that. (steps close to CHARLIE)

Get away from him, and stop trying to put this all on him. You’re just irresponsible. I should call the police and report you.

No, Mom. Dad wasn’t irresponsible. It was my fault. Don’t call the police.

Oh, sweetie. Don’t blame yourself. Your father deserves to be locked up.

(grabbing OLIVIA’S shirt sleeves) Locked up, huh? That’s what I deserve because you think I’m irresponsible? I was in a war for you and this whole country, does that sound irresponsible to you?

It sounds irresponsible to me that you can’t keep your own weapons put away safely.

I already told you I shouldn’t have to. Don’t make me repeat myself.

39

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

Of course you have to. Kids are curious, don’t you know that? And let go of me!

(lets go and marches back to CHARLIE) Well, my son is going to learn to stop being so fucking curious, isn’t that right?

Y-yes, sir.

You can’t just make him stop being a kid like that.

No, he’s right, Mom. I shouldn’t break rules. If this is how I had to learn that, it’s okay.

Good job, son. That mentality makes for a good soldier.

Really? Thanks, Dad. I mean, sir.

(fixing her sleeves) No, that’s not—Henry, I need to speak to you.

About what?

Just come here.

OLIVIA and HENRY stand outside the door.

What is the matter with you?

What do you mean?

That. Everything that just happened in there. What was that all about?

All I did was my job.

And what exactly is that? Treating your family like crap?

Crap? I healed him in there! The least I would expect is a simple thank you, but no. All I get is an ungrateful wife bitching at me.

I can’t believe you just said that to me.

I said how it is.

I shouldn’t even let Henry be around you. I don’t want him to turn into another you.

40

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

And what is that, huh? A well-respected veteran. You should feel lucky if he turns out anything like me.

I’d never feel lucky to have another crazy violent monster in my life.

What the hell did you call me?

You heard me, or are you deaf?

(pushes OLIVIA so hard, she falls on the ground) Disrespectful bitch, I’ll show you a violent monster.

Look what you’ve turned into. Why can’t you just be the old Henry again?

What, weak and pathetic?

Kind and loving. And just...human. (She puts her hands on her face and starts sobbing.)

(hard breathing steadies, and he stares at OLIVIA for a few seconds. He brushes his hands through his hair in frustration and whispers “fuck.” He gets on his knee to level with OLIVIA.) Don’t cry, Liv.

(raises head) Liv? You haven’t called me that since you left.

I know. (He brushes her hair away from her face.) Look, we can make this work out, okay?

How?

I don’t know. (He helps her up.) But we can figure it out, right?

(Looks at her bruised arm and takes a deep breath) I don’t know. We can talk about that later. Let’s go check on Charlie.

Okay.

(They walk back into Charlie’s room.)

Oh my God, Charlie.

Holy shit.

41

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

HENRY:

OLIVIA:

CHARLIE:

HENRY:

Charlie. Charlie! Are you okay? Can you hear me? You’re so pale.

(grumbling lightly)

Oh my God, your ankle. It’s bleeding again.

Fuck, the gauze loosened? But how? I tightened it so well. There’s no way that could have happened. Charlie, were you messing with the gauze?

Really? You’re accusing him? I can’t believe you. This is your fault. You obviously don’t know how to do anything right. Oh, dear Charlie.

I (grunts) have to be (grunts) tough.

No, Charlie. Not like this. I knew I should have called the ambulance. (looks at HENRY) I can’t believe I listened to you. You’re insane!

This isn’t my fault! I don’t know how this happened. I did everything according to—

According to what? Military procedure? Get your fucking head out of the war, Henry. Ugh, I’m taking him to the hospital myself, and don’t you dare try to stop me. (She lifts CHARLIE from the bed.)

Here, let me carry him.

Get the hell away from us.

(breathy) I’m sorry. I just wanted to be like you, sir.

They exit, slamming the door behind them. Henry jumps at the loud slam of the door and begins breathing heavily, almost as if struggling.

No. How? (He puts his hands on his head.) How did this happen? I did everything right, everything, everything. Ahh, I can’t think clearly. What if it was my fault? No, it can’t be. I never mess up. (turns and catches his reflection in the mirror) No, I didn’t do it, I swear. Stop it. Shut up, shut up! (Punches the mirror breaking a million pieces of glass onto the floor) Ahh! I killed another one. What am I going to do? The lieutenant, he’ll hate me. They’ll all hate me. I’ll get kicked out. No, this can’t happen. (He takes the certificate off the wall and clutches it.) I earned this. All of this. (He goes to his closet, picks up one of his uniform coats, and puts it on, feeling the cloth.) They can’t take it from me, it’s mine. (He digs in his closet for more

42

uniforms and his aid kit.) It’s all mine. I deserve it. (HENRY accidentally knocks over the black metal box. He turns around at the thud, gasping.) You can’t take it from me! (He realizes no one is there and looks down to see the box. He pauses and stares at it. He slowly opens it, holds the gun in his hand, and takes the safety off. He places the gun against his temple with his shaky hand, while the other still holds the certificate tightly. He pulls the trigger.)

Gunshot.

•

43

Banana Smoothie Republic Rachael Sage Payne

Characters:LISA: A young woman in her late teens or 20sSHANE: A young man in his late teens or 20s

SceneA brightly colored juice bar at midday. A menu hangs on the wall behind the counter, and a table and a couple of chairs sit near the front of the establishment. A basket or two of various fruits sits on the counter as does a cordless phone. Two blenders sit on opposite ends. Beachy music plays softly in the background. On the front of the counter, a handwritten sign announces “STAFF FAVORITES! LISA: Escape to Paradise & SHANE: Cherry BOMBoozled.”

TimeThe 1990s

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

As the curtain rises, LISA stands behind the counter, wearing an apron and thumbing through a magazine. She tears out a photo of a beach and tapes it up where she can see it. She looks at it wistfully, as if imagining she’s there.

The phone rings. LISA answers, cheerily.

Island Dreams. This is Lisa...Oh, you’re thinking of Juice Jugglers in the mall across town. No problem. Have a dreamy day!

She puts the magazine aside and starts wiping the counter.

A few moments later, SHANE bursts in, looking disheveled, unkempt, and anx-iously distracted. LISA watches with interest as he grabs an apron, puts it on, and begins washing dishes, dropping a glass on the floor. The sound of glass shattering.

Damn!

Hey, are you okay?

44

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

(He begins cleaning up the mess.) Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine.

Are you sure? Cause you don’t look fine. In fact...you look like you slept in your car.

I didn’t sleep anywhere! I mean, I didn’t sleep.

The phone rings.

Hold that thought. (Answering the phone, cheerily) Island Dreams; this is Lisa...Oh, you’re thinking of Smoothie Sultans. It’s over in the West Mall. Sure, have a dreamy day! (To SHANE, more seriously) Shane, what’s going on with you? You’ve been late every day this week, cutting out early. Look, I haven’t said anything, but I can’t keep covering for you.

It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.

Look, Shane, I’m not trying to be nosey, it’s just...I don’t even see you anymore except for here. It’s like, you just disappeared. And now you won’t tell me what’s up when something is clearly up.

The phone rings. SHANE beats LISA to answer it.

Island Dreams. Shane, at your service!...One Monkey Goes Bananas...One Escape to Paradise. Got it. We’ll have that ready for you in five.

He hands LISA an order slip. Then, clearly racing each other, they each turn to a blender to make one of the drinks speedily, then each slams a cup on the counter simultaneously.

I win. So what’s up?

(Sighs. Then looks around nervously.) Okay, but I need your word that you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.

Come on, Shane, who would I tell?

No one. Ever. Not even a hint. (He pauses, dramatically.) Swear on the life of Bunny the Vampire Slayer.

Don’t bring an innocent rabbit into this!

Swear it.

45

LISA:

LISA:

LISA:

SHANE:

Okay, okay, I swear it. Shane, what the hell is going on?

The phone rings. They stand, staring each other down, each waiting for the other to answer the phone as the tension builds. LISA finally relents and answers the phone, sounding annoyed.

Island Dreams. This is Lisa...(Noticeably startled, changing her tone) Oh! Yes, hello, sir...Yes, sir, business is dreamy...Right now, sir?...Of course. No problem. Right away, sir! (She hangs up.)

(to SHANE) That was corporate. they need a fruit inventory. Can you keep an eye on things up here for a few minutes?

SHANE makes an exaggerated gesture showing he’s “keeping his eye” on things. LISA, unconvinced, exits to the back of the shop carrying the cordless phone with her.

SHANE begins anxiously pacing, clearly lost in his thoughts and disturbed again. He catches sight of LISA’s tropical beach picture from the magazine, takes it down and stares at it. Finally, he addresses the audience.

My whole childhood was spent dreaming of getting out of here... moving to some big city somewhere. Seeing things. Becoming somebody. God, it sounds so cliché. But, Christ! Can you blame me? Can you blame anyone who grows up in a plastic place like this where every road leads to a plastic mall, and every mall is just the same stores and the same people as the next one? Just walking around, looking at the same stuff all the time, thinking that’s the whole world! I mean, you’d have to get out before you could even fathom another dream, right? All people dream of here is what they see plastered in front of their faces 24 hours a day. What they get told to dream about. Dreams of what to buy. Dreams of what to eat. Dreams of how to look like somebody else. Dreams of making it up onto one of those stupid billboards or being on some stupid TV commercial just so you can tell people how great the new burger-inside-a-taco is. It’s crazy. Who would create a soulless place like this? Seriously, who is responsible for this... this Twilight Zone? Well, I got so curious I started trying to find out. I couldn’t believe it when all my reading, all those hours skipping class and hiding in the stacks at the school library, actually led me to one guy. The one guy who dreamed this whole place up. Not this place, I mean, but, like, “Everytown USA.” Mallsville. The American phenomenon of the indoor mall. Of course, (gesturing around himself) this wasn’t how his dream started out. I mean, this guy was an honest-to-god architect with a vision! And you know what else? He hated cars. He wanted walkable

46

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

cities for pedestrians—and this was back in the fifties! He wanted to make American cities more European, like, where people could walk around without car traffic, enjoy public spaces. Sounds pretty great, right? His first malls were actually “open-air.” Then, I don’t know what happened, but the guy ended up designing the first indoor mall. Funny thing is, in the end, this was the idea took off and lots of indoor malls started being built everywhere by all these big development companies. And they weren’t dreaming of Europe, if you know what I mean. Well, the architect, he hated it. (Laughs.) He said they “bastardized” his idea—whoever “they” are. I don’t know, man, but somebody decided to make these places where all you can do is drive to one place and then drive to another, and every direction leads to some Godforsaken mall, a parking lot full of cars, and floors and floors of Nike stores and Cinnabons and all the other stuff they tell you you’re supposed to like. TVs everywhere telling you what’s cool, what’s not. You can’t escape it. (Pauses) So, I just started looking for ways out. I don’t remember when I started looking, but I guess I just figured it should be easy, right? Just get in your car and drive straight outta here. But, I swear to god, there’s no road that gets out of here. None. It’s like all these highways that just loop back over each other, and you keep missing your exit and driving in circles, and, well... maybe there is no exit, you know? Maybe this was always the reality. You’ve been designed in. You’re being fed. You’re being entertained. Most people might never even notice. But what happens if... what happens if you do?

LISA re-enters, talking on the cordless phone.

Yes, twelve pineapples...Yes, that’s everything...You have a dreamy day, too, sir. Bye-bye. (She hangs up, scribbling on a clipboard.)

Suddenly, SHANE grabs her.

Lisa, I found something. (LISA starts to respond but SHANE interrupts. He lets go of her and continues.) I mean, I think I did. I mean, I found something, but I haven’t proven that it is what I think it is.

What are you blathering about? What did you find?

(Dramatically) A way out.

A way out of what?

(Gesturing around him) This! Everything! (He grabs her again.) Listen...I moved out of my parents’ house a couple of months ago.

47

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

I know. I tried calling. They said they didn’t know where you were staying. Shane, are you homeless?

(Letting go of her) What? No! Well, not exactly—but I might be soon. (Grabbing her again) Listen, I found a place. I think it’s...I think that maybe no one was supposed to find it. Only I did find it. That’s why you can’t tell anyone. Except...(He lets go of her.) I think someone already knows. (Grabs her again) Lisa, I think I might be in trouble. Like serious trouble.

Shane, what place? Where? Why would you be in trouble? What kind of trouble? What are you talking about?

(He lets go of her.) Okay, okay, listen. It started a couple months ago. I was doing my usual wandering around, just looking, you know?

(Sounding disappointed) Yeah, I know. When are you going to stop chasing your tail looking for things that aren’t real? (LISA holds up some fruit.) This is real, Shane. I’m real.

That’s just it, Lisa. I’m telling you, I found something that proves what I’ve been saying. Or I’m close to proving it, anyway. Listen to me. I was wandering around, and I ended up on the south end of the fourth floor... you know, where Jurassic Juice is? Well, there’s this weird bathroom up there—unmarked and kind of tucked behind a corner. I don’t even think anyone ever goes in there. And I noticed that the last stall was all taped closed with that yellow tape, you know, like a crime scene or something. And there was this weird silver ventilation tube coming out of the stall and going up through the ceiling all covered with this weird tarp. But the tarp was kind of falling down in one corner. So I crawled under that stall door to get a look and—it sounds crazy—but I could see this little room up there, somewhere up on the next floor.

Crawling around in weird bathrooms, Shane? That sounds like pretty bizarre behavior...even for you.

I couldn’t climb up through all the tubing and the tarp, so I went looking for it—the room on the next floor. And a couple of months ago...I found it. It’s a hidden room, right here in this mall. The door is totally hidden. I must’ve walked past in fifty times before I heard the sound of my footsteps change right at this one spot—like, more echoey—and I looked again and there it was. This room, it’s like they built the mall and forgot about it. There’s all this construction stuff left

48

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

SHANE:

LISA:

SHANE:

in there, cans of paint and cables and stuff. I think it was supposed to be something because they added lights and outlets, but they must’ve changed the plan because it’s not being used at all. I scoped it out for a while and then I just started leaving stuff in there and...kind of staying there.

You what? Shane, what kind of crazy—

Listen, Lisa! I started doing some exploring after the mall closed up at night. Turns out there’s this ventilation duct that seems independent of the whole system. I’ve climbed pretty far into it and, well, it goes really far. Like miles. Lisa, I think it’s a secret passage out of this whole crazy thing—this mall, this town, this...whatever this whole crazy thing is. But the thing is—and I swear to god, I haven’t told a soul about it—yesterday when I got back, some of my stuff had been moved around. Nothing was gone, but someone had been there. I know it. And now I think they’re after me. They know I know. And I think they want to stop me from finding out anything else.

(Clearly shocked) Shane. You know this sounds crazy, right? You’ve been living in the mall? Sneaking around at night and crawling through ventilation ducts? (Pauses) Are you on pot?

What?! No, you’re not listen—(He stops. Takes a deep breath and continues, sarcastically.) You know, you’re right. It is crazy. You’ve really helped me see the light here, Lisa. Thanks, pal. (He turns away and starts to wipe the counter.)

The phone rings. SHANE answers.

Island Dreams. Shane at your beck and call...That’s us— home of the Cherry Bomboozled... Sure, how many do you want?... (Surprised) An order of 50? Hold on, let me see if we have enough gunpowder to make it... (He covers the phone mouthpiece and asks LISA) Do we? (LISA nods.) (SHANE speaks into the phone) Yep, we gotcha covered. Give us 30 minutes?... Okay, see you then. Oh, can I get a name for the— ...hello? (He hangs up.)

Shane, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll tell you what. After work, you can come to my sister’s place. Crash on her couch. No one will think to look for you there, right? I’ll meet you there. You can tell me all about the room...and the way out. Deal?

(Somewhat relieved.) Sure, it’s a deal. Thanks, Lisa. No really. Thank you.

49

LISA:

SHANE:

LISA:

TOGETHER:

PROFESSIONAL VOICE:

Look, I’m sorry. I’m just freaked out. I really think someone’s af-ter me. I keep seeing creepy looking dudes in tracksuits looking at me sideways, sitting in parked cars and on park benches and hiding behind newspapers. Like, the kind of guys that cut the brake lines in your car so you have a freak “accident,” you know? (Sighing, exhausted.) I don’t know. Maybe I just need some sleep.

(Touching his shoulder) You’ll get some sleep tonight at my sister’s place. Now. Let’s get this order made. You wanna do the cherries or the gunpowder this time?

(Smiling) Once a gunslinger, always a gunslinger! (He holds up a large black bag.)

(Takes the stance of a rock star holding a microphone. Singing in punk rock voice) HELLO Daddy! Hello, Mom! I’m your...

(Playing air instruments) Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-CHERRY BOMB!

They each turn to a blender, dump in the ingredients and dramatically press the blender buttons. We hear a loud explosion and BLACKOUT. Then, silence. Eventually, eerie music starts to play over BLACKOUT. After a minute, we hear a new voice from offstage.

Wonderful, wonderful. Yes, I think you’ll be very happy in this space, Mr. Bagley. Just needs a little vision. Of course, the insurance covered the damage, so it’s practically as good as new. A little elbow grease and a fresh coat of paint and you’ll be selling... What was it you’ll be selling again? Ah, yes, Smoothies. Well, those types of places do great in our retail spaces. Just a freak accident this one. Shame what happened to the two shop employees. Just kids, really. Although, between you and me, I heard they’d been written up for some kind of H.R. violation—stealing or trespassing or something like that. Of course, we value the lives of all our family here, but still, you can’t blame us for being a bit partial to those who respect the rules, can you? Anyway, I’ll have the papers drawn up for you to sign right away. We look forward to having you as part of the family here at Conundrum Retail Spaces, Inc.

(Fade out Eerie Music.)

Curtain. (“Cherry Bomb” by the Runaways plays during curtain.)

50

Salvage Trent Randol

Characters:ROBERTLISACAROLMATTNURSE

We’re in a hospital. There’s a bed set up with a man named ROBERT in it. He could be anywhere from his mid fifties to mid sixties. He looks worse for wear. Despite his evidently frail condition, he’s on his cell phone spewing corporate business jargon and has a laptop in his lap. Every so many words he stops to take a breath, but he keeps on going. The faint but ever present BEEP of a heart rate monitor can be heard in the background.

ROBERT:

ROBERT:

ROBERT:

ROBERT:

ROBERT:

No listen Manny—Manny listen to me. Call Ryan.

A beat. MANNY must have said something frustrating because Robert’s tone becomes harsher.

I don’t care...if she’s asleep. Wake her up then.

Another pause, then ROBERT speaks in a much more angered, agitated tone.

Manny...this is the worst quarter I’ve had here in twenty-five years. Now we have got to turn this around before October hits, you hear?

As ROBERT is saying this, in walks LISA, Robert’s wife. It’s evident from her face and body language that she’s feeling several strong emotions all at once. It’s been a rough day. ROBERT holds up a hand to signal her to wait. There’s a beat and then ROBERT continues.

Manny I have to...to go. Keep me posted.

ROBERT hangs up his cell phone and acknowledges LISA.

Hey, hun. Sorry about that. Youngsters back at the office. It’s almost...like leaving little kids home alone.

LISA chuckles to herself despondently.

51

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

Thirty hours removed from a heart attack and you’re right back at it, huh?

Twenty-eight, actually.

(with contempt) Oh, excuse me.

What else am I supposed to do?

LISA scoffs.

Oh, I don’t know, rest? Watch something on that TV? Did you-did youeven—? LISA briskly steps over to ROBERT and yanks the phone out of his hand. She opens it and looks at the lock screen.

You didn’t even answer my texts, or either of your children’s. Hell, you didn’t even read them, Robert!

(confused) Well, I did just have a heart attack, Lisa—

Exactly! You should be resting and catching up with your family, Bobby. Lord knows what Matt’s going to do when he comes here. If he comes up here.

There’s a really tense pause as if that name carries some heavy weight behind it. It takes ROBERT a while before he replies.

Lisa, do you...do you know how bad this quarter has—? Stop.

This quarter—

Stop! Stop right there. I don’t care about your quarter. That’s the least of my worries right now. I care about you. About our marriage.

ROBERT scoffs.

Our marriage. Really? That’s rich.

Yes. Really. What about it, Robert?

52

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

LISA:

ROBERT:

ROBERT:

LISA:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

What about it? I...look, Lisa. I’m not the one who asked for a divorce. Twice. So you don’t get to say a thing about...wanting to preserve the marriage.

There’s a pause. LISA’s jaw and fists visibly clench, but she retains her composure.

Y’know, for all the talk you’ve done about your parents, what they went through for you...they never once thought about splitting, did they?

No. No they didn’t. I guess it helps that my mother never stepped out on my father for a year.

Silence. LISA shifts uncomfortably before unloading her retort.

Your father probably never neglected your mother either. Or drove her away. I mean, gosh Bobby, it got to the point you’d rather sit in bed and do a spreadsheet instead of spend time with me. What the heck else was I supposed to do!?

More silence. It’s ROBERT’s turn to shift uncomfortably.

I’m sorry, Bobby. This isn’t why I came up here.

(almost inaudibly) I’m sorry, too.

LISA holds up her left hand, where a rather impressive ring sits on her ring finger. You’d have to be legally blind to miss it. Robert observes her hand quizzically.

What? It’s your hand.

(to herself) It’s my hand...

LISA shakes her head to herself.

(to ROBERT) I guess you haven’t noticed then.

Noticed what?

That I haven’t been wearing it. For most of this year.

They both shut up again. ROBERT shifts uncomfortably in his bed.

No, I hadn’t noticed.

53

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

LISA:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

I got that part.

ROBERT sighs. The monitor quickens.

Why wear it now?

Y’know, Bobby? I wondered when I grabbed it out of my dresser on the flight over here. Only thing I could come up with is what we promised at our wedding. I vowed to “have and to hold you for better or for worse,” when we got married. Right now, this is one of those “worse” times. Clearly. It can’t get much worse, in some respects. But I love you, Bobby. I choose to. Against my better judgment. That’s why.

You’re telling me you...love me. Right? Care about me?

Yes. Despite all you’ve done to convince me to do otherwise.

ROBERT chuckles a little despite himself.

Well if that’s the case, why haven’t you even asked me how this happened yet?

At this moment, the door creaks and opens slowly. In walks CAROL, Robert and Lisa’s twenty-one year old daughter. She’s moving with a sense of urgency as she approaches her parents, naked concern plastered on her face. The heart monitor quickens.

Daddy, are you alright?

He’s fine.

(to LISA) I can speak for myself...thank you very much. (to CAROL) I’m fine.

I caught the first plane out of school as soon as I heard.

CAROL walks over to kiss her mother on the cheek. She goes to ROBERT’s bedside and sees the laptop on his lap.

Dad are you—are you working?

ROBERT closes the laptop.

...no...

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LISA:

CAROL

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

CAROL:

LISA:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

LISA:

CAROL:

LISA:

CAROL:

LISA:

ROBERT:

LISA:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

Yes.

Dad!

Apparently a bad quarter’s worse than a bad heart.

It is. Have you ever run a Fortune 500 Company? Or two of them?

Bobby, for the love of—

Mom! I’m just too tired for this right now, I just got off of two planes. You’ll have time for this later, trust me.

LISA casts a look over at CAROL, and her countenance softens a bit; then she looks back at her husband.

Oh, you’d best believe that, Bobby.

Did you get my text, Dad?

No.

He did. He didn’t even open it. Or mine, or Matt’s.

He didn’t open Matt’s?

Nope.

Dad, you really should’ve. It’s Matt we’re talking about here.

Remember what happened the last time you two—

ROBERT explodes.

I get it, okay? Believe me, I get it.

I don’t believe you. But OK.

ROBERT scoffs.

What did you text me, Carol?

I was just asking what exactly happened, that’s all.

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ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

LISA:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

MATT:

ROBERT:

MATT:

ROBERT:

MATT:

ROBERT takes a deep breath, as he realizes he’ll have to say more than two sentences to tell the story.

There’s really not all that...much to tell. I had stepped...out of the office to the boy’s room. Started to wash my hands and then it just happened. I’ve never felt that kinda pain before in my life.

Wait, so, you were in the men’s room when it happened?

Funny place to have a...heart attack, huh?

How’d you get all the way out here then?

Great question. See, the way they say it happened...nobody came into that restroom until at least...five minutes after I’d left. Then they called 911.

Five minutes...

Wow...

The way the doctors tell it...that’s a long time.

At this moment, MATT walks in. He looks like he should be a linebacker in the NFL, and he’s got a grim aura about him. The heart monitor quickens considerably.

That is a very long time. You shouldn’t be alive.

There’s a pause as ROBERT and MATT regard each other. CAROL and LISA subconsciously give the father and son some more space.

I...I know. Good to see you, son. Been too long. Three years.

Five. Five years, Dad.

That many?

MATT nods.

That many.

There’s a pause.

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CAROL:

MATT:

LISA:

MATT:

CAROL:

MATT:

CAROL:

MATT:

MATT:

CAROL:

MATT:

ROBERT:

MATT:

What took you so long, Matt? Mom and I had to fly in, but you live what, an hour away?

Took me most of yesterday to actually decide to come up here. Once I got here, I sat in the parking lot for like half an hour.

Why?

I didn’t know what to say. I mean what do you say to your father after what happened, y’know?

I never heard exactly what happened between you two?

MATT looks between CAROL and his parents several times.

They never told you?

No.

MATT chuckles.

I believe his exact words were, “you’re a waste of talent, and you’re a waste of time, son. Mine and yours.”

Silence.

Dad figured I’d be more useful to society as the heir to the corporate throne instead of with that engineering degree.

Dad...you said that?

MATT answers before ROBERT can.

Yes, he did. That’s why we haven’t spoken in five years. I’m guessing that’s why he missed my wedding, too. You had some sort of deal to close in Tokyo or some other such nonsense. Did you even know I have a son on the way, Dad?

I know...your mother told me.

Can’t say I’m surprised that she had to tell you. You know what I was thinking about on the way up that elevator? What am I supposed to tell my little boy about his grandfather? Mom always raised us—Mom did because you couldn’t be bothered to help with that, remember? Mom

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ROBERT:

MATT:

MATT:

LISA:

MATT:

ROBERT:

LISA:

CAROL:

raised us to tell the truth. All the time. No matter what. And I guess that’s what I’ll have to do with my son.

MATT lumbers slowly but intentionally over to the bed. LISA and CAROL’s body language begins to betray their nervousness. Anybody watching would be worried MATT was about to assault his father. It looks like ROBERT thinks so, too.

(nervously) And what would that be, exactly?

You want the real truth? That I don’t know my dad. I’m gonna have to look that boy in the eyes when he’s older and tell him I don’t know his grandfather. And if that’s not sad, I don’t know what is.

MATT visibly softens after he says this. Everyone in the room takes note.

You know what else I was thinking, just now as I heard you telling the story? How you were on that bathroom floor five minutes before someone found you? I was thinking about second chances. Mom was right; you should be dead and gone, but you’re not. That’s gotta be for a reason, Dad. I don’t know if you believe in fate or any of that stuff. I don’t, but I believe in God. And I believe that this is a kind of second chance, for you, Dad. And if God’s giving you one, I’m gonna do my best to give you one, too.

Son, you can not let him off that easy.

Oh, do you think I want to? I don’t. But I feel I have to give him a chance at this.

Son...listen. When I said that to you, you gotta...realize that my job is...so very important...

I’m gonna stop you right there, Bobby. Before you dig yourself any deeper into that hole.

Dad...everybody in here—(She gestures around the room to her brother and mother.) This is what’s gonna matter after you’re gone. More than the sales you closed or the revenue you brought in. Hell, you run a Fortune 500 company, and when all’s said and done that’s not gonna be the most important mark you leave on this world. Someone’s gonna become the CEO and undo everything you did anyway.

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LISA:

MATT:

CAROL:

LISA:

ROBERT:

MATT:

ROBERT:

MATT:

ROBERT:

MATT:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

She’s right.

It’s about the impression—or lack thereof—that you’re gonna leave on the people in this room.

And when you pull through this, you’ll have plenty of time to change that.

LISA’s been moved by all these developments, and her voice betrays that. It’s a quivering combination of frustration, anger, and hope.

Please, take the time to change it. You’ve got more valuable things at stake than a quarter, Bobby. For goodness sake, you’ve got a marriage on the line, Bob. A marriage and the love and respect of your children. You have to turn this around.

You all...really don’t have any idea just how...how much my work means to me...

Doesn’t matter—

It does matter, son. It does. You never saw that. You...you probably never will at this rate.

Is that so? Well, what didn’t I see, Dad?

My father. My mother.

Dad...

No, son. Listen...I know you’ve heard it before...but you’ve never understood it...When your grandparents were your age, they didn’t have it like you do.

We know, Daddy. You’ve told us about Grandpa and Grandma.

If you’d really...really listened then I shouldn’t have to justify myself to any of you...

Daddy, Grandpa worked himself to death. To death, Daddy. Didn’t he have a heart attack at, what, fifty-five?

Fifty-two.

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MATT:

LISA:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

Wow.

You’ve only just outlived him, Bob.

Daddy?

ROBERT focuses his attention solely on CAROL, who has moved to stand directly next to her father’s bed. She takes his hand off of the closed laptop and places it in hers, her voice trembling.

Yes, Carol?

I never met Grandpa. Or Grandma. I’m told Matt did, once when he was little. Neither of us would remember him, I’m sure.

She looks to MATT as if to ask if he could remember their grandfather. Matt solemnly shakes his head no.

I’m sure they were fine people. Upstanding citizens, loyal partners. Given how hard they worked for you, I know for a fact that they were loving parents.

They were. They were incredibly loving parents, Carol.

That’s good, Daddy. That’s amazing.

Do you wanna know how I knew they were loving? It was...it was because of how hard they worked. For me. To give...to give me a better life. A better shot at the future, Carol. Do you know how...how far they—

Only because you’ve told us a thousand times, Daddy. You started out living in one house with four other families, by the time you were in high school you were in a single family home in the suburbs. We’ve heard the story before.

Then you...you must know how much it means to me. My whole childhood I watched them...watched them work themselves thin. Watched them pull us from nothing...from nothing. To the point where we had two or three...businesses of our own. And...at a time when a lot of other folk in the neighborhood were turning to crime, murdering, thieving, blaspheming...not my father. Not my mother. Never once...I am so—

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MATT:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

MATT:

LISA:

CAROL:

MATT:

You’re proud of your parents. We know, we get it, Dad. We do. Believe me, if we’d been in that same situation? We’d be just as happy that you worked that hard for us. But we’re not. Because of them, and because of you, we never had to worry about money. Dad, you had the luxury of wealth, and the luxury of time. To spend with us. Your children.

Son...you just don’t get it. Neither does your sister, or your mother. The work ethic...of my parents. That’s what they left behind. That’s...their legacy. That’s the mandate I have to live up to until I die. I...followed their example, Carol. Matt. They didn’t tell me they loved me much. They showed me.

Silence fills the room for a long time. Uncomfortable glances are cast between all of the family members. CAROL is the one to break the silence.

You miss them?

Every day.

Daddy, if they were here, right now, do you think they’d want you to work yourself six feet under, the way they did?

I—

No. Dad. You keep up what you’re doing and you’ll never meet your grandson. He’ll never have any memory of you, the same way I don’t remember your dad. Is that what you want for him, Dad? Is it?

(tersely) If you won’t listen to me, Bobby, you listen to your son.

Mom, Matt! I think that’s enough.

The beeping reappears, with a notably quickened pace. ROBERT’S breathing has quickened as well. His chest heaves. MATT composes himself and visibly calms down.

Whatever you’re gonna say, it’s besides the point, Dad. Mom and Carol are right. What the hell are we gonna say at your funeral, huh? What’s anybody gonna say? “He was a good employee, a good executive, and a great CEO?” You don’t turn this around, the only pallbearers and mourners you’ll have will be your shareholders.

With that, and a disgusted scoff, MATT turns and heads from the room, hand pressed to his face. LISA turns briskly and follows him, visibly damming a well of

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CAROL:

ROBERT:

CAROL:

ROBERT:

ROBERT:

tears.

I’ll straighten them out, Daddy. You need to calm down, okay? And think about what we’ve said. Please, Daddy. Promise me.

Okay.

Promise?

A very long pause.

I promise.

CAROL smiles, kisses her father, and leaves the room. A NURSE enters and realizes her patient’s heart rate is alarmingly high. She fiddles with some things and fusses at him. He nods sporadically. After she’s satisfied, she exits, leaving ROBERT alone in absolute silence for the first time since LISA walked in. He just sits there. He’s thinking; that’s plain to see. But what about? ROBERT puts his face into his palms and breathes deeply. After a long moment, ROBERT slowly opens his laptop and picks up his cell phone again.

Hey, Manny, it’s me. Run those 3rd quarter numbers by me again...

•

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PersonalEssays

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PERSONAL ESSAYS

Inara Verzemnieks is the author of the award-winning memoir, Among the Living and the Dead: A Tale of Exile and Homecoming, published by W.W. Norton. A Pushcart Prize winner and the recipient of a Rona Jaffe Writer’s Award, as well as a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in feature writing, she previously worked as a newspaper journalist for thirteen years. Her essays and journalism have appeared in such publications as The New York Times Magazine, Tin House, The Iowa Review, and Creative Nonfiction. She is an assistant professor in the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program..

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Minding Mother Valerie Neal

My mother loved to organize. Once, my cousin asked Mom to water his plants while he went on holiday. When he got back, it took him weeks to find the kitchen scissors and pot holders. He never complained to her, but Mom didn’t speak to him for several months because he didn’t thank her for reorganizing his cupboards. She could hang on to her righteous indignation like Satan clinging to his fork. I mostly came to regret my victories when I crossed her. Eventually, I moved to India. One day, Mom sent me a letter saying I should come home and we’d drive my cousin’s car to Ohio for him. I’d visited Mom many times over the last twenty years and knew from experience that whatever peace of mind I’d gained meditating in the Himalayas would be challenged in the first five minutes of my arrival. Whether it was my long hair, unadorned face, or absence of a retirement plan, I provided her ample fodder for reform. Our journey started with a trip to AAA. Mom announced to the agent that we wanted to retrace, in reverse, the I-10 route she’d taken in her twenties when she’d moved out west. We were given a tire gauge, a flashlight, and a TripTic—personalized bound book of detailed maps with instructions to get us from Arizona to Ohio in five days. Mom stumbled on the way out of AAA and then cursed her way to the car. With total deafness in one ear and partial hearing in the other, she was unaware of how loud she cussed when people, sidewalk curbs, or, in this case, a doorsill did not cooperate with her expectations. The next day we visited Mom’s physician, Dr. Wright. Mom complained about her hearing and feeling tired and the US legislature not doing their jobs and the sun getting brighter and people becoming ruder, especially in traffic. Finally, I interrupted. “Mom’s been more clumsy lately. I’m worried about her falling, and if she’s healthy enough for a trip to Ohio.” Mom’s eyes widened, but she kept silent. Dr. Wright took her blood pressure and tested her balance, then reassured me Mom was strong enough to go on the trip but to avoid getting her overtired. We left the next morning. Mom agreed to not smoke in the car if I’d stop whenever she wanted. She chose Simon and Garfunkel to get us started, and I remembered back in the 70’s when she’d driven us to Cleveland to visit family. We must’ve played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” a thousand times on the eight-track. We made it as far as Pinnacle Peak outside of Tucson before she needed to smoke. I meandered around the small shop. On a whim, I chose a postcard of the Arizona jackalope and wrote: I love you, Mom. It’s great sharing this trip together, then pressed a stamp on it and gave it to the cashier to mail.

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The sun was inching over the horizon by the time we reached Odessa for our first night. Early the next morning, we stopped in San Antonio to do the River Walk. Mom was thrilled with the benches every few hundred feet and the absence of smoking restrictions. I volleyed between upwind of her cigarettes and talking in her good ear until she wanted to stop. She rested on a bench while I brought back the car. When I returned, she was lecturing a lanky, young guy about grants he might qualify for to go to college. He sat next to her, intent on her every word. During her years at the State Department of Education, Mom had visited every single school in the state of Arizona, no matter how small or far. It was impossible for her to leave any child uniformed about their potential. We ate our lunch on the road and when Mom finished she looked over at me with a mischievous smile. “If I hold my cigarette out the window we’ll make better time,” she said. I laughed and said, “Go on. Pass me the pretzels first.” It struck me how our roles were shifting and for a moment I missed her bossing me. • • • • • •

We crossed the Ohio border a few days later. Uncle Leo met us outside as we drove up his long driveway in Chagrin Falls. He stooped at 6’7” and loved loud Polish drinking songs. He shouted to Mom, “Hey who’s this old broad? I thought my sister was coming.” Then he gave her a hug, and said, “What’s going on? Did you get famous? Someone’s been phoning.” She turned to me, and said, “You better call them. I can’t manage a phone without captioning.” Mom and Uncle Leo hooked elbows and headed inside to share a drink by the living room fire. I brought in the luggage. Dr. Wright answered the phone and I told Mom, but she just shouted to Dr. Wright, “Tell my daughter everything.” I sat down on the couch next to Mom, and Dr. Wright said, “Your mother has ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease. She wasn’t ready to tell you yet. There is no cure.” “Mom…” My voice caught, and I hung up the phone, crying. She held up her hand to stop me. “There is nothing to fuss about, nothing to discuss,” she said. Internally, I railed against the wall she forced between us. Even in this, it was her way or the highway. I swallowed the ache and turned to my uncle. “Did you know?” As he nodded, the knot in my chest tightened. The next two days Uncle Leo drove us to see their childhood home, her college sorority and the new Cleveland Stadium on Third Street. Sometimes they’d remember that I was in the back seat and they’d tell me about filching pickles from the family grocery or switch to speaking Polish so I wouldn’t understand. We flew back to Phoenix a few days later. She plunked down in her favorite chair. “Hand me the mail and bring me a Pepsi. Then we’ll start with my closet. I want to go through every drawer and cupboard in the house and get rid of stuff.”

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I could see the gleam in her eyes. Mom was on a mission. The last thing I wanted to do was get rid of stuff, but I knew inserting my sentimental needs for her to keep her Phoenix Suns socks and 1946 Kent State yearbook would only cause a fight. Mom picked up the postcard I’d sent from Pinnacle Peak. She smiled as she read it. Then handed it to me. “We’re keeping this. Put it in the box on my night stand.” She’d had that Iris box forever. I’d assumed she kept her hearing aid and batteries inside. I opened it and found all the letters I’d sent to her from India. Stunned, I opened one from 1992, over twenty years ago, during my second year in India. I hadn’t remembered how much I’d missed her when I left. Halfway through reading it, she shouted for me to clear the dishes and bring all the shirts from her closet. Over the next few weeks, my mother thrilled at directing me to fill bags with old shoes and sheets, picture frames, and a garden hose. Her favorite phrase became “Get rid of it.” She surprised me by the things she kept like her 1961 divorce papers and her communion dress hand-stitched by her mother. Despite Mom’s attempts to control her losses, every week ALS let her know who was really the boss in the riddance department. First ALS rid her of elbow flexion. Two weeks later she couldn’t sit unsupported. Each day it got harder to swallow. One day she couldn’t get enough suction to smoke her cigarette so I inhaled the smoke into my mouth and blew it into her tired lips. That marked the end of her 65-year relationship with nicotine. She didn’t seem to miss it, and I realized she was so much better than me at letting go. It happened so fast, one minute she was riding me to look more professional, and the next minute I was instructing her how to use a universal cuff to hold a spoon and feed herself. I realized how I’d inherited her bossiness in how I directed my clients as an occupational therapist. We had some fights like Freaky Friday where the mother and daughter ate a fortune cookie that exchanged their bodies, forcing them to walk in the other’s shoes until they had genuine compassion for each other. One day I was showing her a trick to get her pants on easier, and she said, “Just do it for me.” I replied, “You’ll feel better if you keep your independence. It’s also a way to exercise.” “I don’t want to. Just put on the damn pants.” I could see she was fed up, and so was I. I wanted to help her in the way I knew how, and she wouldn’t let me. In the middle of our unblinking glare down, I saw my own eyes looking back at me, and I understood her point of view. It had been my point of view before ALS took over. It was how I’d felt when she tried to control me and my choices and tell me how to do it right and I didn’t care about how good her suggestion was, I just wanted to do what I wanted and make my own mistakes. I knelt in front of her and lifted her heavy feet to place them in the pant

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legs and pulled the waist band up past her knees. Then she smiled and asked, “Are you ready to stand? Hold onto me while I pull them up.” It wasn’t long before I had to roll her into a sling with a poop hole, jack her up over her bed with a Hoyer lift and shove a pan underneath her swinging ass to catch the shit. All she could say was a hoarsely whispered, “Misery.” After some time, she had no speech at all. But her right thumb had just enough strength to depress a wireless doorbell Velcro-strapped in the palm of her hand. ALS left her mind untouched yet jailed inside her inert body. Usually I knew what she wanted, but not always. A few nights before she passed away at home, she pushed the doorbell at two a.m. I checked off possible issues: messy diaper, crinkled sheets, dry mouth, depressed pillows, a leg misaligned between bedrails. Nothing was amiss. I went back to bed and was almost asleep when she rang again. I repositioned her on her back and departed. She pushed the bell before I got out the door. I gestured and shouted into her halfway deaf ear, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want. Please try to sleep.” Her mouth stretched open to capacity as she screamed her wounded hoarse whisper and jammed on the doorbell. We were both shaking as I leaned in nose to nose and matched her scream to scream, until she was silent and tears rolled down our cheeks. I wrote out “I’m sorry” on her small white board and held it in front of her. Soon after she closed her eyes and drifted into a coma. She woke up laughing once during the next week, but it only lasted about 5 seconds before she fell back into herself. I’ve often wondered what she wanted that night at two a.m. It could’ve been to remind me to pay a bill or to wear lipstick once in a while— her personal secret to happiness. But I’ve come to think I got it right when I spread open her flaccid arms, lay down under the quilt next to her, and slept sheltered into the crook of her shoulder as I’d done so many times as a child.

•

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Home Arina Stadnyk Every house has ghosts. My home was founded on ghosts. At least, that’s what I called them before I learned the word for “memories.” They dwell between the furniture, packing every square inch with residues of the past. Everyone who passes through leaves an intangible piece of themselves that lingers long after they’re gone. These invisible relics collect in the air we breathe, and the walls vibrate with the echoes of bygone voices, the shadows of presence. My house in Ukraine was where my entire family grew up. It brimmed with ghosts. Walking down the narrow hallway, I could feel the ghosts of children from previous generations racing past me, shouting to each other. Their laughter and childhood forever sandwiched under the peeling wallpaper, inside the cracks of the concrete walls. Their old toys and books still line the shelves to this day. I’m not joking. We literally never threw anything away. When I was five years old, I watched blazing tongues of flame lick the insides of a building, engulfing it from within, devouring its contents down to the charred brick skeleton. I looked at my babushka beside me, the fire’s reflection dancing in her dark glassy eyes. I was standing among neighbors and family, another helpless spectator in the fried rubble. After feasting on the building, the flames tapered down to tendrils of black smoke, curling upwards into the dusk. The crowd dispersed groans and whispers hanging in the air. The burning building was right behind my home, in the last row of the looming, communal nine-story apartments built during the Soviet times as state-funded housing for workers. They were perfect industrial rectangles: completely utilitarian with zero embellishment and layer upon layer of old, chipped, concrete brick. The crumbling infrastructure was being reclaimed by the surrounding wilderness. Sharp-edged blocks were garnished by nature’s hands,which wrapped tendrils and grapevines up the sides of the buildings. Fruit trees swayed their branches in the wind, tall grasses covered the landscape like a green carpet, and the sidewalks burst with a colorful array of wildflowers. Beyond the last row of buildings, a spiraling dirt path led to plots of farmland which stretched for miles ahead. “Babushka! What are those people going to do?! They don’t have a house now!” I asked, bewildered. “They may not have a house, but they still have a home.” She motioned to the surroundings: the greenery, the rusty metal playground, the gnarled wooden benches where the old ladies gossiped every evening. I began to understand the meaning of “home.” Five years later, my home burned down. Except this time, no fire was involved and no buildings crumbled. That night, at the dinner table, the steam from Babushka’s freshly baked cabbage pierogi rose along with my impending sense of doom as I learned that Mama had managed to wedge her foot in America’s

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door, and would take me with her. All I could think about were the flames and babushka’s words. In 2009, I stepped off a plane in San Diego. Mama and I moved in with an American she met on a dating site, soon to become her new husband. When I met him, my gut screamed for me to run, but Mama saw in him an opportunity. Though beautiful, life in Ukraine was harsh, and the American Dream beckoned. My new residence was a tiny beige beach cottage, nestled against a cactus-filled canyon on the sunny outskirts of Hillcrest. Though lovely, the faces, words, and streets here were unfamiliar. To me, home was boundless sunflower fields, the crunch of fresh snow under my bootsoles, and leaping from tree branches into looming piles of autumn leaves. Home was family, friends, and the piercing smell of freshly picked rye. It was the occasional gaggle of chuckling grandpas in furry trapper hats, clinking shot glasses and telling me jokes in our badly-insulated living room. Without these things, how could I be at home? Mama’s new husband was pleasant at first, but after the marriage, his veneer began to crumble, and I saw his real face. I saw how his wrinkly neck wobbled when he got angry and how the cratered surface of his skin drained of its usually florid hue. He blamed me for taking his time and money and Mama’s attention. Mama was 20 years younger than him, a former model, an amazing cook, and single. It sounded too good to be true, because it was. Just two inches to the left, and everything would’ve been perfect. I was the fly in his milk. I ruined it by simply existing. He wanted to alienate me, to stifle my existence, to steamroll me into the pavement, and start his own family. He wanted me to melt into the background of his new life, to become but a wispy, transient memory among the ghosts that roamed the halls. Nothing more than a stale spirit between the cracks of the wooden floorboards. Everything about me was wrong, excessive, unnecessary. Afraid of taking up space, I caved into myself, believing that if I shrank enough, I could disappear altogether. Once, I convinced Babushka to come visit. She saw me behind the scenes, saw the fear that colored every second I spent in that house. I couldn’t breathe until I was out of his presence. She kneeled with me underneath my door as I listened intently to the calculated slap of his rubber shoe soles against the varnished floorboards. Nothing filled me with fear as much as the sound of approaching footsteps. A second before the doorknob twisted, she told me in Russian “Будь сильной, всё пройдет.” “Be strong. It will pass.” Her words marked the first and last time anyone acknowledged what really went on in that house. By 11 years old, I learned the difference between two types of pain: physical and emotional. Mama’s anger sometimes got the best of her. She would hurt me when I did something wrong. This wasn’t new. This parenting style felt normal to me because it was all I had ever known. This physical violence was direct, clear, and simple. She’d go back to being normal after the carpet beater was tucked away and my punishment was over. Juxtaposed with her husband’s grueling mind games, an endless web of grudges, and an unspoken hostility that infused all of our interactions, this type of violence was by far worse. I would rather be choked and

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beaten than be rejected, degraded, silenced, and humiliated. Despite the bruises, black eyes, and missing tufts of hair, I somehow understood that my mother’s anger stemmed from a place of love. It was love gone horribly amiss, but at least she loved me. Meanwhile, he hurt me out of genuine resentment and bitter jealousy. He always started his sentences with “Is there a reason why...” whenever he addressed me. He confronted me in the kitchen once. He said “Is there a reason why you insist on speaking to your mother in Russian around the house?” At twelve years old, I fought to stay composed, emotionless. “You asked me already. Because I want to.” “Don’t you pull that shit with me!” he spat. “In this house, you speak my language. Don’t test me.” “It’s not fair!” I protested. “I speak Russian to her, not you! When I speak to both of you, I speak in English!” “This is the last time I’m going to say it. In my house, you speak my language, or there will be consequences!” he jabbed his finger out and left it in the air, pointing at me as his egg-shaped face turned purple with fury. I never felt safe in that house. I never knew what he was going to do. Sometimes he’d throw things at me, lock me out, or call me a parasite. I would come home to find the contents of my room swept off the shelves and scattered on the floor in broken pieces. I did homework in the bathroom after sunset because he confiscated every light from my room. Though afraid, I continued to speak Russian because it was the last remaining piece of home I had. This wasn’t home. It was his house. And I was his prisoner. This house had no benevolent ghosts, no lingering warmth of joyous memories. Instead, it was filled with prison rules: ` Stay in your room. Don’t complain to your mother or ask her to spend time with you. Don’t shower for longer than 2 minutes. No guests. No rides. No Russian. Don’t ever ask “why.” Don’t tell anyone about the rules. These words hung suspended in the silence they created. I couldn’t breathe. Instead of coming home, I spent afternoons at Pioneer Park next to Grant Middle School, nestled in the quiet heart of Mission Hills. There, I met two girls from my grade, Annika and Elizabeth, who became my best friends for years to come. The special thing about them was that they were always together and always fighting. At school, they were outcasts. People were a little wary of them and their constant bickering. One day, at lunch, I looked up and saw blonde hair, a sparkly headband with cat-ears, freckles, and a lopsided smile.

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“Hey. I’m Annika... You’re in my P.E. class.” I opened my mouth to reply but was cut off by an approaching shout. “Hey! No fair! She’s my new friend! Stop trying to copy me!” Elizabeth dashed over to us with her mop of chestnut curls, large square glasses covering half her face, and an oversized Avengers t-shirt. “Nuh-uh! I had dibs! She wouldn’t want to hang out with you anyway!” “Oh yeah? You’re just jealous.” “Ha. You wish you had something to be jealous of.” At that moment, the Three Musketeers were formed. And a miracle happened. They stopped fighting. Somehow, I balanced them out and we got along seamlessly. After school, we stormed the playground like the beaches of Normandy. We wreaked havoc, tumbled from trees, and pilfered candy from the teachers’ lounge. I found a home in our friendship. I realized that home doesn’t have to be a place. Home is comprised of people and experiences. Home is who we share it with. So I avoided that house, by staying after school every day to hang out with them. “Don’t you ever go home?” the friendly, bearded art teacher remarked jokingly. This is my home, I answered silently. At that moment, I was transported back in time to the crackle of flames, the smell of burning brick, and the words tumbling from Babushka’s parched lips. I understood what she meant to tell me all those years ago, amid the billowing plumes of smoke. And at last, I was home.

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The Books that Brought Insights Lizeth Mendoza

As I look into the future, I can truly say that I am grateful for the opportunity to continue my path toward success and happiness. My family fled their poverty-stricken village in Mexico nearly twenty years ago seeking shelter here. My parents’ struggles and sacrifices to not only survive but keep the family together are where I have gained a sea-deep appreciation for their hard work, persistence, and commitment. As a kid, my mind revolved around books and the imaginary world it took me to. I was a first-grader with an unusual high Lexile level that lived in the school library. The daily intake of words in class was just not enough for my brain—I always had to have more. I did not have any physical friends because my friends were characters in books. At that age I did not grasp the complete fact that my father worked fourteen hours in the scorching sun every day, six days out of the week, to provide housing and food for our family of three. Father always raised me strictly. Therefore, any escape I could have from the real world I would take. I had rules on how to sit, talk, and how to act; there was nothing expected but the best of the best. Under that environment I grew, always wanting to prove myself to my father. Approval was my greatest strength and my greatest weakness; sacrificing much of what could have been my childhood memories was not a strange thing. I committed to make my father look at me, if only for a few seconds. My father was a well-respected man in our family, and there was nothing more I wanted than to be able to live up to his legacy. But because I was born a female and an only child, achieving all the great things my father did was impossible, which led me to fall back into my mother’s arms and face the reality that I was a kid who was trying to speed up my process of growing up. My mother was always there after every failure with open arms and heartfelt whispers to soothe my soul. She was everything my father wasn’t; she was soft, cheerful, full of sunshine, a sun of her own. I remember my mother always reminding me to enjoy my childhood and enjoy the luxuries of being a kid, but never understanding her constant reminders, I disregarded them. My father and mother are complete opposites in every aspect. My mother was a stay-at-home mom who gave me a casual upbringing while with Father it was almost as if he was a general and I was his soldier. My mother taught me emotion was necessary to live, and Father taught me that in order to be successful, emotion had to be subsided to think logically. School was no different. I remember graduating from elementary school, in fifth grade; the school had a small gathering for our parents where they dressed us in blue gowns with our small graduation caps and the miniature tassel that said “Future Class of ’18.” It was the one and only ceremony my father attended, owing to the

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fact that the event was on a Sunday, the only day my father has off. My mother let me know ahead of time he would attend the ceremony, and some of the happiest days were those leading up to the ceremony; I was too excited to see my dad see me walk the stage. I wanted the public announcement that I was a “Star” student: for all the tutoring after school I provided to the classmates who did not understand the class lesson that day, as well as the student who was tasked with taking care of the class pet and the student who was the leader for the whole year. The teacher had previously given us a question to answer on the day of the ceremony, to make the ceremony more legit, I presume. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” was the question that was assigned to us. Many said “astronauts” and others said “superheroes.” Some had a bit more common sense and wanted to be doctors. When they called my name, I stood from my chair very confident and walked to the microphone. The teacher mentioned all of the accomplishments and help I gave; she then asked me the question, and I stared into the crowd looking for my father. I spotted him sitting next to my mother, and he gave me the biggest white smile. Seeing that I was making my father proud, I spoke loud and clear. “When I grow up, I want to be just like my father.” And just like the smile appeared, it disappeared. I was so confused as to why he smiled no more. I sat back in my chair, staring at him, trying to find an answer in his furrowed brows. The ride back home was silent and emotionless; my day was ruined by an innocent answer that one would think brought pride but seemed to bring despair. We never spoke of the event; my parents never brought it up and nor did I. I would never want to feel that disheartening feeling ever again. We just somehow agreed not to talk about it. Halfway into my sixth-grade year we had a Scholastic Book fair visit the school; our school took us as a class trip. I remember the smell of brand-new books that hit me as soon as I was granted access to enter; the freshly printed books smelled of paper and ink with a hint of vanilla. There were so many books I was in heaven in that moment in time. I had no books to call my own; since I went constantly to the library, there was never a reason to. Yet, I felt a sudden thought hit me like bricks: If I buy a book the book will forever be mine, the story will await me at home, the world that I love so much can be with me at all times. As I was reaching for the book titled Night World, the world slapped me. I thought, I have no money with me; I retracted my hand slowly from nearly touching the cover. Exiting the store was almost painful; I looked back once, then left, feeling very woebegone that other kids left with merchandise from the store, playing with their toys, bragging in my face. That night when my father got home I waited until he started eating. Feeling uneasy I told him that there were three books that I wanted. Not even wanting to look at me, my father kept eating and said, “I cannot afford it, baby, I just can’t.” I would not take no for an answer; it felt like he was not letting me do the one thing that I loved. (I now realize this was a conceited moment I had.) “But, Papa, everyone has money to buy what he or she wants. Why can’t I buy what I want

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I --” I was interrupted by my father’s loud, authoritative tone. “You cannot have those books! We do not have the money to buy them, and that is final!” “Yes, Papa,” I said looking at the floor embarrassed. Not only did I not realize that my family was going through a very rough economic time, but I made myself look like a fool. The very next morning, my mother dropped me off at school earlier than the usual time, so early that there were no students at the school, just the staff. The sun had not yet risen completely. I was grumpy the whole day because I was deprived of sleep. I felt abandoned by not only my father but my mother as well. The whole day I asked myself, Is my mother so tired of me that she wants to drop me off early thus leaving more time for herself, away from me? Do my parents even love me? That same day my mother picked me up nearly an hour late from school; then it became an everyday basis. I was woken up at an earlier time, dropped off an hour early before classes were open, and picked up an hour late from school. I did not question her actions because at the time I felt I was not entitled to an opinion of the mother who didn’t love me. Once again my father came home and started eating, and I asked anew for the books. To no surprise, I was rejected; this time I did notice my mother was also not paying attention to me just like father, as well for the rest of the week. The whole time the book fair was open, my classmates would buy something new almost every day to show everyone that they were cool, while I just sat on the outside with a cloud of envy hovering over me. On the final day of the fair, my mother did not drop me off early. In fact, we were running late, too late. My mother’s hair looked like a bird’s nest, tangled and knotted, with black circles under her eyes and looking unusually pale. She was frantically putting on whatever was close at hand and drove me to school. When we got there, my mother had a talk with the assistant at the office. Then she came to hold my hand ever so softly and walked me down the hallway to where the Scholastic Book Fair was. We entered the room that was empty of customers yet full of content. There were no students allowed at the store in the morning, making the scent of paper, ink, and vanilla much more aromatic. “Mami, why are we here? Are you going to buy something Ma’?” I asked while looking at the store from the outside and still completely bewildered by what was going on. As I turned around, I saw my mother take out a hundred-dollar bill from her wallet. She then closed her wallet, picked up my hands, put it in my palms, smiled, and said while putting a finger on my forehead, “Dad and I worked hard for this money, Mija. Spend it on all the books that are to be conquered by that brain.” I was so thrilled that I was able to buy the books. At that time I was eleven-years-old; therefore, I could not see the big picture. I could not see that during the ceremony, my father did not want me to be like him. He wanted me to be better than him. He was not filled with joy. I imagine he wanted to tell me that I was too young and too spoiled to understand; he didn’t want me to understand the endless

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hours that he worked to extremes, day in and day out, just to come home and still spend the countless nights trying to understand a language that cannot pronounce his own name correctly. I could not see that the first night when I mentioned the books, my mother stood for herself and decided to get her own job because both Papa and Mami knew the income was not going to cut it. While I was in school, wondering if my mother loved me, she was at a stranger’s house, cleaning their house in the name of love she had for me, the small payment that she would accumulate to then give to me to buy what I loved. As an older woman, I have witnessed hardships in my life that have chiseled an unbreakable will to succeed for not only myself but in my father’s and mother’s name. This is to the books that brought insight.

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Local Winners

Anne Arundel Community Collegestory: Michael Pierorazio, “Subconsciously Loved”

poen: Michael Pierorazio, “I Find Comfort without the Truth”essay: Rachael Green, “Portrait of a Fish”

play: Trent Randol, “Salvage”

Central Piedmont Community Collegestory: Anna Graham, “Left or Right?”

poem: Sarah Osborn, “Ode to the Bi-Annual Starbucks Date”essay: Miranda Maynor, “Profiling at the Parade”

Cuyahoga Community Collegeessay: Corinne E. Nicol, “The Ward”

Dallas County Community College Districtstory: Abigail Lesage, “Paper Planes”

poem: Rachael Havard, “Pierce”essay: Lizeth Mendoza, “The Books that Brought Insights”

play: Ismerari Jaramillo, “War Within”

Delta Collegestory: H. Bohlinger, “Sanctify”

poem: Maggi McMahon, “Catching Up”essay: Natasha Seaman, “Slippery Slide to Chaos”

Foothill-De Anza Community College Districtstory: Arthur Arboleda, “Inertia”

poem: Adrienne Ou, “Memorial to Recidivism”essay: Tara Ganguly, “Needy”

Humber College Institute of Technology and Advanced Learningstory; Kaysey Davis, “I’m Home”

poem: Caitlyn Crews, “i long to cut off all my hair”essay: Charlotte Carragner, “The Complexities of Non-Status Metis Identification...”

play: Sara Hayward, “Go Follow Your Dreams”

Kirkwood Community Collegestory: Claire Bathurst, “Dark Water”

poem: Derick Taube, “Widow Maker: NH3”essay: Kayleigh Bryant, “For Better, For Worse, Divorced”

play: Lary Holets III, “Ready, Set, I Do!”

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Johnson County Community Collegeessay: L.E. Stephens, “Jody”

play: L.E. Stephens, “Anymore”

Maricopa Community Collegesstory: Kimberly Parra, “The Driver”

poem: Alex Dodt, “No One Wants to Clean the Dishes”essay: Valerie Neal, “Minding Mother”play: Robert O’Brien, “King Lear II”

Monroe Community Collegestory: Misty Yarnall, “Wrapped in Flame”poem: William Kasmierek, “Round Peg”

essay: Abby Grasta, “Secrets”play: Salma Marte Velez, “Thinly Shadowed Veil”’

Moraine Valley Community Collegepoem: Jessica Fassl, “Replacing Pain is a Learned Habit”

essay: Nijoud Zaidiyeh, “An Interview with a Loved One”play: Kirsten Baity, “Broken Mirrors”

San Diego Community College Districtstory: Trevor Dotzler, “Soul of the Boatman”

poem: Alauna Ricketson, “Eating Matches for Breakfast”essay: Arina Stadnyk, “Home”

play: Devin McKenna, “Blue Line Home”

Santa Fe Collegestory: Amber Beck, “Barmecide”

poem: Alec Kissoondyal, “Euphoric Feeling of Lucid Dreaming”

Seattle Collegesstory: Josh Dea, “The Lion of Alcatraz”

poem: E.M. Devan, “A moth lifts a human”essay: Nolan Raapana, “Shooting a Dog”

play: Rachael Sage Payne, “Banana Smoothie Republic”

Sinclair Community Collegepoem: Alex Wildman, “fuse oxygen”

Valencia Collegestory: Roberto Valero, “The Vacuum Break”

poem: Caitlin Maddox, “The Bear”essay: Carissa Barton, “Pumpkin Pie”

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League Board CollegesAnne Arundel Community CollegeArnold, MDCoordinator: Susan Cohen

Austin Community College DistrictCedar Park, TXCoordinator: Matthew Daude-Laurents

Central Piedmont Community CollegeCharlotte, NCCoordinator: Colin Hickey

Cuyahoga Community CollegeParma, OHCoordinators: Michelle Rankins & Gayle Williamson

Dallas County Community College DistrictLancaster, TXCoordinator: Rebekah Rios-Harris

Delta CollegeUniversity Center, MICoordinator: Mark Brown

Foothill-De Anza Community College DistrictCupertino, CACoordinator: Ken Weisner

Humbler College Institute of Technology and Advanced LearningToronto, CanadaCoordinator: Carol Bueglas

Johnson County Community CollegeOverland Park, KSCoordinator: Tom Reynolds

Kirkwood Community CollegeCedar Rapids, IACoordinator: Lisa Angelella

Maricopa Community CollegesTempe, AZCoordinators: Linda Speranza & Patricia Guillen

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Monroe Community CollegeRochester, NYCoordinator: Patrick Callan

Moraine Valley Community CollegePalos Hills, ILCoordinator: Carey Millsap-Spears

San Diego Community College DistrictSan Diego, CACoordinator: Christy L. Ball

Santa Fe CollegeGainsville, FLCoordinator: Clay Arnold

Sinclair Community CollegeDayton, OHCoordinator: Tim Waggoner

Seattle CollegesSeattle, WACoordinator, Mike Hickey

Valencia CollegeOrlando, FLCoordinator: Jackie Zuromski