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2017 Literary Contest AwardsRaleigh Fine Arts Society
The Patton Family Awards
Phil Patton Award for Overall Best Story
Binita Thapa Eleventh Broughton High School
“The Mesa” Tiffany Long
Mildred Dwyer Patton Award for Overall Second Place
Ellie Baker Twelfth St. David’s School
“Under the Flags” Sarah Jane Keegan
Dave Patton Award for Best Story by a Varsity Athlete
Lily Eliana Levin Tenth Cary Academy
“Forecasting Ohio” Kara Caccuitto
First Place Awards by Grade
Nada Saleh Twelfth Enloe High School
“Rainy Days” Joyce Nelson
Hannah DeMaioNewton Eleventh Broughton High School
“The City Through the Window” Babs Nichols
Maggie Hall Tenth Enloe High School
“The Desk that Saved a Life” Jenny Ayers
Second Place Awards by Grade
V Tacker Twelfth Broughton High School
“Cassie Just in Case” (tie) Tanya Merchant
Rebecca West Twelfth Broughton High School
“Walk a Mile in My Shoes” (tie) Tanya Merchant
Meredith Brown Eleventh Broughton High School
“Train Ride” Babs Nichols
Anamitraa Dutta Tenth Raleigh Charter High School
“Chameleon Crisis” Lisa Springle
Honorable Mention
Regan Curtis Eleventh Broughton High School
“Camp Ecstasy” Babs Nichols
Grady Davis Tenth Raleigh Charter High School
“The Black Hole” Sera Arcaro
Juliette Ellis Twelfth Saint Mary’s School
“The Garrison Falls” Alison Chernin
Elle Hodges Eleventh Broughton High School
“Hey, Finn, It’s Frankie, But You Know That.” Babs Nichols
Pooja Murarisetty Twelfth Enloe High School
“Cold Feet” Joyce Nelson
Isabelle Nechvatal Eleventh Broughton High School
“Three Weeks” Babs Nichols
Clay Oxford Eleventh Broughton High School
“The Ghost River” Babs Nichols
Alyssa Rorie Tenth Enloe High School
“Dregs” Priscilla Chappell
Savarni Sanka Twelfth Enloe High School
“NOPLACIA to GOPLACIA” Joyce Nelson
School Awards
Broughton High School St. David’s School Cary Academy Enloe High SchoolPhil Patton Award for Overall Best Story
First Place Eleventh Grade
Mildred Dwyer Patton Award for Overall Second Place
Dave Patton Award for Best Story by a Varsity Athlete
First Place Twelfth GradeFirst Place Tenth Grade
Finalists
Megan Allen, 12th, Broughton Erin Greig, 10th, Raleigh Charter Benjamin Reilly, 11th, BroughtonEmma Carmichael, 11th, Broughton Brooke Hallow, 12th, Broughton Rebecca Seagondollar, 11th, Broughton
Lucy Collins 11th, Broughton Anna Kline, 11th, Broughton Edward Shutt, 11th, BroughtonAmelia Conklin, 10th, Broughton Lucy Krueger, 11th, Broughton Caitlin Sockin, 11th, Raleigh CharterHailey Cox, 11th, Raleigh Charter Ludmila Leveque, 10th, Raleigh Charter Chloe Spooner, 11th, Broughton
Meera Dahlmann, 10th, Enloe Abigail Malach, 11th, Broughton Yunyu Teng, 12th, EnloeAriana Ellis, 10th, Broughton Nia Marshall, 12th, Enloe Neha Vangipurapu, 10th, Raleigh Charter
Anna Gambardella, 10th, Raleigh Charter
Nuran Golbasi, 12th, Enloe
Srikar Nanduri, 10th, Raleigh CharterAva Neijna, 10th, Broughton
Alexandra Vincent, 10th, Crossroads Flex Sidney Vinson, 12th, Ravenscroft
2017 Participating Schools
Apex Friendship HS Fuquay-Varina HS Raleigh Charter HS Wake Early College of Health and ScienceBroughton HS Heritage HS Ravenscroft School Wake STEM Early College HS
Cardinal Gibbons HS Knightdale HS Saint Mary's School Wake Forest HSCary Academy
Crossroads FLEX HSLongleaf School of the Arts
Mary Phillips HSSt. David's School
Southeast Raleigh MHSWake Young Women’s Leadership
AcademyEnloe MHS Middle Creek HS Vernon Malone C&C Academy Wakefield HS
Table of Contents
“The Mesa” by Binita Thapa ………………………………………………………………...1
“Under the Flags” by Ellie Baker …………………………………………………………..16
“Forecasting Ohio” by Lily Eliana Levin…..……………………………………………….32
“Rainy Days” by Nada Saleh ………………………………………………………………47
“The City Through the Window” by Hannah DeMaioNewton …………………………….63
“The Desk that Saved a Life” by Maggie Hall ……………………………………………..69
“Cassie Just in Case” by V Tacker …………………………………………………………84
“Walk a Mile in My Shoes” by Rebecca West …….………………………………………92
“Train Ride” by Meredith Brown …………………………………………………………107
“Chameleon Crisis” by Anamitraa Dutta.……………………………………………….....114
“Camp Ecstasy” by Regan Curtis ………………………………………………………....120
“The Black Hole” by Grady Davis ………………………………………………………..133
“The Garrison Falls” by Juliette Ellis ………………………………………………....…..140
“Hey, Finn, It’s Frankie, But You Know That.” by Elle Hodges …………………………148
“Cold Feet” by Pooja Murarisetty ………………………………………………………...153
“Three Weeks” by Isabelle Nechvatal ………………………………………………….…165
“The Ghost River” by Clay Oxford ………………………………………………….……172
“Dregs” by Alyssa Rorie ……………………………………………………………;……179
“NOPLACIA to GOPLACIA” by Savarni Sanka …………………………………….…..188
1
The Mesa
by Binita Thapa
The side of Winnie’s face was burning, hot and brown under the sun, as she peered up at
the house. The shutters looked rusted and old; the house was entirely shabby, with paint peeling
from the sides and a scorched lawn that looked like it hadn’t been watered in days. The picket
fence that lined the exterior of the house had been broken and patched together with nails that
might unscrew at any moment.
Nice, she thought.
The house resembled exactly how she was feeling inside: worn and forgotten. But when
she looked up at her dad, his smile wide and expectant for her reaction, she couldn’t help but
want to cry right then and there.
“It looks great, Daddy,” she offered, trying her sweetest voice possible.
His face broke out in relief as he slung one arm around her, leading her in.
“I knew you’d like it. Let me show you your room.”
They entered the small house together, her dad excitedly chattering while she took in her
surroundings. The interior of the house was much better. The kitchen was small yet neat,
adjoined with the living room, a medium sized area with a brick stoned fireplace at the edge. A
leather, burgundy colored couch rested in front of the TV, a coffee table placed between them.
Down the hallway, there was a bathroom to the left and one bedroom further down to the right;
they stopped at a door at the end of the hallway.
2
“Here we are,” her dad announced.
He gently pushed the door open and she stepped inside. It was a small room, with faded
ivory colored carpet and light furnishings; in the corner, a mahogany study desk stood with a
reading lamp placed upon it. On the other side, there was a twin sized bed draped in dark blue
sheets. Winnie walked slowly around the room and set her duffel bag on the floor. Above the
bed, a huge bay window offered a view of the backyard. Right beyond the fenced enclosure was
the chain of mountains that made up the Archuleta Mesa. Green tangled brush decorated the
smoothed rocky landscape, steeply rising into the clouds.
“What do you think?” she heard her dad ask from behind.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. Truly, she’d never seen anything like it.
Later in the evening, they sat around the dinner table. Winnie chewed her chicken slowly,
not really tasting it, as her dad struggled to make conversation.
“How’s school been going?” he asked.
“Uh, all right.”
“School going okay?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Friends? What’s Auden been up to?”
At this, she swallowed hard before answering. “She’s good. Busy.”
“Oh. Well, that’s nice.”
3
She nodded and continued eating. To her father, the short, uninterested answers were the
mark of adolescence; the telltale signs of a moody teenager. Only she knew what they really
stood for. They were like short cries for help from what was eating her up every day. And then
there came the question, the question she’d been hearing for a month now, over and over again.
“Are you okay, honey?” her dad asked.
She glanced across at the table at him, at his face full of concern. He guessed something
was wrong and she wanted to spill the words out and tell him everything.
No, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not okay.
“Win, I’m here for you. To talk, to listen. I know your mom said you were going through
a bit of a rough patch, but maybe you’d open up to me. Like you used to.” He said this last
sentence with a tinge of hopefulness.
I’m not okay, I’m not okay.
But of course, she didn’t say it. She released them into the black abyss of unspoken
words, instead giving him the same answer she always did.
“I’m okay, Dad. Really.”
And with that, the conversation ended and the night went on, her words still hanging in a
dark cloud around her.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For the next few weeks, she began to explore the little town of Farmington. Her father
would head to work at around seven each morning, so she was left to do as she pleased. She
would spend her warm mornings eating breakfast in the backyard, balancing her plate on her legs
4
with a book in hand while she glanced up at the mountains every so often. Sometimes, a cool
breeze would float through and offer a break from the heat, which she took great pleasure in. The
best part of her mornings was the quietness. Back in Albuquerque, the city reverberated with the
noises of life and it got to the point where she couldn’t even hear her own thoughts. In
Farmington, there was a sort of stillness and slowness where people took their time and she came
to feel like she was a part of it.
Her dad’s house rested atop a hill and from there, she could see the wide expanse of the
town. It was like the inside of a bowl, completely encircled by the mesa. The center of the town
was where the shops and tourist locations were, but that gave way to green pastures and farms on
the outer area. Their neighborhood was relatively small, much like the rest of the town. A couple
of kids would be out on the street playing alone, but so far she hadn’t seen anyone her age. Most
of the older kids, her father had told her, would be working on the farms while school was out.
During the daytime, the heat became sweltering and with sweat dripping down the sides
of her face, she would trudge on for miles below the mountains. The mesa was made of
vermilion colored rock that looked like it had been set aflame, all throughout its flat top and
craggy, cliff-like sides. The view gave her fleeting moments of peace that she had not felt in a
long time, peace from the constant jumble of thoughts that usually filled her brain. These daily
walks made her feel unattached from her normal life; with each step she took, she was farther
away from it all. Sometimes she would stop for a moment, music blasting through her
headphones and the wind running its cool fingers through her raven hair, and she almost felt like
she’d been set free from everything that held her back.
When she’d return home in the evenings, dinner with her father was the same. They
would mostly eat in silence with a few bits of conversation here and there. After the dishes were
5
cleared and washed, she’d retreat to her room while he’d recline in his armchair and fall asleep to
Action 7 News.
One night, she had just finished drying the plates and was prepared to head to her room
when her father called out to her.
“Winnie? How about watching something?”
Her eyes lingered on her faded copy of Wuthering Heights, waiting to be finished, and
then glanced toward the living room where her dad sat, reclining on the couch. She hesitated but
then walked over and eased into the cushions. Spending a little time with her dad wouldn’t kill
her.
“That sounds like fun. What’s on right now?”
“Well, they’re playing re-runs of Full House. Remember, we’d wake up early on the
weekends just to watch it?”
Winnie had been eight years old at the time of her parent’s divorce, but she did remember
the few good memories they had before it. At this, she smiled. “And we’d gorge ourselves on
Mom’s French toast. I remember.”
Her dad smiled back. “Good times, kid.”
Halfway through the show, the channel switched to commercials. A woman appeared,
brandishing a dark burgundy lipstick and slowly applying it. When she was done, she
dramatically turned to face the camera and her mouth parted to form an alluring smile. Her red
curls fell in ringlets, popping brightly from the black evening gown she wore.
6
Winnie didn’t listen to the rest, though. Her mind had drifted to curly red hair. And of
course, curly red hair made her think of Auden.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Winnie! Hey!”
She looked up. Auden waved a magazine in front of her. Her long, curly red hair was
draped around her heart shaped face and round blue eyes, wide with impatience. They were
sitting at the Overlook, a small café near the library. Winnie had been drinking bitter black
coffee and writing in a small, spiraled notebook while barely listening to Auden’s rambling.
“What?” Winnie asked.
“Have you been listening to a word I said?”
Nope.
“Yeah. I’m right here.”
Auden rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, just tell me what you think I should do.”
Crap.
“Um. I don’t know. I think—uh, you should do what you feel is right. I mean, what do
you want to do?” Winnie tentatively replied.
Auden shot her a classic “are you kidding me” look, lips pursed and eyebrows arched.
“Well, I don’t think it’s a matter of ‘right’ when I’m deciding what to wear. But if you’re
not going to help me, I’ll just get Mia.” She tossed her hair back and returned to reading the
magazine.
7
“Why don’t you round up Congress while you’re at it.” Winnie mumbled, going back to
writing. It had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Auden’s eyes slowly rose
from the issue of Vogue she’d been poring over.
“Excuse me?” she coolly asked.
Looking straight at her, Winnie replied, “I’m just saying that it’s not really a big deal.
Just pick an outfit.”
Her brows furrowed. “I don’t get what your problem is, Winnie. I really don’t.”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Yes, you do. You’re just different now.”
Winnie didn’t answer, trying to ignore her until she’d eventually shut up, but Auden kept
going.
“There’s just been something wrong, something off and I don’t know how to explain it.
The fact that you can’t even tell me proves it.”
“I. Don’t. Have. A. Problem.” Winnie repeated.
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
All the growing irritation Winnie had built up started bubbling into anger and at this last
remark, it erupted out of her like steaming lava.
“You know, you’re really pissing me off. I have a problem because I don’t want to hear
about your life problems every second of the day? ‘What do I wear, who do I go out with, what
do I put on my eyebrows?’ If anything’s really changed, it’s just the fact that I’m sick of it all.
I’m telling you to get over it,” she snapped.
8
Auden laughed a little. It wasn’t a laugh that you made when you thought something
funny; it was more of a laugh you made when you couldn’t believe how ridiculous something
was. And Winnie knew that whenever it came out of her mouth, a fight was brewing. This time,
she didn’t care. She was ready for it.
“Get over it? Over it? You’re giving ME advice on how to get over it?” her voice rose
embarrassingly loud. The people sitting near them exchanged a few glances but she barely took
notice and continued.
“Lemme get this straight: you’re telling me to ‘get over it’ when you’ve been moping
around for who knows how long? I mean, you broke up with Steven a month ago and just look at
yourself. Stringy hair, no makeup. You never go out with anyone anymore. Face it; I had to drag
you out like a cat just to get you to come today.”
At the mention of Steven’s name, Winnie’s heart started to pound nervously and her head
started to feel a little faint. Auden, oblivious to anything but her own ranting, continued.
“Just listen to what people say about you. Everyone thinks you’re turning into some emo
freak. And maybe they’re right. But, hey, you wanna sit there and mope alone? Go ahead. Keep
skipping class? Go ahead. Stay home and shove your face into books? Be my guest.”
Winnie looked down, her face starting to bloom scarlet with embarrassment.
“ I’m just---I’m just so done dealing with you, Win.”
At this last sentence, Auden’s voice broke. Without another word, she got up from her
chair and walked away, head shaking in disbelief.
9
Everyone at the café was staring now but it didn’t matter. Winnie watched Auden go, her
curls bouncing up and down, but she found that she had no tears; instead, she felt a swelling
balloon in her stomach that kept expanding and it made her want to vomit, right then and there.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She’d been cooped up all day, reading and finishing the last pages of her novel. When she
glanced up at the clock above her door frame, it read that it was four o’clock already. She figured
she’d have enough time to go for a quick evening walk before her dad got home. Throwing on a
jacket and quickly lacing up her sneakers, she set out along her same route.
By the time she’d started to make her way back home, the sun was already descending
over the horizon. The sky was a blue canvas tinged with fading pink and orange, and she
marveled at how beautiful the mountain peaks looked against the sunset.
About half a mile away from home, she’d looked back for one last peek of the mesa and
noticed a black Ford pickup on the road behind her. Thinking nothing of it, she continued.
She could hear the hum of the car as it started to get closer to her. Rather than passing
her, it slowed down until it was cruising the road at the same pace as her. Her heart began to beat
faster as the car continued to slow in what felt like an eternity.
Suddenly, it pulled up next to her and she heard a man in the driver’s seat call out,
“Excuse me!”
Scared and anxious, her head began racing with thoughts and her heart pounded so loudly
that she could hear it being thrown back and forth against her chest. She turned to face the driver.
10
He was a middle aged man, with a scruffy face and a green plaid shirt. He smiled at her and she
didn’t know whether to run as fast she could or to answer.
Please don’t let this be a creep, please don’t let this be a creep.
Cautiously, she ventured, “What can I help you with?”
The man continued smiling. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
Okay, if he tries to pull something, I can easily knock him out, right? You got a good left
hook, Win.
“Do you know where the nearest gas station is?”
She felt a little startled at his question. What was wrong with her?
“Uh, yeah. Down that way, just a mile,” she replied, pointing to the south.
Still smiling, he said, “Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice evening.”
As he sped away, she watched him and then started walking toward home, a little faster
than before. Her heart was still beating but now she felt very dizzy and weak.
Calm down, Winnie. It was nothing.
A few minutes later, the beating and dizziness had not ceased. It had gotten worse. Her
throat suddenly caught and she found that she was struggling breathe. Some invisible force was
smothering her, choking her. Her body was shaking and her chest felt heavy with weight.
She plopped down on the side of the road, feeling the hard coolness of the ground. With
her hands spread out, she tried clutching the grass, trying to feel the earth and balance herself.
11
Air started to come to her and she took gradual, deep breaths with gratefulness. Her surroundings
began to get clearer and she felt a little better.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a frigid night. Usually the nights in Albuquerque were warm, yet on that particular
evening it had been chilly. He’d asked her out for a drive, one last drive before he’d have to
leave for the summer.
She already knew that her parents would disapprove, but did she honestly care? If
anything, that made her want to be with him even stronger.
No, oh no. He’s different, you guys. He’s different. With her, that was the only argument
needed.
They were racing along the road in his car, him with his loud, cocky laugh and her
giggling from the pure rush. The icy wind cut her cheeks but she didn’t care, because that had
been the happiest she’d ever been; this was her movie moment where she forgot about all of her
problems and lived happily ever after with the prince. Everything she could ever want, she
thought, could be found right in this one perfect instance.
He pulled the car over to McKinney Park. It was late in the night and the entire park was
empty, engulfed in silence. The oak trees hovered above her and they rustled against the wind,
shedding leaves that descended around the car.
He turned to her, eyes wiggling and she grinned.
“So. It’s just us,” he whispered.
12
He reached over to nuzzle her neck, and she could feel his hands slowly reaching up her
shirt.
“C’mon,” she laughed and pushed his hands away. He laughed too, hands still around
her.
“I just can’t help myself,” he whispered.
“Y’know, the park isn’t really the height of romance,” she joked but his hands kept
reaching, nimbly loosening a few of the buttons on her shirt.
“Hey, cut it out. I’m serious.”
“Aw Win, you know you want it,” he smirked.
His hands had become urgent in a way that she couldn’t recognize, and he didn’t move
away. She could feel his hot breath on her face and she felt disgusted all of a sudden, her smile
immediately vanishing from her face. She didn’t want it at all; she wanted to go home.
“Steven, I’m serious. Stop it.”
But he didn’t stop. Before she could even comprehend what was happening, he was
pinning her down; the force of his frame was too strong for her to move. She screamed, loud and
frantic and in pain, but no one could hear her. The stillness of the night was cut by her screams,
and the only response she could hear were of the trees, their leaves whispering out what little
comfort they could offer.
Please. Please, someone help.
Afterwards, she had sat there in the car seat, feeling chilled and dead inside. She didn’t
budge and could barely summon the courage to breathe; paralysis had taken over. He drove her
13
home with deafening silence throughout the car, whistling as if nothing had happened in the past
hour. Winnie stared out the window and captured small details in her brain, ones that were
mundane yet remained seared in her brain: the flashing McDonalds sign, a broken beer bottle on
a street corner. It was the only way to distract herself from completely breaking down; the
feeling of what had happened had not sunk in.
This just doesn’t happen to girls like me, she thought. It just doesn’t.
Girls like me. Girls like me. These words rang through her head for the rest of the ride
home.
The instant he pulled over to the curb of her house, she found some strength to throw
herself out of the car and run without looking back. As she reached the front of the house, she
slowed and deftly snuck into her house, not wanting to wake her sleeping mother. Still quiet, she
entered her bedroom and crawled into bed, without bothering to change her clothes or wash her
face.
That was when it all hit her. The feeling of her warm sheets and the smell of fabric
softener, the smells of home, caused the numbness and disbelief to disappear in an instant. She
started to cry, shaking and heaving and allowing the tears to flood across her face, creating black
streaks of mascara down her cheeks. In this moment, she knew her life had just been split into
pieces that she couldn’t pick up, and this particular piece she would never tell anyone about.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When her breathing had returned and her heart slowed, she pulled herself up and started
back on the road home. The sky was darkening slowly but she was within sight of the house, the
14
mountains looming behind it. A week ago, she remembered asking her father about where the
rocks got their colors from.
It’s actually pretty cool stuff, Win. When the rock gets exposed to the elements, her father
the science nerd had explained, the iron in the rock starts to rust. That’s where it gets all these
shades of red, brown, and orange. Amazing, huh?
Just like me, she thought randomly.
A part of her was still an innocent girl eating French toast and laughing out loud when
Michelle declared, “Don’t worry, be happy!” She’d prance around the house, repeating it just to
make her parents laugh. Life was so different now; things weren’t that simple anymore where a
dumb catchphrase could fix everything. Now, there was a bitter taste in everything she did,
everything she said. And she didn’t know what was worse: the fact that all this happened to her
or the fact that it ate up a bit of her life every day. Did she deserve this? Did she really deserve to
have her world ruined and torn apart like a flimsy piece of paper? There were many things she’d
do differently if she could go back, but it was too late. Some days, she felt like she was losing
her mind by keeping this bottled up inside of her.
Peering up at the mountain peaks, fiery red and stabbing the sky in defiance, she felt a
little strong, something that had eluded her during the past few months. Even looking at the
house, that old and hideous, absolutely ugly yet still standing house, made her feel a little better.
And more importantly, she actually felt something greater start to grow inside that pushed her
toward the house.
15
It pushed her to knock, two thunderous raps against the cedar wood door despite the fact
that she knew she had the key to the house. The wind started to blow around her and her hair
swirled like a storm cloud around her face.
It pushed her to take a deep breath when her father opened the door, and declare, “I’m
ready to talk.”
And as she entered the house, leaving the darkness of the night behind her, she knew she wasn’t
okay. But now, under the watchful eye of the mesa, she had a chance to get there.
16
Under the Flags
by Ellie Baker
There was something really special about a quiet swimming pool. On early mornings like
this when there was no one else in there yet, half the lights were out, and the water surface was
just still—these were the mornings Thomas usually enjoyed. There was something special about
being the first person to dive in, about the pattern of lap after lap, a round down to the other side,
a flip turn, slam off the wall, and back again.
Technically of course, he wasn’t supposed to be here. Technically he’d broken in with an
old, copied key. Technically he wasn’t supposed to be swimming without a lifeguard and his
parents didn’t know where he was at the moment and the doctor had said he wasn’t allowed to
swim for another two months on account of the shoulder surgery.
Thomas, however, was ignoring all of these things as he swam alone in the earliest hours
of day. He was taking care not to think too much, because right now thinking only made him
angry. The only mission he’d set for himself was to tear his arms off by six a.m. and he was
doing pretty well at that so far. Usually he liked to get these miles in quietly, thinking about the
papers he’d have to write that week or about Jenny or just enjoying the silence underwater. But
right now, all the things that usually helped him relax into a rhythm were annoying him and he
really didn’t want to think about Jenny.
The tile markers beneath him changed pattern and he stretched his arms longer for the
coming flip turn. The scar along the back of his neck pulled taut and Thomas felt his side twinge,
but he curled his body tight and pounced off the wall again. He’d taught Jenny how to do that
when they were both freshmen. Of course, that was the year that neither of them had a clue what
17
they were doing on the swim team when they signed up. He’d only faked his way through
teaching her because he wanted her to think that he had some experience.
Not that he was thinking about her right now. That was just a fact about flip turns. When
they were fourteen and total strangers and the only ones in the slow lane because everyone else
could outpace them by a lap, he, Thomas, had taught her, Jenny, how to flip turn. That was all.
The coach had been forgetting about them down in their own lane and they’d eventually started
giving each other sets to stay busy.
“I’m gonna beat your time,” she’d said, flicking water at him over her shoulder. She was
chubby, her hair was pulled into a swim cap, and her eyes were covered by dark swim goggles.
Cute smile though, he thought, even with braces. She was the first girl he’d really talked to since
elementary school.
“Probably,” he said. As far as early teenagerhood went, he too had yet to develop, and the
swimsuit his mom had bought him was cutting into his stomach and he hadn’t bothered with a
cap since he kept his hair buzzed.
She splashed at him. “Come on,” she said. “If we race each other, we can get into the
faster lanes with the sophomores.”
The sophomores were all long and funny and wore tapered sweatpants. He shrugged.
Jenny lifted her goggles and looked him in the eyes.
“Race me,” she said.
But that was just a fact about swimming, and here he was swimming. They once swam
together and that was that.
He flipped against the wall again and pushed off deep underwater, trying to see how far
he could go without kicking or breathing. His shoulder was really burning now, and he could feel
18
the length of skin where the surgeons had made their incision. Somewhere in the back of his
mind, he could imagine explaining this later to his parents. That he’d undone the operation’s
work just to sneak in and swim and then they would want to know why and he’d have to tell
them and God, wasn’t that going to break their hearts and it just felt like tattling, which was
stupid, so he’d probably end up lying about the shoulders. Yeah, that’s how this would end. He’d
lie when he got home.
Thomas finished hard at the wall and pulled up for air before turning again. It was kind of
funny now, in a stupid sort of way. Last year she’d started winning early in the season, beating
him at every race, taking second where he had taken fifth, making state cuts at the first meet. It
wasn’t hard to be proud of her then. Not when she was smiling like that and the opposing pool
was their sworn enemy and the team was up with the points she’d won. She hopped off the
winner’s blocks and came over to him.
“Yeah yeah, but I taught you how to flip turn,” he’d said in her ear.
“Oh don’t let me forget it,” she said. “Those are my roots.” She kissed him and it was
just slippery skin and the smell of chlorine.
That was junior year. He and Jenny had technically started dating the winter of freshman,
but he counted that as middle school-type stuff; things got fun once he earned his driver’s license
as a sophomore. They’d made it their habit that he would pick her up for practice in the
mornings. She lived on his way to the pool and he didn’t mind. She hated driving anyway. He’d
always gone a little too fast though, just to mess with her.
“Thomas,” she would start, with her hands pressed hard against the seat. “Thomas, take it
on four wheels, Thomas, Thomas—” He tried to keep himself at two hard turns per week, only
zipping around corners when she really deserved to be freaked out.
19
“But babe, it’s like flying,” he would say, grinning at her. That was her line and they both
knew it. They always got to practice early and liked to pull a few extra laps. She had kissed him
once, right as they were about to push off next to each other. Deep end of the pool, totally
submerged, start with one huge surge off the wall, feeling strong and weightless. “It’s like
flying,” she’d said. He delayed right when she started so he could watch her kicking ahead.
Strong and weightless, like flying.
What she’d said freshman year turned out to be true. They kept racing each other and
eventually they got into the faster lanes. They practiced tougher and got quicker. He hit growth
spurts that turned fat into muscle; at her insistence, he grew his hair out. She slimmed down and
lost the braces. By senior year they were co-captains, the It Couple, Honor Court and everything;
they’d practically adopted the new underclassmen on the team.
Thomas had always known that Jenny was faster than him, but in junior year her
occasional teasing had turned into concern. His times got slower no matter how hard he worked,
and his shoulders ached worse no matter how much he stretched. She’d kept up the year-round
routine while he took a season off. They would swim together on the school team next year. But
by the first week back, signs were already showing.
“Your shoulders are going to give out,” she told him. “You know what they say. The
ones who swim in college aren’t the ones who are good; they’re the ones who are left.”
“You’re being dramatic,” he said, which didn’t really work because they were sitting in
the trainer’s office and his arm was pulled across his chest with a heating pack on the back
muscles.
“You’re pinching the nerve,” the trainer said from across the room. “If you’re not careful,
you could destroy it.” Jenny glared at him. Thomas wouldn’t look at her.
20
Ultimately, she convinced him to go in for the surgery; he would have ignored every
parent, coach, and doctor that disagreed with him if it weren’t for her.
‘I want to finish the season,’ he said, texting her from the waiting room as if she might let
him off the hook at the last minute. ‘We’re team captains this year. We’ve wanted this since we
were freshmen.’
‘You’re more important than being a captain Tom.’
‘But I’m not going to see you. You’ll be at practice and meets and stuff.’
‘We’re not being separated dummy. I’m going to see you.’
‘Yeah okay. I know.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ he wrote and hit send. But this was their thing. It had always been their
thing and here he was quitting it. He went in for the surgery and they told him he wouldn’t be
allowed to exert himself for four months. That was ten weeks ago. He hadn’t been in the water
since then and here he was about to rip the arm out of its stupid socket—
Thomas hit the wall panting and grabbed onto the ledge. The clock above him said he’d
been at this for almost half an hour but he couldn’t believe that. He didn’t really believe that time
applied to him right now actually; it felt like he didn’t exist inside of anything except for this
pool, with the same lighting and the same water and the same four walls. He slung his good arm
over the edge and hoisted himself up to breathe better.
He wasn’t supposed to be thinking. He’d been inside his own head for nearly two days
now and he hadn’t really spoken to anyone. He was tired of thinking about the same thing; he
just wanted to swim. No more Jenny, really, that was what he wanted. He didn’t want to review
the other day or the months that led to it, or the years that led to up to that. Just swim, please.
21
Thomas huffed and dropped back into the water, hesitating against the wall before he
kicked off it, the nerves in his shoulder now rolling in agony.
He really should have seen it all before it happened, to be honest.
She kept making cuts for faster meets, traveling away for weekends, making longer stays
with better wins, qualifying for regionals, for scholarships. There were three colleges
aggressively recruiting her now and one of them was promising that their program could shoe
her in for the Olympic trials in four years. The big meets were livestreamed online. Thomas
could watch her beat the whole competition from states away, couch-bound, with his arm
hanging against his stomach.
As she hopped off the winner’s blocks one Saturday, he couldn’t be the one to
congratulate her, but he watched as the other people did. There was even a boy from a different
team who reached over to hug her. She grinned and hugged him back. Not that Thomas realized
it then of course, but that was when it all started to fall apart.
A week later the same boy showed up in a picture she posted. They were holding up
matching first place medals with the caption “new friends - new firsts – midwest december
invitationals.” He knew he shouldn’t, but he still stalked the hell out of the other guy’s feed.
Cameron van Allen was his name, which Thomas thought was stupid then, and thought was
really stupid now. A week before, Cameron had posted a picture from last years’ meet as a
throwback. He and Jenny were in the foreground, grinning up for a selfie with a lot of other kids
behind them, clearly relaxing in hotel room between pool times. Thomas spotted himself there,
perched on the edge of a bed, surrounded by Jolly Ranchers, and smiling. Apparently they’d all
been hanging out, but he couldn’t remember the event for the life of him.
22
When Jenny got back from the meet, he drove over to see her. It had started well, they’d
chitchatted, he’d brought her a milkshake, and then when they started making out, she got funny
and said she wanted to talk. Eventually it started coming out. He was frustrated that he never got
to see her anymore and though he meant it as a compliment for wanting to spend time with her,
she got annoyed. It had escalated into an argument, for which she spent the last half telling him
to calm down so she could talk about something else and him feeling cut off. He’d left, and
they’d been weird around each other all week.
“I want to apologize,” he’d finally said on Thursday. It was math class and it was the one
period they had together this semester. They were still table partners, even if they hadn’t talked
much since the fight.
“Thomas,” she said.
“I just wish I was still on the team,” he said. “Because I miss swimming and I miss you
and I miss what this year was supposed to be about. That’s all. I’m sorry for complaining the
other day. I know it’s not your fault.”
Jenny rubbed her eyes.
“I’m sorry too,” she said. She was quiet after that. He asked once what she was thinking
about, since she was clearly concentrated on something, but she only shook him off.
That weekend she was going to the state finals with the school team. They got out of
class early on Friday; on Saturday morning he promptly woke up to make the drive. If he showed
up to see her, he thought, it would smooth the last week over and they could finally get back to
normal; anyway, she’d always loved sentimental stuff like that. But what should have been a
three hour journey got screwed into four by road construction and lookie-loo traffic and to top it
off, it took him forever to find a parking spot.
23
At eleven a.m. Thomas finally pushed his way into the aquatic center, where a screen in
the lobby was broadcasting the meet. When he saw that the girls’ 100 Fly was next, enough
words dropped from his lips that a nearby mother glared at him and he didn’t even care. All that
effort and he was still going to miss her event.
Merchandise tables were set up all the way into the pool, strategically meant to slow
down potential customers, but he knew the drill at this point. He, Thomas “Invalid” Allen, had
made state meets three years in a row before his shoulders gave out and he’d be damned if he
didn’t knew the back way in by now. He passed the noisy door of the home boys’ locker room
and let himself in through the unused visitor’s, ignoring signs meant to keep out spectators and
navigating empty changing rooms until he reached the pool deck.
The smell of chlorine hit in a redoubled gust as he opened the door and he got to catch
the last two laps of the race. Jenny came in first by a full body length, her red cap well in the
lead.
Grinning, he started making his way over, keeping his eyes on her so she wouldn’t be lost
amidst the hundred other speedoed, goggled, broad-shouldered bodies.
“Jenny,” he called when he reached the side of the pool. “Yo! Jenny, hey!”
But then he realized she was aiming for somebody else on the opposite poolside,
someone very specific. His stomach bottomed out.
“What the hell,” Thomas muttered. He watched as Cameron van Allen reached her and
wrapped her up in a congratulatory hug, quickly followed by a custom parka. She pulled her hair
down from the cap and he tousled it out of its bun. The two of them padded off across the deck
towards the quiet end of the aquatic center, past the warm-down pool and everything. Thomas
24
followed from the other side of the lanes, already feeling kind of sick, and then Cameron kissed
her.
Giggling, they disappeared into a disused sauna room.
To be totally honest, Thomas didn’t really remember how the rest of that day went after
that. He remembered going in after them. He remembered that she started crying once she
realized what was happening. He remembered that he made the point not to look at the other guy
because, shoulder or not, there was nothing he wanted more than to tackle Cameron van Allen
through a window just then. His only clear memory, really, was asking her when it had started.
“Last year?” Thomas said, taking little, furious steps in place. “What, last state meet?
Was this going on all through the year-round season?”
Jenny was holding and hiding her face and that was making him really mad and he kept
pinching himself with his slung arm because he wanted to calm down, but what he really wanted
was for her to look at him—
“Is that why you wanted me to go in for the surgery?” he said, pressing without her
answering. “Because you wanted me off the team?”
“No,” she said, muffled and crying. “No, that’s—it was for your shoulder. You wouldn’t
have gone in—look, Thomas, this isn’t about the surgery…”
“No,” he said, full of this new idea, not only betrayed now but actively conspired against.
“You wanted me off the team so you could travel away for these meets, you wanted to see him.”
He was still making a tremendous effort not to look at Cameron van Allen, who at least had the
decency to make himself as small as possible in the furthest corner of the tiniest room.
“You would have destroyed your shoulders,” Jenny said. “You could swim in college if
you want to. Look, it’s not about the surgery, Thomas, I’m—”
25
“I was willing to give up swimming in college,” he cried. His voice broke just a tiny bit
and he definitely should have stopped there, but somehow this felt better. Throw in her face
everything he ever thought or felt about her and then leave. There was something that felt really
hard and right and poetic about that.
“If we could have had one more year on the team together,” Thomas said, “that would
have been enough. Co-captains. That was what we wanted. So don’t say you were helping me;
you wanted me out so you could be with him!” And that was the point at which he flung his good
hand in Cameron’s direction and, rather spectacularly, smacked it as with all his might against a
door frame. Furious, he stormed out of the room and left her, feeling even lower now because
one of the sophomore girls saw him leave and he knew those kids would talk. And they were
supposed to look up to their captains.
Somehow he drove home after that. The radio was loud and full of static and the only
intelligible thought he had was when he needed to remember an exit. He’d gotten home in the
afternoon. Hadn’t talked to the parents. Hadn’t really eaten. Collapsed in his bed and went to
sleep. The next morning he took his sister and her friend to the mall as an excuse to get out and
she clearly realized it was not a day to talk. They went shopping, he bought an attachment for his
phone that he didn’t need, and he still felt angry. They drove home and he went up to sit on the
floor in his bedroom. He turned on his phone and found four missed calls from Jenny. He threw
away the new attachment, got up, went to the bathroom, buzzed his hair short, and went back to
sit on the floor. He fell asleep in the same position. Eventually the discomfort was enough to
wake him up at some ungodly early time, and even after all these months of missing morning
practices, Thomas couldn’t help but feel ready for a swim. At this point, there was nothing else
to do than go to the pool.
26
He and Jenny had long ago bribed the lifeguards into giving them spare keys so they
could work harder, so long as they did it with each other. There was one time where he had
dropped his whole keyring down a sewage grate just before a rainstorm and they had to work
together to get it out. The keys were all scuffed up now on the faces and he couldn’t look at them
as he let himself into the pool. Someone else would show up in an hour or so anyways. It was
basically safe.
And now here he was, pushing thirty minutes of a work out and pulling open everything
that had healed up in the past two months. He mostly wanted to punish himself because it just
gave him something to do. Hurting felt great right now. These shoulders that were too delicate to
go to practice three days ago felt fantastic now that they were on fire, scar tugging open, sinews
pulled taut.
The tiles changed beneath him again and he was under the flags. The thing he wanted to
hear most right now, and yet was most afraid of, was what she would say to him next. An
apology, probably, but he wanted an explanation, a story, something, some absurd circumstance
where Jenny could undo what she’d done and he could forgive her. He wanted her to fix it. He
wanted to be a freshman again meeting her as a freshman again. And all that just made him feel
like a whipped shmuck. Thomas flipped over, pushed off, and immediately his hands crashed
into something in the water.
His momentum lurched to a halt and he came up sputtering to find a kickboard bobbing
before him in the lane.
“What—!” He started, just wanting to yell, when someone cleared their throat.
She was standing above him on the bulwark, looking from this angle like she was poised
on the water. The pool rocked into stillness.
27
“What the hell, Jenny,” he said, because, really, what else was there to say?
“Your shoulder’s bright red,” she said. She was dressed in sweat clothes and her swim
bag was still swung over her shoulder. She too had let herself in to work without permission.
He stared at her for a second and then ducked back under the water again. He’d told
himself he would stop at six a.m. and he still had five minutes. She didn’t get to control that.
Another kickboard splashed down in front of him. He dove beneath it and kept going.
“Thomas!” he heard her shouting, footsteps falling against the bulwark as she chased
him. “Thomas!”
There was a splash that he registered only once she bubbled up beneath him. They broke
the water at the same time coming up, he pushing away from her. She’d stripped off the
sweatshirt, but her pants left her slow and dragging in the water.
“What?” he said, deciding that he was far enough away from her. She was floating
between the two kickboards, her hair puddled around her face on the water’s surface.
“Your—” she faltered. “Your whole back is enflamed, Thomas. I, I could see it from
across—”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. The shoulder hurt like crazy now and the whole muscle ached but
he really hoped it was from old disuse than new damage.
“Your—” she tried again.
“What do you want?” he said.
She swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
He partly wanted to drown her and partly wanted to kiss her; he decided he should
probably let her talk.
28
“I’m sorry I did this,” Jenny said, her voice low. “To you. We weren’t—the guy,
Cameron and I weren’t doing things all year like you said…just off and on, for the past few
weeks.”
He realized that he was still holding out for the thing that would fix this, the magic
scenario where she would tell him everything had been an enormous mistake and that this just a
sit-com level mishap. Immediately following this idea, he realized that the magic scenario wasn’t
going to happen. His stomach started to hurt.
“Weeks,” he said. She only cringed. “And?”
“I didn’t want you to get the surgery because of him,” she said “…We hadn’t seen each
other in a year until a few months ago and we weren’t even friends then.”
“Why’d you do it then?”
“Tell you to get the surgery?”
“No. Why’d you do him?”
Jenny swallowed again.
“It wasn’t because of you,” she said. “And it isn’t because of Cameron either. I just,
we’ve been together for years now, and we kind of, I mean I kind of—” She had teared up, so he
knew that whatever was coming next was going to hurt, a lot. “It felt stagnant.”
It was worse than what he’d expected; Thomas winced despite himself and she said
quickly, “And I know that isn’t fair—”
“Oh, really?” he said.
“But it, it—” she stammered and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It felt like it was
all far away when we were at meets together.”
“So what? Did you think that meant it didn’t count?”
29
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head and crying now, “I don’t know what I was
thinking, I just felt like a different person once I was out of town. The sneaking around and the…
God, it all just felt different.”
“Well,” he said, “You’re certainly different from what I thought you were.”
Jenny took this without a fight.
“It’s not an excuse,” she said. “I know it doesn’t make it right and apologizing doesn’t
make it right and nothing’s going to, but…” she looked up at him with big eyes. “Can I at least
take you to the hospital to check on your shoulder?”
It flashed through his head what that would feel like. Him in her car, the streets still
empty, the radio on so they wouldn’t have to talk, and he supposed that wouldn’t be too bad.
She’d take him to the hospital and on the way there they could pick up coffee and that would be
okay too. And maybe if they went around one of those sharp corners he could tell her to take it
on four wheels…
The image vanished.
“I’ll drive myself,” he said.
“Thomas, please,” she tried.
He turned and started swimming for the ladder, passing back under the flags. It was
harder to move now that he was thinking about the shoulder and he grimaced as he bobbed
beneath the lane ropes. Jenny splashed behind him, weighted down by her clothes.
“Thomas, let me just drive you—”
He tried to reimagine it. She could take him and they could sit in silence the whole way
there; she could ruminate and he could feel angry. He knew that by the time they got to the
hospital, he would have come up with all the better, smarter things he should have thrown at her
30
and then she’d really be in for it. But she was already crying now and he decided that anything
clever he could say later would just make them both feel more pathetic.
“No,” he said. Relying on the good arm, he hefted himself out of the pool and stood on
the deck, water running down his body.
“Thomas—”
“Jen you don’t—” he laughed for a second and then pulled himself together. “You don’t
get to. You’re not—oh boy.” He sighed and massaged his neck where it hurt. He couldn’t figure
out what he was thinking, but he knew that he was proud of himself for feeling like this.
But then—what if she just drove him and dropped him off and he said thanks and they
silently agreed not to speak to each other for a few weeks? He swallowed and felt his stomach
finally unclench. No, it wouldn’t work. None of it would work.
And anyway, this just felt right.
“It isn’t your turn now,” he said at last, looking up at her. “It’s my turn. And you just
don’t…you don’t get to be responsible for picking up what you broke.” He shook his head
because he knew that sounded stupid but deep down the gut feeling grew stronger. This felt right.
“I’ll drive myself,” he said. “…See you later.”
He left her in the pool and grabbed his bag on the way out, breaking stride only once in
the lobby to pull his pants on before he went out of the building.
It was still December outside and the morning sky was just starting to tint up with light,
though he could tell it was going to be another long, gray day. He was wet and he wasn’t
wearing a shirt and when he slid behind the car wheel, he slumped back in his seat.
31
He would pick up coffee on his way to the hospital. He’d call his dad—no, he’d call his
mom, he’d tell her what happened, and he’d apologize to her. If she said she would come with
him he’d have coffee waiting for her too.
Thomas turned on the car and pulled out of the lot. His shoulder hurt like crazy and his
stomach was still kind of sick and angry and he felt like he ought to cry some, even though he
didn’t want to. But he was on his way to the hospital and there were snow flurries just starting to
come down. He turned on the radio and decided that he felt a little better than he had when he’d
woken up.
32
Forecasting Ohio
by Lily Eliana Levin
I am a tree split in half by lighting. I know of its intense radiation, its paralyzing heat and
pulsating addiction. And I also know of the harm and the pain that materializes in its wake. By
all definitions, I am 14 years old. But in the eyes of tragedy, I have lived for eternity.
I remember the exact moment when my mama told me, "Becca Marie Davis, you are strong.
You are beautiful. You don't need anyone in your life to validate that except for you. And I'm
tryin' real hard to give you a good life; I’m tryin’ to give you the life I never had."
I gazed lovingly into her shining green eyes and her yellow hair, radiant in the rural Ohio
sunlight. Her brown roots were visible through the pigmented blonde hair dye, her nose was
scarred from her abusive father, and she had a peculiar beauty mark above her right eye, but she
was still beautiful.
Mama holds my hand. "You're gonna make something of yourself, you know that? And
you're gonna look back at your old mama and thank the Lord that he was watchin' over us."
"Mama, I love you." I pulled her into a rare hug, embracing her body, round from eating too
much and worn from laughing and crying and singing. Oh, that voice of hers. It could make
geese fly one thousand miles from god-knows-where to drought-stricken Ohio just to hear her hit
that high A.
My life was beautiful. Simple, but beautiful. My mama had been clean from her previous
alcohol addiction for five years. We were poor, my family: my mama was a single mom, and
Daisy, my ten-year-old sister, and I contributed little income to the household. My mama sent me
33
and Daisy to a sister magnet high school and middle school so that we would receive a
satisfactory education. We had just enough food to eat and could listen to the croaking of the
frogs outside our compact mobile home as the last light of the sun faded over the horizon.
I have tortured myself trying to think of alternate situations where the accident on the soccer
field did not happen---how I could have prevented my injury based upon the precise moment of
the misstep I made. I should never have played soccer. I should never have been so careless. I
should never have gotten surgery. But life does not have a rewind button. And when I tore my
ACL, everything came crashing down.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 1, 2016, 3:00- 3:03 p.m.
A barrage of tears pour from Daisy’s waterline, and a wail escapes her parted lips. Every
student riding on our school bus immediately turns around and stares at her tortured face. Her
eyes break my heart. All of the light and life has been drained from Daisy’s irises, leaving only a
dull grey color. Because when home does not feel like home anymore, it becomes something
else. Something insidious.
I’m silently begging for the school bus to break down as it slowly pulls up to our dilapidated
street. When it approaches our house, I reluctantly wave goodbye to my two best friends, Martha
and Sarah. Daisy digs her jagged nails tightly into my palm.
"C'mon Daisy, you can do this. One step at a time."
34
"B-b-b-but Mama-" Her teeth are chattering.
"There's nothing we can do about Mama. We just have to be the best daughters--"
My voice cracks. Somewhere inside, my heart breaks and I feel numb and cold.
Numb. The weight of my heavy legs disappears. The feeling of pins and needles in my
oxygen-starved feet vanishes, and I am frozen in mid-step.
Cold. I shiver, even in the heat of the drought. Sweat breaks out on my temples. I have to be
strong. I am the older sister and I have to be strong.
"Okay, Daisy. Open the door, slowly. And then I'll go cook you some supper, okay? I'll make
your favorite today. What do you like--ohhh I remember, mac and cheese? I think we have some
Kraft left in the cabinet." I say.
I notice that Daisy’s frail fingers are shaking.
"1, 2, 3…"
We push open the door.
The house reeks of vomit. There's an empty milk carton shoved against the doorway teeming
with the source of the smell.
If I had one wish, it would be to erase this moment from my mind forever. I would give
anything to forget.
"Oh. My. God!" I scream. "Daisy, don't look!" I slap my hand across her eyelids. But it's too
late.
35
Mama's laying on the ground in a pool of her own vomit. Her once striking features are
contorted in pain and agony.
"MAMA!" Daisy shrieks. Her feet grow wings: she moves toward Mama fast as a bullet
train. "Mama, please wake up!"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
July, two months earlier
"Becca, I'm so proud of you! You made it through your ACL surgery!" Mama says excitedly,
jumping up and down. At thirty-two, she is still a fountain of youth. Martha, Sarah, Daisy and
Mama crowd around my hospital bed. Mama thrusts a bouquet of flowers into my weak arms.
"Now on, you better take it easy out there on the soccer field." Mama scolds.
"I know, Mama, I know. Do you really think I wanted this surgery?" I say, rolling my eyes.
The surgeon comes into the room holding a clipboard. He advises me to rest my legs, informs
me of the window of recovery time, and recommends a physical therapist that is covered under
our Affordable Care Health Insurance. And then he tells me gently, "Your pain will be acutely
severe after the surgery. So I am prescribing oxycodone to ease your suffering. You can pick it
up at the Rite Aid across the street from the hospital. You are free to leave whenever you feel
ready, Becca. But be careful. The heat of this drought is suffocating."
"Okay," Mama exclaims. "Now let's get outta here!"
I hobble on my crutches out of my hospital bed. I grimace in pain. "Don't forget to pick up
my medicine! My legs hurt like hell!"
36
"I'm just gonna let you live in eternal misery for the rest of your life without those
painkillers." Mama says sarcastically. "Oh, heck no. I'm getting them for you right now,
sweetie!" She says the last line so excitedly I swear that I could see a raw hunger in her deep
green eyes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 1, 2016, 3:03-3:50 p.m.
"Daisy, please leave! You shouldn’t be here right now. You-you can’t see this. I'll get help.
I'll call 9-1-1."
I frantically produce my phone from my back pocket, heart racing, and dial the digits on the
screen.
911, what's your emergency?
My mom, she's laying on the ground, she isn't breathing, I think she overdosed. Please please
please help us now.
We will be right there. What's your address?
3101 Maynard Lane. We’re in the trailer park so it might be a little bit harder to find.
Okay, that is noted.
The line beeps.
37
Daisy is still firmly hugging Mama's body. "She's not dead. She's not dead. She can't leave
us. She loves us. She's not dead."
"Daisy, get OUT of the house right this instant!" I roar. "NOW! I want you out of the house
until help comes!"
Daisy looks up at me. Her veiny, malnourished legs carry her out onto the back porch. I
cannot move; I am petrified in shock.
Twenty minutes later, we hear the screaming of sirens in the distance.
"Daisy, it’s going to be okay. It's going to be okay. She's not dead, okay." I yell, fighting
back my tears.
The EMT’s storm into the trailer, stretcher in hand, prepared to take Mama into the
Emergency Room.
They're talking, raised voices and whispering and everything in between, but I cannot hear a
thing. All I know is that Mama's not breathing and they know that too and they're going to try to
save her but medicine is not and will never ever be magic…..
"Honey," an EMT is tapping on my shoulder. I jerk around, instantly realizing that I have
been staring at our kitchen cabinet for what feels like eternity. The EMT has a kind face, and
empathetic, caring eyes.
"Honey, there was nothing we could do to save your mother.”
Mama used to joke that life was a gift, but that you could not return the gift if you didn’t like
what you got. “If you’re stuck with a bad mama like me,” she would say, laughing, “you can’t
38
return your present and ask for a different Mama. Sorry Becca, you’re stuck with me forever.
And you’ll have to deal with me embarrassing you until I’m old, because you don’t have a dad,
so I’m the mom who tells corny dad jokes. I’m sorry God didn’t give you a higher quality gift.”
“She's had no pulse for a while, and because the commute is so far from here to the hospital,
there is no way that we'd be able to revive her. We have tried everything we could. I am so, so
sorry."
When mama joked with me, I would teasingly say, “Mama, I don’t need to return my gift. But
I wish you wouldn’t tell corny dad jokes. I get enough of your sappiness as a mom. You only
stopped walking me up to school freshman year, and cried during my fifth grade graduation.”
"She's..she's dead?" I ask hesitantly.
"Yes, sweetie. Your mama passed away." He says grimly.
And mama would say, “Oh honey, it’s only because I looove you.” She’d pull me in to a hug
just to spite me, because she knew I hated affection.
Oh, how I would give anything for one more hug.
I try to move my mouth, try to scream, try to beg for help, ask for reassurance from God that
maybe Mama is just resting, maybe she's just resting and the doctors are wrong and she'll come
back. My mama will come back.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
August, one month earlier
"Becca, I think there's something wrong with Mama." Daisy whispers nervously at the dinner
table.
39
"What do you mean?" I attempt to sound surprised, as though I haven't noticed anything.
"She's…different. I'm not sure. She sleeps a lot. Like, 13 hours a day. Sometimes, she's late
for her job. I heard her saying that they might fire her. And she sweats a lot. And she vomited
twice yesterday. Do you think she's sick? If she has the flu we should take her to the doctor.
Maybe it’s because she’s dehydrated from the drought."
"I can't deal with this right now, Daisy. The hospital is 20 miles away, and Mama’s refused
to drive for the past week- I think since she started feeling sick. So we would have to get a
neighbor to drive us. Plus, I have school for the rest of the week and I promised I would stay late
to get my community service hours. There's no time. I'm sure she will get better." There's a hint
of uncertainty in my voice. What I have told Daisy is true, but I have felt genuinely frightened
the past few days.
I perk up. "Thanks for mentioning the hospital, though, Daisy. It reminded me to take my
pills."
I stride over to the medicine cabinet, pull out the orange bottle labelled "oxycodone", and
peek inside.
"There's only two pills left. That's strange, I could have sworn there were more than two
yesterday. Yeah, there were five. I counted. And I’ve seen some missing before, too. Like when I
first got the bottle. Mama just kept getting me refills and I didn’t pay any attention."
And then it clicks.
40
"I have to go find Mama! She’s supposed to be at a job interview, but I think she’s home!" I
say, panicked, sprinting down our small hallway.
I aggressively swing open the door to Mama's dark bedroom. Mama is curled up in a ball,
sound asleep at 6:00 p.m. I prod her awake.
"Mama, Daisy and I are worried about you. Can I ask you a question?"
"Yes, sweetie." She says tiredly, eyelids fluttering. Her hair is unkempt, lips chapped, eyes
dull.
I take a deep breath. "Have you been taking my…my medicine?"
Mama waves me away. "I don't want to talk about this right now. Please go away."
"Mama, please just answer my question." My tone becomes firmer.
"Yes, honey. I am sorry. I just--you have no idea how hard my life has been, how hard I am
trying to provide for you, and I got worn down. It was a lapse of judgement. But honey, I feel so
happy, and all the pain disappears. It just all goes away." She says, hands up in a surrender
position.
"Mama, you’ve struggled with addiction before. It was so hard on you; you know what it’s
like. You could overdose. You could die. We need to get you treatment. You need to go to rehab.
I learned about this in health last year!" I exclaim.
"No, sweetie. I don't need treatment. This is not that major. My alcohol addiction was much
worse. Believe me, I've seen people addicted to drugs. They're also a lot worse than I am right
now. I'll get over it. This is temporary, I assure you." She squeezes my arm. “I’m the same
person I always was, and I’ll get through this.”
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“Please, Mama? You’re not the same. We all know that, including you. You just won’t admit
it. It’s going to end up the same as your alcohol addiction, and you did not become sober until
you were forced to go to rehab by our neighbors. Will you please get treatment?” I beg.
“I’ll think about it.” She says quietly.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 1, 2016, 3:50 p.m.
The glazed open icy eyes stared right into my soul and reminded me—
This is my fault this is my fault this is my fault this is my fault
If only I had confronted reality when it struck my mama in the heart like a flash of lightning
and made her heart stop beating
The cold skin
If only I had confronted reality before then forced mama to get help forced her to go to
rehab, threatened her with not going to school threatened her with failing grades threatened her
with running away and shoplifting and alcohol
Threatened her with her own death
Mama was not my mama long before she was laying there on the living room floor I know
that, I know that
The pale lips
I'm supposed to be strong, I'm supposed to protect my sister
And I let her see my mama lying on the ground, so far from the woman she wanted to be
42
The twisted face
I don't believe in God anymore
A real God would have protected my mama, a real God wouldn’t have let her die
That's the least He owed her
after she prayed and loved and was devoted to Him
This is God's fault
No-
This is MY fault this is my fault this is my fault
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
August, one and a half weeks earlier
I run my fingers through the intricate design of the soft comforter and the warm bedspread
and thank God that I am not curled in the dingy bed of my mobile home. I thank Him that I am
sleeping over Martha's house with Sarah and can be spared from the destruction and the damage
for just one night.
Martha interrupts my thoughts. She taps me on the shoulder and winks teasingly. "So,
Becca…..are there any boys at school you're into? I always see Matthew looking at you. And he's
pretty cute! You should talk to him more. Maybe he'll ask you out."
43
I hesitate. "Matthew's nice, but I'm not that focused on boys right now. I'm just trying to
make it through school and stuff, I guess. I really want to be the first one in my family to go to
college."
The truth is, I like Matthew. But I have to focus on keeping my damaged family together,
protecting my sister, and caring for my mom. I cannot afford to have a relationship right now.
"Oh, Becca…you are so focused on school. I wish I were as smart as you. When you’re
living in New York City, please just remember us." Sarah comments.
"Oh, please." I say dismissively. "I'll never forget you guys. You're my best friends. And I
doubt I'll ever make it to New York City anyway. We're dirt poor, and…..getting poorer by the
second."
"What do you mean?" Martha asks, staring at me with concerned eyes.
"Oh, it's nothing. I'm just…we're having a hard time at home right now."
I cannot tell them that Mama's lost her job, that she's spending all of our money on the street
on painkillers, that we barely have anything to eat, that we’ve had to sell the car. I cannot tell
them that we have no AC even in the prime heat of the drought.
I cannot tell them that Daisy wakes up in the middle of the night sobbing from nightmares
that we've all starved to death.
I cannot tell them that I've lost my innocence, and Daisy's lost hers too, at 10 years old.
I cannot tell them that I cry myself to sleep every night because Mama had so much pain in
her life and all she wanted to do was escape the horrors of her past.
44
I cannot tell them because I am embarrassed. Martha and Sarah live on the outskirts of town,
in middle class homes, with sober, happy parents. They would not understand.
"Well, if you need anything, I am here. I hope it’ll be okay. Anyway, I really want some
more makeup for my birthday. Maybe the Kylie Lip Kit or more foundation and concealer. My
birthday is coming up soon, you know. Gotta attract some attention to myself. The dance is
coming up and I need a date." Martha says dreamily.
I stare up at the ceiling. How trivial it all seems to me now, boys and makeup and parties and
social media, when my life is falling apart before my eyes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 6, five days later
"Becca Davis would like to share some words about her mother." The preacher announces.
Clothed in black, I lumber up to the pedestal, take a long breath, and begin to talk.
"Mary Ariana Davis- my mama- she was an amazing woman. She always wanted the best
for me and Daisy and pushed our education, even though we did not have that much money. I
loved-"
My voice cracks.
"I c-can't d-d-do this."
"It is okay, Becca. Just take a deep breath." The preacher reassures me.
I pause, trying to figure out my words.
I toss my script behind me.
45
And then,
I
Break.
"It's my fault! It's all my fault! I should have forced her to get treatment!" Tears are
streaming down my face and my whole body is shaking uncontrollably. "I'm supposed to be
strong! I'm. Supposed. To. Be. Strong. And. I. Am. Not. Strong."
Daisy runs up to me from a seat in the chapel and throws her arms around my waist. She's
sobbing, too.
"It's not your fault, Becca. It's not your fault." She says through the tears.
We stay in the same position for a few minutes. And then Daisy points at the sky. "Look
outside, Becca! It's a huge storm!"
And Daisy is right. I look through the church window at the lightning that illuminates the
atmosphere.
And then, it begins to rain.
I am a tree split in half by lightning. But I am the tree that refuses to die; I am the tree that
grows leaves on its branches from the nutrients of the rain. I am the tree that is broken. I am the
tree that knows that lightning will strike, and it will torture and amaze and horrify all at the
46
same time. I am the tree that knows that, after the drought, rain will come and it will heal me
and make my leaves grow again.
47
Rainy Days
by Nada Saleh
When I arrive home from school there are suitcases all around the living room and one in
my bedroom. Some are open, some are already packed, and some even have my clothes in them.
“Where are we going?” I ask my parents. They pause for a moment before asking me to sit
down.
“Mariam, do you remember that man coming to our house and telling us we won a lot of
money?” My mother asks.
“I do,” I recall. “You were thrilled that day.”
“Well that was a kind of lottery for travel. We won a free trip to anywhere in the world.”
“That’s great! Where are we traveling?”
“We’re going to America.”
“Really? Oh that’s wonderful. I’ve always wanted to see Am-“
“We’re going to live there. We’re moving to America.” She cuts me off.
I don’t understand. I’ve heard them talking the past few weeks about all these foreign
countries: America, Canada, Europe… government here and economy there. I didn’t think this is
what they had in mind.
It felt like a normal day up until now. Just this morning I put on my uniform and headed
out to my school: a 3-floor plain looking building only a block away from our home. The school
secretary, a family friend, greeted me when I walked in and asked me how my grandmother was
doing. “Much better,” I replied. She had gotten sick last week and was recovering. “She’s
grateful for all your prayers.” “Wonderful. Tell her I said hello, I’ll see you all on Sunday.” she
smiled and walked away. It’s a private school so most of the staff here go to our family’s church.
48
In fact, most of the Christians in our town do, since there’s not very many of us. My grandfather
used to be a pastor there when he was alive, so everyone here pretty much knows my family, and
by default, me.
My mother speaks before I do: “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you earlier my love, we just
weren’t sure yet.” she says.
“But what about here?” I question her. “don’t you like it here? Won’t you miss our home
or your friends or our church?” I added as I realized I would probably never see my classmates
or Viola ever again. I don’t even remember the last thing I said to her, but I remember this
morning when she waved to me as I walked towards my class’ line in the recess lot, not long
before we pledged allegiance to the flag of Egypt and went up to our classrooms. I had first met
Viola almost two years ago, at the beginning of second grade. One of the reasons we had become
best friends is probably because we’re both the shy type. Since neither of us had had very many
people to talk to, when we had met and found out we had so much in common we had held onto
each other instantly. She is just easy to talk to and I don’t find that in others very often.
“Did you do Miss Sandy’s homework last night?” I asked.
“Yes, Baba made me,” She replied, “even though I swore to him it won’t affect my grade
now in the last week of school. What about you?” She added.
“I finished it as soon as I got home.” I replied.
“Of course you did. You’re Mariam.” She laughed. She was right. I considered my grades
to be my top priority, and that was no secret. Every quarter my teacher would announce who is at
the top of the class, and it would always be me, along with about three others. My straight 100s
are what I am most proud of in my life so far. Will I be able to keep my grades up even when I’m
being taught in a different language?
49
“Of course we will miss everyone. And we know you will too, but…” She trails off.
“Mariam,” my father starts. “you’re a smart girl, right? Let me explain something. The
education system here is not very great. It’s unfair and the quality of it is relatively terrible. You
can’t do much with an Egyptian education but with the right American education you can be
anything you want in the world. Understand?” he explains.
“Sort of.” I reply, still holding back tears. And my mom concludes,
“We’re doing this for you, honey.”
We get on a plane the very next week on a hot day in mid-May. In the airport, my mother
waves goodbye to her brothers and sisters with tears. “It’s ok to cry too if you want.” She tells
me. But I had already cried enough. I feel like it’s time now to be hopeful and approach my new
life with optimism and curiosity, not sadness. On the plane we get window seats and my parents
let me have the one directly next to the window. The view is absolutely beautiful. There are
layers of clouds and you could see the ocean peeking from underneath, looking as if it went on
forever.
I take out the art kit my aunt gave me for my birthday a few weeks ago and begin to draw
the scenery. This art kit is probably the best present the best present I’ve received this year, if not
ever. I already had a pack of colored pencils and a journal for drawings. But this art kit had so
many more colored pencils, a palette of ten paint colors, and special notebook and pencil just for
sketching. I’m so excited to use everything… I just have a feeling these utensils were made for
great things. Unfortunately, though, the plane is a little shaky so I’ll just have to wait until we
land to draw. I close my notebook and sigh as memories of my last day at school play back in
my head. We had already taken final exams and that remaining week was just to complete the
minimum attendance days. We mostly played games or told stories those last few days, and
50
occasionally we would get assignments to keep us busy. Looking back now, I realized that day
felt different. It almost felt like the last day already. We were a little more excited for the break
than usual, and we could hardly sit still in our seats.
Perhaps that’s just because it was a little hotter than usual. Even though the streak of
sunny and hot days over there was as incessant as my streak of straight A’s, it was about four
degrees Celsius hotter that day. But it’s only may, and I knew harsher weather was yet to come. I
always wished it rained more often in Egypt. Most people complain when it rains, or they say it’s
depressing as if the sky is crying, but I see beauty in it. I have about twenty pages in my art
journal dedicated to stormy weather, and it only rained twice last winter. But maybe I only like
bad weather because it makes for great paintings.
“Ladies and gentlemen we have begun our descent to Newark, New Jersey; the current
weather is 70° F with a chance of rain showers. We will be landing at approximately 5:00 pm.
Thank you for flying with us.” the pilot says in Arabic and English over the speaker. I hear a
couple behind us complain that it’s raining on their first day of vacation, but I couldn’t be more
thrilled. When I look outside we’re slowly descending towards a land with houses perfectly
placed in rows, and with identical angled roofs. And there are so many trees; the land is so green
altogether.
We’re driven away from the airport by a cousin of my mom who has lived here most of
his life. That fact is apparent when he begins to speak in a slight accent: “We’re almost there.”
He assures us. “I apologize in advance for the size of the basement, it’s not the most—“ he
doesn’t finish before mom cuts him off.
“Are you joking? Don’t apologize, we’re so grateful to have somewhere to stay!” she
states. I can’t tell if she means it or if it’s just Egyptian kindness.
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When we get there, I see it certainly isn’t the most anything. Our home for now was a
basement made up of a small living room, a narrow hallway with a kitchen, a single bedroom,
and a bathroom beside it. It was about half the size of our apartment building; but I’m sure I’ll
get used to it. My mom’s cousin and his family had already supplied us with two mattresses, a
living room set, and some food in the fridge. As they finish moving suitcases in I sit on one of
the couches and take out the art kit my aunt gave me out of my backpack. I draw the landing
scene quickly with some colored pencils before I forget it.
I spent the summer meeting relatives that live here in New Jersey and getting acquainted
with people from our new church in Jersey City. My dad landed a job as a security officer for
some shipping company working all night for five days a week, and my mom got a job as a
middle school lunch lady. It’s enough to supply us with our needs but not quite enough to move
to our own apartment yet.
Before I know it it’s the last weekend before school. “Remember,” my mom repeats what
I had been told by numerous adults at church, “it’s ok if you don’t understand everything or you
don’t do well on the first day- or even the first month. No immigrant does.” It’s probably meant
to be encouraging but I am actually beginning to worry. I could already see it’s going to be a
difficult journey to get my grades where I wanted them.
I walk into Public School 50 the next day. Their recess lot on the way in was the biggest I
have ever seen, there’s carpeted areas with bookshelves around them in the classrooms,
projectors are shining on the boards, and the hallways are made of colorful tiles- blue, green, and
red. It looks pleasant as far as I’m concerned, how scary could it be? A staff member with long
curly hair leads me to my classroom.
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“Here we are,” she says. “room 304. Do you remember the way here?” she asks with
some hand motions to make sure I understood. I didn’t remember the way actually. I was so
distracted trying to see inside the classrooms.
“Yes.” I nodded anyway. When I walk in there’s a seating chart on the board; I follow it
to where my seat appears to be and sit down. I take out my journal and begin to draw as I wait
for class to start. But suddenly, as more people start coming in, I hear a voice directly above my
head.
“You’re in my seat.” A tall girl with beady eyes and short brown hair looks down at me.
“…This?” I ask pointing to my seat to make sure I understood. She squints, looking
confused.
“Yes, this.”
“But my name is… here.” I say in broken English as I walk to the board to point.
“That’s in the front of the classroom,” she explains, over-enunciating, “not in the back.”
“Oh, sorry.” I say as I collect my things and move. I feel her staring the entire time I do
so. When her friends arrive I see them whispering and pointing towards me from the corner of
my eye, but I pretend not to notice.
After a while a girl who looks Arab takes a seat next to me. “Hi, you speak Arabic?” I
take a chance and ask.
“Yes, do you?” she replies. We continue the rest of the conversation in Arabic. I learn
that her name is Fatmah and that she’s been living here for a year. She takes ESL but her English
is way better than mine. It’s going to be great having her next to me, I’m so glad I have someone
to help me out.
53
“Okay class,” the teacher, Mr. Adkins according to the board, finally speaks. ”good
morning. Welcome to the fifth grade. Why don’t we start the day by sharing what we all did this
summer? I’ll start: I went on vacation with my family and celebrated my birthday in June. What
about you all?” Everyone goes in turns saying something around going to the beach or spending
time with friends. I try to gather sentences in my head while they spoke, to speak as clearly as I
could. My hands start to get sweaty but I tell myself it’ll be over soon. When it’s my turn, I stand
up,
“I moved from Egypt and I go to new church and I meet cousins and family. And I draw
too.” I say nervously. I thought I did pretty well, but I hear snickering from the back. I sit down
and Fatmah’s eyes are downcast. “How was that?” I whispered to her, hoping for assurance.
“Good.” She cracks a smile. “But you didn’t have to let them know.”
“Let them know what?” I ask, confused.
“That you’re fresh off the boat.” she answers. I didn’t know it was a shameful thing to be
new here.
“Well… what’s wrong with that?” I ask.
“They stereotype people here, and you just gave them an invitation to do that.” She tells
me. But I’m not too worried; they’ll surely see I’m not any kind of a bad person.
Not too long after that I feel another sneeze attack coming on. I’ve been getting bad
allergies since we moved here. According to my dad, it’s because of the pollen and moisture in
the air that I’m not used to. I grab some tissues and stand by the garbage can until it’s over.
Going back to my seat I see that back group’s eyes follow me with hostile looks. “What?” I
speak out this time.
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“That’s disgusting.” the brunette girl says without hesitating. “Why are you coming to
school if you’re so sick?”
“I’m not… sick I have…” I pause. I don’t know the word for allergies.
“Just go back to your seat. Please don’t stand here.” Another girl there says. I don’t know
what else to do. I walk away.
In art class, we’re asked to copy a drawing of a cat and I replicate it almost perfectly.
That is, according to my art teacher who excitedly held it up to show the class when she saw it.
As we walk out of the room I’m visibly smiling as I’ve finally found a class that I didn’t feel was
different or complicated. At least I’m confident about my grades in one class. Then a girl that I
recognize as part of the brown haired girl’s group comes up to me in line.
“She does that to all the new kids you know. Don’t feel too full of yourself. She’s just
trying to make you feel welcome.” She says with a hand on my shoulder, as if to comfort me
from the bad news. I don’t understand the phrase ‘full of yourself’ but I conclude from context
that it can’t be good. Was she telling the truth? I mean no one else besides the teacher
complimented my art and no one around us was disagreeing. But before I can say anything she
laughs. “Never mind guys, she probably doesn’t even understand.” She states as she walks away.
I was still looking forward to art class but my smile had now disappeared.
At home I struggle to finish the homework I’ve been assigned. I’ve taken English at
school in Egypt and I recognize most of the words and instructions, but it’s like doing two
subjects’ homework at once. And flipping through a dictionary to define words takes time. My
mother comes by and sits beside me, “Tell me about your day, do you like your school?” she
asks.
“Yes.” I answer without thinking much. I tell her about Fatmah and my cat drawing.
55
“Are you able to talk and listen to English well? I know you were doing so well in
English class last year. How are you with people?” she questions me.
“I’m alright.” I make an effort to smile. I don't want to disappoint her, and besides I’m
not completely lying. I was fine with Fatmah, and she said she would help me out. “Wanna see
the drawing I made?” I ask, changing the subject. She’s very proud when she sees it and suggests
that I could pursue art even further. A woman from church apparently told her about a
community children’s art class when she mentioned I draw.
“It’s only an hour on Saturdays so it won’t distract you from your studying or anything.”
She assures me. It sounds interesting; I decide to try it.
I lay awake on the twin sized mattress on the floor early the next morning. I woke up at 4
am and I just can’t go back to sleep. Maybe I am worried. My parents never bugged me about
grades but they never needed to before. What would they do if they saw me getting 80’s, 70’s, or
even worse grades? And would those kids forget me eventually? It looks like they found it
amusing to upset me. But I couldn’t tell my parents, there’s nothing they can really do, at least
without getting the kids in trouble and angry at me. It’s just… I used to be on good terms with
every classmate. I rarely even fought with Viola, I’m just not the type of person to cause trouble.
I don’t like this negative attention, and I don’t like worrying about my grades, of all things.
As I’m thinking I hear my father come home from work, at about 5 am according to the
clock on the wall. There is shuffling for a few minutes and then absolute silence after he lies
down on the other mattress. He must be exhausted from lack of sleep, and he’s doing this
because he believes it will give me a future. I can’t give up just yet.
The next Friday we read aloud a story in English, taking turns reading in paragraphs. My
ESL teacher had encouraged me to practice doing so and not shy away from opportunities in
56
class so I give it my best shot when it’s my turn. “‘Back when Florida was wild, when it con…
sisted of nothing but pal…metto trees and mosquitos,” I am interrupted by a burst of laughter. I
didn’t recognize that last word and I must’ve pronounced it wrong. I feel blood rushing to my
face.
“Hey.” Mr. Adkins yells, looking at the same group from earlier, who must’ve started it.
“Go head Mariam. You’re doing great.” he says.
“No thank you. Fatmah can finish.”
“That back group right there.” He calls their names later as he walks out of the room.
“Come out here.” Maybe he’ll give them a warning and they’ll finally leave me alone now.
When they come back they’re rolling their eyes and mumbling to each other, giving me dirty
looks. But it wasn’t my fault this time I say to myself. Later in the carpool lane they walk up to
me. I stay still; I’m not sure they’d let me walk away if I tried. “What was that for?’ the tall
brunette girl asks.
“What?” I reply. “I did not do a thing. You laughed.” I said a little nervously.
“Cause you were funny. Do you hear yourself?” one of the guys says. “You shouldn’t be
reading in class in the first place.” “Now you got us all in detention, because you’re so sensitive
and illiterate. Just thought we’d let you know.” They turn around and walk away. I had made
things worse. They definitely won’t forget me now. On Saturday my mom’s cousin drives me to
the community center for the art class. I walk down a hall with yellow and red tiles and art
projects hung up on the walls.
“Hey what’s your name, friend?” says the art teacher, a short olive-skinned young
woman, upon seeing me.
“Mariam.” I answered.
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“Oh, beautiful. Did you know Mariam is the Arabic word for Mary?” she asks as she
writes my name on a sheet. My eyes light up,
“You speak Arabic?” I ask.
“Yep. I was born in Egypt actually. I moved here when I was a kid.”
“Really?” I continue in Arabic. “Me too!” We talked for a while about many things: the
trip, the weather difference, who we left behind, and I even told her about my difficulty speaking
aloud and completing homework. “Oh don’t worry. It took me about a year to speak normally.”
She assured me.
Her name is Ms. Gerges as I would soon learn. She started class by telling us about a
national art contest in November. “It’s optional but it’s a great opportunity and I would be
helping you make the art you submit,” she says, “so seriously consider it.” I don’t think I’m
going to do it. Surely there’s no way I’m talented enough to win a national competition.
Our first activity was to draw something from memory. My mind quickly goes to the first
time I ever saw a thunderstorm, which was a few days after we landed. I paint the split second
when lightning strikes, illuminating the shiny roads at night and the May flowers. “Wow, that’s
pretty amazing.” she says.
“It is?” “Are you kidding? The contrast of color is brilliant, and your shading is
advanced for your age.” She pauses. “Are you signing up for the art contest?” I look back at my
painting, analyzing it with a new perspective.
“Yes.” I answer.
Before I leave she asks me to wait for a moment and comes back with a small device in
her hand. “It’s an electronic dictionary,” she says. “for those homework assignments.”
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It’s been about two months since my first art class and I sit in the car of my mom’s
cousin who’s driving me to school. These haven’t been the best two months of my life. Going to
school has become like going to the doctor to take a shot. I can’t make a noise without feeling
like eyes are on me. As the weather got worse, so did my allergies and I had to excuse myself out
of the room every time I needed a tissue. Then, my hair became frizzy and they accused me of
not washing it. I tried everything to calm it down but I couldn’t.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. One time I walked away from my lunch table and
came back to find a tissue in my milk. I didn’t even see it until I finished drinking. And when
Fatmah was absent once a guy from class came up and asked me out. “It was a dare,” he claimed.
Apparently it was amusing to pretend someone could like me. And that one group would
comment on everything, from my height to my colorful clothes; I couldn’t escape their
commentary if I tried. I stayed behind once to excitedly tell my art teacher about the contest, but
somehow they heard me.
“So you really believed her that one time, huh?” the brunette girl, (Anna, as I would
learn) told me. “You think you’d win a country-wide competition? And it’s not even your
country!” Their words would echo in my head sometimes. But usually Ms. Gerges’ words
would be louder: “Amazing brush strokes… brilliant use of color… talent for your age…” That’s
what kept me going. We decided to go for the realistic art category because that’s what she saw
me do best. With her help I painted the most beautiful spring landscape and perfected it over a
few weeks.
Today’s one of those final hot days in autumn, and the dying leaves are one by one giving
up on holding on to their branches. In gym the teacher takes us outside. This month we’re
playing soccer, and Fatmah and I now stand outside together waiting to start. “But why do they
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always pick on me?” I wonder out loud, suddenly. “Is there something wrong with me? Why
does no one ever defend me? Including you.” I’m not sure I want to know the answer, but I at
least deserve one.
“I don’t know, why are you questioning me all of a sudden?” she asks, confused, “You
can’t really stand up to people like that.”
“So you’re afraid of them?”
“No, I just don’t know what I would do.”
“You’d ask them to stop or something, I don’t know. You know I can’t really do that for
myself yet.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” she says, looking away.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, a little offended.
“This isn’t easy for me either, you know, being friends with you. They bug me for it too.
They leave notes in my locker and put tissues in my desk. If I could stop them I already
would’ve, Mariam.” I am speechless. She’s never told me this before. “And you’re not helping,”
she continues, “why are you wearing that jacket again?” I look down at the large bright orange
jacket my aunt sent me. “Your clothes are always so bright. You literally look like a target
sometimes.”
“What? Fatmah you know I can’t afford any other--“ The coach blows the whistle and we
all run to our positions.
I’m in no mood to play but I try my best anyway. But before I know it I was at the
nurse’s office getting wounds disinfected. Carlos, one of the guys in Anna’s group, had
forcefully run into me.
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“I’m sorry. She saw me coming she should’ve moved.” He told the teacher. But he saw
me too. I saw him clearly look at me. “I thought that jacket might cushion her.” He said quietly
afterwards to the students as they laughed. Fatmah had walked away when I looked at her
desperately to say something.
“I can’t do this anymore.” she said. “I’m sorry.”
When I come home I hear my parents talking about my report card from the bedroom.
“But she’s never gotten grades this low.” My mother says, unaware of my presence.
“Don’t worry,” my father says, “she’ll get better. You know Mariam.” I don’t know if
that’s true. I wasn’t improving. They were working so hard for me and I wasn’t improving. I had
lost my one friend and now my grades.
At the community center the next day I arrive too early and wait alone in the room. My
feelings turn to anger and I find myself tearing papers and ripping pencils. I throw paint on a
nearby empty canvas with my hands, brushes, and anything else I can find, until there are no
empty spots. I’m nearly punching the canvas when Ms. Gerges walks in. “Hey, hey!” She runs
and grabs my hands. “Woah, slow down, what’s going on?” she inquires. I begin to cry, not even
trying to stop. She holds me in her arms until I calm down. I tell her everything, from my first
encounter with the group to yesterday’s incident, and she listens intently.
“First of all,” she begins calmly when I’m finally finished, “you’re in luck because I
know exactly what you’re going through. There is one thing that’s your fault here, but it’s not
what you think. You’re not wearing the wrong clothes or learning at the wrong pace. Your
mistake is believing for a second that you are.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
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“The bully always has something to prove, Mariam. They want to feel stronger, smarter,
superior, prettier. You’re not a ‘target’ because of who you are, but because of who they are. And
it sounds like your “friend” doesn’t understand that yet.” she says to me. I think over it for a
second.
“But… if that’s really true, what do I do now?”
“Well first, you have to look at them differently. They’re just mistreated people with low
self-esteem. Second, remember that you’re going through things they don’t understand, and
you’ll get out of this knowing one more language than they will. And third of all, never fight fire
with fire. It seems fun, but you’ll probably die. Or at least you’ll burn that one-of-a-kind hair of
yours.” My mouth twists into a grin. She looks over at the mess of a painting I made. “You know
what?” she starts, “I have an idea.”
Over the next few weeks I thought a lot about her words. What kept me from doubting
her is that she spoke from experience. I began to feel sort of sorry for everyone in that group,
imagining what others must’ve done to them to make them so cruel, and I consequently began to
shift the blame off of myself. I wore the brightest shirts I owned and left my hair out for the first
time in weeks. And when they made it their business I made it clear that it didn’t faze me—
simply by keeping up my style, and most importantly, a smile. I started to look at how much
progress I’ve made in English instead how far I still have to go. And eventually I learned to read
shamelessly in class, learning from my mistakes rather than dwelling on them. They didn’t
completely leave me alone, and I know they probably won’t, but their words don’t hurt as much.
They never will; not if I can help it.
I’m sitting in the living room when the phone rings. “Hello?” I answer.
“Mariam?” It’s Ms. Gerges.
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“Yes, it’s me!”
“Guess who just won 3rd place and in the abstract art category and a $1000 reward.” She
says with an audible smile. “That’s a rhetorical question in case you didn’t catch that. It’s you,
friend.” With the right hands, rainy days can become great paintings.
63
The City Through the Window
by Hannah DeMaioNewton
Years later as I walk down the street watching my lips force clouds from my lungs I will
realize that I can either be the hero or the fool who the relatives shake their heads at and,
realizing this, I will remember you.
It is Christmastime, in Cedar Rapids, and as I walk back to my apartment I remember the
last time I saw you: your face framed by the light of a nearby, open apartment door, washing
your face in its amber glow. I looked up at you, through the thick air of winter, and as I pulled
you into a hug, I noticed the smell of your clothes. It is not often, that a person is so close to
another that such an intimate detail can be unearthed, but during this season the bitterness of
winter forces people to live close to one another, whether I complained in this moment or not.
Through the darkness, I felt you hesitate, and as I noticed the smell of cooking oil on your collar,
you squeezed me tighter and whispered in a voice so low it could be mistaken for an exhalation:
“I love you.”
I pause, on the winter street lined with red bows, closing my eyes and breathing in,
hearing my voice in the back of my mind softly reminding me that the most tragic of moments is
when one feels grief for a person who is still alive; but, like always, the grief retreats to its
hollowed space between my ribs, peering out from between the bones as I exhale and continue
on to my apartment.
I have not always been one to pause on a quiet street to breathe in the mist, not always
been one to let it collect inside my body like shower steam collects on a mirror, but in recent
events, I have come to believe that grief might be good for the lungs.
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As I fumble for my keys in front of my apartment, I notice a red envelope peaking out
from my mailbox. I pick it up and slide my thumb through the seal. Glitter plumes out of the
envelope and tumbles onto my snowboots and doormat.
“You’ve been invited!” an all-too-jolly typeface jeers. I groan as I slide the invitation
back into its envelope, unlocking the door and throwing my things onto the counter. My mother
has a habit of inventing holidays to veil seasons of masked stress. This year, it is a “Christmas
Eve Eve” dinner party.
I take a carton of milk out of my fridge, throwing the cap onto the counter next to my
bag, coat, and “invitation”, and walk over to the largest window in my apartment. It overlooks
most of Cedar Rapids, a city split in two by a river, a thick run of molasses with bridges that
squeeze the two river banks together as the rapids flow. I sip the milk and stare out onto the city,
remembering your breath fogging the window as you pointed out past the streetlights below to
the other side of the schism, asking what would happen if the city’s lights were the stars and if
the the sky turned upside down and asking me if that would change anything. My eyes fog above
the off-kilter stars like the glass did under your breath.
A dog barks in the apartment next door, startling me from my haze and making me slosh
milk onto my window, a thin white splat glazing the buildings of Iowa. I put down the carton of
milk and hug my shoulders. Tomorrow, I think, staring through the frosty glaze, Christmas Eve
Eve. I chuckle under my breath and, turning out the lights, crawl into bed.
---
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I’m awakened by the high-pitched ringing of the phone. Through my sleepiness I fumble
along my dresser and answer it. The voice of my mother, slightly metallic through the receiver,
chirps at me:
“Well, hello!”
I grunt, rolling over and stuffing my face into a pillow.
“Well, isn’t someone grumpy this morning!” My mother has a way of speaking that
perpetually begins with “well” and ends in an exclamation point. “You’re coming tonight, aren’t
you? You’re coming to help me cook?” her voice rising with excitement.
“Mhm,” I mumble.
“Oh honey, you really do need to cheer up.”
I stay silent on the phone, wrapped in my comforter.
My mother breaks the silence. “Drink some coffee! I’ll see you tonight, grumpy pants!”
The phone buzzes dead. I breathe in the silence, listening to the phone buzz buzz buzz until I
hang up too.
“Christmas Eve Eve,” I utter. “My favorite holiday.” I pull the comforter over my head.
---
I don’t own a car. So the soles of my shoes wear out quickly, and, walking through the
streets to my mother’s house as the sun sets, I remember when I came home, on the first day of
winter. I waltzed through the door slightly breathless from my walk home from work and you
greeted me from the couch, home early. I sat down and you looked at me, through your lashes
and the quiet, and you took my thin ankle in your hands and looked at the bottom of my shoes,
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smiling to yourself and shaking your head. I remember what it was like, for someone to
understand me like this.
The uneven asphalt presses against my thinning soles. I close my eyes before I knock on
my mother’s door and, rearranging my face, bring the knocker down.
My sister greets me. She is older than me, and perhaps more of a free spirit. She has a
presence that swishes around her hemp skirt and curls around her painted wrists. I’ve always said
people must think her presence screams “I have a goat, I live on a farm, I am aggressively
happy”.
Her three children run in circles around me, screaming and blowing kazoos. This
cacophony is part of the made-up dinner party tradition. Through the noise, we cook.
---
The relatives arrive in twos and threes, hugging us at the elbows and kissing us too wetly.
The party grows and people celebrate my mother’s “holiday”. The children run round and round
with the kazoos. I walk past my aunt, who is talking to my cousin, on my way to the back door,
my route of escape since I was young.
“I think it’s quite a blessing if you ask me…”
I pause in the kitchen.
“He was selfish, always chasing a new dream. Poor girl turned into his doormat. She
would have been a fool to stay with him.” My aunt drinks from her glass as though she were a
duchess sitting on a throne of social gold.
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“I heard he threw drunken tantrums when the ‘dreams’ didn’t work out, and that she
mopped up the mess every night. Her big heart to clean up his big mess.”
I pull open the door and step into the freezing winter night. Ice crystals form on every
surface. Was it me, that broke us? I ask myself, remembering the anger rising to your face, the
four broken alarm clocks, three lamps and two ashtrays. My too-big love and our too-big hearts.
And something like that cannot not fit between two people. My throat feels squeezed with the
words of my aunt echoing through the hollow rib space. A love too big. Inflating with every
encounter, growing until the city was inside it, and then it burst. I breathe and watch as the dew
in my breath crystallizes and floats off into the darkness across the skyline.
I stare out at the night and it stares back and I cannot help but think that perhaps our too-
big love could have fit in the empty spaces of Cedar Rapids, the city of upside-down stars. And
though my feet feel the frozen ground through my thinning soles and my throat feels the
tightness that comes with winter and my aunt’s misunderstanding of your drinking, my shoulders
feel much higher than the city. My eyes feel much higher than the bridges.
As I watch, a thick and sweeping snow starts to fall, catching on my lashes and making
my tears feel hot in the silent night as I wonder why you were afraid, when I hugged you the last
time, to utter “I love you” any louder, for all the city to hear, for all of me to hear, afraid to
finally fill up all the in-between spaces where the stars are studded and I wonder why, instead,
you breathed it out into the snow to settle on its surface and freeze over in the night and perhaps
it was because you knew I was leaving you.
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I shiver in the cold, remembering how you looked when you realized it was the last time
you’d see me. But breathing in the night, I take in the smell of cooking oil, wafting up off my
jacket and through the darkness on the falling snow. I feel warmth rise to my cheeks.
This is how it has been, for us, these past few months. You and I in the city of upside-
down stars, walking around in the separate in-between spaces our love was too big to fill.
Because things do not change when the stars turn upside down.
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The Desk that Saved a Life
by Maggie Hall
Despite its flaws, I actually like school. At school, I can blend in and hide from the
world, because the world never looks for me. Yeah, sometimes it's lonely. But it's better to be
ignored than hurt. Invisibility is bliss. That's what I tell myself every day.
It was the first day of the second week in October. The day started out normally enough. I
woke up, got ready, and sat outside, waiting for the bus. The bus ride is rough. On a bus as small
as mine, there's no safe zone. You're always within three seats of a wheel, if not on one, so you
feel every tiny bump in the road. At some point, you get used to it. I sit on top of the back left
wheel, so I'm used to being jostled. Not saying I enjoy it, but I know the route well enough to
know when to brace myself for particularly large speed bumps. My bus driver doesn't slow down
for them.
I get to school and I draw. I do the work sometimes, but usually I draw. I use every inch
of lined paper. It calms me. When I draw, I can make the world the way I really see it. We live in
a world of lies. Where people see three people talking, I see the raging battle going on, just under
the surface. And I draw it. Because lies make me uncomfortable. Lies are what's wrong with this
everyday world.
It was that day, the first day of the second week of October, second period (social
studies), that I ran out of paper.
For a few minutes, it didn't process. What was I going to draw on now? The margins of
our worksheet were too small to do anything significant. My head pounded. I was beginning to
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panic. I couldn't go through the rest of the period like this. Next period I sat in front of the
teacher's paper storage; I could steal from him. But what about now?
Then I noticed someone had written a bad word in the upper left hand corner of the desk.
That was nothing new. I was fairly positive it had been there all year. In fact, when Mr. Hagan
put me here, he told me no one usually sat at this desk, it was overflow. That's what I was.
Overflow.
But that bad word had me thinking. I scratched my pencil on the desk. It was one of those
smooth, plastic like desks that the pencil slides on all too easily, and trying to erase it just makes
a big gray smear. I chose the bottom right corner. I slowly etched a pine tree. The feeling of the
plastic beneath the pencil was kind of nice. I drew another one. I shaded the space in-between.
By the end of the class period, I had drawn an entire dark forest.
The next day in class, I started to draw on a piece of my newly stocked lined paper. But
my eyes kept drifting to the bottom right corner of the desk. No one had erased it, or tried to
anyways. The desk really was overflow.
In the class, Denice was having a "friendly debate" with her ex.
I pushed my paper aside.
That day, I drew a raging storm.
I continued to draw on the desk. Somehow, it was different from drawing on paper. More
satisfying.
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By the end of October, I had built a frame of pictures around the desk.
It was halfway through November that I came to school bruised. I had my jacket on as
usual, pulled down to cover my wrists, so that wasn't a problem. And my black bangs covered
the one on my face. But they made the whole day harder. There was road construction on my
route the morning, and the road was extra bumpy. Anytime a bruise would touch a wall or the
seat in front of me, I had to grit my teeth in pain.
And there was one on my forearm, which made it hard to draw.
But when I got to second period, trudged to my overflow desk in the back, sat down
slowly, and took out my pencil, I noticed something that made my heart stop.
Someone else's handwriting.
On my desk.
***
It was in the upper left corner, about 2 1/2 inches from the frame. It said,
These pictures are really good! You're an awesome artist!
The handwriting was broad and rounded, the pressure light.
I stared at it for a few minutes, not believing my eyes. Who else sat here? This was
overflow. No one else sat here.
Except they obviously did.
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I stared a few minutes longer. I had come to know the frame of pictures so well, the
handwriting stuck out like a sore thumb.
Not sure what to do, I placed my pencil down just below it. After a moment of
consideration, I scribbled,
Thanks...I guess
My handwriting was dark and scratchy, looking like broken sticks in comparison to her--
or his--round and happy shapes.
I didn't know quite what to make of it.
I didn't stop thinking about it the rest of the day. Would they respond? Would they tell
the teacher? Would I not be able to draw on the desk anymore? Would I be charged with
vandalism?
But I didn't so much care about that.
I cared about who it was.
There was still road construction the next day, but I barely noticed the bumps in the bus
ride. My mind was completely fixated on the desk.
First period couldn't have passed slower.
And when I got to second period, a thrill ran down my spine when I recognized the
handwriting. Just below mine. Rounded and broad.
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Seriously, you could do this professionally. That monster looks so real! Did you copy it
or make it up?
There was an arrow pointing to a monster I had based off of Ms. Jamison, an
administrator who yelled at me for having holes in my jeans. Monster-Jamison had long,
pinching claws to fix the minuscule imperfections that displeased her and big, buggy eyes that
saw 360 degrees with laser vision that only saw mistakes in everything except things in her
perfect reality.
I wrote back before I even knew what I was doing.
Both I guess. It's based off a person so...
I stared at my own handwriting. Why was I responding to this person I didn't even know?
I never talk to people. I liked to be invisible.
But yet...I was talking to a person and staying invisible at the same time. My heart
breathed a sigh of relief as I realized I had the same deal: he or she didn't know who I was either.
I tried to relax and go through the rest of the day normally. But I couldn't. My mind
thrummed with possibilities on what he or she might say.
They had responded.
Oh, I bet it's an administrator. Which one? Bulwer? Cazzola? Jamison? XD
I stared. Wow. They guessed it.
Yeah, Jamison.
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I stared at it. I didn't know what else to write. So I didn't write anything else.
My fingers drummed. I tried to pay attention, but I hadn't paid attention for two months,
and old habits die hard.
So I added a new depiction to the desk.
It was a dinosaur.
It looked as though it couldn't decide whether it was happy or mad.
***
The next day on the way to school, the bus got lost. We were still late, but not horribly
so.
When I got to second period social studies, I found something odd. The dinosaur I had
drawn yesterday now had a hat on. A big rimmed, flowery, old Sunday school kind of hat. It
wasn't colored but I imagined if it was it would be pink. The lines were lightly drawn and
rounded, like the mysterious person's handwriting.
I stared at it for a few moments before sitting down. There was something almost
inexplicably wrong about this dinosaur wearing a Sunday hat. It made it look more happy than
mad.
I stared at it a few minutes longer.
And then, for the first time in a very long time, I laughed.
I sat down, taking out my pencil before I even knew what I was doing. The dinosaur had
his mouth open, so I drew a small man standing inside, looking horrified as he was clearly being
eaten.
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Drawing the man took most of class, as I wanted to get the details of his horror exactly
right. Near the end of the period, I sat back to look at my handiwork.
Now it looked like a horror scene again. Attack of the dinosaur grandmother.
I left class satisfied.
The next day, the bus went through the road with construction again. My old bruises were
mostly gone, but there was a new one on my lower back. The jostling hurt, but I sat tense so I
wouldn't be knocked around as much. That helped.
I had almost forgotten about my little man until I walked into second period. The mystery
person hadn't drawn anything new, but written. A small speech bubble emerged behind him. The
round text said, "Oh my, Madam! Your teeth are simply AWFUL!"
I stared at it. Slowly, a smile crept onto my face. It was clever.
I had no comeback.
I lowered my pencil and began to draw something else.
The game continued. I would draw something like a monster, and the mystery person
would draw something to make it happy. By December, we had filled a little over half the desk
space. The day before Christmas break, they had drawn on the dark forest, the very first thing I
had drawn on the desk. They decorated all the pine trees with baubles and stars: Christmas trees.
I hadn't felt like celebrating Christmas in a long time. But that year, Christmas Eve, I
went outside at midnight. It was freezing cold, and I had no shoes on. But I didn't care.
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I looked up at the stars. They were brighter than they had been in a long, long time.
I walked off my porch and through my backyard. The ground squished beneath my bare
toes, chilling them to the bone. The grass was rigid and dry. I walked slowly, trying to ignore the
bitter wind on my face.
I reached the woods, stepping cautiously. It was dark, but I didn't have far to walk. I
heard the river before I saw it.
My feet finally arrived at the spongy bank. I listened to the rush. It wasn't a river, exactly,
more like a stream. But it was too thick to jump across, and rapidly moving.
I squatted at the banks, staring into the darkness.
And then I pulled my arm back and flung my blades as far as could.
I heard them make faint plopping noises as they hit the water. I took a breath and stood
up. Maybe it was littering, but I didn't care.
I starting walking back to the house, my entire body numb from the chill. It was my
Christmas present: to myself.
***
The year went on. Our drawing game continued. And the mystery person (I had decided
to call them simply Mystery) talked to me. They were always kind, always optimistic. When I
walked in and saw the desk every day, it was like turning the brightness up on a screen. My
whole world seemed lighter.
It was a curious sensation. I had never felt it before.
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My grades began to improve. I felt little excitement in drawing in my other classes,
because no one would see them. It was odd. I had never WANTED anyone to see my drawings
before.
And Mystery never stopped talking to me. Not one day.
Then one day--April 17th--I walked into Social Studies and the desk was clean.
Stark clean.
I could barely see evidence that pencil marks had been there at all.
I walked towards it slowly, as if in a daze. I couldn't sit down, though my head felt like it
was spinning. I touched it tentatively. It was cold, and a little bit wet. It had been cleaned that
morning. It still smelled of Clorox wipes.
"Young lady?"
I turned. It was Mr. Hagan, my social studies teacher.
"Have you been drawing on this desk?" His expression was that of someone who smelled
something rotten. Disgust with mild disdain.
Slowly, I nodded.
He nodded too, a quick, short jab that stabbed me in the heart. "I thought as much. That is
VANDALISM, young lady, and I will not tolerate it."
I was suddenly extremely aware of my entire body. My feet and legs felt like lead. My
arms were like rubber, held up only by my hands, fiercely clenching the strap of my messenger
bag. My head was spinning, my heart was pounding. My jaw felt like a steel trap. Something hot,
thick, and turbulent boiled in the pit of my stomach. It felt like the crushing weight of the world
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was breaking over my shoulders as a sea made of fire rose up from beneath. Pressure built up
like a volcano.
And then I opened my mouth and screamed.
I ran out of the classroom.
Tears. Tears hot and fast flowing down my cheeks.
Darkness. Shut up in the janitor's closet.
Sickness. My stomach churning in an awful, swirling mess, fueled by the smell of
cleaning supplies and dirty water.
Pain. Clawing at my arms, tearing my hair, biting myself.
It is better than the pain inside.
I avoided school officials for the rest of the day. That afternoon, my bus broke down.
I came to school the next day. I didn't want to. But I came.
First period was a blur. I stared at the wall. My teacher didn't say anything. She had given
up long ago.
Second period finally arrived.
I walked into social studies, my head down. The teacher didn't notice me. I sat down at
the desk. The clean, shiny, utterly evil desk.
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And then I stopped. I blinked.
There was writing on the desk.
Big, rounded, even handed writing.
Oh my gosh THEY CLEANED OUR DESK!!! What the heck?!? I'm so upset!!! But hey,
there's a bright side to everything. We were about to run out of room anyways. Now we can start
over. And besides, I took pictures every day of the old desk with my phone. :-) so at least your
awesome drawings aren't lost!
I stared at this simple message. This simple, conversational message that changed
everything.
And slowly, I took my pencil out of my bag and lowered it to the desk.
Oh...that's good. I didn't know you had pictures. That's awesome. I don't mean to
be...imposing, but...is there any way I could get those pictures?
I took a breath.
I returned to the words:
Of course!!! I don't think you'd feel comfortable putting your phone number here where
the whole world can see it, haha. Do you want to meet up at the coffee shop on Gladmore St?
Does 3:15 on Saturday work for you?
My heart began to speed up. MEET Mystery? MEET the person who was the only person
that ever noticed me? MEET my only friend?
Before I could change my mind, I scribbled:
yeah sure. That would be awesome.
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***
I waited nervously at a back table. I checked my watch again. Mystery was late. Or so I
assumed. Maybe we were both sitting in the coffee shop, waiting for the other person. I scanned
the people scattered about. Nope. All adults. I looked down anxiously.
At a loss for what to do, I pulled out my sketchbook and began to put the finishing
touches on the drawing I was working on. It was calming. I just relaxed my mind and let go of all
the day's anxiety in the gentle motion of my hand.
Suddenly, I heard a chair scrape. I looked, up startled.
A girl was standing next to the chair. Her freckled cheeks were flushed pink, and sweat
was covering her forehead in a thin film. Her sandy-brown hair was pulled into a tight bun, but a
few tendrils had escaped, and stuck out the side of her head in manic coils. Her eyes were warm
brown, warmer than I would've thought possible.
I stared.
She looked a bit embarrassed. "Are you...? I mean, I'm sorry, I'm meeting someone, but
I'm not sure what they look like..."
I nodded slowly. "My desk friend," I said quietly.
Her mouth broke into a huge grin. "Yeah!" She sat down. "Sorry I look all ragged right
now. I just got out of ballet."
I didn't say anything. I hadn't really moved. Then I realized that was rude. "Oh...ok.
You're fine."
This is her, I thought. This is really her.
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"I'm Della," she said holding out her hand for me to shake.
"Adrienne," I replied, shaking her hand slowly.
She looked at me, still smiling, releasing my hand. "I figured it was you, because you
were drawing."
That brought me back to my senses. "Oh yeah!" Slowly, I tore the picture from the
sketchbook. My hand hesitated for a moment, then I shoved it in her direction. "This is for you."
She took it carefully. Her gaze rested on it for a long time.
It was a picture of a dark haired girl curled up on a city sidewalk. The view was from the
side. It was snowing, and the wind was fierce. There was hail and debris being flung about the
air. Shadows were tall and menacing.
But behind the girl was a very small, very bright fire. It had something like tendrils of
light that extended out and over the girl, warming and protecting her from the viciousness of the
storm.
I watched her stare at it. My heart was beating wildly. Now that I had given it to her, I
wished I hadn't.
Then, very softly, she said, "It's beautiful."
"Oh. Uh, thanks." I fought the urge to hide. I took a breath as she looked up at me. "It's
just...at the beginning of the year my life was awful, pure and simple. The only reason I came to
school at all was because school was better than home."
She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. I didn't trust myself to tell her the whole
story unless I told it right now. And she needed to know. "And it just got worse and worse until
finally I decided that I was going to...I was going to..." I closed my eyes. "I was better off dead.
So I was going to kill myself."
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She gasped slightly, but I plowed on. "But then, you started writing on that desk. And it
was just so different from the everyday awfulness. I was shocked. And for a while, whenever I
was going to think about...doing it, a part of me would always be wondering, what will be on the
desk when I go to school tomorrow? It gave me a reason to keep going.
"And then one day, I realized that you cared. You cared about me even though you had
never even met me. And that shocked me in a way that I had never been shocked before."
I looked down at the table. "And...I won't go so far as to say I'm not depressed anymore.
It's not that easy. But I stopped self-harming." My voice dropped to a whisper. "And you saved
my life."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then her hand moved across the table and rested on
mine. I looked up. Her eyes were watering.
"I can never express to you how much this means to me," she whispered. "You say that I
helped you, and I could never be happier. I'm just...I..." A tear slid from the corner of her eye. "I
just don't know what to say."
"Oh. Um..." I wasn't good at this. "Can I say thank you?"
Her tears were flowing fast and strong. She made a small sobbing noise. "Of course! I
didn't even do anything..."
"But you did!" I said urgently. "You cared about me. That's more than almost anyone else
has ever done."
"I was just being nice," she said with a quiet laugh. "And I mean, it was fun. You helped
me through some hard days yourself, you know."
"The world needs more people like you," I said. "People who are just nice, just because."
She slowly wiped tears from her eyes. "Thank you."
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"No," I said, "thank you."
She looked up at me, her eyes shining with tears and pure, undulated joy. The light
shining in through the window made her frizzy brown hair look like a halo. A moment hung in
the air, sacred as the dew on a spider web, and I felt breathless and scared and...happy.
And suddenly, my throat constricted. Tears welled up in my eyes. And I began to cry.
"Aw!" she whispered. "Don't cry! One crying person is enough...this whole cafe is
probably wondering..."
And then I smiled. “Can I have those pictures now?”
She laughed, a clear, high sound like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.
And there we were, the two of us, touching and smiling and crying and feeling more
loved than anyone ever had.
***
"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear,
an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all which have the potential to turn a life
around."
~Leo Buscagalia
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Cassie Just In Case
by V Tacker
Cascada Lucia grew up in the kitchen and her mother’s cooking was magic. There was no
other word for the way Esparanza spun flavors from nothing, as the radio static crackled in the
background and squealing children tousled and tumbled across the shining floors.
Esparanza had made this house, this family, with her own two hands. Each squalling
baby had once been a small mound of clay in the center of Esparanza’s palm, waiting to be
smoothed into a new life.
Cascada had been molded from the earth in the same way, on a damp November night,
the chill biting at her mother’s ankles as she danced across the riverbed searching for her child.
And Cascada had been found, with the cool liquid of the moon wrapped about her shoulders and
grass in her hair.
Esparanza regaled enraptured listeners with that tale, year after year, gesturing elegantly
with one hand as she stirred a pot of caldo tlalpeño with the other.
Cascada could tell the story herself almost as soon as she could talk, though she was still
far too small to reach the stove.
When Cascada turned five, Esparanza lifted her into a stool, saying, “Alright, Cassie, you
just sprinkle this in the pot, okay?”
Cassie smiled and watched cilantro fall from her pudgy, little fingers like snow.
--
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Cascada was eight, tripping home from school on icy streets as she daydreamed of the
desert her mother was raised in. She clattered through the front door and was immediately
embraced by the warm smell of home, of her mother’s cooking, and the sounds of her sister and
brothers playing in the living room.
Esparanza was already ladling soup into a mug, dropping two ice cubes in last, so Cassie
wouldn’t burn her tongue. As the herb-rich broth reached her mouth, all of Cascada’s worries
and aches faded away.
Esparanza’s cooking always does that, eases the world away, as is she were drinking a
magic potion, rather than a mug of soup.
Esparanza leaned against the counter, peering across at her daughter. “How was your day,
vida?”
“It was good, mama. We made a snowman at recess, but I got in trouble for not wearing
my coat. I wasn’t cold, mama, I don’t know why I had to wear it,” Cascada pouted, pulling tiny
sips of soup as she waited for a response.
Esparanza sighed, rubbing a hand over Cascada’s shoulder. “You have fire in you, mija.
Not everyone will understand, and until they do, it may be easier to just play along.”
Cassie nodded petulantly, but doesn’t answer.
--
Months later, when the temperature had risen and the air pressed closer, Cascada scraped
her knee on the playground and did not cry. Instead, she calmly stood and limped over to the
place where the forest crept up against the edge of the playground. Her classmates were yelling
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in the background, telling her to go to the nurse, but Cascada paid them no mind. There was
nothing here but the girl and her forest.
Cascada plucked a miniscule pine tree from the ground, barely as big around as a piece of
thread, and used a small, round rock to crush it into a pulp with a smooth, waxy tulip poplar leaf.
She smeared the poultice on her stinging wound, and wiped it away to reveal fresh, unblemished
skin.
She didn't think much of it, spell broken as soon as her skin wasn’t, but it lodged in the
back of her mind to be considered later, but there was still time left for playing, and every child
knows recess ought not to be wasted.
--
The eve of her sixteenth birthday, Cassie woke with a start. She couldn’t feel the mattress
beneath her, and try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling of falling.
That night, Cascada’s bones shook as the world slipped from her fingers. She grasped at
the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole, the suffocating Nothing pressing in on all
sides, pouring into her lungs, smooth and sticky like blood.
She cried, tears burning swift passage down her face as her skin peeled away. A hand
grasped her wrist, nails digging deep. Cassie gasped for air as she was brutally yanked from the
depths.
“Cascada Lucia Del Bosque!”
Cassie’s eyes flew open, taking in her mother’s frightened eyes and sleep-tangled hair.
Carefully, with her eyes still searching her daughter’s face, Esparanza released her wrists.
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Ever so slowly, Esperanza sat down on the edge of Cassie’s bed and raised a hand to
smooth her daughter's sweaty hair away from her face. "What was it, mija? A nightmare?"
When Cascada didn't respond, she sighed. "Come now," she chided. "Words are the
adversary of evil, you know this. What do we always say?”
Cassie took a deep breath, then another, folding in the edges of her fear like a blanket,
until she could disentangle herself. "Names have power, mama. If you give the evil a name, you
take away its power."
Her mother smiled encouragingly.
"I was falling," she began, tremulously. "I was falling and everything was black and there
wasn't enough air and I heard things, awful things, mama."
"What did you hear, sweetheart? You can tell me."
"It was so loud, like, like a hundred people, all screaming, all hurt."
Cascada's wide eyes were fixed over her mother's shoulder, but she was somewhere else
entirely.
"There was so much pain," she whispered, rubbing at her arms.
Cascada shivered and they both were silent for a long time.
Finally, her mother spoke, gently pressing her thumb in the center of Cascada’s forehead.
“It was just a dream, mija, try to go back to sleep.”
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Cassie curled up on her side and closed her eyes. Behind her, she heard her mother slink
out of her room and pad down the hall, checking on the others as she passed, heard the creak of
her mother’s favorite chair and the click of a lighter.
She drifted off to the smell of burning incense.
Alone in the early morning dark, Esperanza lit candles until the living room glowed with
soft yellow light. Then, carefully, almost reverently, she slid a dusty tome from the top shelf of
the bookcase, its gilded pages twinkling dully in the dim light.
--
On her sixteenth birthday, Cascada received three presents: a pair of sturdy, wooden-
soled boots, a thick, leather bound journal, with pages as smooth as river stones, and a secret.
After the sun had set and Cassie’s siblings had been put to bed, Esparanza settled the
strap of her bag over her shoulder and led her eldest daughter into the woods, the cold wind
toying with her skirt the same as it had so many moons ago.
Cassie followed silently, caught up in the solemnity with which her mother treated the
occasion.
Their path was lit only by the waning moon, but the women never tripped, bare feet
falling sure and solid on the packed earth.
At long last, they reached a barren clearing. It was perfectly circular, scarred down the
center by a dry riverbed, and it was gut-wrenchingly familiar.
Cassie opened and closed her mouth several times before she blurted, “Is this-“
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Setting her bag down in the riverbed, Esperanza smiled, nodding. “This is where you
were born.”
Cassie sat down hard, sputtering. “You can’t be serious, mama, that’s. That’s just a
story.”
Even to herself, she didn’t sound so sure.
Esperanza sat next to her, settling gracefully onto the ground.
“Cascada Lucia.”
Cassie looked up.
“Your name,” her mother continued gently. “Is Cascada Lucia. A waterfall of light. You
were born of moonlight and earth. Our last name, Del Bosque, means of the forest. We belong to
the trees, mija. We always have.”
“So the whole story, with the clay and everything, was true?”
The corner of Esperanza’s mount quirked up. “Never have I ever lied to you,” she said,
one hand raised.
Cassie felt a smile steal across her face. “Would it be silly to ask for proof?”
Esperanza’s smile widened. “You mean you’ve never once suspected me of magic? Not
when a mug of soup made everything mysteriously better, or when kissing a scraped elbow
better actually worked?”
Cassie threw her hands up, fondly exasperated. “That’s not fair! All little kids think their
mother is magic.”
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“Not all of those children have magical mothers.” Esperanza leaned forward, laying her
hand against the bare riverbed between them, eyes drifting closed. “The soil is good here,” she
announced. “The trees are old, strong. I’ve yet to find a better place to raise a child from.”
She fell quiet, her eyebrows furrowing. Between them, grass spread from beneath her
hand, soft and springy, like the stuff from children’s stories.
Cassie gasped, and her mother laughed happily, freer than Cassie had ever seen her.
“You have to show me how to do that, mama.”
“You have to promise me something first.” Esperanza took Cassie’s hand in both of her
own. “This magic is not ours. It belongs to the forest, same as us, and they will not hesitate to
take it away if you misuse it. This world is filled with hurt, and we are here to heal it.”
The trees rustled in agreement and Cassie nodded.
“Now,” Esperanza pressed Cassie’s hand into the warm earth. “Close your eyes, reach for
that fire in your chest, and imagine something growing.”
Doing as her mother said, Cassie breathed deep, focusing on the susurrus of the wind
playing in the leaves. All this forest was missing was the stream, dried and cracked, as if a great
sword had come down through the trees. She thought of the rainy walks home from school when
she was younger, splashing through puddles in her ladybug galoshes, of her mother’s soup and
the sunshine warmth of their home, of long afternoons with storms dancing on the roof as
Esperanza read to the four of them.
The soft smell of petrichor filled the clearing. Cassie lifted her hand, and the divot she
left behind filled with water, overflowing to lap at the edges of her mother’s skirt. They both
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laughed delightedly, scooting back as the pool spread from the side of a dinner plate to the size
of a tire.
Esperanza flung an arm out, grasping Cassie’s hand excitedly. “I told you,” she grinned,
twenty years younger in her elation. “I told you there was magic in you.”
--
The next day, the sun rose on a world sparkling with possibility, and a girl with boots to
take her where she was needed, a journal to hold her stories and her journeys, and a secret to
keep her warm on the darkest days.
Her name was Cascada Lucia Del Bosque, and she was made of soil and moonlight. And
just like her mother, she was filled with magic.
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Walk a Mile in My Shoes
by Rebecca West
Mornings have always been drab and hateful affairs, but the moment sunlight strikes
Lyle’s face, he knows that something is wrong.
His body hurts and his head spins. Figures will not come into focus. Muscles spasm when
he attempts to shift his sore shoulders. Everything is disjointed as the world tilts and rocks, and
Lyle methodically works to swallow his nausea. He squints and breaths in his surroundings,
slowly and carefully.
Lyle’s first realization is that he is in a room, small and cramped. The carpet is a gaudy
yellow, and there are machines stashed in corners and crannies collecting dust. Dark grey
curtains are pulled tightly across the windows, keeping the sun from winding its way into the
room and burning his eyes. Olive sheets are tucked up to his chin and the fabric of a collared
shirt brushes his neck. Lyle spends several moments attempting to understand what he is seeing
and to reign in the aches permeating his body, but his focus is diverted when a brightly colored
blob separates from the rest of the room and approaches him. It takes the form of a woman every
time he squints.
She is blonde with grey streaking across her temples, and crows feet and laugh lines
tugging at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Stress has drawn shadows under her eyes and
worry has pulled at her cheeks, but Lyle can glimpse the sparkle in her eyes. He sees her love,
and from the way her smile softens when she meets his muddled gaze, he somehow knows it is
for him. The woman opens her mouth to say something garbled and confusing, and Lyle hazily
comprehends that she is talking to him.
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It takes a few minutes to strip away the useless sounds and meaningless sights, but Lyle
is eventually able to decipher that the woman has chirped out a cheerful, “Good morning,
Kenneth!”
Lyle has been called plenty of names. He is Lilian to his mother, and he has felt the
goosebumps and wrongness that accompanies it. His friends sometimes call him Lily, which is
slightly better, but he still feels the apprehension and unhappiness surface when they say it.
Finally, there is Lyle. It is the name that makes him happy, that makes him feel as if he actually
might have a chance. It is a pity that outside of his own head, no one knows to call him Lyle.
But this name is not one that he is familiar with. Kenneth is new; not necessarily wrong,
but still strange and odd and not quite right. But Lyle reacts regardless. His mind focuses and his
head lifts minimally. While Lyle cannot remember ever being called Kenneth, his body
recognizes the name and responds to it. For some reason, in some way, Lyle is Kenneth, at least
in the barest meaning of the word.
***
The morning passes slowly in a blur of sleep, prescription drugs, and water sliding into
Lyle’s mouth through a straw. The television has been steadfastly stuck on the Outdoor Channel,
and the blonde women (his wife, he constantly reminds himself) is steadfastly stuck in a nearby
recliner. A glass lap desk rests on her legs, and she sifts through piles of papers and receipts,
occasionally scribbling down numbers and notes. Every so often, a frustrated huff escapes her
lips; Lyle pretends not to notice.
Even so, he can’t help but observe certain things about the women beside him. He can see
some of the envelopes that she has yet to open, and when he squints, he can barely make out the
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name “Kenneth Muller.” (The name sounds nice when he says it in his head, and Lyle decides he
doesn’t mind being a Kenneth for a day.)
Somewhere in his addled mind, Lyle realizes that it cannot be easy being the sole person
responsible for so many finances, juggling taxes and investments alongside medical bills and
treatment costs. His parents are constantly arguing over money, though it is largely at night and
in the imagined privacy of their bedroom, yet the most stressful thing about their tax reforms is
the new car his dad purchased two years ago.
Meanwhile, there is a woman clad in a plaid button down and sweatpants, constantly
tightroping through life with her own, her husband’s, and who knows how many other lives
resting on her shoulders. Lyle is weighed down by the respect he gains for this woman, who has
hardly said three sentences to him all morning and believes that he is her husband.
However, the admiration quickly turns to exhaustion, which seems to be constantly
lingering at the edge of Lyle’s existence. He has hardly had the chance to marvel at the feeling of
rightness that comes with broad shoulders and a flat chest, for such feelings are almost always
pushed away by the ache nestled under his skin. All thoughts are soon forgotten as he drifts off
once more to a lullaby of the rustling of televised foliage and the scribbling of a hasty pen.
***
A door slams, and Lyle jolts awake. His breath stutters in his chest, his throat aches, and
a quiet groan permeates the air around him.
“Hi Daddy!” The voice is perky and unfamiliar, but has a golden feel to it. Lyle turns his
head, slowly and painstakingly, and waits for his eyes to adjust. The room is empty save for a
single person, but a soft smile lights up his face at what he sees.
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A teenage girl, petite and wrapped in a fluffy sweater, stands at the edge of his bed. Her
hair is strawberry blonde, caught between platinum and ginger, and large glasses perch on her
nose. Her eyes glow as she looks at Lyle.
“Hey sweetheart,” Lyle rasps. His mouth is on autopilot, and his chest is alight, and his
gaze refuses to move from the girl before him. “How was school?”
“Survivable,” she says, a wry smirk twisting her lips. “But you’ll never guess what Chad
Gibson did today!”
Lyle raises a single eyebrow in response, a gentle smile stretching his face, and the girl
takes it as a cue to continue. The next hour or so passes by quickly, the girl babbling on about her
day, and Lyle dozing on and off, yet still awake enough to chuckle at the favorable times. The
names and activities are unfamiliar, but the girl’s stories serve as a distraction from his
monotonous day. Lyle finds that he hardly notices the pain that prickles in his lungs or the
fatigue that pulls at his eyelids.
The girl before him is kind and animated, but there is a determined strength about her.
Strength against unfairness and other uncontrollable things that no one can control and no one
can fight. At one point, Lyle compares one of her hand gestures to his mother, and afterwards, he
cannot stop seeing similarities between the two. Foundation that does not quite succeed in
covering the shadows under their eyes, hair that is brushed out of duty more than desire,
nervousness that bends and snags at their fingers. Both too indomitable to be pitied.
Still, she outshines the sunlight that has squirmed its way into his stale bedroom, even
when her rambling dissolves into rants about insufferable teachers or mumbles about a sweet boy
with prom tickets. Lyle recognizes the trials of high school, experienced by himself and all of his
classmates, but rather than hating every word and feeling the fear of judgement creep up on him,
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he sees it through the eyes of someone infused with dazzling life. Lyle relishes in it. His teenage
life, full of crowded hallways and repetitive days, has been twisted and preened until it actually
sounds interesting. It makes him ache all the more for the familiarity of his own bed, his own
family, his own life. However, not even such rose tinted glasses will make Lyle wish for his own
body, free of pain but laden with unnecessary softness.
Pointless topics continue to string the minutes together, and Lyle can tell that the girl has
become experienced in the art of one sided conversation. Her questions are rhetorical and
accompanied by short pauses and quirked lips. Her hands are constantly in motion, painting her
day in the air between them. Her mouth carefully avoids anything of true importance but still
warps her sentences to make them enticing. Lyle finds himself unable to ignore her, his attention
caught and contained by her vibrancy and firmly keeping him from sleep.
Finally, an alarm rings in the kitchen and a shout reveals his wife’s location. The girl
halts her story (a lovely tale of her English teacher dressing up in tights and a feathered hat, foam
sword in one hand and a Shakespearean tale in the other) and begins to stand. She dusts a kiss
across his temple before heading towards the bedroom door.
“I’ll be back soon with your supper,” she says.
Lyle just nods and twitches his fingers in an attempted wave. He falls asleep before she
returns.
***
Lyle groans as he crawls back to consciousness. There is a gentle hand on his shoulder,
moving just enough to wake him but not enough to cause him pain. His vision slowly shudders
into focus, and he looks up into his wife’s eyes. As always, they are kind, fixing him in place
with a tender stare.
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“Hey sweetie,” she murmurs, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “It’s almost 8.
You need to eat so you can take your pills.”
Lyle grunts, for it is the most he can do with his tingling lips and stale tongue. He
receives an encouraging smile for his efforts, and he shifts his head into a more comfortable
position.
A spoon nudges its way into his mouth, and Lyle accepts the ground beef easily. It is
bland and lacks any sort of kick to it, but Lyle does not mind. The texture of corn dogs and the
taste of Cherry Coke are but distant memories, and hamburger will do just fine. He and his wife
fall into a steady rhythm, the scrape of the spoon mixing with Lyle’s chewing. Almost half of the
plate has been eaten when he finally decrees himself satisfied, and Lyle sinks back into his
pillow with a pleased sigh. The bed is warm and his back is only just starting to ache and the
food is settling into his stomach, giving him the pleasant illusion of a full meal. Lyle is peaceful
and oddly comfortable.
“Sorry, sweetie,” his wife interrupts, jolting him awake once more. He can hear the regret
in her voice, but a coil of anger still emerges in his mind; he pushes it away almost instantly.
“But you still have to take your medicine. Can you open your mouth?”
Lyle briefly considers letting his eyes flutter shut, but then he recognizes the emotion that
colors her tone. It is desperation and fear and disappointment, a cold hand gripping a shrivelled,
determined heart. It is what Lyle hears from his mother’s mouth every time he pretends to be
sick to avoid church. It is what oozes from his friends’ words when they notice his frustration
every time he walks into a women’s bathroom. It is what Lyle spews to himself every time he is
up late at night, crouched beside his bed and speaking to a being that should exist but doesn’t. It
is the soundtrack of his life, and the accompaniment to the world’s symphony, and it repeats the
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mantra of “it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.” It is something Lyle knows like back of his
hand, so he focuses on his wife’s face and lowers his jaw as far as it will go.
The pills are bitter and heavy on his tongue, but Lyle ignores it and swallows. The tip of a
straw is offered and he accepts, water washing through Lyle’s mouth and into his throat; it is a
refreshing sensation. The process is repeated three times until Lyle has a small platoon of drugs
assembled in his stomach. He gets a few more sips of water, and then the girl, the one who glows
like stardust, appears in the doorway and whisks away the dirty plate and glass.
Lyle’s wife brushes his hair back once more and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead.
“Goodnight sweetie,” she murmurs. Lyle breathes back an understanding huff, and then the
woman is replaced by the girl.
“Goodnight Daddy. I love you.” Her voice is gentle and soft, a stark contrast to her
earlier extravagance. Another kiss is given, this one lingering just under Lyle’s cheekbone, and
then the girl is gone, eyes a bit wet and jaw a bit clenched.
The sight of it makes Lyle’s heart hurt in a way that is completely at odds with his
physical aches and pains, so he manages to mumble, “I know,” just as she disappears around the
door jam.
A sigh pulls Lyle’s attention back to his wife and he almost flinches when he sees the
thick, wooden beads dangling from her fingertips.
“Here you go, sweetie,” she says and gently tangles them with his own hand. She does
not seem to notice Lyle’s discomfort with the rosary beads, and Lyle does not have the heart to
tell her to remove them. So he takes a deep breath, clenches his hand into a fist, and closes his
eyes. Thoughts gallop throughout his head as he pretends to pray, and Lyle clings to certain ones,
offers them up, then moves on.
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He wishes for the twinkle in his wife’s eyes to be permanent and larger than life. He
wishes for the performer in the girl to always be in the limelight and for the dejected shadow to
never have a reason to reappear. He wishes for a more comfortable bed and a tolerance for
flavorful foods and a television remote that doesn’t require so much strength in his fingers. But
most of all, he wishes for the pain to disappear. He wishes for his body to reknit itself into
something resembling a working system. He wishes for the familiarity that had encompassed him
before he awoke in a tiny bedroom full of sickness and dust. He wishes for a release.
Sometime during his praying and wishing and wanting, Lyle hears the shuffle of sock
covered feet against carpet and the distinct click of a light switch. The assault of light upon his
closed lids diminishes instantly, but Lyle waits before opening his eyes again. The dark
surroundings make it harder to see while simultaneously suspending all life and movement. Lyle
finds he enjoys the peace.
The boy squints and breathes in his surroundings. The carpet is still a gaudy yellow, and
there are still machines stashed in corners and crannies collecting dust. The dark grey curtains
are still pulled tightly across the windows. Olive sheets are still tucked up to his chin and the
fabric of a collared shirt still brushes his neck. His throat still aches, and his eyes still water, and
his heart still feels as if it is stuck somewhere between bursting and melting.
Lyle takes a deep breath. Holds it in his chest. Tries to ignore the pain. He does it again
and again, marvelling at his body betraying itself. He attempts to imagine living the same day
over and over, and he can almost do it. It is a surreal experience.
Lyle’s breath slows, and soon, he is asleep.
***
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The first thing that Lyle registers when he opens his eyes is the lack of pain. His eyesight
does not falter with every expansion of his lungs. His ankles do not crack and shake when he
shifts them beneath the blanket. When he looks to the right and sees a shelf of books, he does not
have to pause and slowly turn the titles over in his mind before comprehending them. Two Boys
Kissing and None of the Above sprawl across spines, and Aristotle’s and Dante’s names romp
across a nearby cover as they seek the universe’s secrets. Everything is clear and easy, and to
Lyle’s surprise, he actually feels healthy.
Next, Lyle realizes he recognizes the room he is in. The sheets on his bed are dark blue,
the same dark blue that he had rested on for as long as he can remember. The curtains are parted,
allowing sun to shine upon his face, and instead of dark grey, they are the red he is accustomed
to. An armada of trophies line a dresser on the other side of the room, and Lyle finds relief in the
absence of the oxygen machine, a grim reaper and salvation all in one. A soccer ball and dirty
clothes inhabit the floor, which will be Lyle’s responsibility to clean, not his wife’s.
Thoughts stuttering to a halt, Lyle stiffens. His wife…he remembers a wife. A name that
is not his own, a body filled with pain, and a girl sewn from gold. The entire experience must
have been a dream, yet Lyle can still feel the whisper of sheets against his swollen and cracked
feet. He can taste the bland hamburger meat on his tongue. He can see the stacks of bills, orderly
and waiting to be paid. He can remember it all, and surely, something so vivid cannot be a
dream?
Lyle sees the outline of his phone perched atop his bedside table, and he lunges for it. He
remembers the last day he had truly been Lyle, though it is like trying to look back into a past
life, and that had been the second of March. Fingers shaking, Lyle nudges the power button and
watches as “Wednesday, March 4” appears on the lock screen.
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He laughs, a breathy, unbelieving sound. Lyle is not sure if he should be relieved or
terrified. Apparently, the day he had spent in another person’s body had been real, and now he
must live with the knowledge of how that man feels about his wife and daughter, and how it feels
to struggle through each day, gasping for an easy breath of air.
“Lillian?” a voice calls through the door. Lyle freezes, an uncomfortable lump forming in
his throat. “Are you awake?”
Lyle glances at his phone once more, sees the “6:24” displayed proudly, and sighs. He
feels a question on the tip of his tongue, an inquiry about March 3rd and whether anything
unusual happened within the house. Then nervousness and paranoia fill his chest and Lyle
swallows his words. “Yeah Mom,” he calls instead, trying to ignore how high his voice sounds to
the man’s, Kenneth’s, low timbre. “I’ll be out in a second.”
He hears his mother’s heels click down the hallway, away from his door, and they sound
harsh compared to the soft brush of socks he had heard yesterday. Lyle ignores it and stares at
his hands instead. They are unwrinkled, confident, and strong. His body easily maneuvers him
out of bed and onto the floor, the only discomfort he feels from a faint tingling in his arm. A
mirror rests beside his closet door, and a lanky teen with chestnut skin and black hair slowly
slinks onto its surface. Small feet lead up to knobby knees, and a loose T-shirt hides the
unwanted mounds on Lyle’s chest. Despite such faults, the teen appears healthy and whole, and
Lyle finds himself caught somewhere between happiness and despair as he begins to dress for
school.
***
It takes a while to hunt down his address from the depths of internet, dodging Kenny
Muller’s and Kenneth Buller’s, but Lyle finally finds an old Facebook account, which leads him
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to a city a few counties over, which leads him to a small house that exudes Catholicism and
kindness. (Perhaps it would not have taken so long if Lyle had allowed obituaries or ongoing
concerns from churches to be included in the results, but he is steadfast in his optimism, and a
half hearted article online will not take away his hope.)
The bus ride takes longer than it should, and Lyle’s knee bounces the entire time. He
wears his favorite jeans and a baggy t-shirt underneath his windbreaker, but even the comfortable
weight of his tightest sports bra does not ease his nervousness. After nearly an hour, the bus
reaches the terminal, and Lyle is the first one to exit.
It only takes two searches in Google Maps to chart a path to the right house, and without
pausing, Lyle sets off at a brisk pace. The fresh March air nips at his ears, and he tucks his lips
into his mouth. The minutes blend together, scenarios swirling throughout Lyle’s head. Would
Kenneth be glad to see him? Would he send him away? Would he even know who Lyle is? After
all, Lyle has no idea what Kenneth was up to on March 3rd. Everything is theories and
hypotheticals at this point, and that terrifies Lyle more than anything, but he still forges on.
The house that he finally arrives at is in a nice neighborhood close to one of the city’s
main streets. It is small but expensive looking, made of stone with dark blue wood highlighting
the door frame and shutters. A small, overgrown garden stands to one side of the yard, and weeds
make up the majority of the lawn. There is a cross on the door, as Lyle predicted there would be,
and a white lily winds itself around the edges. In essence, Kenneth is everywhere. The house and
yard are not perfect, but it is loved and cherished, just like his family.
Encouraged by such feelings, Lyle jogs up the driveway and climbs up the stairs to the
front porch. He only hesitates a moment before ringing the doorbell. Anxiety flutters gently in
his chest. His hands tremble. A small gasp startles its way from his mouth when the door opens.
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It is Kenneth’s wife (my wife, Lyle thinks, before shoving the thought away) that appears at the
door. Her hair is still golden and her eyes still sparkle, but a shadow now seems to hang over her.
Her shoulders are just a bit more hunched and the corners of her lips just a bit more downcast.
She is obviously confused by the teenager on her porch, but she opens the door anyway. Lyle
exhales in relief.
“Hi,” he says, trying to deepen his voice without it sounding unnatural. “My name is Lyle
Jones. I was wondering if I could speak to Kenneth?”
There is a beat of silence in which they stare at each other, and Lyle can’t help but notice
the skeptical look he is given. The woman before him must notice the smoothness of his upper
lip, the curving slope of his jaw, and the gentle flare of his hips, and she must compare it to the
name he has given. She must think that math and science and gender have failed to make sense
in her cookie cutter Christian world. He almost expects her to turn around and slam the door in
his face. But then she takes in the rest of what he has said and her face clears. Her eyebrows raise
and her mouth forms a small “o” and Lyle allows hope to rise up within his chest. After all,
Kenneth’s wife is real, so Kenneth must be real, so he’ll be able to speak to Kenneth…
“I’m sorry,” the woman finally says, slowly, with hesitation pooling from her baited
breath. “But how do you know Kenneth?”
Lyle freezes, and her eyes are headlights, staring him down. “I-I’m,” he stutters, unsure
and unprepared. He is suddenly aware that he has planned for nothing beyond his arrival and
scrambles to stitch together an explanation. “I met him once. When I was younger. My…dad
knows him.” Every word is a hasty lie that wrenches itself past his teeth and into the open air. “I
just thought I would come see how he is.” Lyle smiles, and it is too big and too fake but it seems
to ease the mind of Kenneth’s wife. Her careful confusion turns to clear understanding.
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“I see.” Her voice is brisk and determined but trembling. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this,
but you might as well go home. Kenneth passed away months ago. From cancer.”
Lyle wants to laugh at the comment that she tacks onto her explanation because he
knows. He knows about the cancer and the pain and the confusion and the absolute hell that is
(was? was.) Kenneth’s life. And yet, astoundingly, he doesn’t know about Kenneth’s life at all
because Kenneth no longer has a life.
“Oh. Okay,” Lyle mumbles, more from ingrained manners than anything. “Thank you.”
Without further ado, Lyle turns around and shuffles off the porch. He is about to reach the edge
of the driveway when the woman calls out to him.
“He’s buried in Beech Trunk Cemetery. Take the first left and follow it until you see the
big angel tombstone. He’s just a few spots over. You can’t miss it.” She spares a halfway-there
grin that looks as if it could dissolve into tears at any second, and then she turns away and closes
the door behind her. The cross with the white lily rattles.
Lyle takes the knowledge that has been handed to him, holds it close to his chest, and
opens his Google Maps app one more time.
***
The birds flit among the trees, leaves rustling in the wind. In the distance, the sound of
traffic can be heard, but it is soft and unimportant. The grass has been recently mowed, and
thatch sticks to the edges of Lyle’s sneakers. It is peaceful.
Kenneth’s headstone is a light grey, nearly white, and the edges are rough. The word
“Muller” is displayed in a bold, elegant font, all capital letters. Underneath “Kenneth James” and
two dates, the second only a few months old, perch cheerfully. A Biblical quote is etched along
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the top border of the rock: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the
faith.”
Lyle believes that the overall design works quite well for the man buried beneath it, and a
small smile overtakes his face. He takes a deep breath and shakily exhales.
“Hey Kenneth,” he murmurs, trying to ignore how his voice cracks. He feels awkward,
talking to nothing but open air, but there is no one in sight so he pushes his worries aside and
soldiers on. “I don’t know if you actually know me, but I…I feel like I know you, ya know? I get
the feeling that if I switched places with you, then you would’ve had to take my place, but
you’ve been dead for months apparently, which is…God. What am I doing?” Lyle laughs, a
broken, stilted sound that hangs in the autumn air. “I’m sorry, I’m just kinda a mess, right? It’s
like, I magically become some old guy for a day, which is so weird, but it was good. For me, at
least. I think it made me a better person or something. I can kinda understand my mom better,
and I guess when she asks me so many questions, she’s really just showing she cares. A-and I
talked with my dad the other day and i-it was really good? He mentioned this new duck call and I
knew what he was talking about because I literally watched the commercial for it fifty times
from y-your bed. But I couldn’t have done any of that without you. Kenneth, I…you helped me
understand my parents better, and you helped me understand myself, too. I really… shouldn’t
keep all these things bottled up inside of me because who knows when I’ll be able to let them
out. You taught me how f-fleeting life really is, and from now on, I’m done sitting on the
sidelines. I know I don’t really know you, but I think we had a connection. And it doesn’t matter
that you’re d-dead because we’ll always have this connection and I’ll never forget what I learned
from you. So yeah. Thanks, Kenneth. Thank you.”
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Tears freely streaming down his cheeks, Lyle steps forward and pats the headstone. He
imagines that it’s Kenneth he’s touching, and instead of the rough and chilled stone, there is a
warm and resolute shoulder. Lyle sniffs once and smiles sadly.
There is a flower arrangement filled with red poppies and fern fronds that is slightly
askew, so Lyle centers it and starts to walk towards the paved driveway, away from Kenneth.
He only looks back once.
***
His parents are sitting in the living room when he gets home, and the television blares the
abrupt calls of a referee. Lyle hears his mother yell something to him, probably asking where
he’s been, but he doesn’t reply.
Instead he walks straight into the room and steps in front of the couch, blocking their
view of the game. It only takes a moment for his mom to catch that something is amiss, and she
quickly mutes the television. His father casts a curious look in his direction but says nothing.
“Lilian, you’re home!” his mother exclaims, leaning forward on her cushion. “Where
have you been? Is there something you need, sweetie?”
She smiles encouragingly, but Lyle can see her taking in his outfit, complete with a
shapeless windbreaker, jeans, and sneakers with dried grass caked around the edges. His father
simply reclines, stretched out along the corner of the couch; his eyes occasionally flick past
Lyle’s figure to the game.
“Mom, Dad,” Lyle finally says. He takes a deep breath. Holds it in his chest. Relishes in
the ease of it. His hands shake, but he ignores them. “I have something to tell you.”
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Train Ride
by Meredith Brown
This pillow could be made of rocks, for all the support it was giving my head. My eyes
snapped open for the millionth time. The bottom of the bunk bed above me was starting to look
awfully familiar.
When my parents offered a trip to Rome and Paris with my best friends, I was ecstatic.
What recently graduated college-bound girl wouldn’t want to go travel around Europe with her
two best friends?
It’ll be the best trip of your life, my mom had said. Oh, how she was wrong.
The Roman hotel paled in comparison to the perfect image Lizzie McGuire had stuck in
my head: the beds were less than comfortable, the staff wouldn’t speak English to us, and the
cigarette smell never went away. I spent hours walking through the city, and not a single shop
had the dress I was looking for. Plus, all the streets were super crowded and all the supposedly
amazing ruins were just that – ruined. They really could use some updating.
At every restaurant, the waiters just rolled their eyes at us when we asked for pizza. The
food wasn’t even as great as my mom had said it would be. The icing on the cake came on the
third night. Let’s just say Montgomery ate some spaghetti that did not agree with her stomach
and wanted to make a reappearance. It became quite clear that I would be the one taking care of
her when Hampton virtually ran out of the restaurant, traumatized by the thought of throwup on
her brand new Valentino bag.
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I can’t believe my parents would send me on a trip like this. Why wouldn’t they check to
see if the hotel was nice? Why would they recommend restaurants with obviously incompetent
chefs? Why would they not buy us tickets just to fly from Rome to Paris?
All of these thoughts raced through my head as I stared upward into the darkness. Per
usual, my parents hadn’t thought things through and had bought the three of us tickets on a
sleeper train from Rome to Paris. How typical. They always take the cheap way out. Trying
to calm down, I focused on the movement of the train. The rocking was somewhat soothing, but
this crappy pillow kept snapping me back awake. Images from the dramatic comedy My Trip in
Rome: The Worst Five Days of My Life that were flashing through my brain weren’t helping my
insomnia either.
Finally, I just decided to roll over and stare out the window. The outline of mountains,
the tops of which were dusted in snow, loomed over the countryside. Tall evergreen trees
reflected off a moonlit lake. Through the cool glass window, I could almost smell the forest. The
night was beautiful, until it gave way to small shacks surrounded by miniature fields of wheat. I
started to imagine what life would be like if I were poor and had to live on a farm in the
country…What a desolate life that would be. In my daydreaming, I suddenly became aware of
crying in the train car.
I could make out Montgomery’s obnoxious snoring, so it obviously wasn’t her. Hampton
could sleep through World War 3, if it ever happened, so I doubted she was up crying at this
hour. After doing some hard math, I concluded that since it was only a four-person car, the
stranger in the bottom bunk next to me had to be the crying party.
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Trying my hardest to not let her know I was awake, I faked a yawn and rolled back over
to face her bunk. It was hard to make out anything in the darkness, but the outline of a girl,
sitting up and covering her face with her hands, was clear. I immediately became annoyed. Of
course this would happen to me. Why couldn’t she just try and sleep like the rest of us? We
would be in Paris by morning.
Slowly, but then all at once, the train stopped. The flashing on of the overhead lights
immediately blinded me. From up and down the train, I could hear people waking up and
groggily asking questions in different languages. Somewhere in the distance a baby began to cry.
I tried to look out the window to see if the tracks were blocked, but the lights from the train
reflected only darkness.
I got up and looked at Montgomery. Her snoring had subsided slightly, but she still
remained fast asleep. Across the aisle, Hampton continued to dream, probably of all the clothes
she would buy in Paris. I doubt she even knew we had stopped. Annoyingly, our travelling
companion began to cry even harder and cowered as close to the wall as possible.
I flopped back onto my bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. I glanced at my Prada luggage
and then at the one bag under the girl’s bed. It looked like something I could get at a convenience
store. Maybe she was just poor and needed some money. My dad had given me five hundred
dollars as spending money for the trip. I could donate ten bucks for her to buy something nice in
Paris. Yes, that’s perfect, I thought, she’ll be so grateful.
I was broken out of my thoughts of generosity by the sound of quickly approaching
boots. The sound stopped several times but quickly made its way towards our train car. I barely
had time to cover myself with my blanket before the doors of our car were thrown open. The
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girl’s crying ceased. There stood three men, all very tall and in military uniforms. The man in
front, most likely their leader due to his prominently displayed medals, took a sweeping look
around our cabin. I lowered myself under my blanket, but he had already noticed my alertness.
Marching over, he, in a thick French accent, demanded, “Documents, s'il vous plaît.”
I reacted quickly. Reaching into my purse, I snatched my passport and train ticket. The
papers shook violently as I placed them into the officer’s hand. Swiftly, he opened my passport,
glanced at the first page, and then handed it back to me.
Turning to his partners, he shook his head and, again in a thick accent, stated, “Zis ees
not ze girl.”
My hands were uncontrollably shaking. Where are these men from? Who are they
looking for? Why me?
“Wiz ‘oom of zees are you traveling?” he asked with such a thick accent, his question
was difficult to understand.
After a moment of interpreting, I answered rapidly, “M-my friends Montgomery Wall
and Hampton Shaffer. They have their documents too, I promise.”
“Get zem out. I vant to see.”
With shaking hands, I got out of my bed and grabbed both Montgomery’s and Hampton’s
purses, pulling out their passports and train tickets and handing them to the man.
His nod of approval calmed my nerves, but only momentarily. Thoughts of my bed at
home flashed through my mind, and I wanted nothing more in that moment than to be there.
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The head officer then approached the other girl in the car. Her crying had ceased
moments before they entered, but she remained curled up against the wall.
She appeared to be asleep, but I knew she was faking. I wish I had thought of that.
Shaking her roughly, the officer again demanded, “Documents, s'il vous plaît!”
The girl opened her eyes and began to whimper again. Reaching into her pocket, she
pulled out a train ticket and a passport. For the first time, I could see her clearly. She wore a long
tan dress and a black hijab. Her face was marked with tearstains, but she was beautiful. But
within her eyes, I sensed desperation and sadness. Where was she from?
The officer momentarily reviewed the passport, and then a look of triumph swept across
his face.
“Zis ees not real! You are ze illegal on zis train!”
The girl’s whimpers turned to complete sobs. A thick Middle Eastern accent came
through as she stammered, “N-no…please! I have nowhere else to go. Please!”
“Ze French Republic ees not open to illegal immigrants.” The two officers, who had been
standing by the door, began to move forward. “You cannot ‘ide ‘ere or bring terrorist practices
wiz you.”
“Please! I beg you! I have nothing left…my father…he was killed…by the government!
My mother….”
“Enough! France pities no one. You vill be taken to a deportation center and zen sent
‘ome.”
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The girl was in hysterics. She threw back her small blanket, climbed out of bed, and knelt
on the floor before the officers.
“Please, sir. Do not send me back to that country. There is nothing there for me but
starvation and….and horror. I beg you…”
A look of pity crossed the head officer’s face, but his cold stare returned almost instantly.
“Illegal refugees pose a zreat to ze people of France. I am sorry, Madame, but you vill be
returning to your ‘ome.”
“I promise! I am no threat! I will work peacefully in this country…I promise.”
“Zat is not a possibility. I am sorry. You are coming wiz us.” With that, he grabbed her
arm and forcibly tried to remove her from the bed.
For how small she was, she gave them quite a fight. She scratched, kicked and bit the
officers. She clung to her bed frame with all her might. But it was no use. With the power of
three men versus one girl, she was eventually controlled and dragged out of the car. I could hear
her screams of pleading, until she was removed from the train.
Some time later, the lights in the train turned back off. An attendant came over the
speaker, giving a message in multiple languages, finally saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are
sorry for the inconvenience. We will be arriving in Paris in approximately three hours.”
I sat in shock for what felt like hours. How could we not have noticed? How could I have
not thought to ask her what was wrong? How could I not have helped?
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I climbed back under my blanket and stared up at the bottom of the bunk bed above me
once more. Rome felt like a century ago. Feelings of guilt and self-hatred consumed me. To
think that I had merely thought she was poor, and I was willing to share ten dollars.
I rolled over and stared out the window again. The sun was beginning to creep over the
mountains. The countryside was beginning to come to life, with birds flying high above the trees
and animals running through the brush. Farmers were leaving the comfort of their homes and
taking in the warmth of the rising summer sun. In the morning, I would be in Paris with my best
friends.
Despite that, I couldn’t help but think of the girl. What had happened to her family?
Where had those men taken to her? Would she really be sent home?
Unanswered questions ran through my mind repeatedly. I deliberated all the actions I
could have taken countless times, but my exhaustion finally caught up with me. Overcome with
drowsiness, I rested my head against my pillow. It had never felt more comfortable.
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Chameleon Crisis
by Anamitraa Dutta
“Monsieur, you are looking so handsome today,” I slur to my mosaic Jesus while shakily
setting down my basket of glass shards, pliers, cement, and wine. I had left my apartment today,
drunk from grief. My arrival from my day job at the bakery a couple blocks from my apartment
was met by a dead chameleon. This chameleon had been my best friend from when I had left
college up till a couple hours ago, when I had found him dead in his terrarium. His name had
been Raphael, after the Renaissance artist.The colored light from my revolving homemade
stained glass lamp had revealed that he was not slowly creeping towards the entrance as he
usually would, but was lying stiff on the mossy floor of his glass home.
Now I have to deal with the creation of a new series of mosaic scenes depicting the
garden of eden occupied by a large serpent at night under a starry sky for a French cathedral.
The empty cathedral is filled only with the sounds of me unpacking materials and setting
up a suitable workspace for the night. On the floor I spread out a large blanket and set cinder
blocks on the corners. After opening the bottle of wine and pouring myself a glass, I drag a tile
design sheet from my supply table and set to work on a rough sketch of the mosaic with my
softest pencil.
I finish the template sketch for the mosaic. Pulling a large glass sheet of translucent glass
from my workspace, I get enough indigo and honey coloured glass to clip for the sky and start to
work with my glass pliers. My calloused hands are so thick skinned that I no longer need gloves.
Any stray glass splinters just rebound off my hand to the floor instead of slicing my skin.
Unconsciously I start humming. It is a melody I heard the women’s choir singing while I was
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examining the cathedral earlier today. The lyrics are about admiring god’s handiwork on
everything one could see. I look at my pliers. These pliers were made by a machine... I thought
to myself. Memories from my early years at Hindu Sunday school started floating back to me. I
remembered my teacher, my father, would tell us that the statues and idols we said represented
gods really represented parts of ourselves. Anything and anybody we wanted could be god to us.
So were the pliers god by that logic? How about the machine that made it? Maybe the materials
that made it? Or was it just one almighty god who looks over us and makes everything, even
pliers? Confusing. This wine is crappy. Thanks a lot, Dionysis… I keep taking large sips of wine.
With an expo marker I copy my design onto the glass base and then label the spaces with
the colors I’d be using. Green, jade, purple, brown I think, orange, blue… My best friend and
roomie from college had given me Raphael as a parting gift. She went to an internship to South
America to explore textiles work. I went to France. I got a little teary thinking about her. I
haven’t seen her in years! And now my last tangible piece of her was all gone! She was a
wonderful friend. I think I will call her when I get back home. She would want to Know about the
passing of Raphael. Perhaps she will also come to his funeral.
I clip the glass strips into small triangles skillfully and rhythmically as each snapping
“click!” echoes around the church, making the guard flinch. Aaaaaanyway, back to the subject!
Raphael, huh…. god, huh?! If father was really speaking the truth, Raphael could be a god! To
me, at least. No… that can’t be right. He was more like a counselor, right? Can you even be a
god and counselor at the same time? Dear little Raphael. He would listen to everything I’d say!
Always! Without any complaint! He was absolutely amazing. And then he would offer these
amazing insights, except he could do it without using words. He was so gifted. Rest in peace,
buddy. I mean, he would just give me a wise, knowing look with his wise, knowing, old eyes and I
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would just know. I would just know exactly what he thought was the right thing to do. The right
thing to do! What will I do without him? He was so wise. I should hold a funeral for him.
I look outside and the sky is completely dark now. I select sheets of glass in all the colors
necessary and after cutting them into thin rectangles I cut enough glass triangles to fill a large
pan. I turn to the grout and slowly pour water into the bucket of grout powder whilst stirring with
a wooden stick with the other hand. Like one would stir a paint thingy. Can. Yeah, that's the
word. As the cement like mixture thickens I poured myself another glass of wine.
Time to set the snake… the long and winding snake. Raphael was probably a Buddhist
owl in his last life who reincarnated into a chameleon just for me. Which is sooo ironic because
Buddhist don’t even believe in reincarnation. Maybe in his next life he will be an owl or
something.
I carved two circles out of stone. One white and one black. For the eye. Now that i think
about it this snake is hella creepy, like, what is this? I should change the eyes. Or the color of the
shiny scales. Too creepy! Ok, this is useless I cannot possibly productively work on this any
longer. Especially given the state I'm in (tired or drunk? both...). I should take a nap. Smart
idea. Nap it is. What if I die and never wake up from alcohol poisoning? Or it was poisoned?
Those are two different things, right? I think. Nobody would poison me other than my own dumb
ass self. Yep. So does that still make it different things or…? Idk man, deep things. I'm an artist,
not a philosopher. Is a philosopher an artist? If I'm an artist then why was I trying to think
religion through logically? Who does that? Religion is just an excuse to normalize culturally
alienated things and alienate what should be normalized for the sake of forced civil and moral
virtue. This is duuuuumb, I should call my ex. No! I am no typical drunk woman! I'm a drunk
woman who's a glass artist who has a dead chameleon in a glass tank in her room! That's who I
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am! I best be proud of it. This is why grammar in highschool never took off for me. Or high
school in general for the most part. Lol rip. Grammar makes things formal and not funny. Who
likes formal and not funny? Mom does. Cus she's french. She's going to visit this cathedral and
be like wow you're so formal and not funny. I'll take you back in now. Why don't I do something
crazy with this snake? Like give it squiggly eyes or rainbow scales? Why shouldn’t I? I ought to.
I think I'll do that. Totally not the drunk me speaking. Actually maybe it is! This is the type of
drunk girl I am. The type that messes her job and career up and her family and life and
chameleons life. Great. If only this could go on my grave head thingy.
Only green triangles left! I have other various special colored tiles in my scrap glass bag.
I set the sky and tree base into place and then set to cut a basket of five different shades of jade.
Finished with the cutting and setting, I climb up the ladder, swaying slightly, with the
sheet of glass in one arm and the other holding onto the ladder. It’ll be fine. I probably won't
fall. I’ve climbed ladders while being drunk before. I probably won't die. What if i do? I'd die
with shattered bones, surrounded by a pool of glass tears. I should write that down. That is
extremely artsy. I shook my head. You're drunk!! I said to myself, unbelievably calmly. I insert
the sheet into the window space and then secure the sides with liquid silicone glue and wipe it
free of smudges. Outside was the garden. I spot an owl gazing at me from a level tree on the
distant side of the garden. “You're going to turn into a chameleon when you die!” I whisper to it.
The owl hooted and winged away into the night. It looked disgruntled.
I check the time. Half past eleven. I am doing alright, according to my schedule. I pour
another glass of wine and start arranging the green and brown fragments for the tree. An hour
and one glass of wine later I start to work on the serpent’s last minute details: the long, winding
tail, the increasingly thinning stripes, the toe pads, and shading of greens.
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I reach for my glass of wine and accidentally knock it over. Sigh. Forget the glass! I take
a swig from the bottle and set to scrubbing the hardened excess grout off of the almost finished
piece. This will reveal the final product, the mosaic, set in stone. I take a washcloth and start to
clear off the cloudy grey cement from my mosaic, scouring it away in circles. Almost done. Then
time to go home and bury Raphael. Perhaps I should learn how to do an Egyptian burial. I could
build him a coffin. And have him mummified and keep him in my closet as a shrine. Or under my
pillow. Or over by bed as a dream catcher, lapping up my bad dreams with his long tongue when
I’m asleep, like he used to snatch up flies from the air.
A tear and a drop of blood simultaneously fall onto my mosaic and I rush to wipe them
up so that they do not penetrate and later crack the grout and cause my mosaic to break into
pieces. My thumb has been punctured by a shard of glass sticking out of the cement. It is okay.
One piece won't do any harm.
I yawn, and then pull up the ladder again, to install my mosaic once and for all. I climb
the ladder again, steady this time. I push my mosaic into the stone window, secure the sides with
liquid silicone, and climb down.
I gather all stray clips of glass and put them into my basket of random colors, and collect
my tools, cinderblocks, buckets, and blanket. I move the ladder to the warehouse and grab my
coat. Before I leave, I stop to admire my work of the night. The moon shines through at exactly
the right spot, right above the tree, turning the indigo and honey scattered sky into bright,
luminescent shades. On the tree sat the subtle outline of a hunched spine which sloped into a
spiraling tail, curled tightly into a coil. His eye seemed to be staring directly downwards to the
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altar, where the priest would normally stand. My Raphael was perched upon the thin protruding
branch that held a grand view over all of eden and beyond.
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Camp Ecstasy
by Regan Curtis
I awoke to warm, heavy breathing on my right cheek for the third day in a row.
“C’mon Kira! You seriously can’t leave me alone for eight hours to sleep!?” I implored
my loving but slightly clingy sister.
And for the third day in a row, Kira Johnson, already the world’s heaviest sleeper at eight
years old, didn’t stir. I had to admit she looked kinda cute lying there all peaceful and warm. I
decided to let her sleep as I slipped out of bed and put my bare feet on the wet, wooden floor.
Already I could feel the intense humidity of the rainforest soaking into my bones and
frizzing up my hair. The macaws screeched overhead. If Kira’s proximity to my face hadn’t
woken me up, those beautiful but obnoxious birds would have. I climbed out of the tiny closet
that was my bedroom and onto the boat deck, careful not to slip into the alligator-infested water.
At least that’s what Juan, our Amazonian tour guide said, though I had a strong suspicion he
really just didn’t want to deal with the lawsuit when someone carelessly fell overboard.
I padded to the makeshift hut that was our dining room, where my parents sat eating Pão
de queijo and papayas. My mother, a dark toned -- and quite frankly gorgeous -- woman of 42
meticulously scooped seeds out of her papaya with a wooden spoon. Her practicality and calm
nature showed even in the simple act of eating breakfast. My father, blonde and ridiculously pale
in contrast with Mom, sat flipping through photos on his camera he had shot the day before.
“Hey Melaina,” Dad yawned, “what’s crack-a-lack-a-poppin?”
He never said “good morning” like a normal dad; every day for as long as I could
remember he had a different greeting. In fact, not much about my dad was normal. He drove a
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green Subaru Outback that was as old as dirt, was 6’2” and skinny as a teenage boy. He had a
shaggy beard and piercing eyes that made him look wild, like a werewolf, but his bright smile
showed he didn’t bite. Our whole family was proud because Dad had recently been put on
assignment for National Geographic, his dream job since age 10. That was the reason we were on
this river boat cruising down the Amazon slower than even that dang Outback. My mom, a
doctor at the biggest hospital in Wyoming, was on medical leave for three months for back
surgery, and Kira and I were out of school for the summer. The timing couldn’t have been better.
I plopped down between my parents and began scooping my own papaya fruit clean of
seeds.
“Hey, could you tell Kira to stay in her own bed at night? It’s getting really annoying,” I
said.
Mom looked up from her papaya. “Melly, you know she gets scared sleeping in new
places. I know it’s hard but try to be patient.”
“Your mom’s right,” Dad said, “but I’ll try to get her to help me with photos later today
so she’s out of your hair.”
I smiled a smile of gratitude. I loved my sister, but being crammed together on a tiny boat
in the Amazon was tiring. To make matters worse, we weren’t stopping in any more villages for
the next two days.
All of the sudden I was yanked out of my daydreaming with a giant “BANG!” so loud
even my mother jumped. I knew from frequent hunting trips with my dad that it was a gunshot,
and a very close one. My heart pounded.
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“Get down” Dad hissed, and my mother and I quickly slid under the table. The only other
time I’d seen my mom’s face so ashen was when Grandma called to say Grandpa had a heart
attack.
Dad slipped away to find Juan and figure out what was going on. I had read South
American travel books extensively and knew the Amazon was no picnic, but didn’t expect
anything to actually happen to us. All I could think about was Kira.
“Please, God, let that heavy sleeper keep snoozing.”
As if fate was laughing at my feeble prayer attempt, I quickly heard the pitter patter of
eight-year-old feet on the bamboo deck. Mom motioned frantically for Kira to hide with us, and
she obeyed. All of the sudden we heard Dad’s voice cry out,
“Pirates! Come help, Anna!”
My mother turned to help Dad, but first looked to Kira and me. She brushed a wisp of
hair out of my face and whispered for to us,
“Sneak off the boat and hide in the woods. As soon as the coast is clear we will come
back for you. I promise.”
Then she kissed Kira on her dark, curly head, gave my shoulder a squeeze, and we were
off.
After a terrifying (but fortunately alligator-free) swim through the muddy water, I heaved
Kira up on the bank and we sprinted to the thick woods. By this time the boat was no longer in
view, carried away by the swift Amazon currents. I could still clearly hear yelling and bangs,
though I couldn’t decipher exactly what was being said. All Kira and I could do was hide and
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pray that our parents could ward off the pirates, come back to get us, and we could all leave this
horrible, humid jungle.
After about half an hour the bangs began to fade away, then completely stop. The hours
trickled slower than the syrupy papaya residue that was stuck to my chin. At first I tried to
entertain Kira with games.
“I spy something green” she would say.
“Hmmm…. that tree?” I guessed.
“Nope.”
“That tree?”
“Nope.”
“That tree?”
“Which one?” The tall or short one?”
“Short.”
“Yep. Your turn.”
“Ok, I spy something green…”
She quickly grew weary of playing “I Spy” with the trees. We gradually progressed to
telling stories, then just talking, then silently huddling against a boulder listening to the macaws
overhead. That night was a turbulent, restless one for me. At every crunch of leaves underfoot or
crackle of branches in the canopy above, I was jerked awake. Kira, however, snored peacefully,
ringlets of dark hair moving up and down with each breath. After one day and one night that felt
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like decades, we were famished and extremely thirsty. I knew we had to look for help, a local
village, anybody, or risk starvation.
I grabbed Kira’s grubby hand and we walked. We walked and walked and walked,
stopping only to suck water off of enormous elephant ear leaves that accumulated rainfall. We
counted trees until we got to 500. And we prayed. Our family had always been a religious one,
and even young Kira helped thank God that we were alive, also asking for guidance on our
journey to find help.
Dusk was falling when her prayer was answered. It started when we heard the sound of
singing, almost wailing, ringing out over the canopy. Then we heard the bass of a traditional
Amazonian drum, and soon after entered a clearing. In the clearing stood a gigantic compound -
bigger than my high school back in Wyoming - enclosed by bamboo stalks freshly shaven into
ultra-sharp points. Above the bolted bamboo gate hung a sign with crosses on both sides.
“Campamento de Éxtasis,” it read, which I knew meant “Camp Ecstasy.” I would be lying if I
said we weren’t ecstatic to see it. We sprinted to the wooden gate, our toes squishing in the mud,
and knocked. Almost at once the music/wailing stopped. The gate slowly groaned open, and I
wondered if I should have been more cautious in my haste. Then a little old woman clothed in
bright red traditional dress with a cross around her neck approached us. She had a terribly
mutilated arm with scars running up and down it, but smiled a genuine smile at us with her
toothless mouth.
“¿Puedo ayudarles?” she asked.
Kira and I were both fairly proficient in Spanish, and recognized that she wanted to help.
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“We were on a riverboat with our parents when pirates attacked, and we fled to the
woods to hide. Our parents never came back to get us. We are very hungry, please help!” I
replied in my Wyoming-accented Spanish.
The strange woman opened her short arms wide, scars and all, and engulfed us in a very
red hug. She smelled of something metallic, like copper almost. The gate banged shut behind us,
and I briefly noticed some similarly red-clothed, armed men sliding the heavy latch back into
place. But for the first time in thirty two hours, I felt safe.
The woman, still clasping on to Kira’s hand and my shoulder, paraded us through the
compound. My bare toes swished over the earth floor. Surrounding us were dozens, if not
hundreds of men, women, and children all dressed in a brilliant red. They stood frozen, watching
our every move the way a jaguar sits in the undergrowth and stares down a wounded parakeet.
Then I noticed something odd; they all seemed to have some sort of serious injury. A baby girl
was missing her toenails; an elderly man had only scar tissue where eyes should have been. The
strangest thing was that many of the injuries appeared to be fresh, with blood oozing out and
soaking into the red robes. We reached the center of the compound where a fire was blazing,
almost as big as the wildfires that frequented the local news stations. Surrounding the bonfire
were dozens of large rocks, and on each one sat a long bloody knife with a cross engraved in the
metal.
“Had there been a fight?” I thought to myself. “That must be it. The people were at war
with another local tribe, and recently returned from battle.” After all, there were armed guards at
every turn.
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We came to a stop inches from the blazing fire, and the woman lifted her head to yell an
announcement. I could not understand it, except for the phrase, “let us continue our daily holy
work.” Like clockwork, the men, women, and children sat down on the rocks surrounding the
blaze and the music began to wail again. I watched in absolute horror as a young man sitting next
to us drew his bloody knife and began carving a cross into his ankle, letting out a blood-curdling
howl as he did so. I glanced at Kyra and saw that she had turned a pasty white, even lighter than
our skinny father, and was fighting to hold back her terrified tears. Quickly, the rest of the people
came to life, carving, stabbing, pounding away at various body parts, all echoing the same
terrifying scream. The little old woman just beamed, her silver hair glowing in the firelight. She
looked up at me and said,
“Look at all these servants of God doing His work. At Camp Ecstasy we know the only
true way to reach Ecstasy is by surrendering yourself fully to honor Him. As our joyous screams
rise up... [some words I didn’t understand] ...grow closer to Heaven and… ... touching the face of
God himself, the only way to find true Ecstasy.”
She shot Kira an unnerving glance.
“And anyone who chooses not to participate receives.. umm... help... from his fellow
campers.”
She reached her scarred hands into her yards of robes and drew out two clean knives,
each shiny and engraved with a cross, and handed one to Kira and me. With a quick way of her
bony finger, she motioned for us to sit on a rock and begin His work.
Not knowing exactly how to begin but fearing “help” from the other campers, I clenched
my dagger, gritted my teeth, and scratched the surface of my right forearm. It hurt like the devil,
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but when I opened my eyes I saw only a few crimson drops had come out. In one silent, terrified
glance I instructed Kira to do the same. I clenched her free hand and we both began cutting with
the daggers in our opposite hands. When Kira’s cuts did not produce enough blood, the little
woman leaned over smiling, and asked in the sappiest voice if she needed any help serving the
Lord properly. Each time, Kira whimpered, “no,” gritted her little teeth, and cut deeper, crying
even harder.
After what felt like eternity, a bell tolled and the woman announced that it was time to eat
“the Lord’s bounty.” Everyone folded their knives into the folds of their robes, stood, and formed
a robotic procession to the primitive wooden building behind the fire. I gave Kira’s hand a
reassuring squeeze as we filed in line, fearful of what was next.
Fortunately it was dinner time. The line slowly passed a row of pots of bubbling brown
porridge with the awfulest stench I’d ever smelled in my life. Above the line of food hung a sign
that read, “Pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain.” I pondered the sign as we received rotten
porridge and a moldy roll, then sat down on rows of benches not very different from the cafeteria
seats at Campbell County High. After the longest pre-supper prayer I could fathom, Kira and I
slurped down our disgusting porridge as quickly as any starving kids would and lapped up
gallons of murky water for dessert.
That night, Binita (I finally learned the old woman’s name) escorted us to our new room,
along with an armed guard to make sure we didn’t do anything “unholy.” We were to bunk with
18 other girls, ranging from about five years old to college-aged. Before bed, we stood in a
straight line with our shoulders back and our hands out to receive a red pill, which Binita handed
us before meticulously prodding in our mouths and under our tongues with a stick to make sure
we swallowed. As soon as Binita led us in the world’s longest good night prayer and turned out
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the lights, Kira crawled into my already sagging cot. It was about a foot and a half wide, reeked
of maggots, and really did not fit both of us, but we squeezed in.
“Why do they make us cut ourselves?” Kira asked in a faint whisper.
“I don’t understand it either,” I replied, “but one thing’s for sure. We need to get out of
here.”
Then I felt a hot tear run down Kyra’s face and onto my injured arm. Before long the two
of us were lying there, crying silently together, and fearing the future. The God I knew would
never want his people to intentionally harm themselves like this. The God I knew would help us
get through and find our parents again.
The next day dragged on, first with breakfast not much different from dinner the night
before, a grueling day of manual labor, “doing His work” around the campfire, then more
porridge. In fact, the next week dragged on similarly. Every night, Kira and I huddled together
and missed our parents. But with each new day and new red pill, I slowly began to see Binita’s
point. Maybe, just maybe, if we sacrificed ourselves to the Lord and showed our dedication
everyday around the fire, he would guide our parents to us. My mind grew cloudy, and every day
I screamed louder and louder around the fire. I got to a point where all I could think while I
stacked bricks or sharpened bamboo sticks for the protective wall was, “Pain is pleasure and
pleasure is pain.” Kira was evolving too. Her terrified cries around the fire became much more
cries of sacrifice and even praise. Her little body began to look like the stuffed dog she used to
sleep with every night, whose stuffing was falling out and whose eyes were missing. Despite her
sad physical state, she didn’t seem to mind.
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Soon, 100 monotonous days had passed, filled with self-sacrifice, filthy water, and shiny
red pills. Then 200. And before long, five years had passed. Kira was 13. If it hadn’t been for her
flat chest, the dark circles around her eyes and endless scars would have made her look 45. Our
previous late night talks of our love for our parents and endless Wyoming skies turned to our
love of God and honoring Him. Every night I prayed to soon reach true Ecstasy.
Then, one day, the unexpected happened. I was stacking clay bricks in my canvas
backpack to haul across the compound with several other young people, when I heard a shot ring
out with a “BANG!” It had come from the front gate, something I hadn’t seen open since we
arrived five years before. In marched a tan man in a crisp, black SWAT suit, and behind him two
people in American clothing, one dark in complexion and one very fair. That tall, skinny man
looked vaguely familiar, as from a distant dream. But the shiny red pills and sweltering heat were
getting to my head, and I couldn’t put my finger on how I recognized him.
“Visitors!” I thought happily. “Three new people who are here for guidance to God
through self-sacrifice. Oh, how we can positively influence their lives.”
Binita, clearly thinking along the same lines as me, rushed towards them and tried to
embrace them in her endless red robes. The SWAT officer held out a rifle, commanding her not
to come any closer. Immediately, guards in red encircled the officer and attempted to pry away
his gun. It was too late. The drone of helicopter blades roared overhead, forcing the jungle
canopy to bend and sway and leaves to scatter in all directions. An enormous black SWAT
chopper lowered in reinforcements swinging down a rope. Before I could process what was
happening, news station helicopters swooped in, sticking cameras out the windows and aiming
them at us campers. “Exposed,” “hundreds affected,” “world’s most dangerous cult,” were some
of the phrases I heard being thrown around the air.
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The beautiful dark-toned woman sprinted to me and embraced me, not in the cool and
pious hugs of Binita to new campers, but in a strangely different, affectionate way. I hadn’t felt
this type of hug since… I didn’t know. I could not remember life outside of Camp Ecstasy.
The next 30 minutes passed in a blur, but before I could process anything, Kira and I
were crammed into a helicopter with these strange Americans who were speaking English, a
language I hadn’t used in years. They were crying and fussing over us, and I couldn’t understand
why they were so concerned about my injuries, which was the part of me I was proudest of.
Couldn’t they understand that self-sacrifice to God was one’s highest achievement in life? Kira’s
dirty face reflected the same confusion as mine. The American couple gave us food, so savory
and satisfying that a horrible guilt set in, and I felt the urge to self-sacrifice right then to make up
for my indulgence. But that would have to wait, because not long after eating I leaned against the
wall of the helicopter and fell fast asleep. I slept for longer than any other time in my life to date.
I woke up in a completely white room to the American woman rubbing my head, which
felt wonderful.
“Pleasure is pain!” I snapped at her, amazed that she had forgotten this simple rule of life.
“Melly, what the heck? Are you that brainwashed?” She peered into my eyes, genuinely
concerned.
“Melly…. wait, are you…” I stammered, the dense fog in my head thinning for the first
time in years.
“I’m your mother, darling. You’re safe now, in the hospital,” she replied. “Your dad and
I, we never stopped searching for you. You and Kira have been through something awful, but the
doctor says you will recover with time.”
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For a good three minutes I lie there in complete silence, that woman staring into my soul
as I struggled with this new wealth of information. Scenes of the rickety riverboat, my smiling
parents, clasping Kira’s hand all flashed through my brain, streaming through the holes in the
freshly broken fog. All the while my brain kept repeating, “Pleasure is pain, pain is pleasure,
pleasure is pain, pain is pleasure.”
----------------------------------
It’s been four months since we were rescued from Camp Ecstasy. We’ve had a steady
stream of reporters and camera men trampling the bison fur rug in the living room. Dad calls
them our “personal paparazzi.” He bought a new Outback during our five years in hell. This one
is more of a beige than a hunter green, and can make it up hills a lot faster than the old dump.
With the pills slowly working their way out of my system, recovery has been hard. I
think it’s been the worst for Kira since she is younger and more impressionable. Just two weeks
ago, my mom caught her banging her head against the wall in the bathroom, chanting the Ecstasy
forgiveness chant. We both have a hard time drinking clean water, and so far neither of us has
been able to eat more than a bite of dessert.
Some days the urge to self-sacrifice is only a faint tug, while some days it’s an entire
tsunami washing over me. As for ever reaching true Ecstasy, in the back of my mind I still cling
to an irrational hope it might happen one day.
As I lie here this morning pondering life, religion, and family, Kira rolls over and her
warm, heavy breath hits my cheek.
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“C’mon Melaina,” she says, “Let’s go do the Lord’s work before Mom and Dad wake
up.”
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The Black Hole
by Grady Davis
As he walked through the streets of Thurmond for the thousandth time, Robert Caffey
was surprised by the lack of change in the place that he had once called home. Everything had
been preserved since the last time he was there—the air was still clouded with dust, the
unforgiving summer sun still beat down on those passing by, and the distinct sounds of a West
Virginia coal mining town still proudly announced their presence.
Robert reached the conclusion that the town remained unaltered from when he had left
almost twelve years ago in 1958. The all but welcoming establishment of Thurmond had
somehow managed to hold its ground in its eternal clash with change. The shops he passed by
were right where he had left them, with the same not-so-friendly faces peering out of their
windows. The people he encountered were dirty and grim, and wore the disapproving expression
that he had become accustomed to. Everything was in its usual place.
Upon reaching his old neighborhood, Robert felt a strange sense of relief. The years of
memories long forgotten were suddenly surfacing, and they greeted him as an old friend. The
shaggedy wooden houses crippled from old age, the splintered front porches and their rocking
chair companions, and the crooked street signs surrendering to rust all reminded Robert of what
it meant to grow up in Thurmond. It was like walking through a dream; each and every turn that
Robert took prompted the emergence of a childhood memory. There was the old oak tree on
Mrs. Kegley’s lawn that he used to climb, and the tire swing that he broke his arm on still
dangling from its branches. Old Man Funchess’ house was somehow standing, and the window
once shattered by a rogue baseball had been repaired. Robert still remembered that day. He
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wasn’t directly involved with the incident, as sports were never exactly his area of expertise, but
he was around to witness the aftermath. Old Man Funchess flung open his front door and rushed
out looking for the culprit, shotgun in hand. Outside he found Tommy Hayes, a scruffy preteen a
bit on the heavy side, with the bat still in his hand. Funchess took off on a fiery and profanity
filled rant, warning Tommy of what he would do if this were to happen again. Tommy’s
response wasn’t fear or remorse, but rather indifference. He left the scene unscathed, and likely
never had a second thought about the event. Even after the beatings from his father and
warnings from the police, Tommy refused to change. Everybody knew that he would grow up
bad. And he knew too.
During his stroll Robert almost forgot why he was visiting. Approaching his destination,
he reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. The paper was tattered and worn, but Robert
had already read it enough times to know its contents by heart. Dear Robert, it appears you
were right after all these years. Just came down with a case of the black lung, doctor says I got
three weeks. If you aren’t still busy, you’re welcome to come say I told you so. Best, William
Beckett. Robert folded up the paper and returned it to the safety of his jacket.
Robert approached the door of his old friend’s home, not quite sure if he was prepared.
He stepped up the creaky stairs and onto the front porch. Today was the last day he would ever
see his best childhood friend. Of course they hadn’t seen each other in twelve years, and they
hadn’t left on the best of terms, but they grew up together. And nothing could change that.
Robert knocked on the door, uncertain about what to expect, but before he could reassure
himself, the door flung open. Standing there was a disheveled little boy with wild red hair and
beady malachite eyes. Robert didn’t know how to react—he stood there awkwardly as the child,
who was no more than eight, studied him. Finally, he asked “Is William Beckett home?”
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The child stared at him blankly, before replying “Yes sir.”
“Might I ask your name?” asked Robert.
“George Beckett,” said the boy.
Could this be William’s son? Nothing of the matter had ever been mentioned to Robert.
He stared at the boy in disbelief, but he couldn’t deny the resemblance. The same shaggy ginger
hair, the same button nose, and the same gap-toothed smile that William had once displayed
himself. “May I come in?”
The child seemed nervous, perhaps uncomfortable around strangers. His eyes were fixed
on Robert, as if he was trying to determine whether he was a friend or foe. He almost jumped
when a raspy voice came booming out from inside of the house. “Let the damn man inside.”
The child obediently made way for his guest before scampering off into another room.
Robert stepped lightly inside and made his way towards the voice. Before entering the
room where his old friend lay, he could already hear the painful wheezing. He pushed open the
cracked door.
There lay William Beckett, shriveled and decayed in his bed. Robert knew what
happened when you got the black lung, but he had never seen it. He slowly approached his old
friend, trying to keep the pity off his face. Neither of them said a word. The room was small and
lonely, with sunlight peeking through windows and acting as a spotlight for the clouds of dust
dancing through the air. Robert pulled a chair up to his friend’s bed and let out a deep sigh.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
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William looked down at his frail figure in a gesture that answered Robert’s question,
before replying, “Never been better,” with a grin. His body may have been failing him, but
William’s stark sense of humor would stick with him until the end.
Robert shook his head. “I'm sorry this happened to you.”
“Yeah well, you did warn me. I knew I should have listened to you, you were always the
smart one.”
“But you had your good looks,” joked Robert, and William cracked a chapped smile.
“That little boy… is he…”
“My son?” William interrupted, “Yup, I’m stuck with that little rascal. He’s coming
along alright though, might actually do something with his life.”
Robert shifted awkwardly in his seat. He decided to change the subject, and steered the
conversation towards the glory days of their childhood. They reminisced about all the good
times they had and the mischief they caused, and laughed about their supposed legacy as
Thurmond’s dynamic duo. “Back when we were working in the mines together, nothing could
stop us,” William proclaimed. “We would have dug those tunnels clean if you hadn’t ran off to
get a degree.” Despite not seeing each other in over a decade, the pair didn’t miss a beat; their
snappy back and forth discussion fell into the same perfect sync from all those years ago. The
friends’ banter went on for hours. During the course of their conversation, however, Robert’s
mind kept going back to William’s son. When it was all said and done, they said their goodbyes
and shook hands one last time.
On his way out, Robert noticed William’s son lying down in the sparse grass of the front
yard. His fingers were laced behind his head, his eyes fixed on the night sky. It was getting late
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and Robert had a train to catch, but he approached the child quietly, lay down next to him, and
gazed up at the infinite display of scattered stars just beginning to come out from their hiding.
“Do you know what a black hole is?” he asked the boy. George looked at him curiously
and shook his head. “A black hole is a star so big that not even light can escape its gravity.”
There was a pause. “Pa used to say that the mines are a black hole. He said that if you
went down there, you could never leave.”
Robert sighed. “Your old man is a stubborn one,” he said, still staring up into the royal
blue sky. “He was wrong, you know.” This prompted a skeptical turn of the head from George.
He wasn’t offended, but rather enticed. “William always said that we were born in the mine,
with a pick in our hand and a thick layer of coal smeared across our face,” Robert continued,
“and he was right about that much, at least for most of the kids in Thurmond. But a black hole?
The mines are far from it.”
George turned his attention back to the stars. “Then how come nobody ever leaves? You
start working young and you work till you can't no more. Just like Pa.”
“That’s what I thought when I was your age. And that’s what your father, friends, and
everybody down in those mines thinks too. But it’s not true,” he said in an earnest tone. “I used
to work in the mines with your father, believe it or not. We would sweat down in the ground for
hours and come up when it was late. Only difference was that I wasn’t planning on staying.”
“Pa never liked working in the mines. He would have left if he had the chance. Some
people aren’t so lucky.”
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Robert shook his head. “That was your father’s mistake. He always had the chance to
leave, and I like to think that he would have taken it, but he never knew it was there,” Robert
said. “His father worked in the mine, and so did his father’s father. As far as William could see,
working in the mine was just part of being a Beckett. He thought that it was his only path, and
so he settled.”
There was a moment of silence, and all that could be heard were the sad songs of crickets
in the distance. Robert worried if he had annoyed the boy; having life lessons shoved down your
throat was never the highlight of anyone’s childhood. But after a brief pause, George said “I
don’t want to work in the mines.” He turned his head back to Robert. “I’m terrified, but I don’t
have a choice. Sooner or later I’ll get sucked in and end up dead just like Pa,” George said with
a quaver. He forced the words out as if he was choking on them. “I have nightmares about it;
the walls cave in and I’m buried alive. Only when I wake up, the fear doesn’t go away because I
know that I can't stop it.”
Robert reached out and grabbed the child’s hand. “George, if you go down into those
mines thinking that you’ll never leave, then you won’t,” he said.
George wiped a tear from his cheek and shook his head. “Why are you telling me this
anyways? Why do you care what happens to me?”
“Because I let your father down,” Robert said. “During our time in the mines, I would
would get home late and study. He would get home late and drink. Every time I brought up his
bad habits and tried to explain that he was missing out on opportunities, he would argue that his
place was in the mines. I should have pushed him more, but I didn’t. I gave up on him.”
“And to make up for you failing him, you’re going to save me?”
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Robert smiled. “Smart kid. I can’t tell you what to do; if you want to work in the mines,
then by all means work in the mines. But if you want to be an artist, scientist, writer, or actor—
hell, if you want to be the damn president, don’t let tradition fool you. This idea of the mines
being a black hole is just an illusion. The only thing that could make that real is if you believe
it.” He glanced over at George. “I know it seems like I’m lecturing you.”
“It’s okay, Pa said you would do that.”
Robert blinked. “He did?” He looked back at the house. The light was still on in
William’s room. “I gotta give your old man credit, maybe he thinks ahead more than I knew.”
The faint cry of a distant train threaded through the night. Robert stood up. “I better get
going.”
George followed him to the edge of the yard. “Mister, what's your name?”
Robert looked down at the child, and replied, “Robert Caffey, but you can call me
Robert.”
“Thank you, Robert.”
Robert ruffled the boys hair, and reached down to grab his bags. As he started back
towards the train station, he looked back at his old friend’s house one last time. There lay
George Beckett, staring up at the vast array of constellations painted into the night sky.
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The Garrison Falls
by Juliette Ellis
Fingertips, stained yellow from years of holding cigarettes, tap a once-forgotten rhythm
against the copper bartop, their owner’s unease having extended beyond the threshold of passive
idleness into that of jittery agitation. The eyes belonging to the anxiety-ridden body are fixed
firmly on a cellphone that lies silent in the space between the skittering fingers and those
gripping a half-empty Vieux Carré - the third of the night. Audrey, the bartender, collects the
empty vessels of the two predecessors, quirking an eyebrow questioningly at her patron’s
palpable distress. She inquires how he is faring, but the question remains unanswered, unheard,
masked by the cumulative cacophony of raucous laughter, janky jazz, and relentless rainfall.
The phone vibrates.
Its screen, previously unanimated, flashes to illumination, while the device’s incessant
rumbling pulsates the bar, rippling the surface of the cocktail. The man blanches, regarding the
phone with an air of foreboding. He hesitates before answering the call, and when he does so it is
with bated breath.
“Hello?” Audrey hears only his half of the conversation, the replies on the other end of
the line nothing but a staticky hum in the loud, bustling bar. “I… I can’t do that,” he says in
response to the caller’s request, whatever it might have been. “I’m at the Garrison, and my wallet
is at home, so I can’t leave unless you feel like coming to pay my tab.” He pauses, as the
manifestation of a reply etches lines of worry across his forehead. When he speaks again, his
tone is solemn, his careful, “I know. And I’m so, so sorry,” is guttural, pained.
Another pause.
He repeats his plea for forgiveness.
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The pattern repeats several times, broken only on the fifth trial, when an incredulous
stutter passes his lips in lieu of an apology. He pulls the phone away from his ear to assess its
screen, his features twisting into a picture of forlorn resignation when he reads the notification
that the call was ended. With one swift flick of his wrist he stows his phone in his pocket, averse
to the prospect of looking at it any longer, and with another swift move he downs the drink he
had been nursing. He discards the glass, void of all alcohol, with a clink onto the bartop, already
signaling for another. He does not notice when the new one is presented, however, for in the
elapsed time, he has dropped his head dejectedly into his palms, the action paired with a string of
muffled curses.
Yet the dimmed lights aren’t quite dark enough, the booming brass band not quite loud
enough, the bar -almost filled to capacity- not quite hectic enough, to allow his distress, publicly
exhibited as it is, the privacy it deserves. Try as she might, Audrey can’t bring herself to look
away from him for long. Leaving her coworkers to cater to the majority of the late-night crowd’s
needs, she opts to remain in his general vicinity, frequently casting glances in his direction,
though continuing to pour and muddle and stir so as to not draw attention to herself. He doesn’t
move. His head remains bowed, his shoulders slumped, his hands grappling at his hair in a tight,
white-knuckled hold. The sound of a glass shattering somewhere in a further recess of the room
succeeds in making him flinch, but apart from this singular occurrence, he retains a fixed,
motionless state. For twenty minutes, he exists undeterred from his assumed condition, the
melting ice in his drink the only change Audrey perceives in the tableau, but the sound of the
door opening behind him makes his head snap up, seemingly by its own volition.
A young man steps into the doorway, framed suddenly by the veins of blue lightning that
run through the night sky’s onyx skin. From where he stands, wet and shivering, his gaze scours
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the heavily populated room, scanning over musicians and dancers and couples and bartenders
until it settles on the man sitting alone at the bar. One of the stools bookending him is
unoccupied, so the man at the entrance walks with conviction towards it, drops of water tumbling
off his jacket onto the floor, marking his path. He sits down. He does not signal for Audrey, nor
does he turn to look at the man he has evidently sought out. “Alex...” he begins, the timbre of his
voice alluding to a combination of sympathy and admonishment, “you promised that you’d get
this under control.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the sopping strands away from his
face. His eyes, now entirely unobstructed by the unkempt mane, bore into the bottles of liquor
lining the shelves behind the bar with an accusatory fury.
The man Audrey had been intermittently scrutinizing -Alex, apparently- swallows
thickly. His posture, limp and drawn, goes rigid. “I know,” he mutters, and leaves it at that.
There’s a long, pregnant lapse in conversation. The two men sit in a stillness saturated
with trepidation, observing the jovial chaos that surrounds them and accepting it as a welcome
distraction from their own, somber dialogue. “How many?” the new arrival eventually asks,
finding not the promised bliss of ignorance - only worry. He taps the side of the drink for
clarification.
“Just the one,” Alex replies without a moment’s hesitation, though his gaze flickers
nervously in Audrey’s direction, as though gauging her reaction to his lie or expecting her to
contradict it. She gives no indication of having heard him.
There’s a flash of hope in his confidant’s eyes, immediately followed by a shroud of
doubt. “Really?” he asks, though the word is more of skeptical assertion than a question.
Alex exhales slowly. “No.”
“How many have you had?” the other man reiterates, the words pointed and deliberate.
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Alex worries at his bottom lip, weighing the relative damage of another lie against the
truth. He settles on diversion instead. “Marco, I really am sorry.”
Marco’s eyes squeeze shut, his lips momentarily press into a tight seal. “Damnit,
Alexander, answer the question,” he all but barks.
Alex is momentarily taken aback by the sudden brusqueness of the demand. He seems
tense, as though he wanted to recoil on instinct but was unable to do so, aware that there is not
much trust to be had in himself, either. “This is the fourth,” he croaks.
Marco inhales sharply, exhales trembling. “Jesus Christ.” He reaches for the cocktail and
slides it to his right - out of Alex’s reach. “I thought things were getting better, love.”
The term of endearment makes Alex flinch. He feels entirely undeserving of it here,
immersed in his folly. “They were, for a while,” he explains, “up until I got laid off.”
It’s only then, upon registering the latter of the disclosed facts, that Marco turns to look at
Alex, squaring his shoulders to face him head-on. “That… that was weeks ago,” he says, his
voice breaking somewhere along the way because the articulation of that truth forces him to
acknowledge another. “I didn’t notice,” he continues, hollowly. “Tell me you haven’t been
drinking for a month without me noticing.” No answer is supplied, but the way Alex casts his
eyes downwards is affirmation enough. “How did I not realize?” Marco balks.
“The other times I had my wallet,” Alex offers. He then tries for a laugh, but the noise he
emits sounds more like a self-deprecating scoff.
There’s a subtle clench to Marco’s jaw when he replies, an attempt to subdue his scorn
and keep his rage in check. “Don’t try to make this small,” he implores. “This is important.
Christ, we’re going to be dads not long from now, Alex. You need to take this seriously and get a
handle on things because I simply won’t be able to babysit you, too.”
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“Listen, Marco I have something to tell-”
“I’m not finished.” Marco interrupts, an edge to his voice. “Maybe I haven’t been
observant, but I have tried to be supportive and I have tried to help you. That’s all I can do. You
need to talk to me when you’re struggling or something goes wrong.”
“I’m trying to talk to you know, aren’t I?” Alex interjects, earning himself a sharp scowl.
“Now is decidedly not the time,” Marco growls, low enough Audrey strains to hear it.
“You slipped up, and that’s understandable - that I can forgive - but to not tell me about it for a
month? Jesus, Alex, that’s not just dangerous, that’s insensitive.” Some tears pool in his eyes,
threatening to spill, but he brushes them away angrily with the heel of his hand before they can
do so. “I need to know if there’s a chance that I’ll go days without knowing where you are
because you’ve gone off on another bender.”
“That only happened once,” Alex tries, lamely.
“And that was one time too many,” Marco snaps. “I thought you were having an affair or
– Christ I thought maybe you’d died. How does that not faze you?”
“Because I didn’t die, did I?” comes the flippant remark.
“No, but you wound up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, so I was right to worry
then, and I’m right to worry now,” Marco seethes, words laced with sharp, accusatory venom.
The jab leaves him drained and, once his spurt of anger dissipates, perhaps a little guilty. He
softens his voice a touch in apology. “Look, I know I’m no good at it, but I’m really trying here.
I love you, and I want you to be better, but I’m not gonna look over your shoulder constantly:
I’m your husband, not your mom. So tell me what you need, and whatever it is that’s the matter,
tell me what it is. But don’t lie to me and expect me to know what to do.”
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Alex releases a shuddering breath. “You can’t help this time, Marco,” he admits,
somehow managing to twinge his lament with fierce conviction. “It won’t do any good.”
There’s a flood of hurt in Marco’s eyes. “Don’t say that,” he whispers, “we’ve been
through worse than a couple of drinks on a Tuesday night.”
Alex shakes his head exasperatedly. “You don’t know what’s happened, Marco. It’s not
just the job, alright?”
“Then what is it?” Marco pleads. “This—this is exactly what I’m talking about!
Nothing’s ever gonna change unless you’re honest with me.”
Alex steels his voice, looks away from the desperation in Marco’s bewildered, wide-eyed
gaze. “I know you don’t want to be lied to, but I really think you’d rather not hear the truth about
this.”
“You’re wrong.” Marco declares, but his assertion wavers, savoring of an apprehension
he didn’t know he had.
“Okay,” Alex affirms, but provides no further explanation. His mouth opens and closes
uselessly several times as he considers how to proceed. “Okay,” he repeats, as if to delay the
forthcoming revelation ephemerally. Then he bites the bullet: “The adoption fell through.”
Audrey’s lungs constrict to emit an inaudible gasp, and she fumbles the lime she had
been quartering.
Marco, however, goes shock-still, the regular catch and release of his breathing
interrupted by his temporary paralysis. When he regains use of his faculties, his brow furrows in
perplexity. “That can’t be right.” He waits in vain for an affirmation of his claim.
“I got the call tonight, right before you rang.”
“You’re lying again,” Marco insists, body wracking from his efforts to bite back a sob.
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“Listen to me, Marco. We’re not gonna be dads. The agency deemed one of us ‘unfit for
parenthood.’ One guess who that might be.” Alex recovers his breath; the rant having exhausted
it. “But if you have any ideas about how to fix this,” he mocks, “I’m all ears.”
The pained despair of Marco’s expression contorts into smoldering determination. “Go
home,” he orders.
“What’ll that change?”
“It will facilitate my not being near you right now,” Marco counters.
“You go, then.”
“I can’t,” Marco retorts, harsh and unforgiving, “because I have to pay your tab. And
somehow, after many episodes like this -after years of your continual, utter disregard for the toll
that your mistakes have on me- I still love you enough to not abandon you in a goddamn bar.”
He pulls a wallet out of his back pocket, empties its contents into Alex’s hand. “Take a cab. Go
home or – shit – I don’t care. Just get the hell out.”
For a moment it seems as though the order will be met with resistance, but Alex does as
he’s bid. With silent reluctance, he slides off his stool and trudges out of the Garrison into the
tempest beyond it. Marco’s gaze chases after him, but he himself, weary of pursuing futile
endeavors, remains stationary.
The confiscated Vieux Carré, still untouched, beckons his focus back to the bar. He
knocks it back in one swallow, and though it burns the back of his throat and leaves him
wheezing, it’s not quite potent enough.
“Miss,” he rasps, a call to entice Audrey’s attention. She feigns surprise at being
addressed, meets his red-rimmed eyes, pretends she didn’t watch his desires and the fundamental
elements of his life unravel over the course of but fifteen minutes. “I’m broke,” he continues. He
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then holds up a single gold band in offering, the indentation of which is pressed into fourth digit
of his left hand, “How many fingers of whisky is my marriage worth?” he asks.
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Hey Finn, It’s Frankie, But You Know That.
by Elle Hodges
Hey Finn, it's Frankie, but you know that.
Ma and Pa found the plans we wrote out, and they grounded me for a week. Don’t worry,
though, I took full responsibility, so they don’t know that you had any part in it. I knew it was
stupid to write it down! I could have remembered it, or shaved it into your back or something.
Finn, that last part was a joke, I know you’re self conscious about your back hair. I’m the same
way, (also a joke, your girl doesn’t have back hair). Anyway, I’ve just woken up and it's around
10 o'clock. I haven't checked a clock or anything, but when do I not wake up at 10? The ‘rents
have restricted me to my personal cave, except for meals and bathroom usage. I mean, that's
really fine with me. The gods were in my favor, given that I still have most of my Christmas gift
left. Did I mention how thoughtful that was! Three playlists and an assortment of blunts and
joints. So, let’s raise our glasses to that! Your girl will not be clinically insane the next time you
see her, and it is TRULY thanks to you.
I can give you an update on what the fam’ is doing, although we both know there’ll be no
surprises there. This will likely turn into venting, but that's ok, I know you love it when I vent.
Momma Bear is at work; nothing new there. She really loves what she does, and the extra cash
she pulls in keeps me looking fresh, so I don’t have much to complain about. Father Bear is on
the sofa, as usual, watching TV, as usual. And to continue this pattern of familiarity, he is
complaining about all of the chores around the house that haven't been done, as usual. The whole
losing his toe, “inability to work for 7 months” situation has really ruffled my feathers. Given
that my brother’s at ballet practice every day , continuing his legacy as the favorite child, I am
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the only breathing thing Father Bear has to boss around in this hell hole. So, in summary, nothing
has changed since you were here, Finn. I am still The Donkey, my father is still The Blindfolded
Dummy, holding my tail, pricking, and pricking, and pricking. It is hellish as Hell itself, given
that it isn’t sufficient enough to kill me. So, I’m here, slowly bleeding, waiting for the day that
these times of tragedy are just a memory.
Besides the fact that I constantly get bitched at for not doing the dishes (though Father’s
lack of a toe does not prevent him from helping in that department), there are some perks to
having that wrinkly bastard as my father. The boot the doctors make him wear is loud as hell, so
I’m able to hear him when he's coming. It’s like that bell you have around your cat’s collar,
except thunderous instead of cute and dainty. With this tracking system, combined with his
inability to smell, and his very predictable daily routine, I can really do whatever I want up here
in my cave. These seven days will be kinda nice!
The grounded routine I have created in consequence goes like this: Wake up, take a
dump, and wash my ‘hurr’. I lather in the shampoo, apply conditioner, and let that sit for a while.
Sometimes I rinse and repeat if I am feeling special. During this time, my music is blasting and
the room gets all steamy, both of which cloud my father’s senses, as well as make my hair all
fluffy like you like it. It makes me feel invincible and without a worry! The window is open and
your girl is enjoying one of those perfectly pearled blunts you rolled for me. I light up at
11:15am, like we have established, so we are together in spirit! It is very convenient that your
lunch break is at such a favorable time. I understand you’ll be back in town in six days, so again
the gods are in our favor. These seven days of containment will be good for us both, given that
every turning hour I realize how much I need you.
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My positive outlook on this grounding situation does not end there! My grandparents
come by the house the first Thursday of every month for dinner, to check up on us and my
parents. Yesterday they came by, and given that my brother is such a successful and lovely
ballerino, my participation in the conversation was miniscule! It's not that I don’t mind talking
about my life, but that my grandparents don’t remember it for shit. The topic of table
conversation among the grandparents, my brother, and I, went as follows:
“So how is the ballet?”
“It’s good, hard work, but it pays off.”
“ When is your next performance?”
“ Not for another month or two, the rest of the company needs more time to comfortable
with their dances.”
“Have you met any new ladies?”
“ No I have not, working too hard I guess.”
I always love that last question. My brother is gay, and I am the only one at that table
who knows. I’m glad he told me and all, but I have yet to ask him why he doesn’t tell the rest of
our family. My mother’s best friend, boss, and hair stylists are all gay, and she really has a way
with those fellas. Though my father fits the stereotypes of a conservative (being old and
grouchy), he has made his position on gay marriage clear: love is love. It is seemingly obvious
that my brother is gay.. But we don’t really spend much time together. When he’s home, he is
locked in his room doing god-knows-what. His relationship with the ‘rents is about the same as
with me. Not to mention he is obedient and never messes up a damn thing. So it leaves my
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parents thinking that their Latch Key Kid way of parenting is a good one, even though I’d say
otherwise.
So that leaves your Frankie Bear to take all the crap my parents accumulated throughout
the day. They flipped a shit once the grandparents left. Though I stayed smiley and quiet the
entire night, they found SOMETHING to bitch about. They said I was being very disrespectful to
them. It's definitely because they read our damn plans, and every time the grandparents come
over my mother feels the need to be more active in my life. So I just sat and took it , after
learning that staying quiet, and telling the rents that they are right, makes it pass much quicker.
Once it was over, I came up here to my room, where I am now going between a few
chews of my nicorette, and a few puffs of your “Pearly B”. Look at me, all healthy and shit! Of
course I run out of cigs the day I get grounded, without any ability to obtain another carton of my
20 little friends. I know, I know, cancer and death, blah blah. But honestly, everything causes
cancer these days. So let me live mine with a little sanity, comfort, and pleasure from les
cigarettes (please say in an exaggerated French-man accent).
My grounding , and my parents finding out about our plans , has really helped me decide
what to do. Here is my thing: your band has already signed a record deal, and my abilities aren’t
too shabby themselves. The ‘rents think I’m too young to handle myself, but I definitely don’t
agree. Before Father Bear lost his toe, I was practically living on my own anyway. Seeing the
way my family lives, how their routine makes every day seem like the other, and how everyone
in this neighborhood is the same, it’s clear to me that we need to get the hell out. This type of life
moves way too slowly. These people live in such a small world, with such small lives. Where is
the traveling? Where is the exotic honey, and cultures that I have never heard of? Therefore,
Finn, the plans are definitely still on. I said I was 90% sure I was going to leave with you, well
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now I am 100%. If Father can live without 10% of his toes, I can live without 10% of potential
regret.
Much love,
Sad Girl Frankie
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Cold Feet
by Pooja Murarisetty
The light turns green and the car curves around the curb. As my mother skillfully
navigates through the winding streets in the neighborhood, I look out the open window.
The black asphalt streets glitter in the sunlight and waves of heat shimmer through the air.
It’s a perfect day. Fluffy clouds float against a serene blue background. Balmy breezes perfume
the cul-de-sac with the aromas of freesia and honeysuckle. Somewhere in the woods behind the
houses, a creek burbles. Children run to and fro on the streets, playing outside on a beautiful
summer day. Joyful shrieks and gales of laughter echo throughout the ether, creating a jovial
atmosphere. Emerald green grass and forest green leaves shift with the wind, creating an
undulating shushing sound.
We pull up to the house. I open the car door and hop out onto the road. My langa settles
into place around me, the fabric sparkling in the sunlight. My mother steps out, too. The gold
detailing on her sapphire silk sari catches the light, making her glow like a goddess.
The preparations are almost complete. Swaths of ivory fabric sway in the air, draped over
the outdoor tent frame. Inside, there are three gigantic tables are covered with sea blue cloth,
topped with bouquets of blush, marigold, and white flowers. At the front of the table, there is an
extensive stage. An azure blue settee with gold detailing sits in the center of it. The wall behind
the settee is adorned with flowers of all sorts: lavender roses, sunset orange peonies, and
champagne lilies. A small table is to the right of the stage, bereft and alone with no gifts to
adorn it. I go walk over to it and place my gift on top; the floral print is simple, but it fits.
Near the gifts table, a rectangular table stretches the considerable length of the tent. On top
of it are steaming trays of spicy and savory dishes, making my mouth water even from a
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considerable distance. As tantalizing as these are, my favorite ones lie at the end of the table.
Pots and pans of sweets sit there, beckoning to me with their scents of sugar, cardamom, and
saffron. In one is gulab jamun; another holds rasmalai. As tempting as this food is, I'm too
nervous to eat. If this were anyone else's wedding, I wouldn't be.
Ten minutes later, most of the guests have arrived. Family and friends gather in thickets,
chattering and laughing. I look for my sister and dad; they’ve just arrived, late as usual.
A half hour goes by and people are getting restless. The groom has been here for quite
some time yet the bride hasn't arrived. Appetizers should be coming out by now, but without her
here, there is no way to start.
My mom’s phone rings, jolting me out of my musings. “Hello?” she queries. The voice is
tiny but unmistakable to my ears. It’s the bride. Her tone is panicked and she sounds on the verge
of tears. My mom asks her where she while getting her purse. “Anjali, calm down, everything
will be alright. I’ll be there with her in three minutes, just hang tight until then.” She beckons me
over and tells me that we are going into the house to help Anjali out. Apparently, her sari blouse
tore and Anjali's mother has no idea how to sew it back up. Thankfully, my mom is an excellent
seamstress.
We skirt around the people in the tent and walk into the sunlight. As I walk alongside my
mom, I ask her how Anjali tore her blouse. My mom’s smile blossoms as she explains.
“Oh, you know Anjali. She was trying to re-pin her sari and tore the blouse when she was
taking out the pin. When she tried to pin it back together, well, with her oh-so-nimble fingers,
she just made it worse.” I burst out laughing and stop walking since we’ve reached the front
door.
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“You know, that’s definitely something she would do. God, the things Anjali has done over
the years. I guess even though it’s her wedding, there’s no shortage in her natural clumsiness.”
My mom and I exchange a fond smile. Anjali, as clumsy as she is, has been like family to
us since we moved to North Carolina. Even though she’s older than me by 6 years, when I’m
with her, I feel like the older one. Anjali. Never thinking about the consequences and always
living in the moment.
The front door isn't locked so my mom opens it and we walk into the foyer. The flooring
is a vintage maple wood and the cream walls, crown molding, and gold accents throughout the
house create a sunny light atmosphere.
We hurry up the stairs, into Anjali's room, and stand in utter shock at the spotless room.
The makeup, brushes, and jewelry cluttering the vanity are gone; Anjali's clothes are nowhere to
be seen on her bed or floor. Anjali herself is sitting calmly, expressionlessly, at her vanity, which
is strange because Anjali is never calm. Her ripped blouse is still on her body with her sari
draped loosely across her left shoulder. That's when I know that something is wrong. Where is
Anjali's mother? And what happened to Anjali to make her like this?
My mom and I exchange a worried look. Anjali seemed oblivious to our presence.
Usually, she's lively and outgoing but today she just seems cold. Closed-off. My mother seems to
have some idea of what is going on because she approaches Anjali cautiously, but approaches
nonetheless.
Meanwhile, I study Anjali closely for a second time. It isn't that her expression is dead,
but more like it is stiff, as if she's suppressing everything and holding it in. She seems as fragile
as glass, as if one crack will break her into a million pieces. My mom seems to understand what
she's going through and when she reaches out a tentative hand toward Anjali's shoulder, a crack
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appears in Anjali's delicate facade. She whips around suddenly and when she sees my mom's
expression, a wild sob tears out of her throat. My mom sits next to her on the chair and holds
Anjali in her arms, letting her cry.
After a few moments, Anjali's breathing calms and her tears subside. She lifts her face
from my mom's shoulder then and wipes away the remaining salty wetness on her face. She takes
a deep breath and lets it out shakily.
My mom pulls Anjali to her feet while standing herself and says, “Now, let’s go down to
the kitchen so you can eat something. Then, you'll explain what's wrong, yeah?”
Throughout all this, I've just been standing in the doorway in absolute shock. Never in the
six years I've known Anjali have I seen her cry. I've seen her stressed about a test or project but
even that was never at this level. At my mom's words, I snap back to awareness and walk over to
give Anjali a hug. “It's okay Anjali, we'll fix everything,” I say comfortingly to Anjali. My mom
walks over and takes one of Anjali's hands while I hold the other. We walk down the stairs like
this, hoping that Anjali knows how much we love her and that no matter what, we're always
there for her.
We make it to the kitchen and I walk over to the lunch bar with Anjali in tow. I pull out a
chair and she plops down listlessly into it. My mom has already taken the peanut butter fudge ice
cream tub out of the freezer and is scooping a generous helping into a bowl for Anjali. I stick a
spoon in it and take it over to her. My mom dumps the sullied utensils in the sink and takes the
chair to the right of Anjali while I take the chair to the left of her. We stare pointedly at Anjali
until she eats a spoon of the ice cream and sigh silently in relief as she keeps eating.
As she finishes the bowl, the color is coming back into her cheeks and while she still
doesn't look like the Anjali I know and love, she's becoming her again. After finishing she sighs
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and says, “Well, I better explain from the beginning. My mom was here before to help me get
ready but as she was getting me ready, she tore my blouse. I'd noticed at the beginning that her
movements were unnaturally jerky but I didn't think it amounted to anything but wedding day
jitters.”
“It turns out that I was completely wrong. The reason she was so angry was because she
doesn't want me to go through with this marriage.”
My jaw dropped. Why would Saraswati Aunty, Anjali’s mom, drop something like this
on her all of a sudden? And what had she found out that had scared her so badly?
I looked over and found the same expression mirrored on my mom’s face. In typical
Indian marriages, it isn’t just the woman and the man who must give consent but the families
too. Rather than just being a marriage of two souls, it is essentially a joining of two families.
Because of this mindset, the families would go through each other’s vetting process. This was
essentially a background check and for the most part, any objections were raised here.
“Anjali… Do you know why your mom is so scared?”
Anjali looked at my mom with heartbreaking sadness in her eyes. “Look, I know she
must have a good reason but all I got out of her was that she had heard my future mother-in-law
make some rather nasty comments about me and how I was going to be treated after I got
married to Rahul.”
I didn’t want to believe what Saraswati Aunty was accusing Lalitha Aunty of. Lalitha
Aunty absolutely adored Anjali and from when I’d seen them together, they’d gotten along
marvelously. Of course, that could have all been an act for the dowry.
Another part, and I must say an archaic one, is the dowry. The dowry is essentially any
goods and riches that a bride brings to her new home to support herself. While the dowry is
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intended for usage by the bride only, some families would coerce a girl with a high dowry into
marrying their son just to get a hold of the dowry. In Anjali’s case, the groom’s family hadn’t
required or wanted a dowry but Anjali’s father had said up front to any proposals that he would
be providing one so that he could take care of his daughter even after she left the house.
Besides, Rahul’s family was loaded. They wouldn’t have any need for this money.
But I did understand why Anjali’s mom was so scared about the comments. While the
number of marriages with this problem is blown out of proportion, it is still a very serious one. A
fear of every bride’s parents is that their daughter will be treated horribly by the groom’s parents.
Most families who actually have this problem are people with control issues or those who have
had bad experiences with their mother-in-law.
My mother didn’t like to talk about it but I knew my paternal grandmother had put her
through a lot of tortures while she had been alive. To this day, she doesn’t talk to anyone on that
side of our family but I don’t blame her. That entire side sounds like a piece of work.
I couldn’t think of any rational explanation for why Lalitha Aunty would make these
comments and why Saraswati Aunty would be so scared. What Anjali said next cleared that up.
“There’s one thing I haven’t told you. There’s a reason behind my mother’s fear about
this marriage. When my mom went through the whole marriage process and found my dad and
his family, she automatically knew he was the one. Even when her family did the extensive
background check, everything seemed fine. The entire family seemed pleasant and they were of
good social standing.”
“Or so my mother thought. She found out after she was married that her new family was
deep in debt and needed the dowry to pay it off. When they had requested the dowry, the reason
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they had given was one about making sure that she was provided for, no matter what. What
really happened was that they took her dowry money right after she was married and just used it
to pay of their debts.”
I was horrified. In this system and our culture, a bride without her own assets was no
good. She had no power within her family and her status was nil. Even though Saraswati Aunty
had her dowry taken from her, apparently the rules still applied.
“From then on, she was treated akin to a maid. My dad tried to stop his family, but you
both know he isn’t the type of man to be perceptive of these types of political machinations and
as such, he wasn’t able to do much. Even though they had a maid, they fired her and forced my
mom to do everything.”
“She didn’t have to live this way for long though. My dad had made plans to go to
America for his new job anyway so he contacted his boss and asked if he could transfer earlier.
My mother and father left that house within a week and they haven’t looked back since.”
After her story, we all sat there for a few moments, letting all the revelations of the past
few moments sink in. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to look at Saraswati Aunty the same way
ever again. Now that I knew what she had gone through, her reaction didn’t seem so extreme.
My mom sighed a few moments later and asked Anjali, “Do you love Rahul and does he
love you?”
Anjali nodded, sure of herself in this case.
“Alright then.” She looked at me. “Go get Rahul and let’s settle this once and for all.” I
didn’t know what my mom was planning but I hoped she knew what she was doing. I left the
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kitchen and walked through the house to the front door. Throughout all this, I had forgotten
about the family and friends waiting in the tent. Hopefully, someone had started serving lunch.
And what was I going to tell all the people who were wondering what was happening? I
didn’t have a watch but I guessed my mom and I had been gone for at least a good half-hour or
so. Patching a sari blouse definitely doesn’t take that long.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Once I got to the tent, Rahul was waiting outside of it for me.
From the look of the grass beneath his feet, he’d been pacing for a while.
“Rahul!” I called. He looked up at the sound of my voice and a shadow of relief passed
over his face. “Come with me, Anjali wants to talk to you.”
“What’s going on?” His voice was steady but I could see the worry in his eyes.
“I don’t think I should explain. My mom and Anjali are waiting back at the house and
honestly, the situation is pretty complicated.” I knew everything about it but it wasn’t my place
to tell him, especially with their mothers and families involved.
“What’s the situation inside?”
“I started the lunch service ten minutes after you and your mom left. So far, no one has
asked any questions and hopefully it stays that way. I also told the priests to set the stage up for
the vivaham.” That meant we had about an hour left to resolve this situation. After lunch, people
would relax and talk for a bit, but any more time and we’d be cutting it close with the
muhurtham time.
The muhurtham was the auspicious time for a couple to marry and the vivaham was the
actual Hindu marriage ritual. Usually, this time is set after a couple’s engagement and while
there are a few options as far as the time, they aren’t all that close together. If Anjali and Rahul
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missed this one, they’d have to wait until December to get married, provided that they still
wanted to.
We reached the front door and could hear faint yelling from inside. Rahul and I
exchanged a glance and ran in, following the yelling to its source. I grabbed his hand before we
left the foyer.
“Hold on, we need to get a feel for what’s happening. Let’s just listen for a few moments
and then go, ” I whispered.
“Um, are you sure? It sounds pretty bad,” whispered Rahul. I shot him an
incredulous look.
“Look, if we don’t know what we’re walking into, then we won’t know how to address
the situation. First, let’s just figure out who’s arguing. They’re still too faint for me to
differentiate.” After a moment, he nodded. With a silent of sigh of relief, I motioned for him to
follow me. Straining, I listened closely, trying to discern the direction of the yelling. We tiptoed
through the sunlight dappled family room, heading for the study. We stopped just outside it,
hiding behind the huge polished oakwood doors.
“-you had no right to say that about her! Especially the-”
“If you would just-”
“-part about her being a headstrong, disobedient girl who you plan to discipline!” Anjali’s
mom was practically screaming by the end, and her anger seemed to vibrate through the house
with her words. I looked over at Rahul to gauge his reaction. From his shocked expression, this
was the first he was hearing of it.
“Wait, what? I never said that! Why would you think I would ever say that?” Lalitha
Aunty sounded incredulous. There was a beat of silence.
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“Because, I heard you say it in that gaggle of geese you call your friends!” Saraswati
Aunty spat spitefully. “Do you expect me to just keep quiet and let this wedding continue after
hearing that?”
I could hear the anger blooming in Rahul’s mother’s voice. “Saraswati, listen to me-”
“No, you listen! My daughter won’t-”
Before I could stop him, Rahul stepped into the room. “ENOUGH!” he yelled, calling a
sudden halt. “Just stop! Neither of you are accomplishing anything with all this yelling!” Both
aunties looked shocked at seeing Rahul there.
Figuring the game was up, I stepped into the room too. It was only after I did so that I
saw Anjali behind her father’s desk, face plastered in shock, half-standing and half-sitting.
Anjali’s mom was standing right behind her with one hand protectively placed on her shoulder.
Lalitha Aunty was standing directly across from Anjali and Saraswati Aunty, but was now facing
the door where Rahul was standing a few steps in. My mom was off to the side, standing near the
bay window.
Before I could say anything, Rahul spoke again. “Mom, is it true? Did you say that about
Anjali?” Saraswati Aunty opened her mouth to interject before Rahul’s mom could speak but he
cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“Rahul, that’s what I’ve been trying to explain all along! It wasn’t me who said that and
the person who said it was saying about her dog! I love Anjali like a daughter and I would never
say anything like that.” She looked at her son with a pleading expression on her face.
Rahul’s stone-like expression didn’t change as he shifted his attention to Anjali’s mom.
“Athamma, is it possible that you could have misread the situation?” Her previously anger-
flushed face was pale as all the blood drained out of it. She clasped her hands over her mouth and
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her body started racking with silent sobs. Rather than her mother supporting her, Anjali was now
steadying her mom, who collapsed into Anjali’s recently vacated seat. She wiped at the tears on
her cheeks as her breath came in shuddering gasps.
“I’m-m s-so-sorry, I never m-meant t-t-to hurt an-anyone!” she said, overwhelmed with
emotions. “I w-was just s-s-so scared-d that what-t h-happened to me woul-d-d happen to her-r-
r!” Her sobs came back in full force and she cradled her face in her hands. Anjali’s face was
filled with sympathy and she comfortingly stroked her mother’s back.
Figuring the worst of the storm had passed, I crossed the room to my mom. “Well, this
went downhill fast.”
She smiled and said, “At least it’s over. I was worried they’d never resolve their fight and
that the wedding would be called off.” I gasped in horror at that reminder and looked at the clock
above the fireplace mantle. We only had twenty minutes left before the wedding!
“Hey guys, so I know this is bad timing but the muhurtham is in less than twenty
minutes. I don’t know if you want to stick to it but if you are…” I let my voice trail off as
scrambling ensued throughout the room.
My mom took charge of the situation before it could get out of hand. She sent Rahul back
to the tent to make sure the preparations were all ready and to check on the guests. As he left, she
herded the rest of us out of the study and into Anjali’s room to become presentable again. She set
to sewing up the rip in Anjali’s blouse and repining her sari as I fixed Anjali’s makeup.
Saraswati and Lalitha Aunty were told to fix themselves up and go back to the tent to help Rahul
out.
Everyone worked at record speeds. Both aunties were done within five minutes and after
making up and coming dangerously close to tears again, they rushed off to make sure everything
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was set. My mom and I finished with Anjali a few moments later. Before we left the room, my
mom asked her how she was feeling.
“Honestly, much better than earlier. And I can proudly say that rather than being anxious
like other brides, I’m rather excited to get married, especially since I get to join such a great
family.”
“Yeah, you can say that again.” I sighed. “I hope I find someone like Rahul someday. Not
only are you lucky to have him, he’s lucky to have you.” She smiled at me and I smiled back,
glad to see that she was back to being herself.
“Before I start crying, let’s go to my wedding. Shall we?” I grabbed her hand and she
extended her other toward my mom.
After that, the wedding went off without a hitch. We made it to the tent with a minute to
spare. Thankfully, everyone was seated so we were able to get to the stage in no time. My mom
and I left Anjali in her spot beside Rahul on the stage and stepped back a few paces to join the
rest of Rahul and Anjali’s family members. The rites and vivaham took a good few hours but
with food constantly coming in, the guests were content.
After the mangala dharanam, which is the main ceremony that is believed to tie the
couple together, every guest stood up and showered turmeric colored rice on Anjali and Rahul as
a representation of their blessings. The love in the tent for the couple was palpable, and
afterwards, the guests burst into spontaneous dancing. Even Anjali and Rahul got off the stage
and joined in the dance.
To this day, no one apart from the people in the study room know what happened on
Anjali and Rahul’s wedding day. For me, rather than being a bad memory, it serves to remind me
that your actions can have consequences you never expected.
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Oh, and that parents can get cold feet too.
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Three Weeks
by Isabelle Nechvatal
“Did he do it again?” Lisa asked as the girls pushed out of the lecture hall and into the
dry heat that gently harkened the coming of summer. Her vanilla perfume washed around her in
the overpowering way it always did, and her young eyes crinkled with a mixture of mirth and
anger.
“Of course he did, Lis,” Virginia sang, before Margo had the chance to respond. She
smoothed her skirt and glanced at Margo.
“I mean, yeah, but he corrected my full name this time?” Margo shrugged, seemingly
unconcerned. The sun was warming her back in a pleasant way, and she was having a hard time
forcing herself to care about her persnickety professor. “And anyway, it’s not a big deal, no one
takes him seriously anyway.”
“Okay, but it’s your name- he can’t just correct it to suit his wishes, Goh,” Lisa insisted.
“He can do what he wants, Lisa,” Margo shrugged as she turned her face towards the
beaming sun and inhaled the fresh spring air, “I have six class periods left with him. If it makes
his little French heart happy to change M-A-R-G-O to M-A-R-G-A-U-X on my papers I can deal
with it.”
“Yeah, yeah, ok. But it’s your name. Anyway, you said he changed your full name,
how’d he manage that?” Lisa pressed. She swung her arms open and reached into the heat
before swinging her right arm around Virginia’s left shoulder. Virginia laughed and mumbled
something about being too hot as she pushed Lisa’s arm off her cream sweater. Together, the
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girls took a seat in front of the massive university building to wait for their rides. Margo reached
down to readjust her shoes as she replied to her friend.
“He’s pretending I’m not married.”
“Oh that’s just-,” Lisa sputtered furiously. She could have wound on for hours, except for
the fact that Virginia managed to interrupt her.
“Speaking of the married life, here comes your car, Mrs. Morallis,” she said as she
pointed down the road.
The car Virginia had noticed was spluttering down the campus road in a unique state of
disrepair. The front bumper was rusted, the paint was starting to chip, and the steering wheel
didn’t seem to be completely obedient. Eldon could be seen through the windshield, sitting in
the driver’s seat, grinning and bobbing his head along to the song he must have been humming.
“Oh please! Don’t!” Margo laughed as she buried her head in her hands, “That car’s not
mine. It will never be mine. That junker is all Eldon.”
Lisa laughed as the car pulled closer. She stuck her tongue out at her friend. “Go get in
your car Mrs. Morallis, we won’t miss you ‘round here.”
Margo rolled her eyes and stood as his car rumbled up the curb and came to the
smoothest stop the “junker” could manage. Eldon leaned across the passenger seat, unwound the
window crank, and poked his head out of the window.
“Hey there Goh, how ya doin’ ladies?” Eldon inquired cordially. His eyes focused on his
new wife and his mouth stretched into a joyful, goofy grin. Without waiting for either Lisa or
Virginia to respond, he asked Margo “Are you ready to go, dear?”
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“Uh-huh, yeah,” Margo gave him a tamed smile.
Eldon popped the door open from the inside and Margo climbed in with her textbook and
notes pressed to her chest. As they drove off Lisa blew her a kiss and Virginia waved excitedly.
Eldon laughed.
“I never quite knew what to think of those ones, ya know that Goh? They’re a little out
there.”
“I never quite knew what to think of you- you’re way out there.”
“Well, look where we are today.”
“Pft, it took you some convincing at first” Margo giggled.
“Maybe, but now you looove me.” He laughed, extending his vowels for emphasis.
“Okay, ya got me, I guess I looove you.” She responded, imitating Eldon. “So how was
work?”
“It was work.”
The car puttered up to the driveway of the tiny home the couple shared. Margo leaned out
of her window and gingerly opened the tin mailbox. She wrapped her right hand around an
unusually large stack of letters, then pivoted so that she could grab the thin mid-week newspaper
with her left hand. She resituated herself, dropped the newspaper onto her lap, and began to leaf
through the letters.
“Your Auntie Ellie sent a letter, she’s probably mad she wasn’t invited to the wedding,”
Margo sighed.
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“She’ll be fine... she and my mom woulda’ fought like sons o’ guns anyway. Anything
else?”
“Letter from Claire, ad, magazine, bill, letter from Paul, two more bil-“
“What?” Eldon asked. He had pulled the car into the driveway and was halfway out the
door when she had stopped speaking.
Margo held up the last letter in the stack. It was a clean vanilla envelope with one
wrinkled corner, addressed in a classic cursive script to a “Mr. Eldon T. Morallis”. In the top left
corner, a pre-stamped return address was overlain by the Selective Service emblem. Eldon slid
back into the driver’s seat and pulled the car door closed. His flirtatious smirk, which had been
present during the entire car ride, seemed to melt off his face, and his eyes, which always seemed
to be laughing, sobered themselves quickly. Margo dropped the other letters on top of the
newspaper in her lap and focused her attention on the last envelope. Slowly, Eldon reached
across himself and took the letter with his left hand.
“It’s the last one- the reclassification,” he breathed. They’d known it was coming
He traced the edges of the envelope with his index finger and let out a breath Margo
didn’t know he’d been holding. She reached towards him and gently rested her fingertips on his
shoulder, but pulled them away too quickly. She stared out the windshield and at the tiny house
with the peeling paint and rusty door hinges that she loved so much. Eldon had already started
fixing it up, and now- now what?
Married for three weeks and already ready to be widowed by a war she hated? Already
ready to lose her husband? Margo’s heart beat began to speed up and her stomach seemed to
twist. She loved him, she was sure she did, but why? Why, why, had she hitched her wagon to
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him? Why were they here? They were only eighteen, and here they were, sitting, contemplating
what it would be like if he were torn away from her and everything they had started to build. She
didn’t want to lose him. Theoretically, never- but certainly not now.
She pressed her palms against the dashboard and straightened her arms, still focused on
the little house. Slowly, she turned her head to look at Eldon. He was still staring intensely at the
sealed envelope in his hands with a look of importance. It was same look he’d given the lease on
the house and their marriage license. Margo knew that he must be worried- here she was on the
verge of tears, and she wasn’t the one who was about to sacrifice her life. He would never admit
to being afraid- not Eldon.
With all her might she willed herself to be strong. She had to be strong in the way that her
sister had been when her fiancé had marched off into the war, or the way that half the women
living on her street had to be strong every day. She wanted to be worried for Eldon, she knew
that it was her job to be worried for Eldon, and she was, but there was something stronger in her
that insisted on self-preservation. Was it cruel to wonder what she would do as a nineteen-year-
old widow? Was it heartless to wonder what she would do with their little house if they called for
him and he never came back?
Eldon turned to her and smiled with sad, mourning eyes. It was a look he didn’t wear
often, and it was this sadness that forced Margo to worry about him. There had always been
something unbreakable about the man she had married, and she couldn’t stand to think that he
could be broken. Where would he go? It was possible that he would be stationed stateside- that
was the dream. For him to go to Vietnam was about an inch away from a death sentence. She had
married him because she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, but damn- she had hoped
that would be longer than a year.
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Slowly, he turned the envelope in his hands.
“Would you go?” Margo whispered timidly.
Eldon shot back in surprise and straightened his spine. “Of course I would go. If they call
me, I’m going.” His voice was emphatic and firm, but somehow conveyed an underlying
apology to his wife. It was an apology for things he couldn’t control- for the helplessness he had
never wanted to experience.
Margo had known what his answer would be, not that he had a choice in the matter
anyway. She reached out to touch his shoulder and nodded. “I know.” Her voice shook slightly
as she repeated the words, “I know.”
He relaxed and leaned into his chair. He let his head fall against the headrest and let out
an exasperated sigh. “Would you… if I were stationed somewhere here... would you… you’d
come with me,” He finished his question as a statement.
Suddenly, the overwhelming feeling of selfishness pushed itself over Margo. She paused
and wondered how she could express herself without wounding Eldon. “I… I want to, but…
Eldon, I have school,” she fumbled for the words.
“But you’d come.”
He was forcing a firmness into his voice that his eyes couldn’t quite muster. Margo stared
at him and tried to reimagine her life. She took a gulp of air and tried to ignore the trepidation
that swirled around her. “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”
Eldon nodded and Margo took his right hand. He held the envelope in his left. They sat in
silence for a few more moments, making eye contact with the address on the envelope. The
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letters seemed to dance and trade places- Margo hoped that they could somehow dance
themselves into another name, that the letter was not for her husband, but she knew that was
ridiculous. She watched as Eldon pulled the letter to his chest and inhaled deeply.
Margo leaned her head against Eldon’s shoulder and stared as he placed his thumb over
the “E” in his name. The letters stopped dancing and seemed to solidify. Eldon T. Morallis. He
took a gulp of air and flipped the letter over.
The lip of the envelope had been torn slightly on one side and the glue from the seal
dripped down the center of the card. Margo watched with intense fascination as Eldon hooked
his left index finger under the seal and ran it to the opposite edge of the letter. The paper tore
unevenly and came apart almost in shreds. He pulled the letter out of the envelope. Margo closed
her eyes, not wanting to see, but when she opened them again the paper was still folded in three
even sections. After a few more moments of silence Eldon pushed his thumb under the
uppermost third of the letter and flipped it upwards. He uncurled the bottom third with his other
hand.
They skimmed the letter, the address, everything, rushing through any formality they
saw. And then, as their eyes settled on the final line of the letter, Margo began to cry.
4F. Unfit for military duty.
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The Ghost River
by Clay Oxford
After ten days deep in the New Mexico wilderness without a shower or flushing toilet, it
was amazing how simple things began to feel like luxury items. A beef stew and a cold root beer
had left everyone in my twelve man crew in a good mood as we meandered our way back to our
tents. The main topic of conversation was Trace’s “Cinnamon Rolls Rap” that had just been
performed for the entire campground and left our crew in stitches. His close-cropped ginger hair
and wannabe rapper’s voice has always given us ample opportunity to joke about his ridiculous
song, but by the end of it we always demanded he perform it again.
“Guys, I’m exhausted,” Payne informed us. As if we all weren’t.
“Still, this has been an incredible trip,” I replied, trying to keep spirits up despite the
heavy feet and heavy packs.
“I know!” Payne concurred, “It’s a shame we only have a few miles left.”
“It’s been fun, but I’m still ready for some Bojangles,” Trace added as we reached our
campsite.
Our crew had been assigned a small area in a larger camp, called Ponil, to set up our tents
and spend the night. It was in a clearing with foot-high grass and a river about eight yards below
the tents. When we arrived, we fell into a well-rehearsed routine to prepare ourselves for bed.
Teeth were brushed, packs were packed, and the “oops bag” was hung high in the trees, away
from the bears that we had been warned about but never seen. Finally, we were ready for bed,
and I gratefully crawled into my warm sleeping bag.
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Caught somewhere in no-man’s-land between dreams and reality, I heard the unwelcome
sound of my dad’s voice piercing the tent wall.
“What,” I asked sharply, greatly annoyed at the interruption.
“You need to go put your pack cover on your pack,” he replied.
“It’s a clear night, it’ll be fine.”
“You need to go put it on.”
We went back and forth a few times until I finally lost the argument and grudgingly
removed myself from my sleeping bag. I was pissed. He had been on my case for the entire damn
trip. No one else had to go put their pack cover on, but for some reason I had to get up and do it.
Fumbling around in the dark, I managed to locate my camp shoes and my headlamp, drag myself
across the path to the dining fly, and put the orange cover overtop of my pack. Done with my
task, I stumbled back to my tent and crawled into my sleeping bag. Finally, I could settle in for a
good night’s sleep.
*****
It was my dad’s voice that interrupted, again, my good night’s sleep.
“Joe! Joe! JOE! Wake Up! We need to get into lightning position!” The voice wasn’t
loud, but it was urgent. Had I been awake, I would have known something was wrong. Instead, I
just became even angrier than I had been earlier, and I finally cracked.
“There is absolutely no way in hell I am getting into lightning position right now. I’m
tired and all you’re doing is pissing me off. And, lightning position is the stupidest thing I’ve
ever seen anyway. It’s not like that’s actually going to help you not get electrocuted. I want to go
back to sleep!”
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As I finished my personal pity party, the world lit up. At first I was dumbfounded, but it
was quickly followed by a loud roar of thunder.
“Joe, I’m not going to argue with you. Do it,” my dad commanded.
I continued to give feeble excuses, such as, “there’s no way everyone else is doing this,”
but I obeyed, sitting up with only my butt touching the ground. I wasn’t going back to sleep now.
The storm built up quickly; it seemed like only minutes separated a garden-variety
thunderstorm and the biggest storm I had seen in my life. Lightning flashed so often that we
didn’t need our flashlights; it almost seemed like it was daytime. We had been taught to count
the number of seconds between a flash of lightning and the accompanying thunder to estimate
how far away a storm was, but there was so much lightning that we couldn’t tell which lightning
went with which thunder.
After our argument, my dad and I sat in silence for most of the storm, but my dad broke it
a couple times.
“Look at this lightning, Joe,” he shouted over the roaring thunder and pouring rain. “It’s
like God’s trying to speak to us in Morse Code.”
“What’s he trying to say?” I shouted back. I didn’t get an answer.
This is where I’d like to tell you that I wasn’t worried, but that would only be partially
true. The terror didn’t hit me all at once; it was more like the rising water of the ocean that
sneakily gets closer and closer until suddenly it sweeps away your sandcastle. Eventually though,
I came to the realization that I was terrified of the lightning and thought for sure that one of the
thousands of flashes was sure to hit something or someone. Or maybe it already had.
After a while, I began to feel the calling of mother nature. I ignored it at first, but
eventually the need to pee became strong enough to force me into a decision: would I relieve
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myself inside the tent, or go outside to do my business? In between lightning strikes, I mulled
this over before coming to the conclusion that the tent wasn’t really protecting me from much; it
surely wasn't keeping me dry, and we didn’t spring for the deluxe version with the lightning rod
attached to the top either. Having made my decision, I opened the flap and ran a few yards from
the tent. I quickly accomplished my goal, and was back inside the tent within thirty seconds.
I really don’t know how long the storm lasted. It could have been fifteen minutes, and it
could have been five hours. All I know is that, finally, the lightning strikes became fewer and
farther between, the dull roar of the thunder faded away, and the pounding of the rain decreased
to a gentle drip. At that point, soaked through and exhausted, I finally fell back asleep.
*****
As I cautiously stepped out of the tent the next morning, the first thing I noticed was the
grass. Just a few feet below our tent, it had been flattened out. It was almost as though the river
had risen up the eighteen feet to reach that point, but that was impossible. Or so I thought.
I walked down to get a closer examination of the rushing river that now existed below our
tent. It was an eerie feeling; the memory of the small stream flowing through our campsite was
incongruous with the picture I saw before me. Now, a river roared downstream, carrying all
manner of debris with it.
“Wow. That’s crazy!” Trace exclaimed as he walked up beside me. Others soon joined
us, and for a while we simply watched to see what was floating down the river.
“Look! I think I used that toilet seat last night!” Payne pointed at one as it floated
downriver.
“I think that’s someone’s tent!”
“Is that part of a bridge?”
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“Guys … I think we’re lucky to be alive.” This somber pronouncement came from Jack,
one of the more reserved members of the group. It caused us all to pause for a minute, but it had
more of an impact on some of us than others.
“Well guys, at least I would’ve died peacefully. I slept through the whole thing!” Trace
proudly stated. He always seemed to have a sense of bravado, and apparently that hadn’t left him
even on this crazy morning. A couple of the other guys struck up an argument with Trace, but I
stayed out of it. Personally, I thought he was bullshitting us, but to be honest I didn’t really care
one way or another. I was still thinking about what Jack had said.
Jack wasn’t taking part in the argument either, and he walked over to me. “Joe, your tent
is pretty close to the high-water line,” he quietly observed.
“I know,” I responded. “Scarily close.”
“Any idea how far it actually is?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “but we can walk it out.” And so we did. It was a mere seven steps.
Seven steps between my tent and tragedy.
*****
The rest of the day passed in a bit of a blur, even though we didn’t really do much. The
brand new bridge we had crossed the night before had been washed away. We were stuck on the
opposite side of the river from Ponil’s buildings for a while, so they threw us over bags of
breakfast. Eventually, we had to cross a makeshift bridge made of a fallen tree trunk over the
still-rushing river. Thankfully, no one fell in, but there were multiple safety ropes downstream
just in case.
They wouldn’t let us leave Ponil like we were supposed to, so we spent the rest of the day
hanging out and playing lots of hands of cards. The mood didn’t lighten as the rest of the camp
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slowly gathered. Everyone talked in hushed voices about the storm. It seemed crazy, but
somehow everyone at Ponil was safe and accounted for. That was good, but there were still many
other backcountry camps, including some at other points in the flood’s path. The staff was
strangely quiet. We could tell something was wrong, but they wouldn’t talk to us about it.
My Dad and I set up our tent together during the afternoon in almost silence. Neither of
us had much to say. I was still angry about our arguments from the night before, but it seemed
like I couldn’t bring it up now, after the massive storm, without being proven wrong. The only
thing I had going for me was that most of the other tents in our crew hadn’t gotten into lightning
position, but in hindsight it seemed like they should’ve. Also, I felt like I should have bigger
things to worry about after the flood. Without any winnable arguments, I kept my anger to
myself and tried to ignore our disagreements.
Finally the day ended, but I didn’t sleep very well that night. We camped in a field of
tents with a bunch of other crews. I was exhausted, but all I could think about was seven steps.
Seven steps from being swept away.
*****
The next day, we hiked a half mile to Ponil turnaround and caught a bus back to Base
Camp. We were like celebrities; crews about to leave were constantly asking us what the
conditions were like in the backcountry. We didn’t talk about it much though. The attention was
uncomfortable. I was still reflecting, and some of us still suspected something was wrong. The
base camp staff’s mood tipped us off. When we had left base camp, everybody was smiling and
happy, but now their mood mirrored that of the Ponil staff.
*****
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That night, we went to a chapel service, and we finally learned the truth. At another
camp, farther downriver, there was a tent with two boys in it. They were zero steps away.
In memory of Alden Brock. In honor of the incredible Philmont Staff.
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Dregs
by Alyssa Rorie
The ring of the brass bell signaled my entrance as I swung open the door into the small
corner store. Immediately, I noticed the air reeked of strong coffee, sweaty armpits and a vague
whiff of cigarettes. There was an old man at the counter, who was hunched over the daily
newspaper. He had a scruffy salt and pepper beard and a few tufts of grey hair on his head. When
he noticed me, he looked up from his newspaper and greeted me with a nod. I returned the
gesture and proceeded to look around at all the unhealthy snacks the store had to offer.
Hunter and I had been planning this hull for a couple of weeks, now. As much as it
pained me to steal from innocent people, my food supply of potato chips and Capri Suns I
snatched from my foster dad’s home was running low.
When I ran away from the group home, all that was on my mind was freedom. Freedom
from my foster dad. Freedom from those thieving kids. I wanted, finally, to have something that I
could call my own, instead of throwing on a random shirt that laid on the floor that wasn’t even
mine and probably dirty. I had wanted to get rid of all of that and discover what it felt like to be
fully in control of my life. But nothing could prepare me for what I would face as a runaway.
And this moment required more than just a backpack stuffed full of food and clothing.
I gazed upon the aisle of candy bars and cookie packs that stood before me. Their
glistening wrappers with vibrant colors and fun bold font was meant to attract mindless
customers who yearned for a quick snack. But I couldn’t just pick any random snack and go. I
knew I had to determine which snacks had the most calories, the most fat, and the biggest supply
of energy. Hunter taught me that I couldn’t just take any food and run with it. I had to remember
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that I was getting ready to commit a crime, and whatever resulted out of this needed to be worth
it.
I heard a high pitched beep along with a rustle and turned my head to look at the old man
behind the counter. He was scanning and bagging items for some yoga mom buying chocolate
protein bars for herself. Protein bars. Hunter said those were the ideal food in a corner store. I
had to snag them.
My palms were starting to get clammy and my heart was beating rapidly. It seemed my
mind couldn’t comprehend that I was actually doing this. I was committing a crime, I was a
criminal, a delinquent. What if I got caught? Would I go to jail? I couldn't go to jail, I couldn't
leave my new life, not now, not when it just started. If I got caught, my escape from my foster
home would all be for naught. I had to do this to survive.
“It’s okay,” I thought, “You’re not a criminal if you don’t get caught.”
I swiped a strand of my curly hair behind my ear, preparing for the crime I was getting
ready to commit. Halfway closing my eyes, I quickly knelt down to the Clif bars, grabbed four
protein bars, and stuffed them in my right pocket. After doing so, my eyebrows furrowed
together and I squinted at the old man. I found his attention was not on me, but elsewhere. The
man was having a conversation about kids with the yoga mom. I wasn’t a kid. Not anymore.
I had to get the most out of this hull. Hunter told me to steal enough to survive, but not
enough for someone to notice. As the yoga mom and the man behind the counter erupted in
laughter, I quickly slipped my hand into the Hershey Chocolate Bar box and grabbed two. I tried
to act cool and leisurely like Hunter said, but this proved a lot harder to do than I thought. My
nerves caused my knees to shake and I was getting a bit dizzy.
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It’s okay. You’re not a criminal if you don’t get caught.
I continued to feign innocent interest at the candy aisle when I heard the brass bell ring
once more. My gaze jumped to the door. The yoga mom had left, filling the store with silence. I
was now the man’s only source of attention. Crap.
“Do ya’ need any help?” the man croaked out. His voice was very raspy, like he had been
the one contributing to the cigarette smell.
I tried to respond but I couldn’t find my voice, so I just shook my head rapidly.
“Okay,” he said, “just let me know.”
I was hoping he would go to the back and leave me alone, but he continued to sit behind
the counter and stare at me. Why was all his attention on me? Didn’t he have a phone or
something to occupy himself? But as his eyebrow furrowed into an accusing look, I knew why.
I had failed to look unsuspicious. Hunter told me that since I was black I had to try my
best to look friendly and smile, but I got caught up in my thoughts and forgot everything. This
was it. I was going to jail.
As I took my next breath, the air got hitched in my throat. I was still breathing, I knew I
was still breathing. But for some reason, I couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen in my lungs. My
knees were buckling and I could feel my head pounding with every thud my heart made. My
vision was going blurry and the harder I tried to regulate myself, the harder it was to focus.
Every part of my body was screaming at me to get out of there.
Before I could comprehend what I was actually doing, I bolted out the door. I had no idea
what my actual plan was, but I couldn’t stay in that store. The guilt was too much. I was still
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trying to regain my composure, so my legs were barely able to carry me down the sidewalk. As I
was running, I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and fell. In a daze, I vaguely heard the man
in the store yelling at me but I shakily got to my feet and started running again.
The wind was cold on my face as I ran towards the Wendy’s across the street where
Hunter told me to meet him. There were cars on the street currently stopped at a red light. I could
hear the echoes of honks and angry drivers yelling at me to get off the road as I weaved through
the gaps between the vehicles, but I ignored the noise and ran as fast as my boots could take me.
As I approached the Wendy’s, I saw Hunter look at me with a confused look on his face as if to
say, “What happened?” but I ignored his expression and ran past him into the woods that grew
behind the Wendy’s. That’s where Hunter and I lived. For right now at least. Things were always
changing with us.
I heard Hunter’s heavy footsteps behind me, as we both bolted into the coverage of the
trees and their lime green leaves. I saw a nearby a bird flap its wings frantically to get out our
way. The woods that were so familiar to me smelled of mildew and the ground was a bit squishy
and muddy from all of the rain last night. I flinched as a descending droplet from a nearby
branch landed right on my nose. I wasn’t the biggest fan of nature.
After several more minutes of us dodging in and out of nature’s obstacles, Hunter and I
had finally reached our big, hollowed out oak tree log that we slept in. I clambered inside and fell
on my hands and knees, trying to catch my breath.
Hunter had barely broken a sweat. I could feel his eyes boring through my skull, and I
knew that he knew that it had not been a successful heist.
“What happened?!” Hunter yelled. His voice echoed off of the wood surrounding us.
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I was still trying to catch my breath so I just wheezed out, “Man staring...freaked
out...left.”
“Well, did you at least snag anything?”
I nodded and pulled the protein bars and Hershey chocolate out of my pockets. Hunter
looked down at the items with disbelief. “Six things? You got six things?”
I knew Hunter was going to be mad, so his anger didn’t really surprise me. As a matter of
fact, it was justified. He had been training me for this day by taking me inside stores and
showing me exactly what to do, but this had been my first one alone. We put so much work into
this, and I blew it.
“Yenni, you could’ve done so much better,” Hunter fussed, “We’ve been training for
weeks, I taught you everything that I knew!”
“I know, I know. I just...couldn’t do it,”
“I told you that you were going to feel guilt. I told you that you would be nervous, but
what’s the one thing I kept telling you?”
“Don’t back out.” I responded.
“And what did you do?”
“Back out.”
“Why?”
“I thought I was going to go to jail.”
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“Well, if you had remained calm like I said we wouldn’t be in this predicament. But
now? Yeah, there’s a chance you could go to jail.”
His words hurt, but I knew he was right. I had to pull this off in order to eat. Our meals
for the next month depended on me going through with this successfully, and I failed
Hunter leaned his back against the log wall, sliding down until his butt hit the floor. He
ran his hands through his hair and exhaled deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. Without
even looking at me, he asked, “Does the guy know you took anything?”
I had managed to breathe normally again so I laid against the floor of our makeshift home
and shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? How do you not know? Why’d you run out if you don’t know?”
“I told you, I freaked. He was staring at me and I got nervous and my anxiety flared up
and I just had an impulse.” I knew none of this was going to change the way Hunter felt about
the current situation, but I kept babbling anyways. “I felt...I felt like my body was doing
everything for me. I couldn’t stop myself if I had wanted to.” I started tearing up a bit. I didn’t
want to seem like a little emotional sissy, so I started twiddling my thumbs and focusing on that
while trying to keep my emotions at bay. “I’m real sorry, Hunter.”
“Yeah, well ‘sorry’ isn’t gonna make my hunger disappear. If he does know what you
did, you're a criminal. You’d officially be on the run from the law. That means no more hulls, no
more interaction with the public, zip.”
You’d expect me to be surprised, but Hunter wasn’t saying anything I didn’t already
know. I was already on the run from the foster system. Instead, I sighed.
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“So I’d be a runaway two times over.”
“Correct.”
I couldn’t believe my life had gotten this low. I was sharing a mildewy, hollowed out log
with forest creatures and a guy I met off the streets and surviving off dumpster scraps and stolen
goods. I never in a thousand years would’ve thought this was how my “freedom” would be. If I
had known how exhausting this life was, I might’ve never left my group home in the first place.
The only thing that made this life manageable was Hunter. He was a friend, a mentor, an
ally. He was the one who calmed me down when things got too chaotic. I couldn’t survive
without him.
“If that man does know I stole things,” I whispered softly, “would you leave me?”
Hunter finally turned his head to look at me. His eyebrows had unfurrowed, but he wasn’t
smiling. His mouth was figured into a straight line. He looked more neutral, like he didn’t care
what happened from this point on.
He didn’t answer for a while, but his gaze remained on me. The silence between us was
starting to scare me, but then he said, “Do you remember what I said to you when I first found
you trying to break into that house?”
I laughed. “You said, ‘Paper clips only work in the movies, sweetheart! If you’re trying
to break in there, you’re gonna need some deluxe lock picking kit from the Walmart up the
street’”
Hunter looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“What?!” I exclaimed.
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“Continue.”
“I don’t remember anything else,” I lied.
Hunter rolled his eyes. “You were in love with me when I first met you. You probably
remember every word I said that day.”
I huffed. “ You said ‘ Plus, that house has a security system. Open that door, you’ll be in
jail in 5 minutes’”
“That’s right. I’m harsh Yenni, I’ll admit that. But it’s only because I’m looking out for
you. I don’t want you to get shot or end up in jail like my other friends. Your pretty intelligent.
Believe it or not, I need you. Yenni, I wouldn’t leave you in a million years. We’re family, you
got that? We have to stick together.”
My face lit up when I heard that word. Family. I’d never had a true family before, a
family that cared. It felt good knowing Hunter considered me as part of his.
I scooted over to where Hunter sat. When I reached him, I tried to catch his gaze, but he
had stopped looking at me. So instead, I laid down beside him and placed my head in his lap. I
heard him laugh to himself when he looked down at me, but he didn’t object to what I was doing.
Instead he took his rough and calloused hands and stroked them through my short, thick hair.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re an annoying little screw up?” he asked.
I smiled to myself. “All my life.”
Even though we had our ups and downs, with Hunter, I did feel that I was part of a
family. I was protected.
“I really am sorry about the food, though,” I whispered.
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“If you expect me to say it’s okay, don’t hold your breath,” Hunter responded. My chest
bounced on his lap as I let out a laugh. Then he said, “But I guess we’ll always have dumpster
diving.”
189
NOPLACIA to GOPLACIA
by Savarni Sanka
Emiliano Carmen de Vega was a man of routine. He’d left his apartment at exactly fifteen
minutes past five, as the sun had fallen with a whimper behind the golden walls of la catedral,
casting the cobblestones of Calle la Calzada in a haze of violet twilight. It was the hour of the
day when tourists began pouring out of hotels and flocking to the restaurants that lined the
streets. Las horas superficiales, as Emiliano considered them, when Granada put on a mask and
gave foreigners a taste of ‘authentic’ Nicaraguan culture. As always, Emiliano completed his
daily walks with a cup of tiste and a simple quesillo, sitting at a table under the trees that paraded
down the middle of Calle la Calzada. It was a patch of darkness where he could observe without
being observed -- where he could melt into the relative nothingness that had encompassed his life
in Nicaragua.
If he had been wiser he would have left ages ago. Since his parents had passed away three
years prior, he hadn’t had the energy to move. He’d been stuck like glue to the dusty, old
apartment that his parents had shared for the thirty-something years they had been wed. Emiliano
had left his job as an English teacher in Managua to attend the funeral. His lawyer had
telephoned in class one day to deliver the news, interrupting Emiliano’s lecture.
“Escuchen, chicos. Repeat after me, ¿vale? To speak. Hablar.”
“To speak,” chorused the children.
“Yo hablo. Can anyone remember how--, may I help you?”
“Forgive me, sir. There is a call for you on the phone in the hall,” murmured the school’s
secretary drily from the doorway.
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“Alright, chicos. Please turn to page 31 in your workbooks and finish the conjugations. I
will be back enseguida. Stay with them, will you, Martín?” He turned to the secretary, waiting
for a nod of agreement before heading down the hallway.
“¿Diga?” Emiliano’s voice turned grim. “When? Alright, I -- well, listen, It’ll be at least
an hour. Yes. Have everything prepared, I’ll call a car. Gracias, gracias. Ciao.”
He turned back down the hallway and relieved Martín of his duty.
“Sir, is everything quite alright?”
“No, Martín. Call me a car, por favor. There is something I must attend to immediately in
Granada. Please inform the director of my absence.”
“And your class, sir?”
“I’m quite sure you’ll have no trouble in finding a substitute.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Emiliano had packed his briefcase with his school papers and given a dismal
wave to his students who regarded him with confused bewilderment. He’d exited the school
without hurry and stepped into a grey taxi.
“Calle la Calzada, por favor.”
His parents’ flat was on the ground floor of a low-lying building. The taxi driver had
raised his eyebrows, his face darting back and forth between the house’s dilapidated exterior and
Emiliano’s clean pressed suit as if to say Here? You live here? Granted, the house was in such a
state of decay that it was likely decreasing the value of the surrounding properties. The bright
pink paint that had once graced its face was now a faded carnation. By climbing the short step
that set the house six inches above the sidewalk, one would find themselves practically kissing
the weather-beaten wooden door. The apartment’s interior was much the same. Three vases of
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flowers apparently sent “with sympathy” had been carried in from the doorstep and placed on an
old card table. They were from his aunts and uncles who couldn’t be bothered to make the trip
from Managua. An old bookshelf was lined with worthless china and limply hanging plants. The
kitchen was similarly outfitted, a mix of utensils strewn across the counters alongside potted
plants that had gone too long without water. Everything was lifeless.
The doctor had told Emiliano that his parents had died of “stagnation,” his father first,
then his mother a day later. They hadn’t chosen to die, nor had they chosen to live -- they hadn’t
done much of anything. The hazy humidity of slow Nicaragua days that melted into weeks,
months, years, had simply swallowed them whole.
Just as the darkness has swallowed me, Emiliano thought to himself as he took a sip of
his drink.
The street lamps flicked on, one by one.
A young man materialized out of the shadows, his face sharpening into focus as he drew
nearer. He wore a suit that hung off of his lanky frame and a tie that, in his haste, he’d tied off
kilter. More than once, his foot got caught in the chair of some unlikely American diner who
paid no heed to his dispassionate ‘perdonas’ and ‘disculpes.’
His eyes would often dart down to the black leather of a worn briefcase he clasped tightly
to his chest, as if to reassure himself that it had not somehow flown from his arms. The darkness
veiling Emiliano seemed to part under the stranger’s scrutinizing gaze, his countenance
brightening momentarily with a flash of recognition as he met Emiliano’s stare.
The man ducked in and out of the shadows as he crossed the street. Emiliano rose, nearly
spilling the last drops of his tiste as his knees knocked into the table. Fumbling in his pocket, he
drew out a thin wallet and pulled from it two bills. He made haste in pulling his jacket over his
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shoulders and striding purposefully back towards his apartment. He was unused to interaction on
his nightly excursions.
“¡Espera!”
The stranger’s voice was rough and deep and filled with a hope that characterized
reckless youth. Emiliano couldn’t quite place his accent. He shuffled away, his hand clenched
tightly around the handle of his umbrella. Quickening steps clapped on the cobblestones behind
him.
“Señor, perdona. ¿Qué hace?”
Spanish, Emiliano decided, noting the distinctive th in the man’s pronunciation. He peered over
his shoulder, as if only just realizing that he was being pursued, and answered curtly:
“Está confundido. You have the wrong man.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t. You walk here every day, sir, with that withered look in your
eyes. I’ve seen you. Let me--”
Emiliano muttered a curse under his breath. He spun on his heel, facing the stranger fully.
The man matched Emiliano’s stature, but his sunken cheeks and knobbly hands gave him the
appearance of a starving beggar. He still clutched his briefcase, and upon catching Emiliano’s
eyes roving over it, clasped it even tighter against him.
“I haven’t the slightest idea who you are, or to what you are referring, sir. Here.”
Emiliano reached back into his wallet and pulled from it a crinkled 1000 córdoba note and thrust
it into the unwilling hand of the stranger.
“Now, get on your way, sir, and I’ll be on mine.”
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Emiliano noted that he and his adversary had distanced themselves from the now
crowded Calle la Calzada. The faint notes of music drifting from the bar were dissonant and the
street lamps were eerie orbs, floating in the distance.
“Sir, please. Wouldn’t you like to take a look?”
“I told you, young man, that you have the wrong person. And to be quite frank I--
“Just allow me to show you, sir, and you will surely change your mind. Tenga.” He
awkwardly slipped the note into his breast pocket and offered Emiliano the briefcase.
Emiliano leveled the man with one last, lingering look of pity.
“I’ve had quite enough.”
“No sir pl--, y-you can’t--.”
Emiliano turned on his heel and stalked away, but had made it no farther than a few steps
when he heard a quiet thud and felt a sharp tug on his back. The stranger had gotten ahold of his
coat and, like a child does to win its parent’s attention, was pulling on it. He seemed now to have
forgotten about the briefcase. In his urgency to prevent Emiliano’s escape, it had fallen to the
ground. The straps and buckles that had held the threadborne article together had torn, allowing
papers to spill from the insides. Emiliano bent, shaking free of the stranger’s fevered clutch, and
gathered a handful of sheets.
The pages alternated between heavily annotated lines of text and drawings that were
childlike in their simplicity. The phrase, “The way to heaven out of all places is of length and
distance” was circled repeatedly in blue ink. Written next to “Isn't this conception of absolute
justice absolutely unjust?” was an exclamatory ‘yes!’ It was clear that the reader had made a
deep study of whatever literature he had been perusing.
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On another page that floated from the briefcase was a delicate depiction of a city. Its buildings
were bright silver, glinting in the rays of a banana yellow sun. Beyond the buildings was an
emerald coastline, stretching from the foreground to the horizon, never ending. The sky was
unpolluted, aside from a few wet smudges it had collected from the street. Emiliano bent, as if in
a trance. He found himself mesmerized by the image, like he had been waiting his entire life to
see something like it. A caption was printed across the bottom:
From Noplacia to Goplacia.
“What is this?”
His fingers traced over the black ink and he met the stranger’s eyes. It was now the stranger’s
turn to regard Emiliano with a look of confusion.
“Don’t you know, sir? This,” he said, leaning down to stuff the rest of the papers that had
strewn across the street into his briefcase, “is your -- our -- future. You need only seek it out.”
“What utter nonsense,” he mumbled with a slight shake of his head. Still, it had
enraptured him. It seemed too late, now. Too late to melt back into the shadows under that tree
on Calle la Calzada. This picture changed everything. In its confident lines and careful shading,
there was purpose, an escape. He could practically feel the gentle warmth of the imaginary land’s
sun. The cloudless blue that stretched over the silver city was free from even the threat of a
storm. It was the perfect place a world away from Nicaragua’s suffocating mugginess. A utopia
of sorts. All this from a picture, thought Emiliano.
“Can I....Can I keep this?” he asked, his eyes still roving over the sketch. Met with no
response, he glanced upwards. Emiliano took a slow turn about the street; he was alone, the
distant chatter of merriment from Calle la Calzada the only sign of life.
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A scrap of paper tumbled along the sidewalk, struggling against the brisk wind that swept
along the road. Forced up against the rough cement of the curb, it floundered like a fly caught in
the silken thread of a spider’s web. Emiliano recognized the paper as one of the stranger’s. He
plucked it off the ground. Like the others, it was spotted with the remnants of that afternoon’s
rain, and the writing on it had bled slightly: “YOU MUST NOT ABANDON THE SHIP IN A
STORM BECAUSE YOU CANNOT CONTROL THE WINDS. WHAT YOU CANNOT
TURN TO GOOD, YOU MUST AT LEAST MAKE AS LITTLE BAD AS YOU CAN.” FIND
YOUR EUTOPIA.
With a sigh, he turned and started back towards his apartment. The shops of Calle la
Calzada were more crowded than they had been when he had first passed through. A glass wall
seemed to divide him from the masses of tourists; he had been exposed to a place that stood
above drunken revelries and holiday merriment. But how, he wondered, how to seek it out, as the
stranger had said? Where was his eutopia? His gaze drifted from the cathedral that framed the
far end of Calle la Calzada to where the lights of the pier glinted against the pitch black waves on
the other end. The darkness beckoned him.
The lights in Emiliano’s flat buzzed softly as they flickered on. He was surrounded by
whitewashed walls devoid of any personal effects, and the only furniture in the living space was
a shabby Chesterfield sofa cramped into the corner. Emiliano moved towards to his kitchen,
toeing off his shoes as he went, still clutching the stranger’s drawing and the cryptic message
scrawled in a hurried hand. He rifled through a drawer filled with various knick-knacks he had
collected over the years and pulled from it two magnets. The papers stood in stark contrast
against the white of his fridge door. Through the bright lights illuminating the kitchen, faint
letters written on the back side of the drawing of the city appeared:
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NOPLACIA WAS ONCE MY NAME, THAT IS, A PLACE WHERE NO ONE GOES.
PLATO'S REPUBLIC NOW I CLAIM TO MATCH, OR BEAT AT ITS OWN GAME;
FOR THAT WAS JUST A MYTH IN PROSE, BUT WHAT HE WROTE OF, I
BECAME, OF MEN, WEALTH, LAWS A SOLID FRAME, A PLACE WHERE
EVERY WISE MAN GOES: GOPLACIA IS NOW MY NAME.
What nonsense. What beautiful nonsense, thought Emiliano with the hint of a smile. It
had been a strange night. He half believed that he would wake with a start in a few hours to find
that it had all been a dream-like nightmare. How had one hushed conversation with a stranger
and a couple of fancy words affected him so? Noplacia to Goplacia. Find your eutopia, the paper
had read. Not, utopia, but EUtopia. Not just a perfect place, but a happy place. Emiliano pulled
the papers off the fridge, letting the magnets clatter to the floor. He reached blindly into the still
open drawer, unable to take his eyes off of the newly revealed text. With a roll of tape in one
hand and the sheets in another he set off towards his bedroom. He fastened the papers to a rust-
spotted mirror that sat haphazardly on a vintage dresser. A place where every wise man goes. A
place where every wise man goes. A place where... The words looped in his head like an
endlessly spinning record.
“What’s gotten into me?”
He forced himself to sit on the edge of his old mattress and tucked his hands under his
thighs. As his legs swung back and forth, his mind still on the mesmerizing words, his heels
knocked into a hard surface. With a puzzled frown, Emiliano rose and dragged a sturdy metal
box out from under the bed. His parents’ safe. He hadn’t opened it since the day before his
parents’ funeral when he’d read their wills. Emiliano pulled an envelope from the safe and ran
his fingers over the broken seal. He was flooded with unwanted memory.
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Fausto, Emiliano’s lawyer, had arrived at his parents’ flat minutes after Emiliano, with a
small, golden key in one hand and a stack of invoices in the other.
“Bills from the electric company, sir,” Fausto clarified at Emiliano’s questioning look at the
thick bundle of papers. “The invoices date back nearly two months.”
“Y esto, what’s this?” Emiliano asked, nodding towards the key.
“It opens your parents safe, señor,” answered a bold voice from behind the lawyer. Outfitted in
an austere navy dress with a neat white trim about the edges that fell to her knees was a young
woman. Her hair was folded neatly into a crisp bun, without a strand of hair out of place.
“I’m Eva Medina. I was the housemaid here, for your parents, señor, but they sent me out
weeks ago. They gave me a month’s worth of salary, this key, and sent me on my way.”
“And the safe, where is it?”
“I’ll show you, sir.”
She pushed past Fausto’s large frame and moved determinedly towards the bedroom. If
she’d been phased by her employers’ sudden deaths, she showed no signs of it. Kneeling down
so that she was level with the foot of the bed, she reached underneath and dragged out a small,
black box.
“La llave, ¿Señor?”
With a click, she opened the safe. Inside was a stack of uncashed checks bearing
Emiliano’s neat signature and a yellowed envelope. It was addressed to Emiliano in his father’s
hand.
“Your parents’ wills,” murmured Fausto from the doorway.
“Thank you, Fausto, Señorita Medina. I will see you at the funeral tomorrow?”
“Perhaps we should speak before you open it. I--,” stuttered Fausto.
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“That will not be necessary, Fausto. Fuera. I would like to be alone.”
“Very well. If that is all.”
Emiliano waited until the departing footsteps of the both the lawyer and maid had faded
and listened for the clang of the front door. When he was alone, he carefully ran his finger under
the flap of the envelope and teased it open. His father’s will was succinct:
To my only son, Emiliano Carmen de Vega, I leave my home. To my wife, Berta Carmen, I
leave my other material possessions. In the event of Berta’s premature death, Emiliano shall
receive what I have bequeathed to her. My debts are mine alone, to be paid with money in
savings.
Emiliano scanned over the words without emotion. He was now the owner of this ruined
home and its endless supply of trinkets. He reached back into the envelope and pulled from it his
mother’s testament. It read:
Emiliano, my possessions are yours. I implore you, wither not.
Wither not. The words, which had sounded strange to him three years ago, were almost
poetic now. He delicately placed the wills back into their envelope and shoved the safe under the
bed. How strange, he thought, that both my mother and the stranger had used the word wither. It
was an accurate description of the transformation he’d undergone since his parents’ funeral,
withering into a soulless automaton. Only Fausto, Eva, and Emiliano had attended the ceremony
with its traditional glass carriage housing the bodies of the deceased as they paraded down the
streets towards the catedral. After emotionless goodbyes, he had returned to his parents’ home to
set his affairs in order.
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“Hola, Martín. I won’t be back at work for some time. Complications, yes. Yes, I
know. These things cannot be planned for, Martín. Please arrange for a substitute--yes, for the
rest of the year. Pass my apologies to the director, por favor. He knows where to contact me.
Goodbye, then.”
He spent the rest of the afternoon milling about his parents’ house, settling down in the
evening to handle the stack of invoices left by the electric company. His flat in the city would
have to be sold.
“Fausto. I’m sorry to bother you again so soon.”
“It is no bother, sir.” His voice dripped with ennui.
“I need to let my apartment in Nicaragua. Can it be arranged? Have my things sent for. ”
“Yes, sir. Are you quite sure? You’re not planning to stay here?”
Was he sure? Then again, Emiliano thought, I won’t be leaving much behind.
“I do think I am, Fausto. I trust you will see to everything?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. Keep me updated, then.”
So had begun Emiliano’s mundane and routine life in Granada. Every day, he woke up at
five, showered briefly in cold water, took a simple breakfast of black coffee and sweet bread, and
headed to the post office. There he worked for several hours sorting mail that arrived for the
many foreigners living in Granada. At approximately half past three, he returned home. After
another cup of coffee, he sat down to complete the daily crossword. Then, at 5:15, he left his
house and proceeded towards Calle la Calzada to complete his daily walk from the cathedral to
the pier and back. Then to his cup of tiste and quesillo....The next day was the same, and the
next, and the next, the same hackneyed tune. The days morphed into weeks, then into months
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and years-- until the fateful day he’d met the stranger on the street. The record had come to a
jarring halt, and suddenly he wanted to escape the current that he’d been drifting in.
Emiliano rose, and faced himself in the mirror. He drew his fingers back and forth across
the words on the drawing. I’ve ambled aimlessly through life, going nowhere, he thought. He
ached for a somewhere. The bright lights of the imagined city beckoned him. “Here is your
somewhere,” they seemed to say, “Just a little closer, and your eutopia will be more than a
dream.” But where? Anywhere, perhaps, but here. Where was this supposed land of happiness,
this perfect world? How had this strange man picked him out of the shadows? Perhaps the man
had been nothing more than a figment of Emiliano’s imagination, his own body and mind telling
him that it was well past time to abandon the shell of life he lived in Granada. Perhaps none of it
was real.
When Emiliano woke the next morning, his eyes sought out the pages he had fastened to
his mirrors the night before. FIND YOUR EUTOPIA, they cried at him. It hadn’t been
imagined. It was all real. His mind was fixated only on those three words as he showered and ate
breakfast. Find your eutopia. As he strode from corner to corner of his small flat, gathering the
few belongings that were of importance to him, they played over and over in his mind. Find your
eutopia. He packed his things neatly into an old trunk he’d found in the back of his closet,
carefully tucking the stranger’s papers inside before buckling it shut. Emiliano smiled to himself.
The suitcase was made of the same black leather as stranger's briefcase.
He followed his routine for the day to a tee until fifteen past five, when suitcase in hand,
he set out for one last walk along Calle la Calzada. At exactly six, he scaled a gangway onto a
whitewashed ferry. Standing on the deck, Emiliano looked out over Granada. The sounds of
tourists on the street were muted by the crash of the dark waves that had entranced him the day
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before. He was finally leaving. He would find his eutopia. Out of NOPLACIA and to
GOPLACIA, he thought to himself with a broad grin. As the ship pulled out into the depths, a
solitary figure standing on the pier met Emiliano’s eyes. One of his arms was raised in farewell.
After a brief moment, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, his coat flapping wildly in the
brisk breeze and a small, black briefcase swinging rhythmically at his side.
