THOROUGHFARE

Spring 2014

TABLE OF CONTENTS1 Cherry Blossoms Minglan Yang

4 PickingWildflowers ThaliaPatrinos

6 FromtheMouthsofBabes KatLewis

14 Recipe Megan Hennessey

15 EggsinSkillet EleniPadden

16 Buzzin’ SamuelCook

19 Sleep Recipe Eleni Padden

20 SolidaritywiththeSunoraUniversalDeclaration MegO’Connor

22 Number324 KatLewis

26 OntheDiscontinuationofRevlonRosewoodRedNumber19 MeganHennessy

27 PigeonLegs AshleyYuen

28 Depression AllisonBalinger

30 AloneintheWaves KateOrgera

32 Yes.No.IDon’tKnow. KatieRobinson

38 Eleanor SiYeonLee

39 IamaRookieSummer CarlyM.Cox

40 Mondarian LaurenBlachowaik

41 AttheEndsoftheEarth JohnSweeney

42 MyFrame SofiaDez

44 TheContestant MichaelB.Nakan

52 ThePromise KathleenKusworo

54 Strathmore,NewJersey CarlyM.Cox

55 TheEdgeoftheShoreline KatherineQuinn

56 WhiteandNavyPeppermint CarlyM.Cox

57 YourSoulisaDarkRoom KatLewis

58 AporeticorPoetic RyanKeating

60 TheVisionoftheHand DennisPang

62 BetterNottoSee MinglanYang

64 Hell ThaliaPatrinos

65 Ice ThaliaPatrinos

66 Doodle ThaliaPatrinos

67 Africa ThaliaPatrinos

68 FiveWaystoMurderaViolin ElizabethMattson

76 AFreshCoat KatherineQuinn

77 CleaningOutMyAunt’sCrashedCar LaurenBlauchowaik

78 Lolita ViNguyen

80 ColonialCityinQuinto ViNguyen

82 Half-Dead ViNguyen

84 NhaTrang,Vietnam ViNguyen

86 PhuQuoc,Vietnam ViNguyen

88 MindfulPractice ViNguyen

90 NomsfromDownUnder ViNguyen

92 CastorandPollux EvelynHo

Childrensurrenderedtothemagicofthecarousal.TheycrossedPatagonia’sIceFields—

Theycrossedinstrappyheels—Theydidthat,oneafteranother,untiltheirbarearmsandlegs

arestreakedwiththesplatteringblood.

Takingunnecessaryriskstolieorhidethings

—MuchstudyisawearinessofthefleshAboywithatoygunpeersatpassingstreetscenes

fromacarwindowinworshipofthesun,lakes,andstars.

ThevisualpowerofextremedesolationIstranslatedAndpoured

Likehoneyoverthegoldengrass,Thatgrowsononcebarrenland.

PartofthemiracleoftheAdirondacksisjusthowquicklytheseabusedlandshealed.

Thebrightestsupernovain400yearswillresembleacosmicstringofpearls—

SatellitegalaxiesoftheMilkyWayusuallyperishinitsgripLikethefeelingonegets

afterpickingwildflowersonasummermorning.ThegentlyflowingNileisaplace

toescapethefrenzyofCairo’schaoticstreets.

Theymayrevisitthebonesofthedeceasedformonths,evenyears.

Stockphotocourtesyofhumusak2atwww.freeimages.com

PICKING WILDFLOWERSThalia Patrinos

Fireandpitchforks followedme into the

woods. Thewinterwind carried the sounds of

angry feet stamping through snow. The cold

nipped at my hands as I ran, holding up the

skirt of my dress.My fingers bent backwards,

stretchingtheirskinwhitewithpain.Atreeroot

snaggedmyfootbutIcaughtmyfallonitstrunk.

Mycontortinghandscratchedatthetree’sbark.I

watchedthebonesofmyfingersbreakandrear-

rangedthemselves.Eachtimeabonemoved,the

skinsquirmed,undulatedinthrobbingwaves.

Horsehoovescloppedagainsttheground

behindme.Myhead jerked towards the sound

ofcrunchingsnow.Themareneighedatitsrider

thatpulledhertoastop.Themanonthehorse

castthelightofhistorchonmejustasmyshoul-

derdroppedfromitssocketlikearockinwater.

“Clara?” the ridersaid,hisvoicestained

withworry.Thelightoftheburningstickdanced

overhimandhighlightedthepanicscribbledon

hisfamiliarface.

Silas, I thought, sighing in relief thebest

I couldwithmy lungs choking under a crack-

ing ribcage. It had tohave been the fourteenth

timeSilashadseenmeturnbutnohumaneyes

couldgetusetosuchanunhumansight.Myarm

wrenchedbackwardsandwrappeditselfaround

mywaistinanaberranthug.Silasglancedatthe

sky,anexcuse to lookaway.Myeyes followed

his.Itwasdarkwiththeverylastremnantsofthe

FROM THE MOUTHS OF

BABESKatLewis

sunset purpling the horizon. “Why aren’t you

lockedup?”

Fightingmy twisting bones, I replied in

betweengasps.“TheMayorinsistedthatI’ddine

withhimandhisfamily.Ithinkhe’ssuspicious

ofme.”

Silasgrimacedasclawsshotoutfrommy

nailbeds.“Iwonderwhy.”

Earlier that day, the villagers flocked to

thescaffold in thetownsquarefor theMayor’s

monthlyspeech.MylittlesisterandImadeout

wayclosertothefrontofthestage.Hattiestood

nexttomewiththeredhoodImadeherpulled

over her dirty blond hair. A smile crossed her

faceassheplayedwithherwell-wornbutwell-

loved straw doll. While Hattie made the doll

dance around,my eyes rose to theMayor. He

wasa short, chubbymanwho loved that stage

morethanhelovedhiswife.Hebarelycameup

tomostpeople’sshoulders,myselfincluded.The

lotofuslookeddownathim.Thatplatformpro-

videdtheonlyoccasionforhimtolookdownon

usashissubjects,hisservants,hisplebs.

TheMayor clearedhis throat.Hedid so

invainastheclamorofthecrowdcontinuedto

hang in thedry, frostyair.“PeopleofRoanoke

Island!” His voice boomed surprisingly loud

forman of his stature. The throng’s roar slow-

lysettledtosporadicmurmursandHattie’sdoll

stopped dancing. “Tonight’s the night we put

anendtothebeastthathasplaguedourvillage

with the blood of our brothers. Before our be-

lovedgovernor,JohnWhite,leftwetoldhimwe

wouldtakecareofwhathewasleavingbehind.

Andtakecareofitweshall!”Thecrowdcheered,

thementhrustingtheirfistsandtoolsintheair

while the women meekly stood behind them.

“ThisworldisnolongertheNewWorld.Thisis

OurWorldandthereisnoroomforthatmonster

inOurWorld.”Asenthusedshoutsemittedfrom

thecrowd,ayoungboypushedpastme.Hewas

one of the farmer’s sons, barely fourteen with

wideeyeseagertoseehishandswetwithblood.

“MisterMayor!” the boy shouted. “Mis-

terMayor!”Thecolony’svoicesquietedandthe

Mayor’sgazecascadeddowntothefarmer’sson.

“Willbejoiningustonightinthehunt?”

The Mayor hesitated, his eyes batting

about as he raced for the most diplomatic an-

swer.“Myprayerswillbewithyoubravemen.I

unfortunatelyhavecolonybusinesstoattendto

tonight.”

TheMayor shared a fewmorewords of

encouragement before the crowd dispersed to

resumedtheirdailyactivitiesoffarming,smith-

ingordrinking.IwatchedtheMayorlumbered

downthestepsofthestage.Silaswaitedforhim

atthebottomofthesteps,hisDeerhoundpuppy

waggingitsshaggytailbesidehim.Icouldonly

imagine the ludicroussmithingproject thebuf-

fooncommissionedSilasandhisfathertodo.

“TheMayor’sascaredycat,”Hattiesaid.

“It’snotfaireveryoneelsehastofight.

“Scaredycatornot,he’sasmartman. If

you saw the beast, you’d be running the other

waytoo.”

Istartedtowardsthemarket,althoughit

couldhardlybecalledsuch.Itconsistedoflop-

sided carts with missing wheels and the faint

smelloftheherbsandspiceswe’velongrunout

ofinfusedintheirerodedwood.Hattiestrolled

alongsideme,pickingat thestrawofherdoll.

“Haveyoueverseenthebeast?”

My stomach dropped. How do you ex-

plaintoachildthathavenotonlyseenthebeast

buthaveseenthroughitseyes?Howdoyouex-

plainthattherecomesatimewhenyourfavorite

color is thebloodofyourvictimsandyou live

forthethrillofthehunt,thegloryofthekilland

thefeelingoffreshblooddraughtfromjugulars

betweenyourfingers?Mostofall,howdoyou

explaintothatrosy-cheekedsixyearoldthatin

thecomingyearsshewillalsomeetthemonster

withinherself?

Iopenedmymouthbeforemymindcould

churnuparesponse.Luckily, theMayor’swife

savedme.

“Clara!”shesaidwithfeignedexcitement.

“You’reexactlythepersonIwantedtosee.”Hat-

tieandIrepliedwithacurtsy.“TheMayorand

Iaredyingtohaveyouoverfordinnertonight.”

I inwardly groaned at the fact that she

calledherownhusband“TheMayor”.“But to-

night’sthebeast’snight.”

“We’lldineearly.Say,fiveo’clock?Unless

that’s a problem.”Her voicewas light but she

laidadisparaginggazeonme.Hersevereeyes

pickedaparteveryfacetofmyexpression.Inthat

instant, oneofmy fears came true. Shehadan

agenda.Alistofpersons.Andshewasn’tgoing

tostopuntilshehadrakedeverysingleperson

across thehotcoalsofher judgment.While the

bloodofapowerfulbeastranthroughmyveins,

Icouldn’ttapintothepowerwheneverIpleased.

Mostdays,Iwasjustasfragileandashumansas

anyoneelse.Upuntilnow,Itooksolaceinthat.

A smile slipped onto my lips. “Dinner

soundlovely.I’llseeyouthen.”Mrs.Mayoran-

sweredwith a smile thatdidn’t touchher eyes

beforecurtsyingandwalkingaway.

Assoonasshewasoutofearshot,Hattie

groaned.“Idon’twanttogotothatlady’shouse.

Can’tIstayhome?”Shelookedupatme,herblue

eyes glazed overwith endearing hope. I loved

thataboutHattie.Shealwayssawthebrightest

thingsinthedarkesttimes.

A reluctant sigh leftmy lips. “I suppose

one hour alone couldn’t hurt.” A smile broke

ontoherfaceasshecheered.“But,I’mgoingto

haveSilascheckonyou.”

Hattie spun around, her red cloak and

dark dress twirling about her waist. “Thank

you!”shesaidbeforeglancingdownthestreet.

ALumbeeboyHattiewasfriendswithsquatted

onthesideoftheroad.Hedrewpicturesinthe

groundwith a stickwhile hismother bartered

fresh animal pelts for cooking tools. “Can I go

sayhi?” I noddedandwatchedher skipdown

theroadtotheboy.

While Hattie played, I walked to Mr.

Nicholes’fruitandvegetablestall.Ireachedinto

mybaskettopulloutthenewdressIsewedfor

hiswife.“Ihopeit’stoMrs.Nicholes’liking.”

“I’msureshe’llloveit,”hesaid,handing

meanassortmentofvegetablesandbread.“I’m

sorryit’snotmuch.”

Shakingmyhead,Iputthefoodintomy

basket. “It’s plenty. I know things have been

hard.”

Mr. Nicholes nodded. “But Governor

Whitewill be back anyday now and I’llmore

cropsthanIcanplant.”

I smiled at his optimism before turning

back toHattieandher friend.The twoof them

scratchedpicturesintothemuddysnow,theboy

drawingwithhisstickandHattiewiththetoeof

hershoe.Icouldseethebrightsmilesdancingon

theirfacesandheartheirlaughterfaintlysinging

under thebustleof the square.Theirgrinsand

gigglesdroppedto thegroundwhenhismoth-

erwalkedover. Shewasyoungwomanwith a

strange, faraway stare. Itwas the type of gaze

you’d expect from an old woman. An ancient

sightofwisdom.Disgustetcheditswayontoher

faceasshesaidsomethingtoHattie.Thewoman

heldHattie’sgazeamomentbeforespittingon

thegroundanddragginghersonaway.

Mysisterreturnedtomysidewithaswirl

of confusion and bruised feelings on her face.

“What’swithSamoset’smother?”

“She said ah-dem-mah. Youknowtheirlan-

guage.Whatdoesitmean?”

Afterspendingthelastyearontheisland,

Ipickedupsomeofthenatives’language.Only

enoughtotradeandonoccasionconverse.“Ah-

them-wah,”Icorrectedherpronunciation.

“Well,whatdoesitmean?”

“Dog,”Isaid,myeyeswatchingSamoset

andhismotherdisappearintothewoodsthatled

totheirvillage.

Hattiedidn’tseemtorealizeshehadbeen

insulted.“Oh,Ilovedogs.IsitokayifIgiveSilas’

puppyasnack?”

Mygazemovedtothebreadinmybasket.

“Youcangivehimasmallpiece.”

“Buthedoesn’tlikebread.”

“Howdoyouknowthat?He’sadog.He’ll

eatanything.”

“Hetoldmeso.”

Ilaughed.“Justlikeyourdolltellsyoushe

doesn’tlikethedressesImakeher.”

“No,really.Hedid.”

Thatwasa typical thing forgrowingup

likeus.Oneortwolucidconversationswithan-

other beast, a growl slipping out when you’re

upset,aterritorialinstincttoprotecttoys.Those

werethekindofthingsthathappenedtouswhen

we’re children. I turned toHattie and pinched

her cheek.Her facewrinkled up in discontent.

“Yourimaginationisadorable.

Anhourbeforesunset,IsatattheMayor’s

diningtable,nursingaglassofwineinanawk-

wardsilence.Attheheadofthetable,theMayor

gobbleddownhisplatewhilehiswifeneatlypat-

tedcrumbsawayfromhermouthwithanapkin.

Icouldn’tstandthesquishysmackof theMay-

or’schewing.“So,whendoyoufigureGovernor

Whitewillmakehisreturn?”Iasked.“I’msure

Mrs.DareandVirginiawouldlovetoseehim.”

Mrs.Mayorlookedatherhusbandexpect-

ant.“Hesureistakinghistime.Imeanit’sbeena

year.”

“He’s doing the best he can. Times are

hard,”theMayorreplied.

“It’s1588forheaven’ssake.Itonlytookus

threemonthsthefirsttimearound.”Shetooka

sipfromherglass.“Whatisthis,AncientRome?”

Herscrutinizinggazeshiftedfromherhusband

tome.“Where’stherestofyourfamily,Clara?”

“Mysister’satthehouse.Shecanbepret-

tyimpatientwiththesetypesofthings.”

“Andyourparents?”

“Mymother died giving birth toHattie.

Our father passed away on the boat ride over

here.”

AfrowncreasedMrs.Mayor’sbrow.“I’m

sorry.Ididn’trealize.”

I smiledandshookmyheadanddinner

went on just like that. Mrs. Mayor would ask

a prying question and then apologize. Iwould

accepther apology and shewould ask another

question.Itwasaviciouscyclebutnothingwas

asviciousasherlastquestion.

“Whatdoyoumakeofthebeastsituation,

Clara?”Shekeptusingmynameaftereveryques-

tionasifsheknewmelikeafriendorfamily.For

somereason,shethoughtafacadeoffamiliarity

wouldgivemecausetolowermyguardandsay

somethingtosupportawitch-huntagainstmy-

self.

“What is theretosay?It’saterriblesitu-

ationandIhopethebestforthemengoingout

tonight.”

“Well,Isayweleaveanddon’tlookback.

IhearCroatoanIslandisniceandthenativesare

friendlyenoughtotheEnglish.”

TheMayor sighed. “You knowwe can’t

dothat.GovernorWhitewillbebacksoonwith

supplies.”

“Hedidsaytoleaveourdestinationona

treeifwechosetoleave.”

Astheybickeredbackandforthaboutthe

futureofthecolony,Ispearedthelastbiteofmy

dinner.Inearlychewedthroughtheinsideofmy

mouth.Oneofmymolarswastwiceitsnormal

size and growing. “Dinnerwas lovely. I really

needtogetbacktoHattiebeforethemoon’sup.”

I kept my voice leveled although my stomach

churnedwithworry. Iwas turningearlier than

normal.Aftersayingmygoodbyes,Ihurriedout

ofthehouse.Thesunhadhardlysetandthemob

hadalreadycongregatedinthestreets.Icouldn’t

hearanythingbutthesharpeningofsteelandthe

hissoffireontorches.

Silas reached for thehandkerchief inhis

pocket.ItwasagiftIgavehimlastChristmas.I

hadembroideredananvil inonecornerand in

theotherIsewedTo Silas From Clara. Thatyear

he gaveme silver chains. Chains that I should

havebeenlockeddownwithbynow.Hemelt-

eddownhismother’ssilverwaretomakethem.

Itwasapresent Ineverwanted toacceptbut I

had to. For the sake of himand everyone else.

AsSilaswipedhis face, I letmyeyes lingeron

theblackthreadof thehandkerchief.Tokensof

memoryalwaysslowedtheprocess.Orat least

thatwaswhatIlikedtothink.

“I-IwasonmywaytocheckonHattie,”

hestuttered.“Whyareyouturningsoearly?”

“I don’t know. Something’s wro–” My

lowerjawjuttedoutwithasymphonyofcrack-

ingbones.Theinsidesofmymouthstucktogeth-

erandsmackedapart.IglaredatSilas.“Getout

ofhere.”Myvoicesunkinpitch.Thewordsfell

frommytongueraspyasifmyvocalcordswere

made of sandpaper. I could feel my nose and

mouth scrunching together as my lips peeled

backtobareapairof lustrousfangs.Silashesi-

tatedamoment,lookingsosmallinmyeyesas

hesatonthathorsewithfeartearingthroughhis

countenance.“Now!”Hekickedhishorse, stir-

ringupdirtandsnowashegallopedaway.Iran

on.

Sodesperately,Ineededtoturnslower.I

thoughtaboutallthethingsthatmademehap-

py.Allthethingsthatmademehuman.Ithought

aboutmyloveforHattie’slaughandSilas’smile

whenIgavehimthathandkerchief.Despitemy

efforts,mybodykeptbendingandbreaking.AsI

skiddeddownahill,myshoespopped,bursting

at theseamswith tuftsofhair.Myhousecame

into view and I could see littleHattie’s candle

wavingtomefromourbedroomwindow.Until

suddenly,itwentout.

TheangryfeetgrewlouderandIsawthe

flamesandtridentscrestingthehillbehindme.

Myheadyankedbackagainstmywill.Ahowl

rippedupmythroatandeverythingwentblack

aspitch.

Sunshinenudgedmeawake.Ilaidinthe

snow dazed and bare. Ears ringing, I touched

aknoton thebackofmyhead. Someonemust

have knocked me out. I couldn’t remember a

thingafterturning.Myeyesrolledabout,taking

in the thatched-roofed buildings around me. I

couldsee thecreakysignofSilas’ forgeswing-

inginthebreeze.Therewasnothingtobeheard

but thewind thatwhistled through the streets

and a Flag of England flapping in its wake.

Not once in the last thirteenmonths I spent in

thatvillagehadIeverheardsomuchsilence. I

snatched theflaghangingbya shop’sentrance

andwrappedmyself in it.Through the street I

walked, glancing intowindows. I saw no one,

justunfinishedtasks,likedirtydishesondining

tablesandopen-closedsignsstrewnacrossshop

floors.Franticfootprintswerescatteredthrough

the snow. Among the chaos engraved in the

snowwerecountlessanimaltracks.Theylooked

muchlikeadog’sbutweresixtimesthesizeof

aGreatDane’s foot.Evenabear’sprintwould

onlyfillthebottomhalfofthebeast’smark.The

printscurvedaroundacorner.Ifollowedthem,

my eyes skipping from step to step. Flakes of

red sprayed across thewhite ground in bursts

likefireworks.Thesanguineblotchesgrewbig-

gerandbiggerbeforecrowningatabody.Some

blotsledtoanothercorpseandothersplotchesto

athird.Iquicklylostcountandlickedmymouth,

surprisedthattheusualirontasteofbloodwas

missing frommy lips.My stomachpittedwith

realization.Ilookedattheconstellationofbodies

connectedbybloodandfoundmysister.Amid

severedlimbsandtornoutthroatssatlittleHat-

tie, naked and crying with her gore-splattered

hands open like something was stripped from

her grip. This wasn’t right. I didn’t turn until

lastyearwhenIwaseighteen.Samoset’smother

musthavebeengivingHattieawarning.Thena-

tiveshadasixthsenseforthingslikeme.Things

likeus.Theywereprobablylonggonebynow.

Blood dribbled from Hattie’s quivering

mawasshespoke.“Icanstillhearthemscream-

ing.”Theysayfromthemouthsofbabescomes

truth and wisdom. But as I watched Hattie’s

crimson canines shrink back into her gums, I

knew she could bring no candor or acumen to

thisworld.Onlypain.

Itookthesixyearoldupinmyarmsand

strokedherhair.“Shh. . .”Iwhispered.Thefirst

phasewasalwaysthehardest.“Let’sfindSilas.”

Healwaysknewwheretohide.Healwaysknew

when itwassafe tocomeout.Hewouldknow

what todo.Hewouldknowwherewe should

go.AsIsteppedoverourneighborsandfriends,

somethingblackinthesnowcaughtmyeye.My

gazefelltoaredhandclutchingastitchedanvil.

I froze, theshockcausingme tosqueeze

Hattie too tight. She sobbed intomy shoulder.

“Whatdowedo?”

“Weleave.”

“But what will happen when Governor

White comesback?Wherewill he think every-

onewent?”

IleftHattieinSilas’shopandstoleadag-

gerfromhisworkbench.Atapostofthefortsur-

roundingthecolony,Islashedandscythedinto

thewood. I felt like Iwashacking fordays.At

last,Istoodbeforethatpost,catchingmybreath.

Itossedtheknifetothesideandstaredatthejag-

gedwordnotchedintothewood:

CROATOAN

Grandmothertoldme,

Alwayspickthegrannysmiths,

Skintheapplesuntilthey’repearlywhite,

Cutthewedgesintoequalshares,

Makethecrustyourself,

Andalwaysthrowtheflourdownfirst.

Mothertoldme,

Addsomeextracinnamonforyourfather,

Don’tskimponsugarandusetherealstuff,

Makesuretheflourisleveledoffjustright,

Useaspreadingknifeifyouhaveto.

Ialwaysbuybleachedsugarandpremadecrusts,

Andaddextracinnamon,

Andlaytheflourdownfirst.

Megan Hennessey

RECIPE

SomefriendinthemorningAmidstthebleariness,alongsideemptiedcoffeemugs,

Surroundedbydisjointednewspaperpiles,Submissivepumpernickelcrusts,

Quicksplashesofstickingorangejuice,Thegrin-and-bear-itrush.Notafryingpan,buta

Skillet.Notanheirloom,buta

Livingthing.Crackling,bubblingupatusall

Witheggsandporksausagesandgreaseandhope.Looktothestovetops!

There’shopeontheburners,Justleftofthekettle,

Heavyandgleamingblack,Castironkitchengoddess

PepperandsaltonheredgesandHeatinhercore.

She’sradiatingforus,tenthousanddegreesFahrenheit,Slabsofbaconcookedinnanoseconds,Agreatshimmeringandpopping,

Andnow,thefinalorderofaMondaymorning:Apairofeggs,Sunnysideup,

Goldenrodyolkslookinghappierthanabirthdayorafirstlove,Undersidesbrownandwarm.

Theskilletisheavyandgleamingblack.

Eggs in SkilletEleni Padden

StockphotocourtesyofJocilynPopeatfreeimages.com

BUZZINSamuelCook

SLEE

P R

ECIP

EEl

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adde

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ImagecourtesyofDanGerdingatwww.freeimages.com

Where’sthesleep

Thestarstuff

Withitcomestheglow,theshinebut

Whenitescapes,puffsawayintocornersofnight,there’snothingexcept

Theyawn,thetightsmile

Wherearethepinkbacksofeyelids,

Longblueslumbers

Asgoodasrebirth

Longblueslumbersdeeperthan

Oceanictrenches

Instead,reddreamsaboutscalingcliffsmadeentirelyof

Books,oldstrangebooks,onehundredmillionbooks—theykeepthebrainticking,

Dreamsofcraggybooksjuttingovergreyblackseas,

Overswellsandswellsandswells.

Theymakeforshortredslumbersandfrankly,

Sometimesthebestthingforit

Istotrekdownafavoritestreetincoldair,

Onanight,goodanddark,

Verylate,

Onanightlikespilled-inkandyeah,yes,

Thebestthingforitisto

Hurlsnowballsatstopsignsor

Mailboxesor

Cheerfullawnflamingos

Athrowandaholler,

Atrajectoryandtheburstofflakesagainstmatter.

HardtimesinCharmCity.

IwaswalkingthroughasculpturegardenonmywaytoclassonacoldOctobermorninginBaltimore,worryingabouttomorrowwhenIlookedupandrealizeditwasfall.TheleaveshadbeguntoreddenandturnandsurelythishadhappenedovernightbecausehowcouldIhavemissedthismetamorphosis.SometreeshadamberleavesliketheteamydadsentfromEngland,othersorangeasmymom’shair,butnoneclungtotheirgreenandIhalted.Somethingssneakuponyou,yetallaroundmetheflowerswerewiltingandthetreeswerewastinguntiltherewasnobeautyleftatallandjustyesterdaywasmylittlebrother’sbirthday–Ithoughthewasturningsixbutactuallyhebecameeightyearsoldjustlikethat.

IrememberasunnywinterdayinMadridwanderingthroughElRetiro,whereabigmanblewbiggerbubbleswithtwogreatwandsandsmallchildrendancedtryingtocatchthem.IsmiledintheSabatiniGardensatnightfall,touchedbythewaythemoonshonenomatterwhereshewasandeventhoughsheknewshehadtogososoon.IblinkedintoBarcelonaand“SanctusSanctusSanctus”searedacrossLaSagrada’sspires,whichsoaredsohighonecouldspendalifetimestaringskywardandstillnevertrulyseeit’szenith.

Downbelow,IwanderedthroughtheFieryFieldsunderNaplesandPompeii,inundergroundcavernsthatsustainedtheancientswithyellowtuff,avolcanicashfromtheexplosivepastofVesuvius,thatmorphedunderpressurelikediamondsintolife-givingsandstoneandgavewaytosunkenreservoirs.

SOLIDARITY WITH THE SUN OR A UNIVERSAL DECLARATION MegO’Connor

SOLIDARITY WITH THE SUN OR A UNIVERSAL DECLARATION

IresurfacedaftercrossingtheAdriatic,throughAlbaniaandintoThessaloniki,whereIroseliketheWhiteTowerandscaleditsspiralstillspringspilleddowntoshowerthesteeples,slickeningthemsoIslippedandthoughtforsureIwouldsink,butinsteadIwastransportedtothetwintowerinIstanbul,andthereIsawtheflowerssweepacrossthehillslikewildfire.

ItorethroughTurkey,spannedthe–stansandcruisedacrosstheCaspiantillZhengzhou,China,totheShaolinMonasteryinMountSongwhereIsummonedmyownShaolin,StatenIsland,andShakti,theyogacenterwhereImeditatedinthesummertime,listeningtotheshrillchirpsofcricketsandtheslow,mournfulhowlsofthewind…toshrillchirpsofthecricketsandthemournfulhowlsofthewind,whorattledthewood-paneledwindows,asiftoremindmetostopandsmelltheincense.IawokeinCalifornia,wheremymomaskedmenevertogobecauseImightlikeittoomuchandnevercomeback,sinceIalwayssayIcan’tstandtheseasons,thosebitterNewYorkwinters,andmaybeIshouldstaywhereit’ssunnyallthetimeandthingsdon’tseemtochange.ButthenjustthinkofallthecolorsIwouldlose;staticblindsustothebeautyofdifference.Thesunmaystruggletorise,butthemoonlingersforjustabitlonger,andtrulytimewouldn’tseemtobegoinganywhereatallifIonlystoppedtolookmoreoften.

NUMBER 324 KatLewis

A scream scraped up my throat. With

thatcry,awarenessslowlyrosefromthesolesof

myfeet.Staringatmytoenails,ascaldingflame

crawledthroughmyveins.Amachinegroaned

and the fire sprinted up my knees and to my

head. Iflailedat thepain that stabbed, scathed

andshatteredme.Withonelastforcelikeaham-

mer tomy chest, the fire stopped.As the pain

softly slipped away, a small thud thumped in-

sideme.Duh dah, duh dah, duh dah. Isangalongin

myhead,suckinginmyfirstfullbreath.Myeyes

shutteredopenandIrealizedIwasalive.

I wonder if it had always been there –

that inner song. It felt invincible, like ripping

ironwithyourbarehandswouldbeeasierthan

scratchingitssurface.Yetitalsosoundedsodeli-

cate,liketheslightesttouchwouldchangeevery-

thing.Ibreathedslowlyagainandagainbecause

the song played again and again.After prying

myattentionfromthetune,myeyesscrambled

around the room.Four titaniumwalls keptme

caged in.Theysmelled thewayyourhandsdo

afteryouholdnickelsfortoolong.

“Hello.”Iflinchedatthevoice.Itriedtosit

upbutmetalbracesboundmywristsandankles.

“Canyouunderstandme?”Ilookedaroundthe

roomagainandnoticedablacked-outwindow.

“Yes.”Thewordcreptfrommylips,raspy.

Mythroatached. It felt likecobwebscakedmy

vocalchordsthatwerebendingforthefirsttime

afteryearsofsilence.

Gasps hung in the stale air before the

doorflewopen.“Doctor,itisn’tsafe.”Awoman

warned as aman started into the room. Sever-

alpeople inwhitecoats tried toholdhimback

buthewrestledhiswayin.Despitetheirefforts,

none of the people inwhite dared to cross the

threshold tome. I strained to look at theman.

His facewaswhiskeredwithwhite. Joy,disbe-

liefandtwistofterroretchedtheirwayintohis

expression.Suchavisagemademewanttoapol-

ogizebutIwasn’tsureifhewererepulsedorim-

pressed.“Releaseher,”hemumbled.

“Sir,youknowIcan’tdothat,”thewom-

anreplied.

“Releaseher,”hescreamedwithspitfilter-

ingthroughhisshout.Therewasaclickandthe

restraintsonmywristsandanklesretractedinto

themetaltable.Iwincedasthesteelyairkissed

therawskinaroundmyjoints.HowlonghadI

been there? I liftedmyhands toceiling, rolling

mywristsaround.Theycrackledlikegreaseina

fryingpan.Theflorescentlightscastasilhouette

overmyhandasIwiggledmyfingers.I traced

mywristwiththeotherhandandrubbedaway

thetenderimpressionsfromthehandcuffs.“This

isastounding,”SirsaidasIsatup.

“Me?”Henodded.“How?”

He thought for amoment. “You are the

beginningofanewage,therestorationofcivili-

zation.Youareourblueprint.YouareourBible.”

“Bible?” He nodded again. “Who is Bi-

ble?”

Sir and theothers laughed. “Somuch to

teachyou.”Hishandwrappedaroundhischin

andhehummedinthought.Inhissilence,Iheard

mysonglouderthanever.

“Whatisthat?”Iwhispered,notwanting

tointerruptthedrum.Heglancedtome,notfol-

lowing.“Thesong.”Hisancienteyeswandered

theroom,apparentlynothearingit.Icurledmy

fingersintoafistandgentlypattedthemagainst

mychest.“Duh dah, duh dah, duh dah.”

“That’slife.”

“Life.”Ismiledattheword.Suchagood

thingsummedupinonesimplesyllable.

Myreactionpaintedasmileonhisface.“I

haveittoo.”Hesteppedclosertomeandbentto

myeyelevel.Thepeopleinthedoorwayyelled

for him to back up but he took my hand and

placedittohisLife.Duh dah, duh dah. Theothers

watched on in awe, though I couldn’t imagine

why.Whywere they terrified?Whywasn’t Sir

scared?Andmostimportantly,whywasIthere?

AsIfeltLifebeatinginhischest,Sirstared

atmeas ifhe justdiscoveredamissingpuzzle

piecewedgedinthemostobviousplaces.Itwas

like a lostman in thedesertfinallyfinding the

reasonwhyhewaslost.Likehisvoraciousthirst

wasimpossiblysatedwithjustasmile.Mysmile.

“Extraordinary.”Thewordhailed fromhis lips

hushed. I patted my face, wondering if I had

grown an ostentatious mole or a second nose.

“I’msorry.Youmusthavesomanyquestions.”

I nodded, noticing the clueless inkling

inmy gut. “Who. . .”My voice trailed off as I

thoughtofwhichquestiontoaskfirst.Iwasal-

most scared theywereworth something – that

I’drunoutofchancestoask.“amI?”

Beaming, Sir took my hand and helped

meoff thetable.He ledmeto thewindow.An

equally excited andwhite speckled face stared

backatus.Nexttohimstoodagirl,frailindesign

andpalerthanfreshlyfallensnow.Thickstitch-

es, that looked like train tracks, ran along her

arms.Itouchedthehollowunderhereye.Spiny

with blue-black veins, the bags under her eyes

spokevolumetoherlostsleep.Myhanddrifted

tohernoseandeasedoverherforehead.Hedg-

ing on her hairline, I admired her light brown

hairand theoccasionalwave thatdashed from

herroots.Lastly,Istaredintohereyes,ashocked

blue.Theylookedsurprisedlikeshe’dbeengiv-

ensightafterknowingnothingbutdarkness.

“You, my dear, are number 324.” He

paused a moment before glancing back to the

door.“Let’stakesometests.”

Onthewalkdownthehall,Sirexplained

tome that three years ago a disease broke out

in theUnitedStates. Its symptomsconsistedof

dementia, loss of pigmentation in the skin, fits

ofrageandinitsfinalandinevitablestage,can-

nibalism. Sir and the others had beenworking

sincethentohelptheinfected.HesaidIwashis

favoritepatient.

The people in white surrounded me in

anewroom.Theypokedmewithneedles that

drainedLifefrommyarm.Sirsaiditwouldgive

otherpeopleLife too.Somehow, thatmade the

painworth it.Awomanwiped the spotwhere

theneedlehadbeen.Shegrabbedadispenserof

medicaltapeandrippedoffapiece,nickingher

fingeronthedullrazor.Theironysmellofblood

nipped at my nose. “She’s bleeding,” I said,

watchingherpopthefingerinhermouth.

“She’ll be fine,” Sir replied. “Stand up,

please.”Thepeopleinwhitetookmoremeasure-

mentsbutIcouldn’tpullmynosefromthewom-

an.

“Sh-She’sbleeding,”Istutteredagain,my

presenceseemingtofadefromtheroom.Avideo

playedinmymind.Iwasinanalleythatsmelled

ofsewageanddeath.Flieswerebuzzinginmy

earasIstoodoveracarcass.Itlaidontheground

grosslycontorted,stillsullyingtheconcretewith

blood.Mostoftheribsweregnawedtonubsand

theremnantslefttotheflies.Itouchedthecorner

ofmymouthandpulledbackahandcoveredin

thefresh,sanguineessenceofLife.

Myeyesneverleftthewoman.Absently,

IwalkedawayfromSirandtheotherstowards

her.“You’rebleeding.”Thewordsleftmymouth

athirdtime.Behindme,Siraskedmetositdown

but Ididn’t. I tookone last stepbeforemy jaw

droppedandIlungedather.

Thewomanbracedherself,Sir screamed

and a deafening bang panged throughout the

room.BloodburstfrommysideandIhitthefloor

withawarmpoolformingunderme.Istaredat

thepeopleinwhite’sfeet,myeyessearchingfor

Sir’s shoes. As my vision blurred, I reached a

red,Lifestainedhandouttohim.Voicesflooded

theairbutmyearfoundSir’s.“Experiment#324

failed,”hesaid.Myvisionrevertedtothedark-

nessandmyearsfilledwithstaticwhispers. In

theblackof those last fewmoments, themusic

keptmecompanywithitsfinalmeasure:

Duh dah. Duh dah. D–

Mygrandmotherputonredlipstickinthemirror

ofthearmoireintheguestroom.

IhadneverwornlipstickbutIknew

sheworeitbetterthananyoneelse.

Wineredagainstwrinkledwhiteskin

andperfectlywhitehair.

“Letitgogray,justletitgo,”shesaid.

ShehummedasongbyCaroleKing,

anddancedalittle,

sothatherskirtswungaround

toshowherknobbyankles.

IaskedherifIcouldbebeautifultoo,

withthatrosewoodlipstick,

andshesmiledandsmoothediton.

Ihaveneverbeenmorebeautifulthanwhen

westoodthereandlookedateachother,

matchingredsmilesmirroringmismatchedeyes.

Fortwentytwoyears,wegiggled,andlaughed,

andfelloverandcried.

On the Discontinuation of Revlon Rosewood Red Number 19Megan Hennessy

StockphotocourtesyofJeanScheijenandMichalZAcharzewskiatfreeimages.com

He’sneverseenapigeon

die

toosmart,hethinks—

Morebeautifulthings

havediedhorribly

sighing,quiet

easily.

Thefirsttimeisinthepark,thesecond

inthemiddleofthestreet

third

downwindofagardenoradumpacemetery

maybe?

Itswingssplayedoutlikesunbeamsonlydarker

oilinwater.Eyeshanging,berries

onasummerbush,

hepressesthemuntiltheyburst

andleakbetweenhisfingers

Sheloungedinwhitelawnchairsduring

thesummer,whenhesawthatdeadpigeongutsopen

likeherlegswetlong

hewastoosmarttoo

PIG

EON

LEG

SAshleyYu

en

Soyoufinallyconvinceyourself toget

yourlazyfatassoutofbedandwadethrough

thepilesofdirty laundry that lineyourbed-

roomfloorandyoufindonecleanpairofjeans

andateeshirtthatshouldprobablybewashed

butit’sokay,youcanthrowthathoodieover

it—the onewith your college’s name embla-

zonedacrosstheboobs—andyougetyourself

out the door, remembering your keys at the

lastmoment,andthenaftertrudgingdownthe

block,you’restandinginthegrocerystoreand

they don’t have your fucking shampoo and

youjusthatetheentireworldandwishitwere

sociallyacceptabletositdowninthemiddleof

theaisleatSafewayandcry.

You’re twenty-four and you’ve got a

bachelor’s in sociology from a school your

parentshadtotakeoutasecondmortgageto

afford.Youworkatafrozenyogurtstoreand

everydayitfeelslikeanaccomplishmentthat

youhaven’tcommittedhomicide.Like,Jesus,

youdeserveafriggin’medal.You’vegotthree

roommatesandoneofthemdoesn’tpaytheir

rentandtheotheronemustbeshootingagod-

damnpornointheirroomorsomething.They

thirdonehasfeministmeetingsinyourliving

roomoneaweekandyougetthatthey’retry-

ing tomake a statement but it takes at least

threedaysforthesmellofarmpitsweattofade

from the tan corduroy couchyougot for ten

bucksatayardsale.

Youthinkbacktowhenyouwerealit-

tlekid,howyouweregoingtobeanastronaut,

oradoctor,oraNobelpeaceprizewinner,and

youwondervaguelywhereitallwentwrong,

whereyour train to successderailedand left

youinapileofstudentdebtandfailedexpec-

tations. You decide you’d be happier if you

had a family sized bag of

barbecue potato chips and

youspendthelasttwodol-

larsinyourwalletonshame

andself-hatred.

Yourpornstarroommatehassomeone

over when you slink home dejectedly. He’s

wearing leather pants and you almost laugh

but instead you start to cry and you regret

buyingthechipsbecausethey’rejusttwomore

dollars’worthofreasonwhyyouhaven’tgot-

ten laidsincesenioryearofcollege.But then

leatherpantsdudewinksatyou—winks—and

sayshisnameisGeoffwitha‘G’andyoude-

cidethat’sastupidnameandyourself-esteem

metergoesupfrommountaintrollinthedun-

geon to somewhere around zoo animal. Un-

tilyour roommate stepsoutof thebathroom

withoutashirtonandyourself-esteemdrops

backtoaroundtrollstatus.

DEPRESSIONAllisonBalinger

DEPRESSIONAllisonBalinger

Youweregoing todo somethingwith

your life.Youweregoingtogoplaces.Paris,

Shanghai,LawSchool.Notadingy twobed-

roomapartmentwithpeelingpaintandnon-

existentwaterpressure.Youdeletedyourface-

bookaccountbecauseyouhateseeingeveryone

youwenttoschoolwithlivingthesefantastic

livesthatcouldhavebeenyours.Yourstoner

roommate from freshman yearmade an app

to find places to buy food

atthreeinthemorningand

nowshe’sworkingforAp-

ple.Thatguyyouwenton

ablinddatewithtotheschoolcafeteriahasa

recurring role inaCWshow,and ishotnow

thathe’swaxedhisunibrow.Youwishitwere

thateasy.Youwishyoucouldjustgotoasalon

andcomebackadifferentperson.Butinstead

you’restuckwithstringyhair,persistentacne,

and zeromotivation to get out of bed in the

morning.

GeoffwithaGsoundslikeadyingcow

whenhe screws your roommate.Your head-

phones can barely drown him out. You put

onyour“workoutplaylist”—acompilationof

EDMandeuropopsongswhicharesupposed

tomotivate you go get your ass to the gym,

whichisdownstairsforChrist’ssakeyoureal-

lyarethelaziestfuckontheplanet—andopen

your computer to futilely try toupdate your

résumé.What’sawayofmaking“froyoserv-

er”soundlikearealjob?Frozen yogurt franchise

associate,youtype.Associateisagreatwordfor

makingsomethingseemimportantwhenreal-

lyallyoudoisswipecreditcardsandsome-

timesmopthefloorwhenyourbossshowsup.

Geoffissoundinglikeagoatnowthat

he’s grunting faster and faster. Even Dead-

mau5can’tdrownthatout.There’savoicemail

fromyourmother on yourphone andyou’d

ratherlightyourselfonfireandswiminabath

ofacidthanhearthedisappointmentandcon-

cerninhervoice.How are you feeling? Are you

eating properly? Paying rent okay? Have you made

any progress with your job search? Do you think

you need to see someone?

You probably should. See someone,

thatis.You’vespentenoughtimeonWebMD

toknowwhat’swrongwithyou.Buttheonly

thing worse than being the person you are

nowisbeingthepersonwholaysonashrink’s

couchandtalksabouttheirissuestothesound

ofscribbledprescriptions.Soinsteadyoujust

burritoyourselfintoyourblanketsandlookat

picturesofcatsontheinternet,ignoringyour

résumé,ignoringyourphone,tryingtoignore

yourroommate fakinganorgasmin thenext

room.

It'sfunny,thatfirststepoffthesolid,weatheredwoodoftheboardwalkontothegray-whitesand.Thesecondyoustepontothesand,thegrainsgivewayunderyourweight,fillingthespacebetweenyourtoes,but,still,theircollectiveforcecanholdyouupwithdeceptivestrength.Thesandiscoolunderthemottledgraysky,andsoft,altogether,buttheindividualgrainsofthelong-dissolvedrocksandshellshaveanoddrubontheskin. Trekkingthroughthesandwithshoesinhand,pasttheuglymetalbarrels,youstaredowntheshoreline,stretchingformilesintothedistancetowardsadimsetofbuildings.Acoldwindclipsyourcheeks,yetit'sthesweetsaltontheair,notthecold,thatseepsintoyourbones.Itmakesyouthinkofwarmer,sunlitdays,oftan-ninglotionandcrackedopenpaperbacks.You'veheardthattheoceanabsorbssolarradiation.Perhapsthatiswhatchargesthebreezeblowingoffthewater,carryingthesun'senergyintothedarkerdays. Still,thereissomethingaboutthiscool,cloudydaythatispreciousinitself.Theocean,ahead,isadarkgreenunderthepalesky.Atthehorizonwherethegrayandgreenmeetinasolidline,thebodyofwaterseemsstill,lazy,buthereattheshoreitsconstantstateofmotionisclear.Fromfaroutyoucantracethewave,fromthefirstrippleoutonthewater.Youwatchitsurgeforward,gainingwater,gainingheight,darkeningasitpressestheshoreline,untilitcrests,doublesoverinagrace-fullyarc,andcollapsesinonitself,crashingwithaclapasitturnstothewhitefroththatsurgestogreettheshoreline. But,theydon'talllookthesame.Sometimes,thewavefoldsoverallatonce,smackingthewaterwithresoundingforce.Sometimes,itstartstocurlononeendandsetsoffadominoeffectthatmakesthewholethingtopple,oritstartstocurlatbothends,meetinginthemiddleasthewallofwatercomesdown.Whoknowswhatdecidestheshapeofwaves,butit'sfascinatingtowatch.Andofcourse,wavesdon'texistinisolation.Theyinteract,onefollowingaftertheother,sometimescollid-

Alone in the WavesKateOrgera

ingintoeachotherastheycrest,combiningintoone. Eveninthisperceivedchaos,thereisarhythmtotheancientprocess,evi-dencedinthemusicthewavesmakeastheymeettheshore.Fromasoftrushofwa-terinthedistance,thesound,likethewave,crescendosasitcurlsupwardsuntilthefinalsmash,likeapairofcymbalsattheendofasymphony.Yet,thesoundofthecymbalsisacacophonousone,brassyasitbargesinandinterruptsyourthoughts.Thesoundofwavesismoreakintothesoundofthewind.Ithasanaturalcadencethatmoveswiththerhythmofamindinconstantthought.Thesound,likethescent,likethewind,floodsintoyou,andyouinviteit,armsoutstretched. Youfindyourselfrunningnowinsteadoftreading,sandflyingbehindyouasyousurgedowntheslopetogreettheocean'ssurge.Thewindrushespastyourface,throughyourhair,andyoufeelthesandturnhardanddampbeneathyourfeet,seethearcsleftbyolderwaves,webbedtracksleftbyseagulls.Youfeellikeyoucouldgoonforever,butyoudigyourheels,literally,intothesandandstopasthesurfreachesup.Youalmoststepback,butno–youletitwasharoundyourfeet.Theelectricbiteofcoldshootsupthebody,thesandunderyouturningmoreliquidthansolidsothatitsucksyoursolesunder.Youtakeacouplemoresteps,andevenintheshallowsyoucanfeelthepowerimbuedinthisocean,tuggingaroundyouranklesasthetidedrawsback. Youpulloffyoursweatshirtandshorts,throwallyourthingsontothedrysand,andstandfacingthewaterinaonepiece.Furtherdownandin,thepullofthetideincreasesasthewave-waterplowsagainstlegs,thenthighs,thenstomach,untilfinallyitistoodeeptokeepyourfeetonthesand.Youfloatup,freedfromgravity,andbobontheocean'ssurface.It'sablissfulsensation,lettingthewatercradleyoubackandforth,thebeginningsofsmallerwavesrollingunderyourback.Youkeepyourlegspumping,eyesonshore,notlettingthewatertakeyoucompletely.But,thegazeshifts,sometimes,awayfromtheshoreandoverthewavestothatstraighthori-zonline.Youknow,ofcourse,thattheearthisnotflat,thatiftriedtoswimtothatline,itwouldjustkeepstretchinginfrontofyouuntilsank.Still,whatifyoucouldfallofftheedgeoftheworld? Whatifyouletthetidecarryyououttosea,yourcaresseepingintotheshad-owydepthsasthecloudsrolledbyoverhead,untilyoutoppledovertheedge,intotheopenair.Andeventhen,youwouldn'tcare,becausethere'snowheretogo,nogroundtobreakyourbody–justanever-endingseaofstars.Youcouldfallthroughthosestarsuntiltheendofyourdays,anditwouldn'tbeabadwaytogo. Afterall,there'snoMomorDadtocallyoubackanymore.

Youridethewavesbacktoshore,yourbodyfeelingheavyasgravitysettlesonyourshouldersagain.Thebreezenowfeelscold,thesandsticky.So,wrappingthetowelaroundyou,youpickupyourthingsandheadbackupthebeach. But,notwithoutonelastglanceatthedarkwaves,stillchurningunderthepalesky.

1

Takedownthepicturesagain.Howmany

timeshasitbeen?Five?Six?I’velostcount.Put

them in the bottom drawer, make sure they

don’t get bent or torn. Bury themunder a few

looseitems:ashirtIneverwear,avomit-colored

paisleyscarfsomeonegotmeformybirthdaya

fewyearsback,anoldnotebook leftover from

awritingclassIsignedupforlastsummerand

stoppedshowinguptoafterthethirdclass.Re-

memberwherethey’rehiddensothatIcantake

themoutagainwhenhecalls,whichhewill.Give

itaweek,twoweeks,amonth—sometimebefore

then,hewill.

Friendskeepcalling.Ihavethesamecon-

versationamilliontimes.

It’sunhealthy.

Iknow.

Whydon’tyoustop?

Idon’tknow.

You’redoingthistoyourself,youknow.

Iknow.

2

Mymothercalls.She’sworriedaboutme,

asusual.Sheblamesdad.I’mtiredoflisteningto

hertalkaboutmylifeasthougheverythingthat

happens isaproductofmyparents. I tellher I

makemyowndecisions.Itellherthesechoices

aremyown, that they’recreatedfrommyown

mind, not from some fault in the way I was

raised.

ShesaysI’mtooyoungtounderstand.

I’mtwenty-fiveyearsold,Mom.

You’retwenty-fiveyearsyoung,shejokes.

Please.I’mlike,alreadycozyingupinmy

deathbed,waitingforthecaskettoclose.

Yourhumorismorbid,Eliza,shesays.

You’veneverunderstoodme.

Shesays,That’syourfather’sfault.

3

My father calls.Heasks if I’ve talked to

mymother.IsaythatIhave.Heasksifshemen-

tionedhim.Isayno.

YES. NO. I DON’T KN

OW

.

KatieRobinson

Don’tlietome,Eliza,hesays.Thewoman

can’tget throughasingleconversationwithout

sayingsomethingbadaboutme.Everyonesays

so.

Do you always listen to what everyone

says?

Otherpeople’sopinionsmatter,Eliza.

Idon’tthinkso.Notreally.

Yougetthatfromyourmother.

I tire of these conversations easily. For

as long as I can remember, I’ve been getting

wrappedupinconversationswheremyparents

talkabouteachother.SomedaysIwonderifthey

rememberthatI’mthechildofbothofthem.

Ihavetogo,Dad,Isay.

He says not yet.He hasn’t gotten to his

reasonforcalling.

Ibeghimnottogivemelifeadvice.

YourMomandIareinagreementonthis

one,hesays.

Thatcatchesmyattention.

Wewantyoutogotoatherapist,hesays.

No,Isay.Noway.

Hesaystheyalreadygotmeanappoint-

ment.Hesaysthey’repayingforit.

Hesays,Please.

Hesays,Foroursake.

IsayI’lldoit.Butonly,Isay,becauseI’m

tootiredtoargue.

Hesays,That’sgoodenoughforme.

4

Thetherapist’soffice is toocold,but just

barelytoocold.Andmaybetoowhite,too.Isit

inachairanditisn’tsoftenough.Thetherapist

isabittooseriouslooking,withhereyespeek-

ingoutsadlyjustabovehersmallpairofglasses

andhereyebrowsknitinjusttheperfect,I-prac-

tice-this-in-my-mirror-every-morningconcerned

way.Everythingintheroommakesmeuncom-

fortable.

Isn’t there supposed to be, like, a couch

that I lay on and tell you aboutmydreams or

something?Iaskwithaglancearoundtheroom.

Thisisn’tthatkindoftherapy,shesays.

Oh,Isay.Ipatdownmyskirt.

ShesaysmyparentstellherthatIhavere-

lationshipissues.

Well, Isay,Iguesstheythinkso.Idon’t

know,really.IguessIdo.Idon’tknow.

Sheaskswhatexactlyitisthatmakesev-

eryonethinkmyrelationshipissoabnormal.

Isay,Webreakupalot.

ThenIsay,Hebreaksupalot.Withme.

But he always comes back, I say. Like

withinaweekortwo.

Soit’svery“onagain,offagain?”shesays,

withairquotes.

Iguessso.Isthatwhatitis?Iguess.Yeah.

Onagain,offagain.

SheaskswhyIthinkthatis.Isaymaybe

hegetsoverwhelmedorsomething.Isayit’sjust

thewayhefights.IsayIcan’treadminds.Idon’t

know,Isay.Askhim.

Haveyoueveraskedhim?

Yeah,Iguess.Idon’tknow.Heneverreal-

lygivesmeananswer.

Shetakesnotesonsomepaper.Iimagine

she’swritingdownthatI’manidiot.

SheasksmewhyIthinkIkeeptakinghim

back.

Mymom thinks it’s daddy issues, I say

withheavyirony.Sheignoresmytoneofvoice.

Doyougetalongwithyourfather?

Sure,Isay.Yeah.

Didyoualways?

Ithinkso.

Yourmom says hewasn’t around a lot.

Doyouthinkmaybethat’swhatthisisabout?

I cross my arms across my chest. I say,

Mymomistheonewhohasissueswithmydad,

okay?Notme.Maybeshe’s theonewhoneeds

therapy.

Hmph, she says. Her lip twitches. She

scratchesafewnotesinhernotepad.Hmph.

5

Onetimewhenwewere“on,”hebrought

upmarriage.Itwasearlyfall.Weweresittingat

aparkbytheduckpond.

Haveyoueverthoughtaboutgettingmar-

ried?heasked.

Toyou?

Toanyone.

Iguess,Isaid.Yeah.ImeanIdon’tthink

about it thatmuch.Not in that I’ve-been-plan-

ning-my-wedding-since-I-was-sixkindofway.

Ifwegotmarried,hesaid,whatkindofa

weddingwouldyouwant?

Um.Idon’tknow,Isaid.IguessIwould—

Iwouldwant it tobe realbig,he said. I

waslookingathim,buthewaskeepinghiseyes

ontheducks.

Okay,Isaid.

Whataboutkids?heasked.Doyouwant

kids?

I—

Iwantthreekids,hesaid.AndIwantto

livehere.Nearmyfamily.

Hewentonaboutwhathewantedforhis

life.Forourlife.

HealwaysaskedmewhatIthoughtfirst.

HealwayscutmeoffbeforeIgottogive

myanswer.

6

When Iwas in elementary school, Iwas

notwhatyouwouldcallsmart.Iwasmaybeav-

erageasastudent,whichneverreallybothered

me.IwashappywhereIwas.Atleastuntilthird

grade.

In third grade I met Eddie. Eddie was

prettysmart.AndI thoughthewasprettycute

too.Wewereinthesameclassforawhile,until

theyseparatedhimintotheacceleratedlearning

track,theclasswhereallthesmartkidswent.

IlikedEddieandwantedhimtolikeme

too. So I beggedmyparents to letme take the

placement test toget intotheaccelerated learn-

ingclass.Itoldthemregularclassesweren’tchal-

lengingenough forme. I said I couldbedoing

betterinclassesifIcaredaboutthembutregular

classes just weren’t interesting enough forme.

Theyagreedtoletmetakethetest.

AtthetimeIthoughtitwasagreatideato

movemyselfuptothehigher-levelclass,evenif

Icouldn’tkeepupwithit.Truthwas,Icheated

myway through theplacement testandended

upinaclasswaytoohardforme.AtfirstIwas

happy.IgottospendalotofEddie.Hesatnext

tomeatlunchsometimes.Hekissedmeonthe

cheekatrecessbehindatree.Weheldhandson

theswings.Ihatedtheclassmorethananything,

butIthoughtEddiewasworthit.

ThenonedayEddiestoppedtalkingtome.

Hedidn’tpassmenotesduringhistoryhouror

givemehisextraapplesauceatlunch.Theprize

ofEddiewasgone,buttheacceleratedlearning

classwasstillstuckwithme.

ItoldmyparentsthatIdidn’twanttobe

inacceleratedlearninganymore.Itoldthemthe

truth.Itoldthemmygradesprovedit—Iwasn’t

exactlyastarstudent.

But they didn’t believe me. And they

didn’tgivemeachoice.TheytoldmethatIwas

justoverwhelmedatfinallybeinginaclassthat

matchedmyintelligenceandthatIhadtostick

with it because I needed to take classes that

wouldpushme.

Ineverdidgetmovedout.Istruggledmy

waythroughhigher-levelclassesoutofelemen-

taryschool,intomiddleschool,intohighschool,

andIcontinuedtodojustbarelymediocre,ifthat.

Itoldmyparentseveryyear,ahundredtimesa

year,thatIshouldbetakingregularclasses.

That’syouropinion,mydadsaid.

Mymomchimedinwith,Andyouropin-

iondoesn’tmatteruntilyou’reoutofthishouse.

7

ItwasthesummerbeforecollegethatImet

Tom.TomwenttocollegeinMassachusetts.Tom

majoredinbusiness.Tomwasgoingtograduate

inayearandalreadyhadajoblinedupforhim.

Tomhadconnections.

IlikedTom.Hewashandsomeandsmart

andmaybealittleboring,butIpretendednotto

thinkso.Ilaughedathisjokesthatweren’tfun-

ny.Inoddedwithinterestwhenhetalkedabout

thestockmarket.Hetalkedalotabouttheecon-

omy.He talkeda lotabout the rightsof corpo-

rations.Heknewtermslike“break-evenpoint”

and“fiduciary”and“venturecapital.”Hehada

lotofmoney.Wewentouttoalotoffancydin-

ners.

Hewouldmakeagreathusband,mymom

said.

AtthetimeIthoughtaboutfinancialstabil-

ity.Ithoughtaboutpayingoffloansforcollege.I

thoughtmaybeTomwouldmakeagreathusband

and thatheknew it all, knewall the secrets to

makingmoneyrightoutofcollege.Hewasold-

er and smarter and Iwould listen towhatever

hesaid.Iwantedtoimpresshim.Iwantedhim

tolikeme.Iwantedtobesuccessfulthewayhe

seemedsuccessful.

Heaskedmewhat Iwanted tomajor in

oncewhenwewereatdinner.

ItoldhimEnglish.Ihadwantedtomajor

inEnglishsinceIwasten.

Hecringedathissteakandlookedatme

asthoughI’dphysicallypainedhim.You’llnever

makeanymoneydoingthat,hesaid.Youshould

majorinbusiness.That’swherethemoney’sat.

Okay,Isaid.

SoImajoredinbusiness.Thatwaswhere

themoneywasat.

I hated it right away. But Tom was so

proud.Icouldkeepupconversationswithhim

now.Wewouldbeapowercouple,hesaid.

My fifth semester in college, Tom broke

upwithme.HesaidIhadbeenagreatnow,but

Ijustwasn’thisfuture.Ispentthenextthreese-

mestersmiserable.AttheendofitallIgraduated

withaBAinBusiness.

Ididn’tgetagoodjob.Ididn’tmakegood

money. Turns outmajoring in businesswasn’t

wherethemoneywasatforme.Maybeit’sonly

wherethemoney’satwhenit’swhereyouwant

tobeattoo.

8

Atthetherapist’soffice,myappointment

stretcheson.Iwatchtheclockonthewall.Iwait

formyhourtoendsoIcanleave.

Wasityourchoicetocomehere?sheasks.

Becauseitseemsthatyoudon’twanttobehere

tome.

Kindof,Isay.

Your parentsmade the appointment for

you.

Yeah.Theywantmetosortmyselfout.

Doyouthinkyouneedsortingout?

No.Yes.Idon’tknow.No.

Sowhydidyoucome?

Myparentstoldmeto.

Doyoufindthatyouoftendowhatpeo-

pletellyou?

No.Yes.Yeah,Iguess.Yeah.

Whydoyouthinkthatis?

Idon’tknow.

Hmph, she says again. She looks at her

watch.Shesaysitlookslikeourtimeisup.She

saysitwasnicemeetingme.ShesaysIcanmake

anappointmentanytime.

That’s it? I ask. Aren’t you supposed to

tellmewhatIshoulddo?HowIshouldsortmy

problemsout?

That’snotmy job,Eliza,shesays.That’s

yours.

Shouldn’tyouprescribememedicationor

something?

Doyouwantmedication?

I don’t know! I say, throwing up my

hands.Don’tyoutellmethat?

Therapyisn’taboutmemakingtheright

choicesforyou,shesays.It’sabouthelpingyou

maketherightchoicesforyourself.

I’m quiet for amoment. I gather upmy

jacketandmypurse.

Doyouknowhowtomaketherightchoic-

esforyourself?sheasks.

Yes,Isayautomatically.ThenIsay,May-

be.ThenIsay,Notreally.Iguessno,notreally.

Well,shesays,maybethat’stheproblem.

9

When he calls, he says he’s sorry. He

wantsmeback.

IsayIwantasmallwedding.

Hesays,Whatareyoutalkingabout?

IsayIdon’twantkids.

Hesays,Whereisthiscomingfrom?

I sigh on my end of the phone. I don’t

knowwheretobeginwiththeanswer.It’scom-

ingfromme,fromtherealopinionsIhave,from

theplacedeepinsideofmewhereIburyallthe

things that Iwant. Cover themupwith things

likeashirtIneverwear,anuglyscarf,abarely

usednotebook.

Hesays,Look,Iwanttofixthings.Wecan

talkaboutthatstufflater,okay?Ijustwanttofix

thingsnow.

Idon’tsayanything.

Areyouthere?

Yes.

He says, I said Iwant to fix things.Did

youhearme?That’swhatIwant.

When he asks me what I want, I don’t

haveananswerprepared.He’sneveraskedme

thatbefore and reallymeant forme to answer.

Butthistimehewaits.ThistimeIhearhisbreath

throughthereceiver.Heavy,fearful.Waitingfor

myresponse.

ShewasthiscountryclubgirlfromBakersfieldImetataMardiGrashousepartyIsnuckinto,sawhersliparoofieinherownDomPérignon.Sexonherfaintingcouch,shewasn'tgettingbackup.Themagentaleatherstained.Shewantedtoknowaboutme.Itoldher"IcastrateBradPittinmydreams,cheatingmotherfucker."Shelaughed.

Herporcelaindollsallhadblackeyes,once,beforesheclawedthepaintoff.ShesaidherchinchillaSqueekyhadthesamebuttoneyes,beforeitdiedofhunger.Shetriedtostabmineinmysleep.Imovedherinwithme,dressedherinatubetoptoolooseandhookerheels,andgotheranewname.ShelikedCrystella.

Onenight,shebroughtmeflowers,gotonherknees,andproposedtome,naked.Icaressedthefuckoutofher.Inthemorning,Isawshepokedaholeinthecondom.Isaid,“I’mgoingtohavetoaskyoutorunaway.”

Shesaidshelovedme.Itoldher"Thedevilworshipsme.It'skindofamutualrespectthing."Givemelibertyorgivemedeath.LikeamoderndayHarrietTubman,IhadfreedherandIfreedheragain.

ELEANORSiYeonLee

StockphotocourtesyofStasiAlbertsxc.hu

Iamthebeachsideyellowcottage,shuttersswallowedbyflowers.IamthepurpleHamptonCruiser,dum-dumsatthePostOffice.IamSteph’sSpicyChickenSaladNoTomatoes,CapeMayCounty’sandajugofspikedGatorade.IamsevenAMtearsinmygoggles.Iampaddleboardwaxrashesandduct-taperepairedoars.Iamamouthfullofseaweedandradiochatter.IamShermantoSeacliffandtheSunBlockNazi.Iamasalt-stainedvisorandpolarizedwayfarers,afingerwhistle,andasevenmanrescue.Iamcodeblueandafastlieutenant,theracistmayor,andAfricanRockFish.IamMaybellinewaterproof,Forsman’sparties,Tequila,ta-kill-ya,andRichKelly’sabs.Iamtoe-bloodonthegravel,andtheadrenalinoftheocean,andabig,bluePowerade.IamaBaconeggencheesefromtheOldShack.IamPandoraonthestandandWilliam’sStreet.

I AM A ROOKIE SUMMERCarlyM.Cox

TheMondrianlayinprimaryglory,Litbyourgazelostbetweenlineandeachother.

Oilonhiseyelidscondensedlikethefoamonfreshcoffee,Splashedtothecanvasashiseyesdroppedmine.

Reds,yellows,blues,Mirroredbetweenthefamousandhisown,

Tastedlikethefirstbiteofanapple,freshandcool,Betweenthetiredcurvesofunheardwords.ButwebroketheMondrian,tangledhislines,

AcrossthewideswellsoftheAtlanticIntothedecayinglabyrinthsthatwereourminds,where

Colorsmixedtogrey.Mybleedinglipsreachedtowardshistokiss,

Tokissthelifelessbacktocolor.Hedrownedmeinstead,whispering

The boogie was fun while it lasted.Thechippedacrylicoflossfellintomy

Gut,punchedouttheair.Framesoftarnishedgoldlayatourfeet,ThrowingoutthedyinglightsofSpring–

Wepushedthroughthespectrum,pulledoutitsheart,Onlytorecognizeours,trampledandbruising,instead.Mythroatcouldnotbreakhiscreamandhissugarand

Hehaswon,hehaswon,asIfall.Hisblinkingskinsunkbackintotheportrait,whileI,

Thecrippled,crawledbacktotheocean.Blisteringhandssoftenedwitheachbrushstrokeuntil

Theywereaspureaswhiteagainstblack.

Wewereonlyeverlineandcolor,Beautyinanarc.

Redfades,yellowlistensforeternity–Blue.

MONDARIANLaurenBlachowaik

IhopethatOnedayIexplode

AnordinarySundaySpentinsilenceatthegrocerystoreOrrecliningonthebackdeckintheshadeAsIstretchforajaronthetopshelfOrtomovemydrinkoutofthesunshineIwillsuddenlyburstintoamilliontinypieces

NotgruesomelyasinawarmovieButsplendidlyasabeautifulvaseMeetingalonelyfloorOrasawavecrashingAgainstathirstybeach

OrasmycoldshouldersBucklingunderthepressureOftheweightoftheworld

PeoplewillstopandstareAs“PianoMan”ringsfromtheradioAndbouncesoffeverysolitary,stationarystrangerAwomandropshercoffeeHerbabycriesoutAndherhusband’sglassesslidedownHissweatynoseAsheturnstoseenothingWherethereoncewasaman

Or,likesuburbansalvation,Birdswillflyfromtheirnests,Squirrelswilldartacrossthelawn,Theneighbor’sdogwillbarktowarnoftheemptinessInthechair,intheneighborhood,intheworldWherethereoncewasaman

ButIwillnevertrulybegone

IwillbeForeverfree

SweptundersolesofshoesOrawaywiththewindIwillfindmyselfattheendsoftheEarthNotnowhereBut,finally,Everywhereatonce

JohnSweeney

AT THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

Stock photo courtesy of Teresa Howes at freeimages.com

MY FRAMESofiaDez

This day, like every other day, hewoke

upaloneonanotherworld.Heuncoiledhiswiry

arms in a long stretch accompanied by a deep

yawn,andswunghislegsoffthewireframebed.

Hisbare feet touched thesandfloorofhishut,

andhewriggledhis toes back and forth,drag-

gingthesmallgrainsincircles.Theyfeelso real,

hethought–tothinkthatthisplanetwasahunk

of red rock just two hundred years ago! If he

hadn’t seen the old landing tapes of the astro-

nauts,hewouldhavestruggledtobelieveit.

Thehutwas barren save for a tap stick-

ingoutofthewall,agreenbamboochairanda

small wooden dresser. Covering his eyes with

hishand,hetookafewstepsoutofthehutonto

the beachfront.His eyes recalibrated as his iris

receptorsadjustedtothebrightnessofthebeach;

in less than a second, hewas back online and

broadcasting.

He felt the wind blow through his bare

legs and run over his barreled chest – and he

knewthateverypersonfollowinghisadventure

through their Experience Reality machines felt

thatwind, too. TheContestantwasnot a large

man,buthewas ingoodshapeandsupremely

adaptable–aproductofspendingyearshustling

dopeinthepolicestateofManhattan.Herana

handoverhishookednoseandchiseledchin,to

givetheaudienceatasteofwhotheyweretoday.

He took adeep breath of frothy air and licked

THE CONTESTANTMichaelB.Nakan

StockphotocourtesyofRogerKirbyatfreeimages.com

thesalttrappedagainsthismolars.TheContes-

tantunderstoodwhy someoneonEarthwould

paytotastetheoceanairashedideachmorning.

Hell, he had been savingup for anExperience

Machinehimselfbeforetheraid.

Hereturnedtothehutandputontoday’s

costume – ripped denim jeans, sweat stained

white T-shirt, licensed red splashed sneakers.

Thenhesatdowninthebamboochair,blinked

threetimesandshuthiseyes.

Updates from the Producers lit up the

blackness, words and images flashing in front

of his eyes and rattling through his eardrums.

Tensecondslater,theContestantwasuptodate

onnewsfromEarth,aswellasthewellbeingof

his estranged family. He saw the stockpiles of

wealthincreaseinhisbankaccountsandheard

thepromisesofmorebonusestocome.Butmost

importantly, the Contestant received his tasks

fromtheProducersfortheday.

The Contestant had two ways of easily

communicating with the Producers. When he

blinkedthreetimes,thechipinhisbraindown-

loaded information packets prepared for him

bythebroadcastingcenter–thereweretypical-

lythreesuchpacketsperday.Hecouldreceive

thesepacketsanywhereontheisland.Thebam-

boo chair in his room served as a relay link to

theProducers.Whenhesat in ithecouldsend

messagestothemusingavirtualkeypad.Thefi-

nalmethodofcommunicationwasanemergency

wordthatwouldresult intheExperiencebeing

terminated and immediate extraction from the

islandtothebroadcastingcenteronPhobos.The

wordhechosewas“Omari.”

He tapped thebuttonunder the chair to

activateprojection.Thekeypademergedinfront

ofhimandhewrote:

Good morning. Can I see my daily tasks bro-

ken down, please?

TheProducersresponded:

Certainly.

Andthetasksweredisplayedonthewall

ofthehutinfrontofhim.Theywereextensiveas

usual,buttheContestantskippedtotheendand

examinedthesummary.Thefirsttaskoftheday

wastogatherfoodandwood.Therewerealsoin-

structionstoretrieveanobjectfromthebottomof

acanyoninthecenteroftheisland,whichmade

theContestantsmile.Hewasoftenboredonthe

island,andenjoyedabreakfromthemonotony

of simple survival. The drop offswere usually

additions to hismountaineering toolkit that he

couldusetoexplorenewareas.

Hedecidedtoretrievethewoodfirst.He

hadbeentoldthathewouldsoonhavetochop

downtreesintheforesttoprovidewood,butfor

now theProducers lefthimprecut stacksnear-

by.He suspected theobjectof today’s retrieval

wouldbeanaxe.

Itdidnottakehimlongtodragthewood

acrossthebeachbacktohiscampandpileitnext

tothefirepit.Itwasnotespeciallyheavylabor,

althoughheknew that formostof thewealthy

audiencetheachesinhisarmsandbackwould

be unprecedented. The Contestant reveled in

the knowledge that an untold number of peo-

pleonEarthwereExperiencinghimthroughout

theday, thathisactionshadadirect impacton

countlesspeoplehewouldnevermeet.Hehad

neverfeltsuchathrillbefore, tohavecomplete

controloverthesensesofanother.

Itwastimetoeat,soTheContestanthead-

edfortheberryfields,wherehistrapshadlikely

snaredoneoftheisland’swildboars.Hetrudged

acrossthebeachuntilheenteredtheforestedsec-

tionoftheisland.Itwasalongroadthroughthe

forest,andittookhimquiteawhiletonavigate

thewindingpaththroughthebarktrees.Hewas

disheartened to see that without exception his

trapswereempty.Onthewaybacktothebeach,

henoticedthattherewerenoberriesonthebush-

es.TheContestantwasbaffled,astherehadal-

waysbeenberriesthere.

Whenhereturnedtohishutonthebeach,

he was exhausted. Never before had a scout-

ingmission for food been so unsuccessful. He

wentintohishuttogetabreakfromthesunand

pouredhimselfsomewaterfromthetap.Hesat

downinthebamboochairagainandpressedthe

projectionbutton,callingupthevirtualkeypad.

Hewrote:

Where have all the berries gone?

And the words were reflected upon the

wall.Hewaitedforaresponse.Nonecame.He

pressed the button, turning off the projection:

once more, turning it on again. No response.

TheContestantwasconfused–itwasunlikethe

Producersnottorespondimmediately,although

theydidtellhimthattheysometimeshadminor

communication issues with contestants during

primetimeExperiencinghours.Hewroteanoth-

ermessage:

Please send me an information packet with

your response.

TheContestantpickeduphismountain-

eeringbackpackandmadehiswaybackacross

the beach to the barren green forest. Without

stopping to check his traps, it took much less

time for him to navigate through the trees.He

begantofeeladryheat,devoidofmoisture,the

kindofhotnessthatstolesomemoistureoutof

hismouthwitheachbreath.

TheContestantwasbeginningtofeelfaint,

buthewasn’tworried.Hehadbeengrantedan

extensive tourof theExperience facilitieswhile

still incarcerated, and had seen first-hand the

intensive stream of information the Producers

receivedthroughhiscranialimplant.Theimme-

diatesensoryinformationthatmadeupanExpe-

riencewasjustasmallpartofthedatatransmit-

tedinstantlytothecomputersonPhobos.Heart

rate and blood pressure were monitored con-

stantly,withevenslightdipsreportedtoacrew

ofmedicaltechnicians.Eventhefiringsynapses

of a contestant’s brainwere under intense sur-

veillance,withalgorithmic checks todetermine

ifthesubjectwasbeginningtofeeldepressedor

suicidal.

Attheedgeoftheforesttherewasahill,

and with each placement of his sneakers onto

thesoftearththetreesaheadofhimthinnedand

in their place emerged an expanse of blue sky

marredbywispyclouds.Theheatbecamemore

intense as he climbed the hill and the sodden

dirtabruptlybecamedeepsand.Hehadentered

a vast blood red desert stretching as far as he

couldsee.TheContestanttrekkedonwards,his

feetdisappearingwith each stepandemerging

fullofsand.

At lengthhe cameupona tree stumpat

theedgeofthecanyon.Hesatonthestumpand

peereddownintotheunnaturalblacknessfarbe-

low.Hecircledthetreestumpwithhisrappelling

rope, snapped the clip intoplace andbegan to

abseildown.Ittookhimalongtimetoreachthe

bottom, andwhen he did hewas shrouded in

darkness.He unclipped the flashlight from his

backpackandturnediton.Evenwiththeflash-

lightsbeam,hecouldn’tseeanything.Hewon-

deredwhyanyonewouldbeinterestedinExpe-

riencing someoneflounder around in thedark,

anddecidedtodiscussthisassignmentwiththe

Producerswhenhereturnedtothehut.

Heblinkedthreetimesandshuthiseyes.

Theexpectedupdateontheabsentberriesdidn’t

come. Instead,ayellowsquareappearedat the

edge of his vision.He rotated until the square

wasdeadcenterand thenopenedhiseyesand

shonehisflashlight forward. In thedimnesshe

couldmakeoutashapeafewdozenfeetaway.

Hetookclimbingchalkfromhisbagandletitfall

throughhisfingers,markingthewaybacktohis

rope.He continued in thismanner ashemade

hiswayalongthecanyonfloor.

Theobjectgraduallybecameclear:Itwas

agreenbamboochair– thesameexactchairas

the one that he used to communicatewith the

Producersbackinhishut.

Therewasalsoabox.Itwassmallerthan

the seat of the chair it sat on and itwasmade

of a yellowmarked brownpaperwith a frayed

whitestringtiedarounditinabow.Heputthe

flashlightinhismouthandundidthestringwith

bothhands.He lifted the lidoff and shone the

flashlightinsidetorevealasmallrustyhatchet,

nobiggerthanthepalmofhishand.

The Contestantwas confused. He imag-

inedthattheProducershadintendedhimtocut

down trees with this hatchet, but it would be

impossiblegivenhowsmallandblunttheblade

was.Hesatdowninthechair.Theknifeheused

to slaughter captured boarswasmuch sharper

thanthis.

Heput the hatchet in his backpack. The

sunwouldbesettingsoon,andhewasinequal

measureshungryandexhausted.Hehadtospeak

to the Producers and, given that he had never

seenanotherrelaylinkontheisland,hethought

theyhadtospeakwithhimtoo.Hepressedthe

projectionbuttononthebaseofthechairandthe

keypadappearedinfrontofhim.Hewrote:

What am I supposed to do with this hatchet?

And thewords appeared on the side of

the canyon, then slowly fadedaway. Suddenly

thewallwaslitupinlarge,brightletters:

I AM COMING TO GET YOU

TheContestantstaredupatthewallfora

fewseconds.Whowascomingtogethim?There

wasnolifeonthewholeislandotherthanafew

wildboars.Hetyped:

I don’t understand.

Thewordsfadedawayandthenthecan-

yonwallwasblank.Hepressedthebuttonun-

derneaththechair,thenpresseditagain.Thevir-

tualkeypaddidnotappear.Hepresseditonand

offafewmoretimes.Nothing.

TheContestant shonehisflashlightback

andforthdownthecanyonfloor.Allhecouldsee

wascloyingblackness.Hestoodup,pointedthe

flashlightdownatthegroundandbeganfollow-

ingthechalkpowderbacktowardhisrope.He

walkedslowlyforfearoftrippingontheuneven

groundanddroppinghisflashlight.Atlonglast

hereachedtherope,strappedhimselfinandbe-

gantoclimbbackuptothesurface.Allthoughts

ofhunger,thirstandfatiguewereforgotten,and

intheirsteadwasanall-consumingfear–afear

oftheunknown,ofthetreesborderinghisbeach,

oftheshadowsofthenight.Hefeltasifhisstom-

achwassinkingoutofhim, likegrainsofsand

slippingthroughanhourglass.

Whenhewashalfwayuptherockface,he

caught aglimpseof the setting sunandhe felt

thathecouldalmostcry.Hestoppedforamo-

ment,suspendedbetweenlightanddark,hisfeet

bearingimperceptiblyintotheeternalrockface.

Hehadnever feltmore afraid. Therewas sim-

plynowaythatitcouldhappen.Blackoutsnever

lastedmorethanafewminutes,andhehadbeen

without normal communication for the whole

day.

Forthefirsttime,theContestantrealized

hewasalone.

He was so focused on climbing that he

didn’tlookupforalongtime,butwhenhedid

hesawsomethingstaringbackathim:asilhou-

ettewithsixarmsbillowingoutofitstorso,star-

ingdownathim,thewhiteofitsteethsetagainst

theblackness.Hescreamedandlosthisfooting

andfellhardintotherockface,splittinghisfore-

headopenagainstajaggedstone.Thebloodfell

intohiseyesandblindedhimforafewmoments

ashegropedtoregainhisbalance.Eventuallyhe

foundhisfooting.Hefelthisirisreceptorsreca-

librateashewipedhiseyescleanof theblood,

but by the time hewas broadcasting again the

silhouettewasgone.

When he reached the surface he gazed

around the unrelenting desert and tried to get

glimpse of the figure. His headwas pounding

fromtheimpactandwhenhespathespatbrittle

dust.

Helefthisrappellingropetiedaroundthe

rockandmadehiswaybacktowardstheforest,

clutchingtherustyhatchet inawhiteknuckled

fist.

***

TheContestantwokesometimelaterface

downinthesand.Waveslappedsoothinglyover

his skull.He felt at peace; hewished he could

sleepthere,onthatsandybeach,forever.

Hisheadwasfullofbrokenglass.Hesat

up slowly and looked around. He was on the

beach, amile or so fromhishut.Hebarely re-

membered walking back from the canyon. He

hadlostalotofblood,andhisvisionwasblurry

ashestood.

He set off toward thehut andashedid

soherealizedhewasstill carrying thehatchet,

althoughsomewherealongthewayhehadlost

hisbackpack.Hestaggeredthroughthesand,lis-

teningtothesoothingoceannoisesandhesaid

softly: “Omari.” He didn’t expect anything to

happen,andnothingdid.

Hesmeltsmokebeforehesawfire.Inthe

dimmoonlighthishutburned.Seizedbyasud-

den adrenaline, the Contestant darted into the

forest and took cover behind a tree. He knew

whatwasexpectedofhimandwhytheyhadgiv-

enhimthehatchet.Itseemedobviousnowthat

theonlyreasontheProducershadpaidforhim

toleaveprisonwassohecoulddiehere,onthis

island,with thewholeworld feelinghishorror

ashewashunteddownbyasixlimbedmonster.

Enough! He could stand the cheap dra-

maticsnolonger.Hewouldnotbetheirpuppet,

in the final hours of his life, his fear broadcast

acrosstheworldforalltosee.Thatwasaneternal

recordhecouldnotstandfor.Helookeddownat

the hatchet in his hand. Theyhadgivenhim a

weapon,andhewoulduseit.

Sometimelater,TheContestantwatched

thefiguremovethroughtheforestfromthevan-

tage point of a tall tree. The searching move-

mentsofthefigurewereasswiftandpreciseas

thepolicepatrols thatsweptthroughhisapart-

ment block during his youth. It was dark and

sometimes he lost track of the figure – but the

twomoonsintheskyshonebrightenoughthat

healways foundhimagain.Eventually thefig-

urewentbackontothebeachandsatdowninthe

sand,backtotheforest.

Slowly, slowly, the Contestant climbed

downthetreeandslowly,slowlyhesteppedfor-

wardfromthetreeline.Thefiguresittingafew

feetinfrontofhim,moonlightbouncingoffhis

darkhair,wasnofrighteningbeast.Hewasjust

aman,similar inshapeandsize to theContes-

tant.Hemusthaveimaginedthesixarmsbackin

thedesert.Perhapsthatentireexperiencewasa

hallucination.Witheachstephisresolvefaltered

andanotherquestionsprungintohismind,until

eventuallyhestoppedstill.Hewasnotapuppet:

Hewouldnotplaytheirgame.

Instead,theContestantsaid:“Hello.”

TheMandidnotmove.

The Contestant took another step and

said:“I’mnotgoingtohurtyou.”

TheMansittingonthebeachsaid:“Idon’t

believeyou.”

Then theMan scrambled to his feet and

sprintedtowardtheContestant,lettingoutagut-

turalroar,wieldingalargebranchoverhishead.

TheContestantpulledhisarmbackinstinctively

andusingall theenergyhehad leftwoundup

andburiedthehatchetdeepintheMan’sskull.

For a horriblemoment they stood there,

theContestantgazingintothetwitchingeyesof

theManhehad just slain.Then theContestant

tookastepbackandpulledthehatchetoutand

droppeditonthegroundnexttohimastheMan

fellbackonthesand.

In his final moment, the Contestant no-

ticedthattheManhehadjustkilledhadacranial

implantjustlikehisown.Thenhisheadexplod-

ed.

***

TheProducerswerepleasedwithhowthis

Experiencehadended.Neverbeforehadtwoof

theirsubjectsengagedinconversationbeforethe

killing,but ithadcertainlyheightened thedra-

ma and garnered positive feedback from their

testscreeners,sotheywerehappy.Together,the

men indarksuitscompiled twoExperiences to

broadcast from the reams of sensory data they

hadcollectedoverthepasttwenty-fourhours.In

a fewminutes,millionsofpeoplewouldeither

trackandkillamanwitharustyhatchetorfeel

thatsamehatchetsmashintotheirskull,allfrom

thecomfortoftheirExperienceRealitymachine.

Theworldmayhavechanged,buthuman-

ityhadnot.Therewasamarket–a large,ever

expandingmarket – to feel the rushofmurder

or the terror in themomentsbeforedeath.The

Producerswerenotbadmen,thoughtheirwork

was sometimes unsavory. But someone had to

do it. Someonehad to create theseExperiences

andrelaythembacktoEarth.Therewasnotell-

ingwhattheirmostardentaudiencemightdoif

theydidn’tmeettheirweeklyquota.

The Executive Producer smiled at his

peersashehitthetransmitbuttonandThe Con-

testant wentlive.“Well,myfriends,”hesaid.“I

thinkthat’sawrap.”

Theoldman,atseventyyearsofage,was

nowayathisprime.Hisbackwasslumpedafter

theyearsoftillingfieldsandrakinghay,hisskin

coarseandwrinkledfromexposuretotheharsh

year-longheat.Whileheusedtobeabletotake

careofhisranchsingle-handedly,henowfelten-

tirely helplesswithout his sons anddaughters.

Despite his growingweakness, though, he still

insistedontakingcareofhisbelovedanimals–

histurkeys,birds,catsandmostofall–hishogs.

Theoldmanhadalwaysbeenespecially

fondofthepigs.“Theywereincrediblysmart,”

hewouldreasonwheneveraskedaboutthemat-

ter. “They could help this old man remember

things.” Even though he was getting old, frail

and slow, hewould still find the energy to lift

bucketsoffoodanddeliverthemtothestyevery

day. Itwashis lastwish tohischildren– tobe

leftinchargeofthesty–andsoitbecametheold

man’ssoleroutinetodothefeedings.

Todaywasnoexception.Bythetimethe

skyglowedred to signal the impendingdawn,

themanwasreadywithbucketsdanglingoffhis

hands.He trudged hisway up the hilly lanes,

bootsscrapingagainstthegrowingdepthofmud

andsoil.Thestywasalmostalwayscoveredin

inch-deepofdirt, but themanwas impervious

tothesmell.Hewasusedtoit,havingtracedthis

pathforeverysingledayofhislife.Hemaybe

losing hismemory, but he still remembered to

enjoythebuddingflowersthatbrokethroughthe

layersofdirt,thebrowninggrass,andtheview

ofhisricketyhousefromafar.Themanlovedhis

job.

Wheezing,he continuedhis journeyand

finally reached the familiar sty.He pried open

thedoorofthewoodenconstructionandheaved

hisbucketsin.Almostallatonce,thepigsstarted

tosqueal,scream,gruntforattention.Theyknew

thisroutineaswellastheoldmandid,andtheir

stomachsbeggedtobefed.

“Settledown, settledown,” theoldman

exclaimed,closingthedoorandmakinghisway

throughthefencethatseparatedthem.Thepigs

squashed together and shrieked and gawked,

brushingpastandknockingintohislegs.These

were heavyset, plump pigs and the old man

stumbledhereandthere,cryingalittlewhenthe

THE PROMISEKathleenKusworo

oldest hog crashed into him, almost knocking

himdown.“Now,now,Jeremiah!Don’tdothat

tothisoldman…”

Ashethentriedtopourthecontentsofhis

bucketsout,herealizedanotherproblem.They

wereempty.

“Darn!” he swore to himself. It was no

secret thathismemorywas failingquickly,but

thiswasanewturnfortheworse.Sure,heforgot

names and certain tasks before, but how could

hehavecarriedemptybucketstothestywithout

evenrealizingit?Hemusthavebeenolderthan

hethoughthewas.

Grudgingly,heturnedbacktoexitthesty,

but his pathwas blocked as the pigs swarmed

hisfeetagitatedlyattheabsenceoftheirprom-

ised reward. The oldmanmurmured a croaky

apology,sighingashetriedtostepoverthem...

buttheanimalswouldhavenoneofit.Theycon-

tinued to shove at him, andone rammed itself

intotheoldman’slegashewassteppingover.

Themancouldn’tkeephisbalancethistime.He

went down, buckets clattering away across the

sty,andhehitthehardgroundwithacrunch.

“Oh!” he screamed, eyes blurring with

specksofredandblack.“Ohohoh—“

Thepaincameinaburst,spreadingfrom

hishipandtohisspine, thentohishead.Soon

unadulterated agony enveloped him, and the

man foundhisawareness slippingawayas the

squealsfilledhiseardrumsandthepinkbodies

squeezedintoshoveathim.Heweaklycalledfor

help,buthisgesturesweredrownedinthesuf-

focatingnumberofpigsswarming,surrounding,

slowly tramplingoverhis legsandarms.From

wherehelaid,thepigsnowseemedhuge,mon-

strous,superior.Theirsnoutsnudgedathimand

flaredandsniffedandsnorted,inspectingclose-

ly.Theoldmancaughttheeyesofthepighover-

ingabovehisface–big,blackandstaring.They

seemedtospreadandmagnify, swallowinghis

wholevisionuntilhefeltnothingbutnumbness

andadistantcacophonyofsquealingpigs.Inthe

lastmomentsofhisconsciousness,hewondered

ifhispigswouldgettoeatthatday.

Vaguely,hefeltteethsinkintohisleftarm.

THE PROMISEKathleenKusworo

Strathmere, New Jersey

CarlyM.Cox

Onnightsaswarmasthese,theslugswereslow

toschlepatopthewoodenporch,butyou

andIwerequicktofrythoselittleguys

todeathwithtablesalt.Andwhilethesalt

wasout,we’dalwaysfindsomeshotsandlimes

tokeepuswarmunderthesheetsofstars.

Ourlovecriedlouderthanthecrickets’roar

thatlulledusfasttosleepthosesummernights,

hummedfasterthantheboatswescrubbedatFrank’s.

Weworkedandslept,sidebyside,wrappedup

inJersey’sspell.Wedoverealdeepinto

truelove,wethought,butreallywascomefall

aSunday-morningheadache’spainfullull,

thebackbay’smuck,thesandyoucan’tshakeoff.

StockphotoscourtesyofJarpurandAnitaBerghoef

The Edge of the Shoreline

Katherine Quinn

Emergingfromthewaterattheageofthirteen,

wediscoveredadeadwhitemuskratalongthejetty.

Itlayinabedofmusselshells,ahardblacktomb,

seaweeddrapedoveritscrookedtorsoandleftfoot.

Itssinglelifelessgrayeyestaredthroughmeontoyou

asyoupokeditwithapieceofraggeddriftwood

anditsflabbywhitegutimplodedintothesea,

reekingofguttersandsewersandmuddyrain.

Igrabbedyourhandandranthroughthesinkingsand

andwewatchedfromthesafetyoftheboardwalk

asthetidespunitsglassyeyefurtherintotheshore.

assoonasthecarstopped

Iusedtorunintothehouseheadstraightforyourdenstraighttoyouinyourchair

youscoopedmeupinyourlongbranchlikearmsandwhenIhuggedyourneckyourwhitewillowybeardtickledmyback

Iwouldpressmyfaceintotheshoulderofyoursuitalwaysnavyalwaysstripedlikecandycanesandyousmelledlikeyourpeppermintstoo

Iwouldthenpressmyfaceintothebackofyourchairbigandsoftandgreenandcushionedbutitneverdidsmelllikepeppermint

itwasalwayshadIbeenagoodgirlfinishedallmyschoolworksaidmypleaseandthankyousIansweredyesandheldoutmyhandsforourspecialexchange

youreachedslowlyintoyournavyjacketpocketpulledoutthesmallcandytinI’dbeenwaitingtoseeandforthepriceofakissI’dgetapeppermintandawink

sometimesnowwhenIcomeoverIpeekintotheclosetandseeNanawiththejacketsheholdsituptoherwetcheeksandpressesherfaceintoit

Idon’taskNanaifthereareanyleftinthepocketsIpretendIhadneverseenherwiththejacketbutallIreallywantisanotherturnatpressingmyfaceintoyourshoulderandbreathinginthesmellofyourpeppermints

WHITE AND NAVY PEPPERMENT CarlyM.Cox

StockphotocourtesyofDaveDyetfromwww.freeimages.com

YoursoulisadarkroomonChristmasEve.

ListentothescuttleofpresentsdeliveredbySanta,

thecrackleofwrappingpaper,theyelpforastubbed

toeagainstDaddy’sSundaypaperarmchair.

Yoursoulisadarkroomaftersex.

Aglowwithsoftbreathsandatwingeofregret,

restyourheadonhischest.Listentohisheartbeatquicken

asyourmother’sheelsclickdownthehallway.

ListentoDaddycrackhisknuckles

andthequietrappingonyourdoor.

Yoursoulisadarkroomafterdinner.

Don’tlistentothewhirofalighter’sflame,ortheembers

thatgnawontobaccoleaves,orthedrycoughofasmoker.

Listentothejet-enginepurrsofDaddy’scat.

Yoursoulisadarkroomafterahorrormovie.

Earshyperaware,listentoalltheclichésthatgobumpinthenight.

Listentothehandsoftreesscratchingwindowpanes.

ListentothenailsofDaddy’scatastheyripuphisarmrest.

Listentothegroanoffloorboardsunderyourmother’sfeet

assheshufflesfromherbedroomtotheguestroom.

Yoursoulisadarkroomafteryourfather’sdeath

andintheshrillsilenceyouswearyouhear

hisnewspaperturning,hisknucklescracking,

hiscigar-stainedbreathbreathing.

YOUR SOUL IS A DARK

ROOMKatLewis

StockphotocourtesyofDaveDyetfromwww.freeimages.com

APORETIC OR POETIC?APORETIC OR POETIC?

RyanKeating

RyanKeating

Like a sudden brightness in the night,

The blank page stings my eyes with white.

But even filling it with similes

May be a test of my abilities.

Only clumsy consonance comes to mind.

Only simple rhyme schemes do I find.

Anaphora and litotes aren’t unmanageable,

But can I use them in a way that’s admirable?

Inspire me, O muse, in the use of apostrophe,

Or perhaps better served I’d be by anastrophe.

Metonymy will enhance the meaning of this ink,

At least that’s what my schooling’d have me think.

An allusion to Virgil seems pedantic,

But at this point I’m getting frantic.

Will an end-stopped line be puissant?

Or would it be best to use Enjambment?

These words elude personification

Despite my staunch determination.

And though it’s perfect rhyme

I want, I see it’s now becoming slant.

But at last I’m at the end

Of this poem that I’ve penned.

Who knew it’d be so hard

To serve a sentence as a bard.

“Vision of the Hand”

TheVisionoftheHandIsnotjusttosavemanfromthechaosofthedeep,buttoawakenhimfromhisunconscioussleep,

Toreassurehimofhispurposeinlife,nottobebroughtdownbyhisstrugglesandstrife,

Buttobethestrengthofthecreatorwithin,andknowthatloveishissaviorandfriend,

Itwillbroadenyourhorizonsonthehighestplaneoflifeanddefeathisfoeswithallhismight.

Forabrothertomeisliketheoneinmewho’stryingtosucceedin

aworldthatrefusesourneeds,that’sslowlybringingourpeopletotheirknees,

becausewefailtotakeheedthatWeneedUnity,Nationality,andDivineCreed

beinguniversallytaughttoallnationsandalllands.Listenupmybrotherman,

Forthissocietyhaswrittenascriptformetolive,Forthemtotake,Andformetogive

Mylifefortheirownselfishgainsowecanremainbehindinthiscruelgame.Mymoralsandprinciplesarealljeopardizedwhentheyrealizemyeyesareontheprize,butwhenItakethetimetolookwithin,I’mproudofbeinginthisbrownskin,

atthesametimehonoringmynextofkin.Thissocietycan’tchangememyfriend,

FormyvisionisforustobetheKingsofmen...

By:DarrylCooper“Mujahid”

#911-539

BaltimoreCityDetentionCenter

StockphotocourtesyofJohnLopezatwww.freeiomages.com

StockphotocourtesyofJohnLopezatwww.freeiomages.com

THE VISION OF THE HAND

DennisPang

BETTER NOT TO SEE Minglan Yang

Introduction:

Everyonehasverybeautifulmemories,filledwith laughterandtears,of theyearswhenyouhadacrushonaboyallthroughhighschool,andthoughtahundredoftimesofsaying“Ilikeyou,”butnev-erdid.Aftermanyyears,whenyouseehimagaininacafeonapeacefulafternoon,thatstrongfeelingdeepinyourheartsuddenlysurgesupandyouaretakenbacktothoseunforgettabledaysinasecond.Thepeaceofyourlifeisdestroyed,andeverymomentaftermeetinghimagainisuneasy.However,youhaveyourownpathinlife,andhehasapartneraswell.Thenyousaytoyourself: Better not to meet.

Translation:

Better not to meet, all of my memories about you have faded away as peacefully as flowing water, and as lightly as dissipating smoke

You could never know how surprised I was at the moment of your appearance, nor could you know how long my days have become since the short talk that ended with your sweet smile.

These days are composed not by seconds, minutes and hours, but by your face, eyes, and hair; the strings of the violin compose a song of my heart, they are so hot I dare not touch them, for fear that I’ll be burned.

You make my days so uneasy and I can’t stand a moment more. Better not to see, then you will fade again in my mind; better not to see, then everything will come to a peaceful end.

HELLThaliaPatrinos

ICEThaliaPatrinos

DOODLEThalia Patrinos

AFRICAThalia Patrinos

WhenIwasthirteen,Mimicametome

andaskedifIhadanyadviceonhowtoskipa

violinrehearsal.MomandDadhadbeenhyp-

ingherplayingformonths,andhalfthetown

wouldbegoingtowatchher.Inadisplayof

sororalsolidarity,afewhoursbeforeshehadto

leaveIslippedintothesittingroomwhereshe

alwayspracticedwhileMomfussedoverthe

finerdetailsofhairandmakeup,andtookher

beautifuloldviolin,Figaro,fromthevelvety

casewhereitsleptwhenshewasn’tusingit.

IlathereditwitholiveoilIhadstolen

fromthekitchen,pouringabitintothelittle

swirlyholesoneachsideofthemiddle,and

carrieditbytheneckdowntothefirepitinthe

backyard.Iletitslipoutofmyhands,slip-

peryandstickywithhalf-driedoil,andtook

oneofDad’soldcigarettelighters—sorry,cigar

lighters—outofmypocket.Itwassharplycold

againstmyhand.

Ididn’tbothertoclearouttheoldleaves

andsticksbeforeIsetitablaze,soeventhough

itdidn’tlookthatbrightandimpressiveinthe

morningsunIstillgotthatnice,bitter,smoky

smellandthatfeelingofheatonmyfacelike

ablushwhenIleanedover.Butthenmyeyes

startedtowaterandIdidn’twantmyparents

tobeabletosmellthesmokeonmyclothessoI

leftitsnappingandpoppingastaccatobehind

meandlefttoroamwhilethefiddleburned.

BeforeIdid,though,Itookaglanceback

upatthehouse,atMimi’swindow.Itwastoo

sunnytoseeinside,butIliketothinkthatshe

mighthavebeenlookingoutatmeevenifshe

neversaidthankyou.

MomandDadmadeherplaytheconcert

anywayonthekindofrentalinstrumentyou

cangetonahalf-hour’snotice.Everyonewho

actuallywentsaidthatshesucked.

Threeyearslaterwesatonanempty

train,waitingtoarriveattheCaliforniavillaof

thisyear’sluckyrelativesoourparentsdidn’t

havetolookatusforthesummer.Theywere

gettingkindofdesperateforcandidatessothis

yearwasUncleJasper,whowasrichatthis

pointforsomeunexplainedreason.Iassumedit

wasillegal.Icould’veprobablyjustasked,but

thatwould’vekilledthemagic.

Jaswasjustsomeonewedidn’thear

muchofingeneral.He’dbeenbasicallydis-

ownedwhenhewasfifteenfordrinkinga

bunchandstealingabottleofvodka,which

Ihonestlythoughtwasaratherlamereason.

Momhadlovedtotellusabouthowhejustdis-

appearedandleftthemoncehewasn’taminor,

untilmuchtoherdismayhehadreappearedas

asuccesswhenwewereinelementaryschool

andbeggedGrandpatolethimmakeamends.I

wasdisappointedtoo,becauseIknewbeforehe

didthatitwasalostcause.Hestillhadn’tquite

givenup.

IsatacrossfromMimi,whowasleafing

throughtheinstructionmanualforthenewGPS

ourparentshadpromisedtogetherinexchange

FIVE

WAY

S TO

forgoodbehavioruntilLaborDay(onwhichof

ourparts,Iwasn’tsure.)Theseatswerecov-

eredwithsomeawfulscratchybluefabric,with

acoupleofredzigzagsandfaded-to-mustard

yellowsquaresasanexcuseforadesign.Ithad

officiallybecometoodarktobotherlookingout

thewindow,soIkickedmylegoutinfrontof

meandrepeatedlytappedonmysister’sknee

withmysandaledfoot.

“No,”shemuttereddrylywithouteven

lookingup.Shecrossedherlegsunderhersun-

dress’sskirttoknockmyfootaway.

“Ijustwanttotalk.I’mbored.”

“Wegetoffnextstation.Youhavetowait

forlessthantenminutes.”

“ButIwanttotalktoyou,notUncleJas.

WebarelyevenknowUncleJas!”

“Don’tworry.I’msurehe’sheardall

aboutyou.”FromMimi’stoneIcouldtellshe

FIVE

WAY

S TO

MURDER A VIOLIN

ElizabethMattson StockimagecourtesyofPascalThauvin

Thecellardoorcreakedopen,knocking

overanoldbatthatI’dleanedagainstitincase

ofcombat.“IthoughtIheardyougirls.Want

tohelpmedrainafewbottles?Ijustgotsome

greatoldvintagesandwanttoclearupsome

room.”

Mimiglancedatmewithsomethingakin

topanic,butIshookmyhead.“No,winesucks.

Youshouldsmashitoveraboatorsomething.”

Ididn’tmentionthefactthatbothmyparents

wantedmetobeanalcoholicsoitwouldbe

easiertolamentandexplainwherethey’dgone

wrong,andIjustdidn’twanttodealwiththat

shit.Plus,Ididn’tneedtobesuckedupto.

“Winetastinghasalwaysseemedlike

suchafascinatingpursuit.Wouldyoushow

meafewofthebasics?Ignoreher.”Mimiges-

turedbackatthepool,whereIwasthrashing

andblowingbubbleslikeIwastryingtodrown

myselftoescapethebrown-nosing.

“I’dbehappyto.AslongasI’vegotyou

girls,mightaswellsendyoubacktoyourmom

withsomenewskills,right?”

Mimismiledgracefullyandwentinside

foraglass,andwhenIpassedbythekitchenon

thewaytotheshowerlaterIsawhernursinga

glassandhavingsomecheese,likeshe’dprac-

ticedwhenshethoughtnobodywaslooking.

ThelasttimeI’dbeeninMimi’sroom

hadbeenwhenshewasafreshmaninhigh

school.Ihadstillbeeninmiddleschool,butwas

suspendedforbeinghonesttomySocialStudies

teacher.MomandDadwereoutforthenight

ataweddingforsometangentialacquaintance,

promisingthey’ddealwithmewhentheyhad

freetime,andIhadthoughtitwouldbeapretty

goodopportunitytotryoutthataplanI’dbeen

thinkingabout.

Iwasinmypajamaskneelingonthetile

ofthekitchen,tryingtoseeifIcouldbreakthe

lockonthecutlerydrawerbarehandedwhen

Mimiputahandonmyshoulder.Itwasthe

firsttimeinawhilethatIhadseenherwithout

makeup.Shejustgesturedtomewithabagof

microwavepopcornandsaidIcouldpickthe

firstmovie.

WehadaprettybigTV,butitwasway

morefuntojustborrowDad’slaptopandlie

onMimi’sbedtogetherallnight.Itwasalways

atraditionofourstopickmovieswehated,so

I’dalwaysgowithrom-comsandshe’dfindthe

mostobscureandcornyhorrorshecouldfind.It

balancedoutthatway.

Wewereamovieandahalfinanda

Leprechaunserialkillerwasstalkingtheheroine

whenshefinallyasked.“Whatwereyoutrying

togettotheknivesfor?”

Ihatedthatshejustassumeditwasthe

knives,butIwasinadecentmoodsoIletit

go.“IthoughtitwouldbereallyfunnyifIhad

stigmatasinceMomwon’tletmegotochurch

anymore.”

Shejustlookedatmeforawhileand

sighed.“Don’tdothat.”Someoneinthemovie

shrieked.

“Whynot?”

“Becauseyou’dbehurtingyourself.”I

lookedbackatherwiththeblankestfaceIcould

muster.“AndJewishpeoplewouldn’tgetit.

Andtheycanclosewoundswithoutleaving

scarsnow.It’sabadplan.”

Ipoutedatherforshowinglogic.We

didn’ttalkmuchuntilthecreditsrolled,when

sheblurtedout,“Haveyoueverwantedtotalk

tosomeone?Liketherapy?”

“Why?”

“Becauseyou’renothappy,andifyou

openedupandtriedtochangeyoumightbe.”

“You’renothappyeither.”

“Notthepoint.Don’tyouwanthelp?”I

reallydidn’t,butInoddedanywaybecauseshe

wasclutchingherhandsandlookingsoearnest.

Iignoredherfortherestofthemovie.

TheonlyotherthingthatIheardabout

thatwasthenextmorning,whenIwassittingat

thetopofthestairswithsometeacupstothrow

andavoicesnappeddownstairs,“Juststop

encouragingher!She’snotgoingtobehelped.”

Irolledmyeyesandtossedacup.

Jasapparentlyhadanannualbigwine

tastingeventtorubhisprestigeinthefacesof

anyonewhohappenedtostopby,andMimi

haddeterminedthatshewouldteachherselfthe

basics.Thetableintheloungeweresooncov-

eredwithsamplingglassesandstrewnprinted

guidesonwinesandhowtheystackedup,oc-

casionallysupplementedbyacoupleofarticles

thatIhadfoundonhowtastingwasbullshit

designedtomakeyoulookclassy.Jaslether

tryeverythingshewanted.Ithinkhewantedto

demonstratethathecouldbeaclassyinfluence.

Aftergettingropedintohelpingquiz

MimiacoupletimeswhenJaswasbusy,Itend-

edtoavoidherwhenshewaslikethat.Shewas

waytoodeterminedandhappytosupport.

Afewdaysbeforetheannouncedgala,

IhadgottenboredandusedabaseballbatI’d

foundtosmashafewneglectedflowerpotsI

thoughtnobodywouldmiss,andwastryingto

findsomethingcreativetodowiththeshards

whenadrunkMimicamecryingintomybed-

room.

“IjustgotoffthephonewithMom,”she

sobbed,“andshesaidIcan’tgetmyGPSbe-

causeI’vebeendrinking.Shethinkshe’strying

tomakemeanalcoholic.Itwaspractice!”

“Okay,butlet’sbehonest,”Ireplied,

turningoverasharpsliverofclayinmyhands,

“Dadwasnevergoingtospendmoneyonthat

anyway.ThisiswhyIdon’ttryforanygood

behaviorawards.”

“Iwantedacar,butIdidn’twanttoask

foracar,soIaskedforsomethingforacarand

nowtheysaidno.Ithoughtweweresupposed

tomakefriends.Thenwhydidshesendus?Did

wantedmetothinkthiswasabadthing,butshe

neverhasappreciatedthevalueofanexcuseto

skipintroductions.Shestilldidn’tlookup.

IsatbackandthoughtofwaysthatI

couldgetweaponspastthetransitsecurity.Not

thatIeverwould,ofcourse,becausedespite

whatpeoplealwaysassumeIdon’tactually

wanttohurtanyone,butthesheeramountthat

theydotostopyoukindofmakesyouwantto

tryjusttoseeifyoucan.Iwasonastoneknife

insideawedgeheelwhentheloudspeaker

calledourstop,andIgotreadytoseeouruncle

formaybethethirdtime.

Itreallywasn’tthatlonguntilthetrain

stopped,butIglaredatMimianywaywhen

wedisembarked.UncleJasstoodwavingby

theentrancetothestation.He’dgrownan

irredeemablewhole-wheatmustache,andwas

shorterthanI’dthoughthewas.Mimipaused

forahalf-secondwhenshesawhim,herback

straighteningasmuchasheralmost-perfectpos-

turewouldallow.

Hegrinnedatherwhenshewalkedover.

“Miranda?Ican’tbelieveit!Thiswomancan’t

bemylittleMiranda.”Hetookhersuitcase,

whichwashalfthesizeofmine.Iwonderedif

heknewwedidn’tlikehim.

“It’ssogoodtoseeyou!It’sbeenwaytoo

long,”repliedMimiwithrehearsedtiming.She

hadher“pleaseloveme”smileon.

Nodding,UncleJasglancedatme.His

grinslippedabit.“Anna.I’vebeenhearingalot

aboutyou.”

“Awesome.Itprobablywasn’tanexag-

geration.”Dudedeservedfairwarning.I’mfully

awarethatI’mthemainreasonwealwaysneed

tofindanewrelativetospongeoffeveryyear.I

havetendencies.

Mimididn’tlikethistopic.Asweslipped

intohissportscar,meinthebackseat,sheshot

out,“Anyway,Ican’twaittoseeyourhome!

I’veheardit’swonderful.Mothertoldusabout

howpopularallofyoureventsare.”Iwondered

whereshe’dheardthat.

“Really?ShetellyouabouthowIshow

offmycollection?”Hesoundedkindofhopeful,

likehewasonlyhalfkidding.Iwonderedwhich

onewasmoredesperate.

Ididn’thavetoseeMimi’sfacetoknow

thatshewascornered.Ifyoudidn’tknowher,

youwouldn’tnoticeorexpectaslighthigh

pitchinhervoicewhenshesaid,“I’msure

thatit’swonderful,butI’mnotquitesurewhat

youmean.Mommustnothavementioned.Or

maybeshedid.Ithinkshedid.Art,right?Paint-

ings?”

“Wine,”hereplied,soundingalittle

deflated.Heprobablyhadgenuinelythought

she’dbeeninterested.Ikickedoutandbrought

myfootdowntorestinhiscupholder.Itsound-

edlikesomethingsmallinsideitcracked.“What

thehell,kid?”

“Sorry,stretching,”Ireplied.

ForaslongasIcanrememberthose

wereourtalents.Iwasalwaysgoodatbreaking

things,andMimiwastheabsolutebestwhenit

cametodisappointingpeople.Wewerecomple-

mentarylikethat.

IthinkIfirstrealizeditwhenveryearly

on,afterherFirstCommunion,Momhadspent

hourspickingoutherdress,longandwhite

andperfectandpurelikeatissuebeforeyou

blowyournoseinit.Momhadthrownahuge

partytomakesureallourrelativescame,and

Dadhadhiredaprofessionalphotographer

whoseemeddeterminedtocatchMimiposing

witheverygrown-upthere,andMimirefused

toevensitdownincasethefabricgotwrinkled.

Iwaspayingmoreattentiontotheblue-frost-

edcakeandfacepaintsandagaggleofkids

whowereallegedlycousinswithabigmuddy

yardtorunaroundwiththemin.Allthrough

it,Mimijuststoodaroundinthemiddleofthe

adultsandposedforallthephotographsthey

wanted.

AfewdayslaterMomlecturedherfor

notsmilingenoughinanyofthepictures.

Twoyearslater,whenitwasmyturn,I

dodgedthatbulletbeforeitwasevenfired.The

morningofmyceremony,beforeweleftforthe

church,Isquirtedallofthefoodcoloringwe

ownedupanddownmynewdress.Itwasred

andgreenandblue,splotchyandrandom,and

itmixedtoanorganiccoffeebrowninplaces

andwasabsolutelyperfect.Myhandswere

stainedfordays.Ididn’thavetotakeanypic-

tures,butIgrinnedlikethedevilthewholeday.

Coincidentally,afewmonthslaterMimi

andIweresentawayforthesummerforthe

firsttime.

Ididn’twanttoadmitit,butJashada

reallynicehouse.Itwasoncethemainhouseat

anoldevilplantationfarm,butallthathadgone

toseedawhile.Theforestwastryingtocreep

backintowherethecropshadbeen,andifyou

wanderedforabityoucouldfindtheremaining

scrapsandcornerstonesofoldbuildingsthat

hadbeenworndownbytime,ruinedbyneglect

betterthananywayIcould’vecomeupwith.I

likedtojustwanderaround,swatmosquitoes,

andadmiretheloss,ploddingaroundbarefoot

onpricklygrassuntilmymouthgotdryand

stickyandmybackwasslickwithsweat.He

evenhadapoolrightnexttothecellarentrance

thatyoucouldjumpinfullyclothedwhenthe

heatgottobetoomuch.Ikindoflikedit.

“Doesthatmeanthatyou’llbehaveyour-

self?”Mimiaskedmehopefully,sittingonthe

sideofthepoolwhileIsplashedinsaidpool.

“Ofcoursenot.Mimi,hehasamustache.

Pleasehavesomestandards.”

“He’snice.He’souruncle.He’staking

careofus.He’sbarelyevenaroundmostdays.

You’reyou.Justpleasemakeaneffortnotto

be.”

“Youkindofsuck,youknowthat?”

Ijustfuckup?”Shewasholdingherheadinher

handsandsnifflingabitoneachword.Idecid-

edthatshewasareallysuckydrunk,andpulled

herbyherhandstositnexttomeonmybed.I

heldhercloseandrubbedherbackwhileshein-

coherentlybabbledaboutloveandappreciation

andeffortandallthoseotherthingsI’venever

reallygotten.Ihopedthatshe’dgottenthis

drunkoffofallofthereallyexpensivewines.

Shewasrubbingathereyeswhenshe

finallysaidsomethingcoherent.“Canyougive

meanexcusetomissthetasting?Ipromised

UncleJasper,butMomsaidI’mtooyoung.”

“FuckMom.”

“Please.I’lldosomethingniceforyou.Ill

gettherapyforyouifyoudon’tmindorwhat-

everhorriblethingyoucanthinkofifyoudo.

Please.”

Mimireallywasdrunk.Thetherapy

schemehadbeenabandonedyearsagowhen

Daddeclaredtherewasnoreasontospend

moneywhenIhadtheoptionofjustgetting

overitmyself,andsheknewthatIneverreally

wantedanythingfromher.ButIdigress.When

haveIeverturnedherdownwhensheaskslike

that?

Ihadn’tactuallybeendowntothecellar

beforethenightprecedingthetasting.Butoh

well.Itwasanexceptionallydarkandbrown

roomofwoodandconcrete,withtheonelight

bulbneartheentrancegivingoffasepialight

thatmademyshadowlookdarkblue.Itwas

cooldowntheredespitetheheatthathadper-

meatedeveryothercorneroftheplantation,and

asorganizedasalibrary,withbottlesstored

byvintageandlabelandtype,nestedsafelyin

wineracksthatwerefulltothebrim.

Iselectedabottleatrandom,drawing

itslowlyanddeliberatelyoutofitsplacelike

Excaliburbeforelettingitdroptotheconcrete

groundwithacrashmuffledbythesplashof

maroonwinethatspilledoutlikebloodand

coveredthefloorandthesharplittleremnants

ofshatteredglass.Ihadn’tputonanyshoesso

Icouldfeelthewineasitsplashedacrossthe

floortoreachthesideofmyfoot,lappingatits

bottom.

Idroppedanother.Ididn’tthinkIeven

reallyneededthebat,becauseitwasfunto

watchhowtheyalllookeddifferentwhenthey

fell,redwineandwhitewineandthekindwith

therabidlyfoamingbubblesthatmixingonthe

floortomakeanicerosecolor,onethatstained

myfeetasIwalkedoveritevenmorethanthe

bloodfromtheglassIhaddecidedtoignore,

buttheremusthavebeenathousandbottles

andjustfallinggotboringwhenyouknewthere

wasthatsatisfactionawaitingyou,oftaking

somethingheavyinyourhandsandswingand

watchingassomethingshattersagainstyour

touchandspillsoutontothefloorlikepainton

amasterwork.

IdecidedthatIlovedMimi.

Timestartedtoblendlikethebloodand

wineandglasssplintersonthefloor,andmy

armsweresorefromsmashingthebatagain

andagain.WhenIfinallygottothelastbottle,

awhitewinewithaFrenchname,Iuncorked

itandtookaswigjustforthehellofit.Ittasted

terriblybitter,withanaftertastelikecoughsyr-

up,soIpoureditoutbeforethrowingtheempty

bottlebehindmyshoulderandjustlisteningto

itcrackapart.

Myhandshadbeenstainedpurpleat

somepoint,andmyshirtandshortsandfeetas

well,andIwasfinallystartingtofeelthecutson

thebottomofmysoles,soIwentoutthrough

theoutsideentranceandstoodbythepool.I’d

thoughttothrowamatchdownafterme,but

apparentlywinedoesn’tburnthatwellatroom

temperaturesoIjustletitbeanddippedmy

poorachingfeetinthewater.

Iwaslyingonthelawn,waitingforDad

tocomeandpickusup.ApparentlyIwasin

bigtroublethistime,likeIhadn’tbeenbefore.

Thatwasinteresting,atleast.Jasrefusedtoeven

lookatmewhenhemadesurethatwehadall

ourstuff.Iwouldmisshishouse.Mimihad

doneherbesttoapologizeformyout-of-control

behavior,wringingherhandsenoughtomake

mewonderifthey’dgetcallused.Sheseemedto

havegivenupnow,though,asshestoodatthe

endofthedrive,lookingoveratthedirection

Dadwouldbecomingfrom.

“Theyhereyet?”Iaskedher.

“Doesn’tlooklikeit.Probablytenmin-

utes,”shereplied.Whensheturnedtolookat

meInoticedthatshehadn’tputanymakeupon.

IconsideredthatavictoryasIwaitedin

thesilenceofthetenminutesshehadtothank

me.

A Fresh CoatKatherineQuinn

Istandinthedownstairshallwaystaringattheempty,nakedroom.

Thecouchismissing,andthetableisgone—theonewhereIspelledmynamewrong

andyoustuckapieceofgumunderthechair.

ThesmelloffreshpainthitsmeeventhoughIwastheonewhopaintedthewalls:they’rebare

withouttheBarbiestickerIspackledoverandthemessageswewrotetooneanother.

Ipaintedthemoverandoveragain.

Ipaintedoveremptybottles,blankstares.Ipaintedovermidnightphonecalls,raisedvoicesandwordsIdidn’tmean.Ipaintedoverthebridgethatcollapsed,whereweroadourbicyclesyearsago.

IpaintedthemoverandoveragainButstill—

Myunsaidwordsareseepingthrough.

Stock image courtesy of Billy Alexander and brandon818 at www.freeimages.com

Cleaning Out My Aunt’s Crashed Car

LaurenBlauchowaik

YouknownowthatcarcrashesDonotalwayssmelllikemarijuana.

Theycansmelllike

Anything–notalwaysyourfamilialshame.ButYoudidnotknowthatthenasyouscraped

Backthesmokefromtheclothseats,Nineyearsoldandcounting

Cigaretteslike

Secondsbetweenemptypromises.Dear Auntie,youasked,why so sick?

Butsheslipsyouatwenty–medicineforMedicine,apactthedevilwouldcreate.Yourhands

Wrinkled like

TwistedmetalwhenyouReachedforthepipe,junkyarddogs

BarkingsnappingbeggingjustOnemorelight.Untoldnurseryrhymes

Lostlike

SmokeoutthewindowonthatfineSummerdaywhenyouheldthatPipeandlearnedaboutdimebags

AndpillsandruininglivesInthedrippingsofintegritymixedwithtaillights.

AndlateryouheldthephoneinYourhand,ninefourteeneighteen

Years old and dyingToscreamthatyouneverwantedtoknowAcarcrashcouldsmelllikemarijuana.

LOLITA FROM FEATURED

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guyen

Shooting comes easily to him. Doesn’tmatter thefirearm–DesertEagle,AK-47,someoldpawnshopsniperrifle–orwhoheis–theboyinlove,theweaponhebecame,orsomemessedupversionofthemanin-between.Anytimeheholdsagun,thoughneverletitbesaidhedidn’tknowhiswayaroundabowandarroworsometactical combat knives, his body automaticallyknowswhattodo.Steady,aim,pullthetrigger.It’soddlycalming,butthisiswhatheknows.

He’sheardoftheexactnessofscienceandnumbers.They’rereliable.There’salwaysanan-swer.Youjusthavetofindit.Hethinkshisfixa-tionwithshootingisexactlylikethat.Heknowsevery timehe looks through the scope or aims

at someone’shead that in thedistance, the tar-getwillfall.Die,probably.Notthemostpositiveoutlook,butthisiswhatheknows.Andforthepasthowevermanyyearssuspendedinastateofreality,conditioning,andgods,allhe’severhadiswhatheknows.

What he knows is this: twenty-sevenyearsold,fallinginandoutofconsciousnessintheicecoldground,buthisbodycompletelyonfirefrompain,bloodandbrokenbones.Whatheknowsiswakingup,notrememberingwhoheis,nothavingonememorytocallhisown.

What they tell him is that he’s a herowhoescapedwithonlyhis life,and theyask if

CASTOR AND PULLOXEvelynHo

hewould like tocontinue toserve thecountry.Whattheytellhimis,“Sayyes.”Whattheytellhimis,“Herearethetargets.”

Andwhathe says after the nightmare isoveris,“Itwasn’tyourfault.I’mhereforyou.”

Whatitmeansis…Whatitmeansis…

* * *

“My, aren’t you a pretty dame?”

The woman turns and gives him an once-over. Next to her, her friends giggle. She raises her eyebrows and he gives her his most disarming smile while he waves down the bartender. “A Manhattan please and a Sidecar for the doll.” The bartender goes to pull out two glasses and sets to working on the cocktails. He turns back to the woman. “And does the pretty girl have a name?”

“Virginia,” the woman introduces. She can’t be older than him, possibly younger. Her face is so full of life, so eager. As the bartender sets down their drinks, Virginia comments, “You look like a soldier.”

“So I am.” He winks and adds, “Special forc-es,” in a whisper. Then he raises his drink and she follows suit. “To the end of the war,” he toasts. He shoots her group of friends a wink too and they giggle once again.

One hour later, he’s gone, she’s dead and Vir-ginia’s father, a weapons supplier, understands the message being sent.

“Well done,” his handler tells him after that first mission since he’s been brought back from ice. He feels no pride. It is just a job and he is doing his duty as a soldier. This is what he was born for. This is what he was made for. “We will proceed in your training.”

* * *

Whatheknowsisthis:howtofight,howtoshoot,wherethepressurepointsare,howtokillamaninlessthan30seconds.Whatheknowsisturninghisheadatthelastminuteandfeelingthatfearflareupashepullshisgunoninstinct.He’samileawayandadamnol’handgunain’tgonnacutit,butheshootsanyway,becauseifhedoesn’t then…Then…Then themanwould’vebeenkilled…wouldhave…No,no,NO!

No.

Lookthroughthescope.Lineupthecross-hairs.Donotthinkofanythingelse.Shoottheas-signment.

* * *

FILE CODE: YNVJA3K

CODENAME: CASTOR

NAME: [REDACTED]

UPDATE: Weapon CASTOR retains basic combat functions. Skills include operating all fire-arms, hand-to-hand combat, fluency in English and passable German. Proceed in training of tactical skills and language abilities (Russian, French, Italian, Japa-nese, Mandarin) while specializing combat abilities.

UPDATE: In the most recent sniping mis-sion, Weapon CASTOR showed signs of deteriorating programming. Authorization given to increase desen-sitizing methods in conditioning. Currently shows no other signs of memories returning. Precaution taken to erase emotional dependence.

UPDATE: Reprogramming and condition-ing efforts successful. Continue close monitoring of mental, emotional and physical states. Authorization granted for Weapon CASTOR to be deployed in only the most sensitive of missions. Will be kept in mental stasis when not use in order to ensure maximum, effi-cient utility and prevent memory resurfacing.

* * *

Whatheknowsisthis:lovedividesloyal-ties,compassionisforchildren,andheisthebestatwhathedoes.Whatheknowsisthis:assassin,killer, shadow,ghost, efficient,get itdone,andnoquestionsasked.

* * *

Somewhere in China, a young girl runs bare-foot down the dirt road, bits of broken beer bottles and dog shit sticking to her feet. Before she can fin-ish shouting out “ye gou,” he shoots her in the back. She’ll die slowly and painfully by bleeding out – the poor skinny girl.

His destination is the house at the end of the poor excuse of a street. The front door is in shambles, the windows cracked. What is left of the glass panes

are covered in mud and grime. He slips inside the door like an uninvited spirit and stares down the old, frail man he has been ordered to kill.

“Ye… gou…” The old man rasps. Red pools and trickles down his face, courtesy of a .22 caliber bullet.

He moves north and somewhere in Russia, a house burns down. Accidental fire the neighbors say. The old woman left the gas stove on and it caught fire. Of course, what really happens is something she will take to her grave. She spends the last moments of her life staring at the face of an old acquaintance, one she thought was long dead, pleading, “Nyet tovarisch, nyet!”

After his business in St. Petersburg is done, he travels west into France and poisons a man in his sleep. “Fantôme,” he is called as he slips in and out of the shadows. “Fantôme,” the old man gasps as he’s suffocated to death. “Fantôme,” the orderlies say. They give him a proper burial, but there’s nothing dignified in a dying madman, even if he was a war veteran.

His final assignment is a former MI6 officer for the United Kingdom. She lives with her grand-daughter in the countryside of Wales. When he tracks her down, she is waiting for him alone with an array of drinks.

“I always prayed you were alive,” she gravels as he approaches silently from behind. “Followed the trail you’ve been leaving, found out what they did to you, what no ordinary person can undo. Thought, ‘I didn’t quite pray this much.’”

He rounds her and he knows he should put a bullet between her eyes, blowing her brains out.

Her eyes flash to the alcohol on the table. “Pick your poison,” she tells him and he understands. He pours a glass of red wine and tips in a few drops of an extra something else. “Don’t remember you ever hav-ing class,” she laughs in spite of the situation. “You hated wine. Always whiskey and romancing dames, you were.” He hands her the glass and she takes a sin-gle sip. “But you were always his.”

He does not understand, makes it a point to try not to.

“Zhang in China, he called you wild dog.” Her breath slows and her words slur together. “Sharapova

still called you comrade.” Slower still. “And Moreau said you were a ghost. This is my word for you...” De-spite the fast-acting poison flowing through her aged body, her last word is clear as day.

“His.”

* * *

What he knows is this: thirty-four (orninety, or two hundred, or a thousand) yearsoldandcalleduponforyetanotherassignment.Howmanyyearshavepassedsincethelasttimehewasaware,heisn’tquitesure.Hemightthinkand feel thirty-four, but his face looks twen-ty-seven.Hethinkshe’ssecretlyolder,butthat’snotforhimtodecide.Hedoesnotdecide.

This time his target is amanwho lookslikehe steppedoutof anAbercrombie catalog,defined muscles in all the right places, strongjawline,andstyledblondhair.Theman’shand-someashell,actuallykindofhot,anddefinite-lytheclosesthe’severseentoaGreekgod.Thecodename for the target is Pollux. He’s a warherooftheenemy,hishandlerstellhim.Heisadangeroussoldierandmustbeeliminated.

* * *

What his handlers want is a public execution. They want to make an example of Pollux – that no one is safe from them and no one will ever escape them. Their defeat may be crippling, but it is not total, and they will always have pieces to play on the chessboard.

He has no opinion. He is trained to have no opinion on the matter. He only obeys.

The job is easy enough. First he sets video and audio feeds on loops and then knocks out all of the rooftop guards. Down below, Pollux is making a speech about freedom, brotherhood, faith, and moun-tain of enemy nationalistic bullshit he doesn’t have time for. Instead, he raises his rifle, aims, smirks and fires. Quick and clean, the bullet sails through feet of air…

And past Pollux’s left ear, burying itself into the glass panel of the building behind him. He missed.

He never misses.

Immediately, his target reaches up to his ear. The bullet barely grazed him, not enough to hurt, but

enough to alarm all of the agents at the press confer-ence. In an instant, they swarm Pollux, trying to cart him off to a safe house. Reporters press forward like vultures, eager to get a scoop on the action.

Watching the chaos unfold below, he curses himself for his one mistake in years of missions and ditches the sniper rifle on the roof, opting for the knives strapped to his leg and the handguns strapped to his hips. Up above, helicopters have already converged, searching for the rooftop sniper.

In a flash, he pulls out three grenades and hurls each one of them at the choppers with deadly aim and velocity. The crafts explode in midair, pelting debris into the crowd below. Everyone scatters and the helicopters crash into some of the buildings, including the one he was just standing on top of. But no matter, he’s long since disappeared into the streets below.

Around Pollux, the agents quickly drop like flies, felled by bullets. Some of them have knives stick-ing out of their bodies. He hurls his last knife at Pol-lux’s neck while the man is still turned. At the last possible moment, Pollux whirls around and plucks the knife right out of the air by the handle like he’s grab-bing a drifting feather. Then the knife clatters to the concrete as the man drops his mouth open in surprise. Pollux says something that he can’t quite make out, but it sounds like music to his ears.

For a moment, it feels like he’s frozen in the snow all over again, trying to fight his way into the realm of the living. Then he regains his senses and launches himself at his target. So be it that he has no weapons left on him, no more bullets to spare. He’s taken men down with nothing but his bare hands and this guy might have some tricks up his sleeve, but it’s not Pollux that’s the best. It’s not him that never loses.

But the fight is evenly matched. Pollux parries and blocks each hit like he knows what’s coming, but occasionally, they do each land a fist or a kick on each other. That musical word Pollux keeps saying con-stantly rings in his ears. He doesn’t understand why, doesn’t understand what it is or what it might mean.

Then all of a sudden, Pollux speaks again. That same musical singing. And again and again and again. The next thing he knows, both his arms and pinned down and he’s got an arm pressing against his throat. He stares up at his target, eyes icy cold but blazing with fierceness. He moves his legs to throw Pollux off, but he can’t fight the weight.

His target is crying – weak, pathetic, plead-ing and crying – and he keeps saying that disarming word. He won’t stop and it’s suddenly too much for him to handle. That word, that word, that word. He belatedly realizes it’s a name that Pollux is crying out. It’s all too much, too much. He wants him to stop. He needs the man to stop and…

And, and, and…

…It all comes rushing back to him, just like the wind did on the day he fell.

* * *

Whatheremembersisthis:whenhewasthirteenyearsoldhemeta strangegoldenboywith the shyest little smile, mysterious writ-tenaroundthecurveofhis lips.Thenwhenheturnedsixteen,movedoutoftheorphanageandinwiththeboytosplit therent,hefell in love.Whenhewas eighteen, hewent to church andpretendedhedidn’t feela thing.Cometwenty,hehadareputationaroundtownasaskirt-chas-er.

Whatheremembersisthis:whenhewastwenty-threeyearsold,warragingoninEurope,heputonabravefaceandkissedtheboywhonever reallyneededhim,but lethim tagalonganyway. He tasted like ambrosia and nectar.Thenattwenty-four,theywentofftowartogeth-er, agents for a special team, trained to be thebest.

Andwhatheremembersisthis:whenhewas twenty-seven, he was backed to the edgeofthemountainbytheenemy.Whentheledgecrumbledbeneathhim, he lost his balance andplummeted towards the snow-filleddepths be-low.Heheard theboy, theman’s, screams andwhatsoundedlikeaprayertogodsupabovetosavehim–“please save him!”

* * *

He screams and it’s gold and chains and ev-erything.

* * *

Whathelearnsisthis:mendonotruletheworld.Thatbeliefholdsanarrogancethatcanbelikenedtothegods–whoareexactlythebeingsthat rule theworld. But the gods have always

been arrogant and men were created in theirlikenesssotheideaisn’tthatfarfetched.Withaworldnowruledbyscienceandcalculationsofprobabilities,menhaven’tneededgodsforcen-turies,sinceevenbeforehefell.

Now there are champions, certain indi-vidualsselected,blessedsomewouldsay,bythegods.Historywouldhavecalledthemheroes–mennotexactlyof thegodsbutgrantedpowerandstrength,allowedauthority inbattle,givenpositionsofleaders.AndPollux,well,apparent-lyhe’stheirfavorite.They’dneverhavegrantedhisprayerotherwise.

* * *

He looks different now that he has the time and permission to properly inspect himself in the mirror each morning. It’s not the military haircut, shorter than he had it when he was in the War. It’s not the sharper angles of his face accentuating his fiercer eyes. It’s the scar on his right arm he got from stupidly throwing himself in front of Pollux during a partic-ularly rough firefight back during the war, the scar that’s not there.

In fact, none of his scars remain, not the ones he got from various missions after he fell, not the ones from back alley fights when he was a kid. It’s the pain-ful truth. He’s changed more than once, changed into something that doesn’t resemble who he first was.

It leads to days when he doesn’t know who he is and times when he looks down at trembling hands and fingers that don’t seem to belong to him. That’s usually when he introduces his fist to the nearest wall, table, chair, stove – you name it. There’s no pain from the punch and when he pulls away from splintered furniture, there are no scratches, no bruising. Not one sign to say that he can be broken.

The idea of him not being quite human – it’s worse than falling and being fashioned into a weapon. From being drafted into the army to being drafted into something bigger, “Champion,” he smirks to himself. “What an arrogant word.”

Despite everything, Pollux still looks at him with stars in his eyes. His face holds none of cyni-cism of longevity and all of the naiveté of an idiot. Of course the guy would think that his name as a magic word in a godly language he suddenly understands would solve everything. If there is anything that he

knows, it’s that the gods enjoy a good show from their champions. He isn’t alive because of some miracle or because their precious champion Pollux wished it hard enough; he’s alive because it’s amusing.

The amusement continues in a form of anoth-er assassination attempt nearly one month later. His former handlers aren’t happy about the failed mission and the supposed death of their ultimate weapon and best, most loyal agent.

In order to make it past the security, they send in a whole team. They storm into Pollux’s personal office – ten, fifteen, twenty top enemy agents swarm-ing the room. They’re not matched in his enhanced strength, but Pollux lacks agility in combat. Brute force is not the way for them to defeat these agents. He would know. He’d been one of them.

While Pollux is occupied slamming people against the wall, he instead wrenches opens the weap-ons crate. He empties a round of bullets from a hand-gun, easily taking out half of the agents. Then he goes for two knives and launches into the fight, moving with less strength, but a greater amount of finesse. The fight is over in less than five minutes.

He sees the first bullet before Pollux does and shoves him to the ground. The bullet buries itself in the wall of Pollux’s office. Without hesitation, he grabs one of the spare rifles and dashes to the win-dow. When he raises the gun, he sees the female sniper and all points of her exit, all the trajectories his bullet could take depending on where he shot.

He sees her fire another bullet.

As it sails towards him – chest,rightbelowthecollarbone,he predicts–he tells himself that this time it’s different. He’s not killing someone because he was ordered too. He’s doing this out of his own free will. No war, no conditioning, no gods. Just him.

It’s only ever been him.

Splat. The bullet lodges right where he knows it would.

Bang. He fires, not letting the blood blooming on his chest deter him.

The woman falls down the side of the building. He falls back into Pollux’s waiting arms.

* * *

What he knows is this: twenty-sevenyearsold,fallinginandoutofconsciousnessintheicecoldground,buthisbodycompletelyonfirefrompain,bloodandbrokenbones.

What he knows is this: thirty-four yearsold,brokenremnantsofamanheoncewasandtheweaponhebecame.

What he knows is this: he ismiles frombeing sane and he knows a hundred thousandwaystokill,butthatmeansahundredthousandwaystoprotect.

What he knows is this: the sharpness ofhisaimcomfortshim.

Stock image courtesy of Caroline Hoos and m4tikat www.freeimages.com

STAFF

ARTCHAIR:JoseRiveraCarolineYouseJuliaBradshaw

Madeline Wheeler

LAYOUTCHAIR:HillaryJackson

SiYeonLeeDaelNorwitzPRESIDENT:AlessandraBautze

VICE-PRESIDENT:ChristinaLukSECRETARY:KateOrgera

POETRYCHAIRS:AnnieChoandChristinaLuk

DaelNorwitzKatherineQuinn

EvelynHoConstanceKaitaLauraEwen

HannahIngersollLaurenAltus

PROSECHAIRS:RuthiePortesandLucyMiao

AbigailSussmanChaconneMartin-Berkowicz

GulnarTuliHillaryJacksonJesseChen

KatieRobinsonKatherineSegerLydiaYoungmanMadeline WheelerRuthMarieLandry

ARTCHAIR:JoseRiveraCarolineYouseJuliaBradshaw

Madeline Wheeler

LAYOUTCHAIR:HillaryJackson

SiYeonLeeDaelNorwitz

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THOROUGHFARE: Spring 2014