Green Blotter 2020 by Lebanon Valley College

Green Blotter 2020

Green Blotter is produced by the Green Blotter Literary Society of Lebanon Valley College, Annville, Pennsylvania. Submissions are accepted year round. Green Blotter is published yearly in a print magazine and is archived on the following website. For more information and submission guidelines, please visit: www.lvc.edu/greenblotter

GREEN BLOTTER EDITORS

ASSISTANT EDITORS

Managing Paige Bryson ’20 Art

Michaela May ’20

Megan Finlan ’21

Lauren Swisher ’22

Poetry

Rachael Speck ’20

Kayla Heiserman ’20

Marah Hoffman ’22

Leila May ’22

Prose

Lauren Sigmon ’20

Lauren Walters ’22

Design

Michaela May ’20

Website

Bethany Kristich ’21

Media

Raeann Walquist ’20

Kayleigh Johnson ’22

READER BOARD

Ann Abramczuk ’21 Cassie Flocken ’22 Kelly Fraine ’23

Jade Hunsicker ’23 Kayleigh Johnson ’22 Autumn Light ’20

Josh Hildebrand ’22

Melissa Sorenson ’20 Bethany Zatto ’22 Erin Ziegler ’22 Cassie Martin ’22

Faculty Advisor Sally Clark ii

CONTENTS Kaycie Wolper

Keychains and Crayons

Kate Netwal

Cityscape

Chiara Meyers

Countdown

Ayesha Asad

Dandelion

Cassie Flocken

Untitled (cover piece)

Yelisaveta McCurdy

The Babies

Nicole Flohr

Flowers in San Marino

Brynn Richer

Pancakes in Mourning

Cassie Flocken

Untitled

Anna DeBraber

Adolescence

Brooke Stanish

The Supersymmetry of Dirt

J. Elliott Toren

The Night Warden

Mike Berkowitz

Untitled

Jacy Zhang

Off I-460

Callan Latham

Paklenica

Rebecca Jones

Tomorrow Can Wait

Mike Berkowitz

Untitled

Brooke Stanish

A Remembrance of Carving

Anna Marie Hockman

Torso

Emily Schoenberger

November

Mike Berkowitz

Untitled

Anna DeBraber

Timber

Kate Netwal

Electric

Ayesha Asad

a flock of brothers huddle

Cassie Flocken

Untitled

77 iii

Dear Reader, In these uncertain times, many are turning to the arts as a creative outlet or for a moment of solace. We normally would go to the home of our advisor and bond over homemade breakfast while putting our magazine together as a group. Instead, we were forced to go in a different direction because of the rapidly changing circumstances. On our very last day on campus, the editors and assistant editors gathered in a classroom to bring this magazine to life. Although this was not an ideal circumstance, we were able to work together to create something for everyone to enjoy. In these submissions, we found moments of hope in difficult times. Though these pieces were submitted long before all of these changes took place, they seem to resonate now more than ever. Reading and experiencing artwork can offer a moment of peace in a chaotic time. We hope this magazine can provide these moments for you as they do for us. Sincerely, The Editors

Keychains and Crayons Kaycie Wolper

The window of the store was so dusty and foggy that it hardly let any light through, much less showcase the wares inside. Toby stopped at the scent of wood and something that reminded him of his grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s backyard, that pulled him out of his daze as he strode down the sidewalk. The sign above the door, which creaked quietly as it gently swung, gave little information to what was inside, simply reading Trouvaille. Anxious to get away, Toby entered. He was surprised to find that the inside of the store felt very much alive. A tri-colored cat rose from its puddle on the floorboards. It meowed indignantly at Toby and leaped on top of the shelf out of sight. Plants were hanging from the ceiling, all green and looking quite healthy. They split the space between an assortment of lamps that cast dim, warm spots of light. No music was playing, but it was like the room was humming to itself in a unique little way. Quiet creaks and tinkling metal filled the dusty air with music like Toby had never heard. Filling the floorspace were bookshelves. None of them appeared to match, but they were all similarly stuffed edge to edge. The books seemed randomly placed, and as Toby approached, he saw some were even upside down or facing the wrong side out. A copy of 112 Traditional Recipes was stuffed next to what appeared to be a half-filled fuzzy purple journal. Toby figured it must be some kind of used bookstore, though how it managed to stay afloat was currently unclear to him. When he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, the metal ring of Tobyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s keychain pressed into his knuckles. He breathed in a swirl of dust and coughs, brow furrowing in frustration. 1

The sound of something being pushed across the floor of the shop pulled him further towards the back. He passed what must be the front desk, as the surface held a ledger and oldfashioned feather quill. Turning the corner around a shelf with chipped pink paint, he saw a girl stepping up a ladder. Her hair filled with so many baubles that Toby was afraid for a second she would fall off, top-heavy. But she moved up with the steadiness of a dancer across the stage. Toby stepped on a particularly vocal floorboard, and the girl turned. “Oh, hello,” she said, the ornaments in her hair jingling. “May I help you with something?” It was a reasonable question for a retail employee to ask. Yet Toby had never been so stumped. “I think so?” He settled on. The girl stared at him intently for a moment before jumping down off the ladder. “Yes, I think so too. I’m Sylvie. Come with me?” She took off down the aisle, leaving a baffled Toby in her wake. When he caught up with Sylvie around the opposite corner, she had the cat in her arms. “Have you met Bixie?” she asked. Bixie was purring so much he was almost vibrating and pushed his head into her shoulder blissfully. “No, not yet,” Toby answered. He lifted a hand to pet the cat, but Bixie turned to him with the same disgust as when he entered. “Oh, hush now,” Sylvie said as if Bixie had audibly complained. She tossed him with ease

onto the top of another bookshelf; this one appeared to have been organized in rainbow order. “So, did you come in for a book, or are you just browsing today?” she asked. “Browsing, I guess. I’ve never been in before,” Toby told her. He felt strangely embarrassed by this. Toby had lived in this town his whole life, and if he was honest, he didn’t even know Trouvaille existed until this afternoon. “I know,” she said. Toby noticed her hands and fingers never stopped moving. She was now spinning one of a series of rings hanging low on her necklace. “So, is this a second-hand shop?” Sylvie laughed. “You could say that. Trouvaille takes books that aren’t wanted anywhere else,” How odd, Toby thought, like the books they stocked were refugees from hostile libraries or something. “So… where did all of these come from?” Toby started down the next aisle, and Sylvie matched his pace. “Oh, all over. We get books that libraries haven’t lent out in years, yard sales, those dusty corners between the bed and the wall. Anywhere, really. If they don’t have a good home, we find them eventually.” Toby laughed. “Nice. Like an orphanage.” “The sad part is that most of the books have passed through their home. But for one

reason or another, they got passed by or left behind. Until they find their way out, we never get rid of any,” Sylvie continued. “I can see that.” Toby stopped to examine the next shelf. Three copies of a book he had read for middle school were stuffed next to a mystery novel he thought his mom used to have. Toby had the feeling that six months ago, he would have been on his way out the door already. Six months ago, he probably wouldn’t have stepped in, to begin with. But since the letter he received earlier that day sealed the fears that had been bubbling up all through his past semester, Toby welcomed the feeling of being surrounded by nothing familiar. Familiar was what pushed him into that school - and maybe it played a part in him failing out of it as well. “Is there any organization in here?” Despite apparently not being able to pull himself together enough to pass his classes, Toby was generally very neat and methodical. The one uneasy feeling he got from the store was that everything was truly as haphazard as it looked. “Of course! Over here, we have books with names written in them, and here we have ones with dog-eared corners. Down there are books that were left on our front stoop and over by that plant that looks like it’s growing feet? Those are all the second editions in series with three or more total.” Sylvie continued down the aisles, pointing out shelves each more absurd than the last. At some point, Bixie joined their party, keeping one of his two-toned eyes on Toby at all times. “And then on this shelf are books that used to be favorites, but then got abandoned. Over here -” “Wait,” Toby cut her off. On the contrary to looking annoyed, Sylvie looked at him with genuine interest. As if she was just waiting for him to stop her. 4

“How do you know they used to be someone’s favorite?” Sylvie smiled, and Toby was reminded of his elementary school teachers, the ones that you could tell absolutely loved what they did. “It’s easy once you look for it. The way the pages turn and how it smells. I can feel it when I hold it. It’s like there’s a little extra weight to it - like it has its own heart. Here, try it,” Sylvie plucked off a nondescript hardback, grabbed Toby’s hand, and placed the book in his palm. Maybe there was something in the dusty air, but Toby did feel something different about the book. He looked down and frowned. It no longer had its paper cover, so there was no writing on the front, but it felt familiar. Toby turned the book to see the spine, and could just barely read the title, the gold font had almost worn off. A memory tugged at him, just out of reach. “How much for this?” Toby asked. Sylvie was smiling, like she had known he was going to ask that. “Why don’t you come over to the desk, and we can talk about that.” She headed off back to the front of the store. Talk about it? Sylvie picked up the quill and started writing in the ledger. “All of our books cost something different. Sometimes it’s what you find at the bottom of your bag; sometimes it’s your best joke, so you see it all depends. Now that shelf…” Sylvie trailed off and started flipping through a leather journal produced from under a pile of what looked like dried rose petals. “… will be something you will be scared to leave behind. If you do not have it on you at the moment, we can hold merchandise for up to 36 hours.” Toby decided that when he got home, he was going to collapse in bed, and maybe he

would wake up back in his dorm, drowning in the textbooks that brought on this fever dream. Utterly baffled and unable to even think of what he could possibly produce that would fulfill such a ludicrous price, Toby pushed his hands back into his pockets, a habit he had carried for whenever he was anxious. His fingers brushed up again to his key chain. The keychain that previously held the key to the dorm he was no longer going back to. Toby pulled out the keychain and splayed it out on the desk. Sylvie looked at him, eyebrows raised, as if to say, well? Are you sure? Toby glanced between the keychain and the book in his hand. The memory of late nights and safe arms was coming together in his mind. Toby ran his thumb over the edge of the pages, the text flying. A splash of color caught his eye, and he turned back a few pages. The book’s illustrations were in black and white, but this one had been colored in with a gleeful hand. Toby remembered crying at the librarian’s desk, passing the book over, waiting for a harsh reprimand that would never come. The librarian had simply crouched down to his level, praised his choice of colors, and politely asked that next time he uses one of the coloring books found in the corner with the bean bag chairs and building blocks. “Will this work?” Toby asked, pushing the keychain across the desk. Sylvie picked it up and held it up as if inspecting it for authenticity. “This will do just fine,” Sylvie tucked the keychain into her own pocket and reached out to pet Bixie, who had just hopped onto the desk. He meowed at Toby again, but no longer with the enmity from before. As Toby turned to leave the shop, he saw the display window. Amazingly, from this side, it was crystal clear. Passersby bustled up and down the street, none with a glance to Trouvaille. He turned to ask Sylvie about this, but she was no longer at the desk. The shop looked just as it

had when he walked in - like it had been reset for the next lost soul to wander inside. Tobyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes had adjusted to the dim lanterns; the sun felt too bright when he crossed the threshold back outside. He flipped through the pages of the book again, heading back towards his house. His thumb traced the crayon drawing, the drawing he had made so long ago. Pockets feeling light, he thought maybe it was time to return to when those colors felt so important to put out into the world. ď&#x192;&#x152; trouvaille (n.) a valuable discovery, or lucky find; something lovely discovered by chance

Cityscape Kate Netwal

Countdow

Chiara Meyers

The street was eerily quiet. So quiet it was disconcerting. I shifted a little, trying to regain feeling in my left leg as discreetly as I could. The sensation of little needles stabbing through every muscle in my leg, the blood rushing to reclaim its territory, reminded me that I had been sitting in this uncomfortable position for close to 30 minutes. No wonder my leg was on fire. It was ironic that I had to sit in the tightest corner despite the fact that the building was completely and utterly empty, abandoned by the last vestiges of civilization to inhabit this hellhole. But those were the instructions. The building gave me the creeps. I had a hard time navigating through the jungle gym of wooden beams from the collapsed ceiling to get to my hiding spot. The windows were punctured with bullet holes, peepholes into the deserted street below. Shards of glass lay strewn about the

linoleum tiles like remnant confetti. Settling back into my cramped quarters, I turned my attention to surveying the street once more and, seeing nothing, checked my watch: 9:45. 15 minutes. The target would be stumbling down this way soon. He would get kicked out of his local haunt in around t-minus 10 minutes. Then he would return home, tripping over his feet and the litter. About five minutes after being thrown out, he would end up within my scope. Until then, I just had to lay in wait for my prey. I could feel the queasiness churning deep in my stomach.

Knock it off! I had put it off too long already. If I waited any longer, they would think I was chicken. Or worseâ&#x20AC;Śnot ready for initiation. I had worked too hard to be accepted, to find a group I could bond with, people I could refer to with that magical seven-letter word: FRIENDS. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t risk all that just because of a few damn butterflies. It was now or never.

The rain was coming down in icy sheets, making it harder and harder to discern shapes in the onslaught. The trash can at the far-left corner of the street was melding with the lamp post next to it. How will I get a good shot?

Stop! You just have to! You’re too far in. There’s no turning back. The rain’s heavy slaughter had driven the few passersby into the dilapidated buildings lining the narrow road, more foundations than actual structures, but shelter enough from the intense downpour. The street was barren. The alleys gaping abysses into the depths of the sinister webs of the downtown underworld. The rain drummed out a ferocious tune on the unfortunate cardboard box across from my hiding spot as the bullets of rain hammered upon the unsuspecting, defenseless, innocent–

STOP IT!!!! I checked my watch again: 9:55. Has it really been 10 minutes?? I gripped my 9MM tighter to calm the fidgety dance of my hands. 11

Five minutes. Five minutes. Five minutes! You can do this.

Kill someone?? C’mon. Don’t be the runt that they already think you are. You have to prove to them that you have what it takes. That you are just as committed, as loyal, and as willing as any of them to do what is necessary–

Is this really necessary??? He never caused me any problems. I don’t even know him. The rain had become a distant, monotonous drumming in the furthest reaches of my consciousness. Amidst the turmoil of my thoughts, I stared at the vague outline of the traffic light above the intersection. Through the violent haze, I could see the green light creating a halo of color in the storm, silently and insistently urging the watery descent. A noise at the far end of the street quelled my musings. I turned slowly to get a better view. The target approached, stumbling and mumbling incoherently. Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven. The symphony of rain was audible once more, gradually building with each slurred step the man struggled to take.

Six.

Five.

Four. I lined up my shot, dimly aware that the green light streaming from the intersection had turned a vibrant yellow. The procession continued. The orchestra stirred with the beginnings of the final crescendo.

Three.

Two. In one more desperate attempt to flee my responsibility, I looked to the sky, trying to find an answer. And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when I saw it.

A red halo oozing from the intersection, a river of blood dripping down to Earth. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fate. One. A dull sound reverberated through my ears. Then a splash.

Dandelion Ayesha Asad What thin seed plucked from its yielding stem like the gaseous stars balanced precariously above Earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head glimmers in the slick, darkened grass, flinching under brays and brackish peals and muddy soles, clasped in Crowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dark beak to perfume the gale? To be trodden upon, to wither, to flutter, to sail past choked trees and ashen sediment,

to witness Sun’s ephemeral warmth, to draw its last untainted breath – your journey is fossilized, preserved in the honeyed amber that outlives you. Let the raccoons scour, the blue-jays shroud, the chipmunks nick at chestnuts, the discarded golden thorns bellowing their existence. And yours, little spore, yours lies in your germination, hastened by the plump, childish fingers who pluck out your petals, your perfume, your precious stones – those things of beauty.

Untitled Cassie Flocken

The Babies Yelisaveta McCurdy Doctor… my…my baby... My babies…doctor…what’s wrong!? ...no…NO…NOO…NOOO!! Julie Simmons jolted out of bed. The babies. Julie padded down the carpeted hallway toward the soft, yellow light coming from the nursery. The glow was just enough for Julie to see James, Mason, and Tyler curled up next to each other in the crib. Smiling, the mother relaxed her tense shoulders as she watched the boys rest so peacefully. She returned to bed but doubted she’d get much sleep. Either way, she decided it was worth trying to get at least a couple more hours of rest. Noah turned as he felt her slipping back underneath the covers and put his arm around her, groggily asking if everything was ok. Julie replied “yes,” lying to her husband. Again. *BEEP *BEEP *BEEP The alarm went off at 6 a.m. like it did every morning, but Julie was already awake, reading a novel for the bi-weekly book club meeting she had that afternoon. Noah pressed the “stop” button on his phone, hopped up, and began getting ready for work. “How long have you been up?” He buttoned his favorite green shirt. “Not long,” she answered, continuing to look down at her book. “Did you sleep ok?” he pulled his long, gray pant legs on one by one. She didn’t reply. “Are you feeling ok this morning?” “Yep, I’m not sick anymore, Noah.” “I know that. Just, Julie… honey…” Julie looked up at her husband meeting his warm brown eyes 18

and intent stare, “I mean, are you ok? Are you still having dreams?” “Noah—” “You don’t see them, again, right?” The look of concern as he came over and sat on the bed next to her made Julie’s insides burn with panic, embarrassment, and fear. He hadn’t asked for months. Of course, he already knew about the pregnancies. Knew about the deaths. Knew about the babies. That’s why they had moved from Colorado to Maine in the first place—so that she could get away from it all. But how could she tell him what he didn’t know? That the babies followed her no matter where she went? “No, darling. I told you, I don’t see them. It’s over now. All of it.” Noah was hesitant, but after several long moments, Julie finally saw relief in her husband’s eyes. “I’m glad. I just want you to be okay. To be happy. You can tell me if you’re not. I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m fine. No need to worry. All’s well.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, then stood to his full height of 6’4” and resumed dressing himself. Another lie. The familiar wave of guilt washed over Julie as Noah kissed her a long good-bye. The garage door closed noisily as he drove off, and unable to concentrate on the sappy romance novel anymore, Julie climbed out of bed and opened the bedroom curtains. Outside, the November wind off the Atlantic blew across the backyard. Julie watched as each maple tree begrudgingly surrendered its orange and red leaves to the gusts, much like how her babies had been snatched from her. Complications. Damaged. Miscarriage. Three words. Three boys. All Lost. Could she ever let go? Julie stood at the window awhile, watching the autumn leaves in her yard fall one by one. One by one, tears inched down her face. Would she ever feel normal again? 19

*** Later that afternoon, Julie found herself cramped on the couch among three of the five other ladies in Margery Jennings’ living room. She was dressed in a flowy, patterned tunic top and a pair of loose-fitting pants. She hoped the others wouldn’t notice the weight she had put on in the last several weeks; sixteen to be exact. They didn’t. “Oh, Julie, you look wonderful,” Lori adjusted her Walmart t-shirt and silver-looking necklace a third time. “Why, Jules, did you hear that Trish across the street lets her kids eat chocolate any time they want?” Cara reached across the couch to grab her toddler who hobbled toward another child’s leftover meal. She lowered her voice, “I’d slap T. J. across the face if I ever saw him getting into the sweets cupboard.” “Billy!! Don’t hug mommy, I’ve got a new hairdo.” “Vanessa, I heard Peter is looking for a new job again. Did he check down at Dan’s lumber company?” “Wish my husband would look for a new job!” “Jemma, stop drinking that juice, you’ll get your dress all messy again, you naughty girl.” “Tommy, Tommy quiet down, Miss Julie doesn’t want to hold you. She doesn’t deal with little kids like you every day, remember?” It was always the same—a hectic lunch, a violent battle to put the children down for the nap, and then a gathering around Mrs. Jennings’ disastrous living room to sip tea, gossip, and perhaps fit in some time to discuss the book they were supposed to have been reading. Julie watched the others busily search the pages of Love in A-Minor for their favorite passages and noticed how all of them—Margery, Lori, Cara, Dannielle, and Vanessa—were the same, and so unlike her. 20

Dr. Terrance had suggested Julie find another literary group to occupy her time since she had been part of one before. “Interacting with women your age would be a good thing. You might just find someone you can relate to.” It was Noah who had found the “Reading Ladies of Camden, Maine” on Facebook and insisted she try it. How could he understand what it was like, though? This wasn’t the same as being a member of the University of Denver literary circle. These women were not Professor McKinnon or Dr. Amy Wentworth. This was a group of mothers, who had known each other for years, taking time to get together, read, socialize, and fawn over the fictional lives of characters they could only dream of being. Julie looked over at Danielle who held her sleeping son. Someone you can relate to, the doctor’s words echoed. Everyone knew Danielle had experienced a miscarriage a while ago, and Julie had thought about opening up to Danielle once, to ask her how she got through it. But Julie just couldn’t. Danielle was just like the rest. They were all alike: endlessly comparing their children; feigning prosperity, though none had a spare penny; and complaining about their husbands. Each went to the same Cut n’ Curl on Third, bought the same make-up from the dollar store, and fed their children the same generic-brand apple sauce. How could they be real mothers if all they did was worry about keeping up appearances and doing what everyone else did. Heaven forbid anyone deviate from the way they did things. These women found variance threatening and did all they could to eradicate it from their midst. As a woman from Denver able to afford two cars with a young, hardworking husband and no child, Julie wondered how she had stayed in these women’s good graces for six months already. If she wasn’t kicked out soon by Margery Jennings, the chieftain of this little clan, Julie contemplated leaving the book club on her own. She hated every minute of it—the hypocrisy, the smug looks, the treatment of the children. But most of all, Julie hated that, deep inside, all she wanted was to be just like them—normal. Why couldn’t she just be normal? *** When the meeting was over, everyone headed for the door. Julie tried to exit, but Margery, an 21

already rotund woman, bumped into her with a large, protruding stomach. Twins. Julie tried to push by but was aware that she needed to be careful with her own bump that was growing daily. Soon, she would not be able to hide it anymore. That was a problem for another day, though. For now, there was no getting around this human beanbag. Margery chuckled, awkwardly and unsuccessfully trying to shift around in the cramped entryway. Above the chatter of mothers and babbling toddlers, Margery voice rang out, “So, Julie, when will you and that husband of yours have a little one of your own on the way?” All turned their heads toward Julie. “I’m…I’m… not really sure at the moment.” “I mean I assume you want kids. I don’t know how it is for you, but we all love babies around here.” Did they, now? Is that why Margery herself had put her seven-year-old on a weight loss diet and slept through her infant’s hunger cries, forcing her husband to let the child suck on an empty water bottle most nights? Julie bent over carefully to grab her shoes. “Say, Julie,” Margery was eyeing her from the side, looking like a lopsided sea lion at the Denver zoo, “Have you put on a few pounds? You know, I found this excellent diet for keeping weight off. Of course, it’s for after you’ve given birth, but there may be some good tips for you in there, too.” “Oh, uhh, thanks, Margery,” everyone was listening. “If you wanted, I could give you some tips about ways to increase the probability that—” “Marge, was that the lemon chicken diet you were talking about?” Danielle stepped in front of Julie, simultaneously placing little Charlie in Margery’s arms so she could put on a large red coat, creating the perfect escape for Julie. All the way home, Julie felt them staring. Heard them whispering. Why didn’t Julie Simmons have children? Why didn’t the young, beautiful, unemployed woman not have a passel of little ones following 22

her about? Was there something wrong with her? Wrong with her husband? What was her story anyway? Their words stung. Those women couldn’t see her babies. The blue-eyed, puffy-cheeked boys who ran around in the yard, who ate lunch at her table, who rushed to her when they were scared at night. The women couldn’t see her precious little ones. But she could. *** The next morning, Julie woke up late. Noah had already left, and this time, Julie got up immediately and made herself a pot of coffee. She didn’t care what the doctor said about caffeine. She needed something to to help her keep up with the children today…The children? Julie, stop. You don’t have children. Don’t be stupid. What if Noah finds out? He’s already so worried. What if the book club ladies found out? She didn’t even want to think about that. Thank God she didn’t have to go today. Julie let out a heavy sigh and poured the steaming drink into a mug, then stirred in cream until the coffee was the color of her long, smooth hair. As she blew away the steam, Julie saw her tired blue eyes reflected in the liquid. Taking the mug to the kitchen table, Julie sat down and rested her free hand on the belly expanding underneath her gray nightgown. Fear gripped her throat. What if this one was like the other babies? How could she handle another one? Across the room, a smiling wedding picture stared back at Julie. Noah had to be worried, too. What must he think? How could she disappoint him again? Julie’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a gentle tug on the sleeve of her pink robe. It was James. He was so big now, almost seven years old. He had been her first. The boy curled up close to his mother as she hugged him. Soon after, she heard the pitter-patter of Mason and Tyler’s feet on the hardwood kitchen floor. The toddlers giggled, racing to see who could make it into Mommy’s lap first. Since Tyler was still an amateur walker, Mason beat him to it, leaving Ty plopped on the floor in his diaper, pouting. Julie hugged Mason, then stood, setting him down, and scooped Tyler up from the ground. Ty, who was about to turn two, gurgled with happiness and gave Julie a big, wet baby kiss on the cheek. She could cuddle him all day. 23

“How are you boys this morning?” she asked, sitting down again, Tyler in her lap. “Goooood!” Mason replied loudly, crawling up onto a kitchen chair. At five, he was already a busy morning monkey like his daddy. James stood by the sliding doors in the dining room, looking at the still leaves which covered the yard like a knitted afghan. “Can we go outside and build a leaf pile?” he asked. “I wanna go too, Mommy!” said Mason, as he stood up on the seat. “I too! I too!” exulted Tyler with uplifted hands. Julie looked at the boy in her arms and playfully shook him in the air. “You too?!” she said, mimicking his tiny voice. “Ok, we can go outside together, but let Mommy get dressed first.” All three boys nodded, then promptly vanished. Julie was once again left alone in the kitchen, with a full mug and empty arms. Already accustomed to their random appearances and disappearances, Julie finished her coffee, then picked out a pair of sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. Within just a few minutes, Julie was tying her tennis shoes in the living room, getting ready to watch her boys play in the yard. Maybe I can get James to help me rake. How nice it had been to feel them each in her arms that morning. To hear them call her “Mommy.” She thought about Margery Jennings and how her twins apparently kept kicking each other in the womb. She had never felt her babies. Not once. Julie pushed the thought aside and headed out the back door. Her boys were already chasing each other among the old maple and evergreen trees, kicking up leaves as they went. The wind blew, and the hoods on their little yellow, orange, and red wind breakers waved around behind them. Her little leaflets. “Come play with us, Mommy!” they called. Julie began walking towards them, but the boys ran in the opposite direction. Where were they 24

going? Why were they running toward the road? She tried to call out. Boys! Boys! Be careful! Come back! But the boys kept running faster-- laughing, whooping, hollering, and smiling. Suddenly, Julie wanted to follow them. Wanted to leave everything behind. Wanted to be happy, too! To have no more worry. She began moving towards her little phantoms that skipped between cars and trucks barreling down the highway. Julie was on the curb… James squealed with laughter… Come on, Mommy… a horn honking…lights approaching… when suddenly…. What was that? Something deep inside of her stirred. The baby. Her baby moving for the first time. Julie stopped. A driver yelled in the distance. All else seemed so far away, but her baby felt so close. Was she dreaming? Julie touched her belly, and there it was again—a tiny heel digging into her ribs! She looked down, following with her fingers the tiny toes brushing against her abdomen. Everything felt so peaceful. So right. So normal. She had to stay. Stay close. Suddenly remembering, Julie looked to the road to let her boys feel their little sister, too, but she saw nothing. They were gone. Her babies were gone.

Flowers in San Marino Nicole Flohr

Pancakes in Mourning Brynn Richer

‘Loving husband, devoted father, joy-filled grandfather and serviceman,’ was all the pamphlet said tacked on his fridge for a funeral he did not attend. The photo of his grandfather had stared blankly at him for the past four mornings when he woke up. It would greet him in his attempts to make breakfast—turning its back for a few moments as he rummaged through the fridge before surprising him again when the door sealed shut. The frozen memory looked more morose pinned underneath its magnet holdings.

His grandfather’s eyes were despondent, worn beneath thick glasses, as if their own

weight was even too trying. He was only twenty-three in the photo. The memories from the rest of his life carried by others shadowed his not yet liver-spotted face. His service peak cap pushed his forehead lower, allowing a ghost of a feeling to suggest his disappointment. His wife had picked the photo because it was neutral—but that was the problem with neutrality, it was easily shaped into negligent praise or silent disdain by the observer.

The date of today was loud in his mind. The funeral would’ve started by now. Today

was the last day anyone was going to give a damn about his grandfather. He had felt, more than

anything, insulted to have people suggest he would’ve wanted his grandson there. Tomorrow would be equally important—and so would the day after, and the day after that, for the matter. Pain took more time than a church service’s length or the taps bugle solo. So no, he did not go. He had woken up at eight o’clock and grabbed pancake mix from the pantry instead. ***

When he was young, falling asleep almost instantly was a task he was exceptionally good

at—leaving his grandparents the enormous task of keeping him asleep until the sun more than peaked over the horizon. Bargaining quickly became the solution.

Eight in the morning was the set start of the day. The time when his grandfather could

convince himself he had gotten enough sleep and that his impatient grandson’s torture was over. His grandfather was always woken then with sharp elbows or kicking knees and feet on Saturdays—never a second later than eight.

The ritual had begun with the stuttering of the gas burner and the quick whoosh of flame

while the morning still yawned awake. His grandfather would brew a mug of black coffee— with mountainous spoonfuls of sugar if his wife wasn’t up yet—and sip slowly as his grandson climbed onto counters and balanced the bag of flour in his arms.

His grandfather did the pancake making—even when he was of high school age and still

spent the night—whisking the batter gently, grabbing a fingerful of it, and tasting it with an approving hum.

“What’d you want to do today?” He’d ask, watching the batter spill onto the skillet.

“Eat pancakes, mostly.” Was his grandson’s favorite reply.

He’d get a wry eyebrow quirk from his grandfather—the older and bushier they got, the

more sarcastic the quirk became. “Looks like you came to the right place then.” ***

His first pancake always came out burnt, or lumpy, or split in uneven edges from too

impatient of a flip. It would be smacked onto the plate, scornfully, before the second one was started. And the fact that there was a funeral, or that his grandfather was on his fridge, didn’t change the fate of the first pancake.

He smirked, realizing his eyes were already watering instead of his mouth, as he flipped

the second one. It was always the best shade of gold. Evenly toasted, still soaking up the melted butter in the pan—it was always the one worth fighting over, too. ***

Another hum and eventually a satisfied grunt filled the kitchen as his grandfather

carefully laid the second pancake on the plate. It sighed in a consistent column of steam.

“That one’s mine.” A huge, gnarled, finger pointed at it.

“No,” his grandson drew out, wriggling on the counter with laughter, “It’s mine.”

“Yours, huh?”

A confident nod. “All mine.”

His grandfather would take a deep breath in, his potbelly expanding, “I guess I can live

with that this time.” But it didn’t matter which time it was, it was always his to take. ***

He scraped seemingly every single drop of batter from the bowl, not wanting the ritual to

end so soon. It would be the first pile to ever be eaten alone.

The pancake slid off his spatula as he exhaled. He carried the plate to the table, making

a stop at the fridge and grabbing his grandfather. Delicately placing him at the head of the table, his grandson waited for the will to cut a piece from the pile with his fork. ***

“They turn out alright?”

His grandson’s face would already be full of pancake. Hands already impressively sticky

and eagerly piercing the stack for more. “They’re good.”

A sound of clinking forks and scraping knives became the kitchen’s tune. His

grandfather would steal a bite from his plate occasionally, releasing a theatric noise of approval.

“Mine turned out just okay.” He gave his grandson a side eye.

“Just okay?”

“Would’ve been better if I had that second pancake.” ***

They felt like glue in his mouth. The bitterness from the first burnt one clashed with the

rest of the decadent fluff. He chewed mechanically, feeling nausea bite up his throat. The feeling was slicked down with butter and syrup. His grandfather stared at the plate with only a few bites taken out of it. The ghost of disapproving eyebrows seemed to weigh heavier the longer the plate stayed untouched.

Pancakes would take more than a day to taste better again. The days after the funeral

would take a while to stop hurting. His grandfather would live on his fridge for more than a few 31

years. There would be burnt days, bitter with black butter and grease, cracked down the center in existential ruin and hurried recovery. Days of smushed down eyebrows and neutrality, too. But, eventually, there would also be second pancake ones too. Even and golden days. And those days would always be looked forward to.

Untitled Cassie Flocken 33

Adolescence Anna DeBraber That question: sublime or sex? is falsely dichotomous. Let me speak to real virginity, not the tool of oppression but the judgementless new I see in the snuffed-out candle wick, the body that demands a toll, the guess instead of knowing. We come into this world having seen no trees, having felt no touch; no amount of anticipating inside the walls of our mother’s wombs or middle school bedrooms prepared us for the view on top of the mountain. Can deprivation exist without knowledge? That tree, that tree they all mention. We can’t ever find it, but let us go looking... residual memories from the quivering moments before become coated in nostalgia’s honey. Pure sensation fades the moment it condensates into thought: Do I want to be fully alive for the dismantling of my sensation? I miss the grasslands of the future, obscured now by the cement truck I pay to attend. Passionloveawe, doesn’t it ever come back? How many spectacular sunsets are left? 34

The Supersymmetry of Dirt Brooke Stanish

supersymmetry lies beneath the soles of her feet like dirt she forgot she craved the whispers of, because her face fell off into the lawn, newly-mowed by the men she watched cross her windowed world of blinds illuminated, held between her fingers that dig into the earth to the other side, leaving remnants of soil breathing through the lines of her palms, planting flesh to crawl to that other place with a memoryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face: (no name)

she feels the roots turning underneath her toes & she slips along with them â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the other side is changingsearchinglurking beneath the breath of every now & the silence of every here

The Night Warden J. Elliott Torren

Bars, chains, doors. Grievous keepers holding all the keys. Rain upon the windows Rain I cannot feel.

“Fuck it,” I tore the sheet of paper off the pad, crumpled it, and lobbed it at the plastic waste bin in the corner. It bounced off the rim and skittered across the floor to join the others. I glared at it, then shut off the light and stomped over to my bunk, kicking dozens of small white spheres out of my way. I’d spent three and a half hours trying to come up with a half-decent poem, and nothing was coming up but dreck. I flopped down on my mattress with a sigh and eyed the mess. The crinkled spheres stared back, a hundred blind paper eyes disembodied and dying on the floor. The thought gave me a chill, so I got up and began to shepherd them over to the trashcan. The image of blind eyes still plagued me, even after I’d shoved the last of the papers into the bin’s plastic maw, so I tried to distract myself lest the picture become part of some rich and unsettling dream. 37

I grabbed my radio from the sling I’d fashioned from a pair of old socks and some clean underwear and flicked it on. Static roared from the speakers, and I turned the volume down before it could awaken anyone. I unhooked the antenna and began the long process of setting the sound system up for signal reception. Raindrops beat a steady tattoo on the window as I worked. The sound was soothing, in a sense, but did nothing to ease my irritated state. Tuner up, tuner down. The process went on for an achingly long time. I was ready to give up the endeavor entirely when at last a thin trickle of music began to eke from the speakers. In my eagerness, I jacked the volume. Big mistake. “Light Up, Light Up, As If You Have A Choice,” the radio screamed. “Shit.” I jerked my thumb. “Even if you cannot hear my voice,” the song continued. I groaned and moved my thumb again, this time more carefully. “I’ll be right beside you, dear,” the radio sang. I sighed in satisfaction, sat down on my mattress, closed my eyes. My relaxed state was shattered when, just down the hall, a key rattled in a lock. I froze. The night warden. I cursed, snapped off the radio, and frantically thrust it into its sling. Footsteps approached as I retracted the antenna. 38

Step…step…step… I hurled myself onto my mattress and pulled the blanket over me, leaving only a thin sliver of space through which I could see. Step…step…step… I curled up, heart pounding, doing my best to feign sleep, closing my eyes to the maximum point that still allowed visibility. Tales of the night warden’s cruelty flashed through my mind, whispered rumors of insolent prisoners who had turned obedient at the sudden addition of a cast. Tales of problematic inmates who had disappeared one night without a trace. . . Step…step…step… Pause. A shadow, outlined by the dim glow of lights positioned far down the corridor, segmented by the façade of bars that composed my cell’s north wall. The form was muscular and tall, the ears made prominent by a crew cut that showed as a vague cranial haze. As I watched, the shadow’s hand reached down to its belt and came up with a long, thin cylinder. There was a click, and the cell was filled with light. The other hand ranged over and twisted the light’s end, narrowing the wide flood of yellow light to a slim pencil of white. I shut my eyes. Seconds later the darkness of my closed lids turned red. I fought against an urge to open my eye. I lost. “That was your radio.” Not a question. 39

I sat up, blinking against the blinding sun that shone on my eyes, and folded my arms across my chest. “Yes, sir.” The beam dipped a little, drawing a bright line of pink and green across my retinas. “Insomniac?” The voice was a gravelly tenor, tinged with a hint of growl, and made me picture a corpse being dragged across a field of loose stone. I nodded at the question, and said, “I would think it unwise for a man to sleep too much in this environment.” I waved an arm to convey my meaning, and then shut up and mentally cursed my being a wise-ass. There was a pause, followed by the low grinding sound of boulders being overturned: the shadow’s laugh. “So you’re the poet?” the night warden said. “Parker, isn’t it?” My mind raced. How could I escape this encounter unscathed? The beam left my face and roved across the squat metal table against the wall. The light flicked around as the shadow took in the details: pens, pads of paper, now thinned, the lamp bolted to the tabletop, and the books stacked neatly at its base. Then the light returned to me. “I don’t see any poems.” I leaned down and reached into the box bolted to the underside of my bunk. “They’re in here.” My hand came up clutching a thick sheaf of papers. The light crept away from my face and illuminated the top sheet. The title stood out

sharply against the whiteness: Empty Sky. “Read it to me,” the warden said. “Hang on.” I reached back into the box for my battered reading glasses. The shadow waited as I shook them open and put them on. I cleared my throat and began to read.

Sunset fires kiss tearstain’d cheeks With the last warmth of days gone by Unfelt, unknown, unreachable A ruby in an empty sky.

Eyes turned cold by suffering Stare without love at everything Worlds go by, and the sunset sits behind razors Chainlink and concrete.

A heart now black beats without rhythm Sounding on deaf ears System of the world unseen 41

The secret to our fears Lies naked in the west If these cold eyes could but see it But it’s too late.

The gaze is too cold, the heart is too black Hurting mind boils with thoughts of malice And now the sun’s waning carries with it The hopes and dreams of one once loved

It’s too late The hopes that served to keep us alive, The fighting spirit doused By choking fog and darkness Fires extinguished by apathy

Now I’m drowning in the flood I’m calling for the flame of life But it’s too late 42

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too late

And now, Closer than the sun who breaks the eye Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m flying through this empty sky Lost time and empty seasons pass As sand flies up in the hourglass

Too much, too late was just not enough for me I sit and watch my soul begin to bleed I could have saved the world, once Back when I was a boy But now, through my own decisions, All I can do is destroy

Too much, too late.

And now I laugh, even as I die 43

At the bitter world I leave behind So now it’s time to say goodbye I’ll see you in this empty sky.

I put down the paper and looked up at the warden. The flashlight beam shook a little, and he lowered the light as I finished. The only sounds were the raindrops on the window, and the pounding of my heart. Then, at long last, the shadow spoke. “How long have you been here, Parker?” The voice had become softer, the growl gone, the latent threat suddenly dried up like a summer puddle. “I’ve been here for a month, sir, but I’ve been locked up for eight years.” Another silence. Then, “Just keep your radio down, alright?” I nodded, and the night warden clicked off his flashlight and walked away. I took off my glasses, folded them, put them back with the papers, then lay down and closed my eyes.

Untitled Mike Berkowitz

Off I-460 Jacy Zhang

Paklenica Callan Lantham

I will never fall asleep on the bus again because I will miss the things

as they pass—

they’ll be mortal, dying things and

I cannot close my eyes because then I will not see down the valley

naked with salt

and held together by this bridge

and

by Mary’s arms, a stone shrine looking toward the city and

then to the sea,

fake flowers spread at her feet so they last all year long

and I will miss the

clusters

of islands

and the towns

tethered

like the boats tied up to rotting wooden slats almost on the edge of the

hollowed

out blue waters

but not quite and

everything I have left in me is

hugging

the terra cotta houses;

out here this

there are scrubs of

swept

wind-

far

bushes rumored to be the sites where

old spaghetti westerns were filmed

and my father has probably

seen them

or at least movies like them

and I wonder

if he would recognize this place

if I told him about it,

if I could remember to tell him about it; 48

again there are moored ships

in the lake that hunt for—

again my eyes are

blinking past the lost archipelagos

where nuns pray with their hands and make lace from floss and cheese from sheep’s milk;

and if I don’t open my eyes

I won’t see the

carved out

mountains, lulling in sleep like giant

bodies and

falling asleep isn’t falling at all, it is winding through curves inside mountain bellies;

I find my way under them, through them like a mole, 49

a parasite, a tourist

and I am not with the landâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

I am like the others,

shaving off the backbone of Earth

just to find

a way through, killing it slowly piling upâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

like mutated cells

like city dwellers on a bus

in the countryside, where we should not be but

we are all comfortable with sleep

I find a hole in the road to spill

here;

everything into,

maybe now I will see something new and forget again as soon as I close my eyes

and just then,

thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the mountain 50

the bus passes every time

and I still have

a hard time believing that it is still thereâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

I seem to be older than it

because I started living

before

I knew its name, the mountain

that stands on its own, but it is not really standing,

leaning, like I am

against the glass window, the road

rattling my skull just enough

to keep my eyes open.

Tomorrow Can Wait Rebecca Jones

My fingers teetered slowly around the rim of the glass, darting up to bring the leftover salt to my lips. The room was dim, the music slow. Every couple of minutes came the familiar clacking of pool balls behind me, and the obnoxious chatter of other men trying to make a buck. I turned my head over my right shoulder, identifying the pool addicts. “Let’s even up,” said a man I’d learned to be Jeff. He was a heffy guy with brown hair, who’d been coming in late Sunday nights for the past six years. I rolled my eyes and turned my head back down to my drink. “Who wastes their money on goddamn pool bets?” I mumbled. Charlie had a glass in hand and raised an eyebrow to ask if I wanted another round. Circling my rough index finger through the air, I nodded. Over the years, Charlie and I had developed an unspoken type of connection. He knew what I liked to drink, I knew how to tip. Charlie also knew I wasn’t much of a talker, so he did his best to keep the classic bartender small talk to himself. The relationship worked well for the two of us.

As Charlie opened a fresh bottle of tequila, I looked down at my empty drink and back up

again, and laughed. I was no better than the men playing pool. In fact, I’d probably spent triple the amount on three drinks alone than they’d lost playing billiards, even with Charlie’s generous discount. I scolded myself. Parked just outside was my four-door with all my belongings packed inside. It looked wretched, really. Cardboard boxes oozing out of the windows, my trunk fastened down part way 52

with an old leather belt, a mattress slung across the top, held to the small sedan by a single piece of rope. Honestly, it was an accident waiting to happen. I pictured myself tomorrow, driving down the motorway, mattress flapping in the wind. I wouldn’t dare push 55. My left hand on the wheel while my right holds up a stack of boxes threatening to crush me. It didn’t matter though. I would drive across the entire country with my left hand outstretched if it meant I could get out of this town. I started to itch for my drink. I had moved back out to Aberdeen when Mom got sick. I didn’t want to, but as her son I felt an obligation. Besides, I had no idea where Pa was. My stomach lurched when I got back. It had been 22 years, and the streets hadn’t changed. They were old, but not in the appealing or comforting way that some places are. They were old, they were stiff. The traffic lights lulled and sagged low on their lines. The streets always appeared icy, even on days that were sunny. You could push over City Hall with the tip of your finger. The giant overhead clock didn’t run, chime, or tick. Birds didn’t chirp in Aberdeen. Even they couldn’t find something to sing about. I was happy Pa took me away from that town at four. “Here you go, man,” Charlie interrupted, sliding the short glass in front of me. I grabbed the drink, thanked him, and gestured up to the sky. Cheers to getting out of here. I took a swig. ***

I grew up in what felt like a new place every week. Pa and I hopped from town to town,

crashing on couches, staying in cheap motels, eating greasy burgers on the roadside. Once, when I was nine, Pa pulled the car in front of a diner for gas. My stomach was 53

ripping with hunger, but something stopped me from telling Pa. I didn’t understand much about money, but sometimes, when we’d crash on couches, Pa would fish his hand deep into the padding, looking for treasure. His rough hand would feel around for minutes sometimes. On lucky tries, he’d reveal a shiny quarter, his smile growing as bright as the coin itself. “Pa, maybe we can use that to call Mom tomorrow?” I’d say eagerly. His smile would fade. “Maybe, Matthew...” He would take a breath and lean back on the torn couch meant for the two of us, pulling me with him. “Your mother might want us to put this quarter toward some sweet potato fries instead,” Pa would change the subject. I’d smiled at the thought of fries, but would fall asleep, small on his chest. Still thinking of Mom. I didn’t know it at the time, but we were running from her. The two of them chased each other all around the country. Albuquerque, Salt Lake, even Birmingham. They were crazy. Some call it love, but it was more than that. More complex. Things always are. They couldn’t live without one another, because they didn’t know how. Mom and Pa started dating when she was 14 and he was 18. Pregnant at 19, I was four when they split, and I left South Dakota with Pa for what I thought was good. Another drink. Sometimes, Mom would catch up to us. The three of us would spend a few days together in Albuquerque, Salt Lake, Birmingham, you name it. Just for something to explode between the two of them, restarting the cycle. I hugged her tightly whenever I had the chance. I didn’t know how much time we would ever have together.

Another drink.

I knew she was going to die. I just didn’t know when. The cancer took its time. When I got her letter six years ago, I sped straight to Aberdeen. She’d returned back to the small town, a hermit, after Pa told her he never wanted to see her again. I was in my 20s working for a small architectural firm in Minneapolis, living alone. Pa had wound up down South, but I hadn’t spoken to him in years. I knew Mom had only reached out to me, so I made the 294 mile stretch from Minnesota to South Dakota in under four hours. The cancer didn’t start in her lungs, but that’s where it killed her. She was 46. I groaned at my own stupidity. I hadn’t planned on drinking. I just wanted to stop by. Maybe have a beer and get on the road? That’s it. As stupid as it sounds, I wanted to say goodbye. I’d spent more time in this bar in the last six years than I’d like to admit. “Another drink,” I said, before I could think about the words coming out of my mouth. My head was in my hands at this point, and I hoped Charlie would give me a free drink out of sympathy. I fucking deserved it. *** I tripped over my own feet and onto the pavement. “Well, shit,” I laughed to myself as I decided to stay on the ground. I love the ground, I thought. So warm. I stretched my arms above my head, then tucked them underneath and crossed my legs at the ankles. I felt my shirt rise up past my stomach. The cool air felt nice on my exposed skin. I closed my eyes to blink. “What the?” I opened my eyes to a girl standing over me, head tilted. A girl I’d never seen before. “Are you okay?” she said. I blinked, hoping she’d disappear by the time I’d opened my 55

eyes. “I said, are you okay?” she repeated. I opened my eyes. “Who the hell are you?” “Yeah, nice to meet you, too,” the mystery girl said as she offered me a hand to stand up. “No, no. I prefer it down here I think.” The girl rolled her eyes and plopped down next to me. The truth was though, I felt too drunk to stand. I wondered if she could tell. “So, how many drinks did you have?” Shit. “Is it that obvious?” I said aloud. “I mean, is it normal to be lying down in the middle of a parking lot at five in the morning?” Damn, she’s good, I thought to myself. Wait…“Five? Oh, shit.” I looked up at the sky, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. The stars were fading into light pinks and blues. The sun was rising. “Six?” The mystery girl raised an eyebrow. “No, not six. I said five.” “Drinks. I had six drinks.” The girl nodded, like we were on the same page again. “Actually no,” I started. “I think it was seven? Eight?” God, not nine, I prayed to myself. I reached at my temples and started to kick at the pavement below, looking down at my feet and the scuffs I was making on my shoes. “Nope, definitely nine.” “So, why’s it you decided to have nine drinks, by yourself, on a Sunday night?” She jumped up and stretched her hand out again. This time, I took it and stood to my feet.

“So, why’s it that you’re obsessed with me?” I exaggerated the word “obsessed” and raised a brow, still holding her hand. “You don’t even know me.” The girl’s face fluttered, like she was hurt or shocked, or maybe both. She pulled her hand out of mine. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m kidding,” I threw my hands in the air. “It was just a joke!” The girl rolled her eyes and then smiled. I did, too. “Indigo,” the girl stuck out her tiny hand. “But you can call me Indi for short.” I looked down at it and back up at her face. She looked young, like the world hadn’t had the time to hurt her yet. Half of her hair was pulled back from her face, but bits and pieces were escaping her ponytail and blocking her eyes. I wanted to push them back into place. “Matthew,” I said, shaking my head. “But you can call me Matthew for long.” I shook her hand. She smiled, and I smiled, too, again. I let go of her hand and she looked down, like she was thinking of the next thing to say. She reminded me of Mom. Maybe it was her light brown hair, or the fact she was striking up a conversation with me, a stranger… like Mom always seemed to. “Saying goodbye,” I finally answered. “Huh?” “Nine drinks, by myself, on a Sunday night. I was throwing myself a going away slash ‘I-hate-it-here’ pity party.” “I see,” she looked down at her feet.

“You?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Oh, right.” She shook her head like she’d forgotten to answer an obvious question. “I work right there on the corner.” Indi pointed to a small cafe with pale blue paint and a wooden overhang, chipped on the edges. “It’s called Claire’s, maybe you’ve heard of it before?” Mom’s voice entered my head. “Can you please pass the syrup, Matthew?” It was a Tuesday morning, and we had some extra time to kill before chemo. She was stage three at the time. Her hair was thinning out, but she still had some light brown strands poking out from beneath her crocheted hat. I passed the syrup and she smiled. “Thanks, baby.” “Yeah, totally,” I shook myself from the memory. “I think I’ve been there once or twice.” “Well, do you want breakfast?” Indi raised a brow. “I open in a couple hours but I like to sit and read with some coffee alone beforehand. Before people come, you know, and the sun is still rising.” She continued on, like she had to say more to convince me. “Maybe some water or coffee to sober you up… bread even?” Indi laughed. My stomach twisted slightly at the thought of seeing the table Mom and I sat at just a year ago. I pushed through the discomfort. “Sure, bread… and butter,” I added, “sounds great.”

*** “Sooo, is this your car?” While walking to the cafe, she’d poked at the mattress on top of my pregnant sedan with her index finger. “Yeah, it is actually,” I laughed and had shook my head. 58

“Looks like your entire life’s in there.” “I mean, yeah. It kind of is.” I spent the next two hours figuratively unpacking that damned car with this girl. My parents’ chassé around the states, Minneapolis, Mom’s cancer. More words were said in these two hours than I’d spoken in the past six years altogether. I took mental notes about her. 24, born in Kansas, but raised in Aberdeen by her grandparents. Lived on her own now, wanted a fresh start and a sense of independence. “It was never conventional… ” She trailed on with another story. I shifted in the booth and focused my eyes on her bright brown ones. Talking, laughing, refilling our coffee cups, picking at untoasted sourdough. I joked with her about how out of the nearly 20,000 cities in the U.S., she picked Aberdeen. When I laughed, she reached across the table and shoved my shoulder, then covered her face with her hands. I reached across the small space between us and pulled them away from her face. Her hands were delicate and warm. “Stop itttttt,” she whined. “You’re making fun of me!” Her hands shot back up over her eyes. “Indi, no, no,” I said between laughs. “I just think it’s funny.” After peeking between her fingers at me, her hands fell away from her face and back around her coffee mug. Her cheeks were flush, the restaurant was empty. All was quiet aside from the hum of overhead lights. The two of us sat there and stared at one another. Seconds,

minutes, eternities might have passed. It felt like I’d known her my entire life. It was crazy, in the same way my parents’ relationship was, but with a calmness they never had. Her brown eyes seemed to answer all the wonderings in my head without words. The answer to why I’d been fated in this town for so many years. To meet Indi.

Untitled Mike Berkowitz

A Remembrance of Carving Brooke Stanish

we are all carved in desert spaces where laces cross between our bones; gentle is the air that breathes beneath us & cruel is the form of eyes that tie us to the sand & stone that grows from skin shattering shards of redrock into emptiness, anticipating filling;

the earth is cratered in places where we least expect it â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the corners of our eyes, the creases in our palms

Torso Anna Marie Hockman

November Emily Schoenberger

Sometimes, when I’m feeling down on myself, I like to walk over to Mellon Park.

Something about the kids playing there soothes me – reminds me of my own childhood, easier times, some shit like that. I probably look like a predator, standing there by the fence, watching the little boys and girls swing and yell and laugh and fight. The parents – moms, mostly – all sit grouped together in the same circle of benches, ignoring the kids. One time, I saw a little boy scrape his knee on the mulch when he came too fast out of the tunnel slide. It was bleeding all over the place and he was crying and the mom didn’t notice for three whole minutes, too busy staring at her phone.

The day everything happens with Erin, I go to the park. I feel like shit, like a real ass.

She’s not even mad. That’s the worst part. I’ve never seen her cry like that. I can’t take it anymore, so I just up and walk out the door. Go right to the park and stand at the fence. It’s midNovember, chilly, late afternoon. The sun is setting and almost nobody is there. Just one dad and his son, swinging next to each other. The dad is so heavy the swing set groans each time he swings his legs out.

I wonder if Erin will be at the house when I get back. I wonder if I’ll go back at all. I

wonder if I care either way. I’d like to think I do.

I know I’m supposed to be thinking about how much she means to me, how beautiful she

is, how the first time I met her my breath caught in my throat. She does mean a lot to me, and the first time I met her my voice did crack. But all I can think about is the laundry. I hate the way 64

she folds my clothes. She rolls my t-shirts. She says I can see all the options in my drawer that way. I don’t want to see all the options. I want my t-shirts to be folded into normal squares. But she always does the laundry on Friday afternoons, since she has half days at work. Which is nice of her, I guess. Except every time I open my t-shirt drawer my neck gets hot.

Moving in together was supposed to be the next step. It was my idea. I had all sorts of

big ideas coming out of college. I thought we would live together for a couple years and at some point in that time frame I would start to feel the way about Erin that I had always wanted to feel about her. I loved her, and I tried to convince myself that I wanted her forever, that I would make her my wife, that I might take our kids to Mellon Park and swing with them one day. When I thought about it in that kind of abstract way in college, it seemed nice.

The dad and kid get off the swing. The kid is all bundled up – big puffy red coat, blue

beanie, even gloves. When he stands up I can see he’s real small, maybe two, three years old. The dad holds his hand and they walk to their car, drive away. It’s getting dark quick.

“Peter,” Erin had said to me that morning, “Can I ask you something?”

I knew it was coming. I haven’t been very slick about it. I had a feeling she’d seen the

condom wrapper in the bathroom waste basket. We haven’t had sex in almost a month. She empties that basket every week.

I didn’t wake up one morning and think I’m going to cheat on my girlfriend today. The

first time it happened, Erin was gone for the weekend, and I went to a party at my friend Rob’s. (A college party, like a real washed-up idiot. Never mind that I’m two years out of school.) Rob and I had been frat buddies, and sometimes I still go over to his place to smoke. I know I’m supposed to be too old for that now. Erin gave up weed before we even graduated. But smoking 65

with Rob is about the only thing I like to do anymore.

I had forgotten how flirty college girls could be. At my office, it’s all business all the

time, and most of the women are in their mid-thirties, anyway. But at Rob’s party, the girls were touchy and giggly and a few were hot as hell. I was drunk and it just kind of happened. Afterwards I thought I was a real piece of shit but Erin didn’t need to know and I would never do it again.

I thought for sure that when she got back that Sunday I’d feel guilty and tell her. I even

made a point of being out of the house when she got home. I spent two hours at Whole Foods, just wandering up and down the aisles. Thought about buying her flowers but decided it was too suspicious. Came home with a quart of almond milk and organic toilet paper instead.

But then, she didn’t notice. She was laying on the couch when I walked in, watching

some reality TV show, arm hanging off the back. She smiled and stood up to give me a kiss. And then I laid down with her and told her we had to change the channel, because I wasn’t watching that crap. Like always. Like normal.

Sometimes I get mad at her for not just knowing. Why couldn’t she tell? Why couldn’t

she have just figured it out right then and there? Why couldn’t she have yelled at me and screamed at me and called me an asshole and a traitor? Then maybe I could make it up to her. Then maybe I would really never do it again.

Lights pull into the playground parking lot and a woman gets out of her car and starts

looking underneath some benches. Probably lost something earlier in the day. I think about helping her, but decide it’s a bad idea to approach a woman alone in the near-dark. I think I’ll go for a walk around the park, try to clear my head. 66

The thing about Erin is that she’s too perfect. She’s kind and thoughtful and sometimes

she can be funny, too. Smart, athletic, good looking. Put-together. I look like a real piece of shit in comparison. Friends in college used to tell me she was too good for me, half-joking, half not. My friend Willie would say over and over again, “Pete, you lucky fuck, I don’t know how you landed a girl like that.” You start to really hate yourself when you hear shit like that. And you start to really hate the person you’re with.

I follow the little walking trail through the park, kicking walnuts out of my way. I kick

one walnut for like a hundred yards before it finally tumbles off the path, into a bush. A squirrel peers out, gives it a sniff. Darts away when it sees me coming.

The first time Erin met my parents, the summer before senior year, it went so well. I

thought I could never love another person more. She was so charming. She helped my mom cook dinner and drank a beer with my dad. She asked them all sorts of questions about their business, and she sounded so interested. I usually zone out when they talk about their little grocery shop – which does well enough to have put my sister and I through state schools without too much debt, but not well enough to afford a yearly vacation – but listening to Erin talk with them about it, I became fascinated. My parents weren’t the resigned, long-suffering small business owners I’d always considered them to be, they were business-minded, with spark and vision and a story. Erin does that. She makes people more interesting. She makes me more interesting.

Afterwards, when we were lying in my childhood bed – me feeling like a real man because

my parents didn’t even question the two of us sharing a room – I told her how great she had been. How my parents really loved her. How I really loved her. She rolled her eyes and said to stop flattering her, gave me a kiss, and went to sleep.

The next morning, though, I started to get annoyed. At breakfast, she insisted my mom

sit down and relax while she whipped up some pancakes. She drank her coffee black, which my dad loved. I put milk in mine, and he made a comment about how my girlfriend had more balls than me. She even offered to help empty the dishwasher. My mom wouldn’t let her, but it bugged the crap out of me. Just relax, I wanted to say, You don’t have to be so fucking nice all the time. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d emptied the dishwasher, let alone offered.

The girls I cheated with were nothing like Erin. They were selfish, fake, trashy. This

one girl had fingernails so long she left marks on my back. They were painted bright pink, and about the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. But she had a decent face, and she played volleyball. The night after I slept with her, I took Erin out to a fancy dinner downtown to celebrate our third anniversary.

I think maybe it could have gone on indefinitely if I hadn’t met Lindsey. All the other

girls were one night stands. Always when Erin was out of town. Girls I could forget about the next day. Lindsey was different.

She’s a senior at Pitt, friends with a friend of Rob’s. An international studies major,

which she told me one night as we passed a joint back and forth, sitting next to each other on Rob’s beat-up old couch. Rob had passed out, like he always did when we smoked, and the other friend had left to meet some girl. It was just me and Lindsey, this beautiful blonde with a nose ring and a Pooh Bear tattoo behind her left ear. I kept catching glimpses of it when she pushed her hair back.

I asked her why she was so interested in international studies. She laughed.

“I’m not,” she said. 68

It was over, then. We had sex right there, on that nasty ass couch, Rob snoring like an

idiot in the corner.

I couldn’t get her out of my head after that. Started seeing her every chance I could, going

over to her apartment in South Oakland on nights when Erin was stuck late at work. Lindsey knew I had a girlfriend, and she didn’t care. We never mentioned her. It was like, when I was with Lindsey, Erin ceased to exist.

As soon as I left her place I’d feel guilty as hell, though. Not guilty enough to stop. But

guilty enough to feel like I cared. Like I’m an asshole, but an asshole who cares that he’s an asshole.

It still blows my mind that Erin didn’t know. I started to leave clues, like a real

masochistic fuck. I wouldn’t shower right after, thinking maybe Erin would catch a different scent on me. I’d make excuses to go out when she was home, telling her I had dinner plans with Rob or had to pick up a prescription from CVS. Drive right over to Lindsey’s instead. Then I got real bold and started inviting Lindsey over to our place. At first we’d only have sex on the couch, but then I figured what the hell and brought her right into our bedroom. I’d get a text from Erin that she was on her way home, and I wouldn’t even rush Lindsey out. Just told her she should think about heading home soon. She’d gather her stuff real slow and walk right out the front door. One time she left thirty seconds before Erin walked in. They had to have passed each other in the stairwell.

I circle back to the playground area and sit down on a swing. The sky is completely dark

by now, but the park is lit by streetlights. It’s getting colder. I didn’t grab my jacket on the way out the door, so all I’m wearing is a thin long-sleeve shirt, jeans, and an old pair of sneakers. It’s

too chilly to sit still, so I start pumping my legs a little, just to move. Swaying back and forth, the chains creaking with the wind.

I try to picture what Erin is doing. If she left, which is probable, she would be heading to

her parents’ house outside Philadelphia, halfway down the turnpike by now. That’s her solution to everything: run home to Mom and Dad. Money trouble, relationship trouble, work trouble. Mom and Dad will know what to do. I guess that’s the nice thing about being the daughter of two media executives. They solve all your problems, and usually send you back to wherever you came from with a couple hundred dollars to boot. I bet Erin wouldn’t roll my t-shirts if she hadn’t grown up in Main Line Philly. She wouldn’t fold them at all, just leave them draped over a chair in my bedroom, like my mom does. My mom, who doesn’t have time to fold laundry, because she and my dad spend twelve hours a day at their dinky little grocery shop.

If Erin didn’t leave, she’d be cleaning. She always cleans when she’s stressed, and she’s

stressed a lot, so the house is always clean. If she’s mad, which I hope she is, she’ll take extra care to clean my shit and mess it up just enough to drive me up a wall. I deserve it, I guess. She’ll move my backpack off the dining room chair I always leave it on and hang it up by the door. She’ll rearrange all the clothes in my closet so they’re organized by item – works pants, collared shirts, polos. She’ll put the books on the shelf in rainbow order based on the color of their spines. I’ll come home and walk into a house straight off HGTV.

I sigh and get off the swing. I have to go home, assess the damage – emotional and

physical. I’m shivering, anyway.

It’s a short walk back. When I get to our street, I can see all the lights on in the little

townhouse we rent. So she’s still there, still home. I feel a sliver of apprehension, a bubble of

nerves deep in my gut.

I open the door, and for a second, I think I’ve walked into the wrong house. Then I think

we’ve been robbed. There’s shit everywhere – it looks like the place has been ransacked. The cupboards and drawers are all open in the kitchen, pots and pans and dishes covering the island and countertops. A mug is shattered on the floor. The curtains are gone. Our shelf of board games is empty, one sad deck of cards splattered across the faux-hardwood floors. If I would look a little closer, or think a little harder, I would remember that all the board games are Erin’s.

Upstairs, my entire wardrobe is scattered across our room. I reach under the bed and

pull out an old t-shirt of mine that Erin sleeps in every night. The duvet is on the floor, half the pillows. In the middle of the sheets is a purple scrunchie. It was in Lindsey’s hair the other day.

“Erin?” I call.

I sit on the bed and stare at the mess. After a minute, I roll the t-shirt in my hand and

shove it into a drawer.

Untitled Mike Berkowitz

Timber Anna DeBraber Devoted whispers lower than vibrations; fathomless intimate fingertips intertwine, hidden belowground, caressing one anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fates.

When their turn comes is there a final breath?

Electric Kate Netwal

a flock of brothers huddle Ayesha Asad Yes, wrap your wings

around one another,

your souls pulsating, sheathed among tufts

of velvet feathers. Your brotherhood is

queenly, your white bellies shifting, pickled and pricked, abused by peppered snow. Or do you consider it majestic, the way snow tickles your coat? It juts out like slivered almonds, tasteful decorations â&#x20AC;&#x201C; they mark you. Yes, just like that. Your fingers reach into pockets, charred by sunlight, wetted with dewdrops. Have you observed us from above, like speckled insects, prattling and colliding? Like an overgrown wave, we pulsate too â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but how we abscond from kinship, from tumultuous hair 75

tangling together, safe in our frictionless cages. And then, somewhere out in the city, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see a man or woman with scuffed boots and a cardboard face, hollowed out into gauntlets, icicles flaking their wiry hair. How we huddle together then leave each other to intrinsic misery. How we submerge marshmallows into flames and toast to conquests. How we forget how to spread our wings like you, not in escape but in freedom. Yes, burn your own fires, watch them swell into your hearts, press a warm arm against your neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, rub your blue crowns together and pucker your lips, drink your family like ginger tea. And somewhere, we will photograph you and listen in, press our ears against the seashells.

Untitled Cassie Flocken

CONTRIBUTORS Ayesha Asad is a freshman at the University of Texas at Dallas, where she is studying Literature and Biology. She writes for The Mercury and hosts Mercury Morning News, a college radio news show. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Santa Clara Review, Blue Marble Review, Eunoia Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Skipping Stones Magazine, and TeenInk and has been recognized by the Creative Writing Ink December 2019 contest. Mike Berkowitz is a junior psychology and English double major at Lebanon Valley College. His passion for pictures has led him to become the historian for Wig & Buckle, the College’s student-run theater company. Mike is also the English department’s photographer and social media writer, which includes tasks such as writing captions for social media posts, taking pictures of ongoing events, and much more. Anna DeBraber is a second year student studying applied ecology and environmental science at Michigan Technological University. Through writing, she integrates her technical learning into insights about the natural world. When there isn’t a pen in her hand, she can be found creating community through cooking good food, climate activism, and Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. Cassie Flocken is a sophomore early childhood and special education double major at Lebanon Valley College. She recently found an interest in the study of behavior and trauma informed schools and hopes to pursue those fields in graduate school. Photography has always been a hobby of hers, and she’s thrilled that Green Blotter gave her a place to display her work. Nicole Flohr is a senior global studies and political science double major at Lebanon Valley College. She enjoys photography and travel, taking the photo included in this edition during her semester studying abroad in Perugia, Italy. Anna Marie Hockman is a freshman business administration and art double major at Lebanon Valley College from Brightwood, Virginia. She also plays softball for LVC. 79

Becca Jones is a writer who has been creating her own worlds since third grade. Her work can be found in San Diego Magazine, Exquisite Weddings, and in Driftwood, with a third place award for her poetry. A San Diego native, she loves the beach and traveling, and she is a huge thrill seeker. She holds a B.A. in writing and minor in literature from Point Loma Nazarene University. Callan Latham is a poet and a writer. Her work has recently appeared in Crêpe and Penn, Electric Moon Magazine, and the Ohio’s Best Emerging Poets anthology, among other places. She attends the University of Iowa and spends her days wishing for the sea. Yelisaveta McCurdy is a junior at Liberty University studying for her Bachelor’s degree in English and creative writing. Though born in Alaska, she has lived in Eastern Europe her entire life and loves to travel throughout Europe. She has only been published once before and looks forward to more fiction writing in the future. Chiara Meyers is a sophomore English and creative writing double major with a concentration in theater and literature and a minor in history and musical theater at Lebanon Valley College. She aspires to be a playwright or historical fiction writer in the future to combine her love of writing with her passion for theater and history. In her free time, Chiara performs with LVC’S Wig & Buckle Theater Company. She recently directed W&B’s 2020 production of Almost, Maine. Her favorite writing accomplishment is the play she wrote and directed in high school which she hopes to publish someday. Chiara would like to thank her family and friends, especially her mom, for supporting all of her writing aspirations. Kate Netwal is a second-year art student at university. While her major is illustration, she enjoys taking photographs in her spare time and is incorporating photography into her degree. Brynn Richer attends Palm Beach Atlantic University and is currently a junior studying English. She enjoys philosophy—especially Hume—along with artistically expressing her experiences through writing and painting. Though she is in sunny Florida, she enjoys her childhood home in New York and draws much of her inspiration from the state. 80

Emily Schoenberger is a senior at Shippensburg University. She will graduate in May 2020 with a B.S. Ed. in History and a B.A. in English. She has received several awards for her writing, including the Mabel E. Linder Creative Writing Award and First Prize in the English Association of Pennsylvania State Universities Annual Flash Fiction Contest. Brooke Stanish, a senior at Palm Beach Atlantic University, is a creative writer whose work has been published in The Windhover, the Living Waters Review, and Sigma Tau Delta’s magazine The Rectangle. Additionally, Brooke’s writing has been published in the University of Edinburgh’s The Student and Washington D.C. based Capitol Standard. She is also an avid reader, runner, and learner interested in the unity within art, science, and spirituality. J. Elliott Toren is studying accounting at Mt. Wachusett Community College and first drafted “The Night Warden” when he was 16. It is drawn from life. He reads voraciously and has many in-progress drafts of poems, stories, and novels, including much in the sci-fi realm. He recently published a short story, “The Garden,” in the e-zine Breath and Shadow. Kaycie Wolper is a junior at Lebanon Valley College studying early childhood education and creative writing. Outside of schoolwork and writing, she is involved in color guard and works as a professor at a Wizarding summer camp. Jacy Zhang is a junior English major at the University of Maryland, College Park, whose works have appeared in Laurel Moon and Impressions. Outside of school, she worships Jesus with her campus fellowship and practices Chinese martial arts.