Re:Visions 2022 by University of Notre Dame Creative Writing Program

RE:VISIONS 19th Edition

Re:Visions 19th Edition

This representative collection of writing by Notre Dame students is published through the Creative Writing Program in the Department of English. Each year, a new editorial board consisting of graduate students solicits and selects manuscripts, and oversees the production of the journal in order to encourage creativity and recognize student writing of notable quality. Editor-in-Chief: Jillian Fantin Marketing Team Graduate Liaison: Kalie Pead Undergraduate Members: Katherine Holtz, Victoria Dominesey, and Marry De Austria Design Team Graduate Liaison: Zoe Darsee Undergraduate Team: Claire Lyons and Chelsey Boyle Editorial Team Graduate Liaison: Jillian Fantin and Montanna Kirven Undergraduate Team: Camila Salinas, Annie Wiese, and Marcus Braun Cover Artwork: “Warm Seclusions” by Wendy Ruan John Huebl named Re:Visions in 1986. Re:Visions, New Series began in 2002. This is Re:Visions, New Series 19. © 2022 Re:Visions

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear Readers and Contributors, Thank you for picking up Re:Surrect, the nineteenth edition of the University of Notre Dame’s Re:Visions literary journal. This year, our editors worked hard to curate, craft, and revise this issue, whose theme centers around vigor and the revitalization of memory and artistic craft against all odds. Each of these included contributors’ respective interpretations of this aforementioned theme prove highly creative, thoughtful, and generative. As we continue in another year of uncertainty and unrest, especially in the midst of an ongoing global pandemic, the Re:Visions team hopes that you enjoy this selection of the university’s talented undergraduate writers. Thank you again for reading. Sincerely, The Editors

CONTENTS POETRY “hello mama honey” Noah Cha “legacies and elegies” Noah Cha “Shorter Days” Carter Cheeseman

“What the Paper Said” Carter Cheeseman “Eros, from Delmira Augustini” Alena Coleman “Judas Love Song: Tanka Series” Alena Coleman “Pslam 61” Alena Coleman “Self-Portrait No. 2” Alena Coleman “Hold the Tension” Claire Crafts “Abandon” Victoria Dominesey 6

“in legit shock (There’s Your Answer)” Victoria Dominesey “By and bye” Will Dwortz “October 21st” Will Dwortz “Watercolor Memory” Will Dwortz “And Ode of Lover(s) Lost and Star-Crossed” Anna Falk “Saint Brendan and His Angels” Anna Falk “Observations” Analie Fernandes “solve for X.” Angelica Ketcham “Wetlands in Five Acts” Angelica Ketcham “In which I regret being so emotionally guarded” Montanna Kirven “Ode to Childhood Scars” Montanna Kirven “Surburban Dusk” Montanna Kirven 7

“Hunter Green” Isabelle LeBlanc “Male Gaze” Isabelle LeBlanc “Pretty Little” Isabelle LeBlanc “Call” Paula Leppert “A Thousand” Victoria Lycza “Ocean” Victoria Lycza “fourth of july” Claire Lyons “the point is in reaching anyway” Claire Lyons “Brain Teaser” Natalie Munguia “Snippets” Natalie Munguia “Thursday Morning” Natalie Munguia “boxing gloves” Bella Niforatos 8

“saturation” Bella Niforatos “Dietje” Molly O’Toole “For Julia” Molly O’Toole “September” Molly O’Toole “Talent Show” Molly O’Toole “‘Terrible sting, terrible storm’” Molly O’Toole “bodies (and the multitudes they fail to contain)” Linh Oliver “nadir(-est)” Linh Oliver “Kintsugi” Chloe Onorato “The Luna Moth’s Visit” Chloe Onorato “a hung jury: on overthinking” Elizabeth Prater “Cliffside Aubade” JP Spoonmore 9

“Midnight Calling” JP Spoonmore “Scarecrow for Hire” JP Spoonmore “most grievous fault” Anna Staud “The Artist” Anna Staud “May those green eyes become starry once more” Matelda Sweis “Concluding Rites” Hannah Tonsor “Here’s your starting pitch.” Hannah Tonsor “Window pain” Hannah Tonsor

PROSE “Passing Time” Carter Cheeseman “Sickness” Alena Coleman “Left in the Lurch” Victoria Dominesey Excerpt from Thirds “Chapter XXXII” Giacomina Fabiano “All We Are Is Names” Ariana Howe “Misguided Love Triangle” Kimani Krienke “The Fallen” James Krusinski “Shutter Shock” Chloe Onorato “Cold Tile” Annie Wiese 11

ART “Dúlamán” Montanna Kirven “Dziękuję” Montanna Kirven “eden” Montanna Kirven “Untitled Image of Anytown, U.S.A.” Montanna Kirven “Frog Green” Christina Onorato “Trickster” Christina Onorato “An Evening’s Reflection” Wendy Ruan “Contemplation” Wendy Ruan “Uncertainty” Wendy Ruan 12

“Warm Seclusion” Wendy Ruan “Girl Daydreaming on Balcony” Camila Salinas “The Echoes of Liberation” Camila Salinas “Virtual Fashion 5.8” Lauren Tarnoff

POETRY

hello mama honey by Noah Cha

hello mama honey how come heaven hurts so funny? you’ve been gone for but a week but i’ve spent up all my money these tears make whiskey sweet and cigarettes fill up my tummy i can’t shake the stars awake because you’ve made the moonlight muddy hello mama honey how come heaven hurts so funny? you know i sleep from noon to noon because my day’s no longer sunny look both ways and cross my mind or just look down and keep on running sometimes i wish we’d left together so you could’ve gone while holding something how could heaven be so great when you’ve left our hearts with nothing? is heaven ever lonely? how come heaven hurts so funny?

legacies and elegies by Noah Cha

laguna beach sunset lilac on the skyline papa looking iced out mama looking prime time cabernet and perrier sip it til the sun rise money like a phone book thumbing through the hot lines our cup runneth over they poured it out a few times you can’t bury what we built, bud we bake it til the mud dries shake off all the dirt then frame it when the sun high legacies and elegies family tree and bloodlines grandpa left the homeland promised us a new life constant pain and hurricanes kept the pace in war time sweeter grapes and new wine living pride through old vines to carry names and dreams sought to bear it all through strong ties through famine, flame, and hardship to make fortune shine and wombs wise 18

Shorter Days

by Carter Cheeseman It’s the Days that seek solace in us During winter. Pitiful, reaching out and grasping No firm hold. Sometimes, the hours do arrive King of the hill. But they are knocked back down King of the hill. Days struggle and what do we do During winter? What if suns do not measure Days’ time? Harvest spirits, nature’s creation Disappears. The light grows shorter, yet we have Phoebus fire. We crack the whip, East to West From within.

What the Paper Said by Carter Cheeseman

The paper says it will be sunny And the Postman takes its word, tossing news like disease. The Hospitals have seen enough. Clouds do not move for paper’s sake, nor for man’s. The boy on the bike delivers Through open windows, to houses vacant But for the mice. Who pitter patter Through walls much more freely today. And even stick their noses out into vastness Of hardwood flooring. Taking prizes with them: The obligations of Robin Hood. So the print changes its medium Nesting words still legible: Today is to be sunny! The door opens like the skies and the man thunders in To escape the downpour. He in his rightful place, Mice in theirs, the paper repurposed, and rain… all around. The paper called for sun and man thinks so highly of paper; From trees which grow with rains.

Eros, from Delmira Agustini by Alena Coleman

I wonder if when Rubén Darío writes he kneels in the grass opens his mouth and waits for the sky to fall down his throat The sky was already in me in the deep place where I store my feathers— the whole cup of my body I want to break it and from the shards mosaic my lines in your back cisne cisne cisne I want to be your swan make you hold the heat of my beak in your palm make you hold the heat of my beak inside you My body is just the flat where you can lay your head My verse is just the cup where you can drown your heart I’ll eat it. I’ll eat the twists of your aorta if it means I can stick my hand into myself and write with the honey that comes out if it means I can scrape my pen against the arch of your neck and cut a slit for my desire

el placer unges de dolor; tu beso, puñal de fuego en vaina de embeleso, I am wax I am dagger I am honeycomb they can drink in my cup your fresh lips all they want, I. will. be the swan the lagoon the bright blindness of the butterfly

Italicized lines come from various poems by Agustini. The untranslated couplet comes from “Boca a boca.” The first translated line is from “El cisne,” and the second is from “El intruso.” The translations are mine. 22

Judas Love Song: Tanka Series by Alena Coleman

I. The potter’s field bleeds wild onions and silver wheat. Hot under shade tree I open my ribs for you and you fishhook my heart’s husk. II. You palm the gooseflesh on my thigh, spread it against bark, fulfill me with tongue. I have always loved too fast to be more than animal. III. Iron bites fingers, Soul-hungry gnats crown body. You died like a dog, but I died just to kiss you. Your lips hold me more than life.

Pslam 61

by Alena Coleman I feel my throat grow wings against a steering wheel coated in lemonade. I am saying words in a language I do not understand, and I know how the Holy Spirit tastes (Axe body spray and peanut m&ms), and I am floating in the storm like a Wendy´s hamburger wrapper, square and full of light and ketchup. And I hold myself in the five places I was pierced. And the Walmart parking lot throws choked light into my eyes like a vigil candle, like the neon sketch of a woman at an arcade bar that numbs my eyes with mud and spit, that steeps my tongue in Laffy Taffy and Miller Lite, that cracks my ears with choir-song, and I gasp. For the secret place of thunder. For the rock that is higher than I.

Self-Portrait No. 2 by Alena Coleman

tug tug tug on my teeth until my gums break open on linoleum, I mean, when I walk past someone smoking in the rain I think of you (I mean, of twisting my tongue into a nail and slipping it through my lips tearing the banana from the bottom down and leaving it open turtling my body backwards carapace. car heart. carnation.) wait, I mean, I can’t wail like I used too can’t swallow rage like pennies down esophagus can’t blow Powerade bubbles and let them pop on my fingers—I mean, I don’t know when I learned that I had a vagina, like I saw The Nativity Story as a kid and I thought the baby was coming out of her butt and my hand became plaster and I sank down into the bathroom stall and plastered my stomach, I mean, you can put a tampon in without really knowing what’s up there, I mean, the health textbooks were from 1986 and the diagrams looked like <;;;;;’’’’//;;> exactly—wait, I mean, I am here now and the rain tastes like so many laps around your body. branch. button up. the bodice I keep for occasions like this, I mean, let me lick you from thigh to finger, I mean, let me silly putty. swivel. suck out. the poison that I slashed into my own throat, I mean, I am a bad person. I mean. Wait. don’t let it end like this:

Hold the Tension by Claire Crafts

do you feel yet this undercurrent of life that ebbs and pulses and flows, pushes to the brink and finally explodes? do you yet wonder why the wind sounds like the soft keening in the deep space of your throat that only you know? do you hold too tightly to the things of the world you know you must lose? do you whisper prayers, ask if they’re of use? do you see my eyes linger as if to ask that overwhelming question, have you lived the polarity? do you understand this tension? do you know what it means to love, if you have not lost it? 26

Abandon

by Victoria Dominesey able accept ache adapt alone always baggage bare beg belong beside bra broke carry clarity clouded concede defend demand deplete dim drain Euphoria finite forced forget forgive fragile gain gap GPA grieve grind guilt happy hardly hear heard hell her him hurt jealous journey judgment justify kill kiss kissed knocked lack last leave listen listened lust margin mark mass meant memory mental neck need never now occupy ocean off offensive orgasm owe pain paraphrase persevere p.m. preserve pussy questions quit rage rare raw regret remember rip ripped rubber she shield shoreline Smirnoff standard stop tell temporary texts therapist Tori treasure unable understand understood undo upset value Vic video vision voice wander want we wilt wonder yes young yours

in legit shock (There’s Your Answer) by Victoria Dominesey Sun, Jun 20, 3:08 PM

I’m waiting for you to wish me happy father’s day lmao i’m not doing that Why bc you’re not a father Ya but I will be I can’t wait to have kids with you one day aww Fri, Jul 16, 11:13 PM

Can we ft tonight and talk and maybe watch a movie on the app or something Also I legitimately can’t get over these pictures yeah of course awww Yay I can’t wait to tell you about tonight Like I’m in legit shock of how beautiful you are Wed, Jul 23, 5:00 AM

Yayyy You’re up lol yeah 28

you’re up so early Can you stay up for like 20 minutes with me before I have to go yeah ofc Fri, Aug 6, 11:45 AM

Happy 6 months btw squeeb Love u bunches happy 6 months!! I love you too Thu, Aug 19, 3:29 PM

What day do you and your dad get here 21 okay my parents were planning on leaving that morning but I think they are gonna stay to see u and meet your dad now oh okay that’d be nice Sun, Aug 23, 1:21 AM

thanks for tonight i had fun text me once you’ve gotten home safe i love you Love u tooo i will Tue, Aug 24, 11:28 AM

is everything ok why have you been ignoring my snaps No Not really 29

I was just thinking a lot last night abt what ur really scaring me About us please answer my call i’m so confused i love you i thought we were fine I’m in class i cant talk will you call me when it’s over I have football well can we talk after that Ya I can come pick u up and we can talk Tue, Aug 24, 8:46 PM

I’m here Sat, Aug 28, 11:33 PM

pls call me IM in so. Much pain I’m sorry I can’t call u rn why I Please i need you you don’t understand 30

Call me ok please answer omg answer how can you say call me and not answer dude please i need to talk so much literally wtf i thought we were best friends how could you do this i’m trying to call and u wont answer omg please i need a hug My phone has zero service and about to die i feel like you’re lying bc you don’t wNt to talk to me can u call please this can’t be real Sun, Aug 29, 7:12 PM

i’m not trying to bother you but if nothing else i really really just need a friend right now everything is falling apart can we talk Read 10/2/21

By and bye by Will Dwortz

Look to the sun for solace as it dips lower, lower still. Weary of shining alone it joins the sea For one moment For one more. A radiant fusion of shattered light and foam Stretches out in shades of parting Saying, “You knew I was only stopping By, good-bye,” swimming beyond the horizon. Stand very still, and feel the warmth in the air. It soothes the shudder, With a low murmur and shy embrace, “I will stay, if you want me.” But the wind carries it where it must go. It was only ever stopping By, good-bye, chasing the sun. Settle into the cold, Another still, starless night. Wait for dawn and shades of greeting, dew, a kiss from the morning And listen close to that thawing embrace “We cannot stay, you know, But for our every good-bye A good morning awaits.” 32

October 21 by Will Dwortz

To me, you are a candle lit once a year To me, you are the source of my father’s tears With a face half blurred by the passage of time And a name half remembered now half of my life How long now until you fade away? How long will you lay claim to this day? It is not fair to ask, I know, I know You were not buried by a will of your own. And I know that even after I forget your face, I will never forget how you laughed at the Reaper’s.

Watercolor Memory by Will Dwortz

Paint the strokes I live by In watercolor on a liquid sky With a broad brush for realism And an impressionist’s heart. Clear lines to faded borders Blur Michelangelo to Monet, Every scene a flash flood on An old moment’s canvas, And everything gone a minute Gone as it was.

An Ode of Lover(s) Lost and Star-Crossed

by Anna Falk

what could i have done with the time i spent loving you? working sleeping breathing building temples and empires from the dust but you were the temple to which I was a devoted adherent and you decided the lambs were not enough your temple needed rebuilding, and I could not worship your bloodied ruins why have I loved you with my whole heart only to risk it all in vain? the thrill keeps me alive and keeps my tears like gentle rain in the depths of night oh, to be loved! if only to be loved by you what could be must never again exist we will not bend to each other’s winds and we pass hecate’s divinity if only you believed our love worth a chance, or even acknowledgment… the walls in this well of despair are stone cold, bring me the bucket

Saint Brendan and His Angels by Anna Falk

Nothingness is cut short by light’s intrusion –I didn’t have to look, but it is customary. Heights of humanity amaze and frighten– Here, we fail to understand the twinkling and blinding mob of color. Blinking is unnecessary, unneeded, unwanted in their presence. A small window’s worth of gazing, and an entrance into the blackest and brightest night. Descending into the earth, I know you in your glances and first impressions. Your waters show me love and enveloping beauty.

Observations

by Analie Fernandes a mosaic of my week deconstructed into shards, for your viewing pleasure and my survival Sunday: there is a disco ball that hangs above my bed. laying flat on my bed I look up and see a hundred little versions of me reflected back, the images turning gradually into nothing more offensive than simple spots of light Monday: Out of breath from my jog to class, I always feel like I’m running: late, out of time, behind, you fill in the blank Tuesday: hospitals smell like citrus, the impersonal nature of it stings my nose. Wednesday: Birds swirl through the sunset-tinted sky, a giant flock crisscrossing in a blatantly inhuman way. Dozens of pinprick birds dot the horizon, as far as I can see.

Thursday: Stress pools in my stomach, amplified by the tick tick tick of the clock which seems to echo in and outside of my ears. Maybe it’s a sort of beautiful rhythm (maybe time passing will sound better when it’s not bouncing off of hospital walls) Friday: The bubbles in the champagne I’m drinking stay in my mouth for just a few seconds, taste the exact same as anticipation, sweet and sticky. I am alive, and there is more to come.

solve for X.

by Angelica Ketcham Angel A and Angel B are hurtling towards each other at the speed of light. How many lightyears away from the leftmost galaxy will they be when they collide? they live in things that spin arrive at high noon in a corkscrew ship no more no less than celestial hands twisting a pepper grinder swinging like not-pendulums they have trajectories moons asteroids i know no religion but the hypnosis of windmills manic disco balls at maximum velocity they are a yo-yo whose radius keeps shrinking. A music-box angel rolls down an inclined plane. If three angels stand in an equilateral triangle, at what longitude will the Xth angel land? they navigate with brass compasses in the wake of lax tornadoes glamorous dung beetles they look to the stars clockwork steamrollers flattening tar and i too am flattened beneath this intergalactic rolling pin that allies itself to no recipe they sail the aurora borealis guided by microchips 39

resistors diodes they are circuit boards embalmed. If a combination lock with code XX-XX-XX plays X rounds of Russian roulette for X decades, what is the probability that an angel needs a parachute to fall safely to the ground? they have heels speckled with hiroshima debris nuclear gears and radioactive spurs doorknobs that don’t open the first time they are skeleton keys in the wrong lock wrong body wrong closet with veins pumping not-blood turbines extracting energy to fuel the voyage propellers for their own ship they are one hundred times on the chalkboard I WILL NOT FOLLOW YOU HOME. Angel X’s can opener can open X cans. How many cans can Angel X’s can opener open? their circular saws perform brain surgeries with the grace of the man who cuts the shawarma off its turning spit slicing the space-time continuum what would it take to make me them the dart and not the dartboard the satellite and not the planet the shooting star and not its destination they are cartwheeling on the surface of a planet with an unknown revolution. 40

Given that point X, point X, and point X are all moving on the same jazz record on the [e]x-angel’s record player, prove the alternate exterior angels theorem. they gyrate cog-like a carousel ride of noble steeds encircling pierced and held in place after jousting with stripper poles meridians traveled by cement mixers i know no prayer but the x-ray of twin ribcages ready to switch the question of who is screwing who and how quickly with springs coils pulleys simple machines from a parallel dimension they are revolving doors that blur the lines between rooms. A rotary phone with number XXX-XXX-XXXX has an orbital radius of X. If the egg tart angel on the lazy susan spins at X decibels, will we have an equal centripetal acceleration on the equinox? they say X marks the spot marks the atlas marks the starboard deck marks the leeward side marks the coordinates marks the north arrow marks the perfect place to hit the pinata to make it twirl marks an intersection in timelines marks a divergence xoxo love you they fail to say goodbye. 41

If you and your [e]x-angel travel at X miles per hour for X minutes at an altitude of X feet and a weight of X pounds and a force of X newtons in the opposite direction, how many [e] x-travelers and [e]x-angels do you have to be before you can be [e]x-human? they know that a map of the universe and a map of my neurons are not so dissimilar a frisbee will move forward forever in space that critical game show wheel of fortune moment exactly at zero hour at the choke point at the bottlenecking a treadmill paper mill printing press headline: INCREASE IN ORBITAL ECCENTRICITY they are the equal and opposite reaction. If an angel chops off its wings and gives them to you, does the number of angels stay the same?

Wetlands in Five Acts by Angelica Ketcham

i am weaving my own bridal wreath but the thorns poke prick and i bleed green around my wedding ring onto my wedding ring feeling concentric but mostly feeling punctured like a rather mossy balloon that deflates slowly and with a hiss that is more of steam than anything perhaps a gentle geyser but one squeezed by unskilled hands harvesting fluorite from the shells of the guiltsnails but only getting their slime. ———— the snake that grows and recedes into itself, and eats itself in a circle, and spirals at the rate of a Ferris wheel, and cycles until interior is exterior is within is without, the klein bottle snake, the mobius snake, when rain falls it falls in circles, the drip drip drip drip of ambiguous liquid hidden by drumroll thunder, a twisting crown among leaves with fractal veins, guilt is fractal, it branches the way it has already branched, it patterns the way it has already patterned, there is no beginning or end, anything can be a gutter, anything can be a rain barrel, anything can be a stagnant pool for mosquito larvae, anything can be a war trench, and when the writhing mass writhes itself into humid air, the leaf remains, a small boat gaining a river. —— 43

All the world’s a blurry Bigfoot photo; all the snakes and slugs mere stains on the jeans of time; all the vegetables in the garden a happy accident of evolution; all the verdant crystals mere vehicles for hazy rays of light to deflect themselves through the rough-hewn keyholes of trees; and I a silent smile on the face of someone I cannot see. —— I am weaving my own ankle monitor but I can’t do it fast enough; the crochet needle and the knitting needle and the harpoon needle and the narwhal needle and the embroidery needle and the sewing needle and the doctor’s needle are threaded with scales on scales on scales on scales on slime; a snail is just a snake whose coils are housed, a brussels sprout is just a snail with spherical symmetry, fractal symmetry, needlepoint symmetry, woven symmetry; I am weaving my own ankle monitor but its muscles contract and squeeze me too tight and strangle me but not in a place where it matters to strangle and we are muscle on muscle and scales on scales and slime on slime; a crystal is just a petrified snail; a leaf is just a hydrated shell; an ankle snake is just a bracelet with eyes. —— there is hunger between your toes. there is lightning between the cabbages in your garden. there is guilt between the cracks of your geode. there is moss between the keyholes of your forest. there are mosquito larvae between your wedding rings. there is growth between your gravestones. there is symmetry between your puddles. there are fractals between your toadstools. 44

In which I regret being so emotionally guarded

by Montanna Kirven

The house on Cedar Street is a little buzzy at 2am I just wanted to grab a glass from the kitchen cupboard But now my friend is saying words he doesn’t know the meaning of And I hear myself answering that I’m not meant for love I’m thinking— As the walls warp And decide to fold in on themselves like putty, The checkered kitchen floor Slips into a chessboard. I’m moving my knight Back, skittering in retreat. The rook has cornered me, Left me unsteady on my feet, And I step back, step back, step back, until my back is pressed Against the kitchen cabinets. My knight has her sword raised now: Stay back. —it’s been a while...

I know we lived in the in-betweens: Chased the liminal lure Of backyards boarded by broken fences, And parking lots drenched in artificial moonlight, And the quick drives to riverbanks, And playing Swift in my room at midnight, And I’m bitterly sorry now I didn’t take the chance To advance my knight to kitchen floor D4 Lower my sword And take him firmly by the hand.

Ode to Childhood Scars by Montanna Kirven

Wyoming summer Sundays off Highway 87 And the corner of Cemetery Lane Were for plaited blades of grass: Dandelioned crowns for muddy royalty Who plucked and twisted and braided Diligently, until the cottonwood castle beckoned With promises of towering grandeur. Scrambling sneakers toed into grooves and Soft fingertips pressed into gnarled wood, Even when bark sandpapered against skin To scrub us clean from city sins. Too high was the cry When we reached the branches More forgiving to the wind. But we, onward upward climbed Until these leaf-laced dancers Groaned under pink Velcro sneakers: Please, I am young And likely to break. By 2:32, tiny queens and kings Had found iridescent June bug wings, 47

Tied a hemp rope swing, and learned that Running kingdoms from boughs Incurred fines of flesh and blood. But it was our consensus That Tow-Mater band-aids Were a small price to pay For bone-breaking adventure And the freedom to play Under a Van Gogh hay bale sun, And laugh like thunder And run until shoelaces came undone. So we climbed and jumped and collected A map of crooked little scars, Where every X spoke: I was here. I was here. I was brave.

Suburban Dusk by Montanna Kirven

Louis Street lists at sunset, Cool and aching, like a hand without its holder. Its pavement misses rubber sneaker soles, And the skin of scraped knees, And the taste of Levi’s jeans. The baked in asphalt heat From August’s rays has faded Like the ink of late lover’s letters, And the stillness unsettles The part of me that believes I am alone. It curls it up to the surface like smoke And leaves me breathing feather light And staring skyward Like I am the only surveyor of stars.

Hunter Green by Isabelle LeBlanc

They could never sell us Sour tasting tongues Compel us We are Reckless, headlessA jealous mess I can’t seem to Appease. Jealous of those Whose tears I cradle. Bundles of rage, A difference in age, I shield my eyes. But don’t won’t worry I remember your favorite color. Jealousy You see me In shades of sage and wine

Male Gaze

by Isabella LeBlanc there is an invisible Man in my room. He sits perched at the top of my bookshelf, stalking in the corner. He watches me sleep, rise, dance He helps me choose what to wear and guides my carefully calculated actions, as I prance around my room He doesn’t know I know he’s there. He follows me around my house to make sure I avoid that piece of cake, and relinquish my dinner from my throat to that pretty porcelain bowl. He watches me fuck my self to the other girls on my screen that He follows too. He is my seventh grade crush, my boyfriend, the pretty teacher I hope to please. I cater to Him, despite awareness.

Pretty Little

by Isabella LeBlanc I’m watching my feet in the dirty mirror I wish I was daintier Pretty little girls Flowers in their long hair Tiny waists Pretty little bellybuttons They would have clean feet And gentle perfume tiny pretty perfect Floods my feed Where did my luck go? My feet pale In comparison Why do my veins Pop! out like that Vain Their shadows don’t Strike As mine do They know they are Beautiful little girls and me 52

Call

by Paula Leppert Your legs try to crawl away from the pain The thoughts hold on tight. They press your breath behind your prison bar ribs. Sometimes I can hear a quiet scream echo between your lips. When your eyes open I try to hold on to the drops of salted water escaping my hands. You often forget about your smile. Sometimes it just sits there, quietly, in the corner of your lips, shy like an old friend you haven’t talked to in a while. It hurts. It hurts that I cannot be there for you. I see you lying in a puddle of pain. I can smell your blood, I can hear your heart, One, two, three, four count the days that I haven’t heard from you. I wish I could show you how much I care about you. I wish you would pick up. 53

A Thousand

by Victoria Lyczak Cold, I stand alone. I’ve been cut to the bone. A thousand words A thousand knives Working to cut me down. “Have thicker skin,” they tell me, But the skin can only take so much Before it rips. Exposed, the blood is pouring out. I’ve been torn open. A thousand looks A thousand claws Scratching for my life. Layer by layer, They’re breaking me. They’ve all left – Leaving me with pain as my sole companion, But even pain couldn’t bear the sight of me I’ve given them all I can; My bones a fragile art. “Have thicker skin,” they say, But the skin can only take so much Before it rips And I, too, am gone. 54

Ocean

by Victoria Lyczak A rushing sound. I can’t get silence no matter where I go. Pressure is building As the waves swell And press on my heart. My mind is an ocean Abundant with thoughts. This is not your average coy pond. The fish are not still or peaceful. This is an ocean Where there is a constant battle for life. I can’t think straight. All the thoughts are jumbled up in my head, And they’re working against me. For they are a mass of many, And I am an army of one.

fourth of july by Claire Lyons

1. The weekenders are finally at their weekend houses. Their little girls come in red, white, and blue, running blindly with golden sparklers. The water is finally high enough to dock the boats, lake surface neon algae — runoff from the weekenders. 2. In the garden, the powerlines and fireflies, grown-ups busy spiking the watermelon with patriotism and Bruce Springsteen songs, too distracted to notice their All-American boys running bases on the desecrated graves of indigenous people. 3. I had once snuck into the bed of a friend’s truck, all of our bodies tangled together, staring at the twinkling city stars, listening for police. Then, gunshot — golden glory above us. Dangerous beauty, illegal for the kinds of people in our neighborhood. 4. The bombs explode and the old dogs with gray beards shake and howl in their houses. For some reason, we still laugh, throwing back beers and Coco-Cola. Tell me, why we bear white grimaces as our swollen red and blue tongues sing the national anthem? 56

the point is in reaching anyway by Claire Lyons

Sappho said something like: “How will my hands ever touch the heavens?” (Or, at least, that’s how I thought it went. She said a lot of things.) What Sappho doesn’t know is that thousands of years later I was born with the soul of a middle school boy who jumps up to slap doorframes and sometimes still asks God to turn him into Superman.

Brain Teaser

by Natalie Munguia I This May I will graduate with a degree in Neuroscience from the University of Notre Dame II My grandmother is illiterate. Strung up between two truths, disbelief squeezes my skull and I flail in the attempt to wrange them together in my parietal lobe. I read and somewhere between my hippocampus and my heart a daughter’s pride in her father engenders invisible inflamation. Wedged deep in my brainstem lurks a guttural pain knowing these black letters don’t trigger her occipital lobe like they do mine, electrical signals like lighting bolts to the thalamus, and an even slimer shame: my loathing of our immutable ignorant, ugly past These two truths stretch my soul thin, fold of my neocortex writhing beneath meninges, as I blind myself to the doubt on the edges of the CT scan. 58

Snippets

by Natalie Munguia Thursday night I called you and you said you were cooking I was happy because you never cooked before Snippet Snippet Snippet It’s all I ever hear Here at school, with all my nice friends, all my nice clothes, all my nice books I just want to be in the pasture watching the hawks circle letting my shadow lengthen feeling limitless Like if I just stood and closed my eyes and let the sun soak me up days could pass and that would be okay I wonder if you ever stood in the pasture like that If you kneeled and buried your face in Rue’s fur I don’t know All I hear are snippets now 59

Thursday Morning by Natalie Munguia

In my mother’s kitchen a pot of water boils with ginger root and lemon juice, Honey sits in a mason jar, thick, dark and stubbornly sticky. White linoleum clings to icicle feet and my arms chainlink around her small warm frame, cheek pressed to cotton — I breathe apologies. In my mother’s kitchen screeched criticisms echo. She is a bird sustained by almonds alone, beak sharper than blades, wings holding cerulean sins. Skylight sun shining in, blinding me, daring me to croak hello but I just reach up to find my blue Costa Rica mug, add too much honey, and pray the sweet gold sap softens our hearts.

boxing gloves by Bella Niforatos

my dad buys me boxing gloves and tells me, “you are an f-5 tornado.” can tornados dream storms away or eat the roofs of good people and pick who they plague? i put on my tornado gloves, a whole weather map dedicated to me. a boy who abused said, “you think too much about power.” and i think too much about power: eating bad people’s roofs, breaking through fear irrigated walls, and ascending. when i was a little girl, i prayed to be reunied with my family, all 9 of us, and i prayed i’d grow up to be a basketball player. but neither happened. i wish i’d skipped god, told papou to hold on to his rickety postwar beautiful heart some years more, that we’d make it out to 4807 st charles rd years after he aspirated on hospital food and old gunshot wounds, but it’d be too late. “i think about power so i don’t think about anger,” i should have told the boy, “the special kind you wouldn’t get,” the kind that breeds and diagnoses you an animal and makes people and god listen and makes plagues pick and not ravish. robin williams said sad people want to make others happy because they’ve felt worthless and i see your scars and your dysfunction and your fear and the time it takes you to unbutton your coat and how long it takes you to say goodbye and how you’ll never trust again and the way you eat walmart samples with tears tucked into the corners of your eyes and when you watch water pour out of faucets in awe and how you never hug anyone without asking first and how you say “i live” and not “i am from” and i see you, like a tornado sees a hurricane and knows it has found family. and someone will tell you, as they told me, that power comes from within, not without, because they don’t know what power is. power does not come from within. it is you. it is a well-kept secret, one only the tornado and hurricane people will ever understand. because some secrets are discovered through death and if we run into each other in the street, i will tell you, “you are a category 5 hurricane,” because you are. 61

saturation

by Bella Niforatos we were saturated in it [that ill feeling [the space at the top of the cocoon where the air was thinner [we were elevated and spinning and sickened [on flight [on genetically toxic membranes [we liked to dance [in the tiptoe crawlspace between dimensions [the basement of creation [we were people once in a while [otherwise creatures [non-synonymous with human [bruised-apple flesh [we were curious [there was wet [old [the anthesis of good [this is where we thrived [we had been raised with fire in mind [sometimes we held hands but not really [without touching [we shrunk and [slid [slipped down the slippery slope of wondering [we were better off without our imagination [just drunk on the clay that we were birthed from [dirty [hearts beating [we were newborns [we were shedding [we were things [material [and that felt good

Dietje

by Molly O’Toole Mom and I called her on that Evil sunday Us two heavy on the couch, filled with gray stones I still wonder if she could hear it in our voices As soon as she lifted the receiver And I was thinking many things, And also nothing, but mostly just (And I’ve tried to phrase this better, But my words do it no justice) How unbearable, how horrific, how wicked To exist in the moment right before Someone’s whole world collapses To know your job is to open the latch And then step back to watch That proverbial box release its ghosts. ———— So what I took away from the terror of November is the one thought That I’ll never know the answer To, but which will still sit on the Windowsill of my mind, which is the question of whether Brian, in the bathroom, Hair still dripping, maybe saw A whisper of dark, and maybe Knew, and so decided to grab that pillow and lay down, Not afraid at all, but maybe just Ready to settle in and watch It all happen. He might have been curious, He might have not even wanted to cry. 63

For Julia

by Molly O’Toole When I sleep, I see you And I know I’m dreaming but The sight of you alive heaves some kind of Sob from deep in my stomach the grief wrenches through me So violently that I wake up sore Last night I passed you at Kickstand you were wearing a backpack, you had long hair, it might Have been high school, and it didn’t quite Feel like a chance to say all I’ve been thinking These three weeks because you said “Hi Molly” in that way you would. Cheery. And there was nothing I could say but Hi back. Julia, you walked out the door. Just like the last time I saw you, Kickstand again. I brought You your order and I wish I could Remember what it was—maybe an iced chai. It was summer. I handed it to you. 64

I remember saying less than I wanted to Because of distance, or time It had been long. I was at work, I hurried On to the next thing But I like to imagine that I asked: Do you remember getting in trouble In third grade for laughing during read aloud? Do you remember our first play? The fake silk dresses, our faces caked in blush? Do you remember late nights at camp, The smell of the lake on our skin? Do you remember that race through The pouring rain, the song you played on The ride over? I still listen to it. Do you remember talking into the night after We had both broken up with our high school boyfriends? Do you remember Seattle, your dad’s friend that tiny golden retriever puppy? I wish we had longer. And I like to imagine that I said: How are you? We should go for a drive or a hike or a swim. I miss you.

September

by Molly O’Toole So I turn this longing into something, this yearning that’s lately become an ache Because I can’t risk the bottling And when I think of it I go blind And you, who I can’t seem to talk to I’ve never seen a smile split the ground in two Never felt the rumble of a voice shake my ground When you come to mind I cower And I can’t write about you, My words are too worldly And it’s either that I dreamed meeting you Or in that very moment I opened my eyes And I said all I could think of. Maybe I come from man made land. Did you know They built Back Bay with dirt, that the city rose out of water? Or How about the wildfires? Or come si dice I know you? 66

Talent Show by Molly O’Toole

I am not a jester, Although maybe I should have spent more time begging I have seen the peeling cracks That open to the red mess Underneath earth, or skin Seen the fear that grabs the songbird in a chokehold below the wings, The empty faith that makes it whistle And I have been the old fruit Shriveled three days in the sink, been the Gutted fish, wide eyed in a fluorescent freezer But have still known that love is not wasted If it finds no reception, no home— it is the Eastern box turtle miraculously late in the season, The only resource in abundance. And this is real— living before my eyes and beneath my feet, and precious

That some Great hand or divine will Made veins so tiny in a spinning maple seed, Made sunlight fall golden through leaves like holy water Made a fleshy persimmon flop to the ground, made this hand that picked it up. There are things that will escape me But to feel this— simple infinity, One blade in an endless field of overwhelming goodness To feel the falling water under my toes, For a second only What, God, is better? And the moment between seeing and dreams, The moment I can’t quite believe it, There squawks the bird, there yelps the coyote, As if to say, Here we are.

“Terrible sting, terrible storm” by Molly O’Toole

And now, Friday morning Amtrak South Bend to Union Station Chicago, playing grown up on my solo odyssey Sufjan Stevens was made for these empty miles Midwestern flats, a yawn and a stretch, a kicking out of legs The violent body of earth splayed out across this Republic And Stevens now: “we have sparred, wrestled and raged” Like this crocus bulb I am, a tempest in Autumn Rolling the dice to fall in love with someone new Just as I fly to Houston to cruelly yank Summer back towards me by its slick tail, Its peace eludes me Through the smogged window, Restless clouds roll over the plains, An abandoned barn waits for dwellers And later on the plane, I’ll take out my notebook and write the word impassioned, Nothing else. 69

bodies (and the multitudes they fail to contain)

by Linh Oliver

heavier than another’s body is one you are tired of bearing my body is a stranger but its weight knows me by name. it clasps me by my brittle bones adorns me with the pungency of decay but i feel prettier when i’m corroded lighter when i let the world eat me away. to speak of worlds: how can i be yours in a universe so quick to disown the heavenly bodies it creates? you exile me from your orbit and are shocked when i can do not stay. heavy may be the body, but torrential is the tongue. i parrot back violence in a language i do not comprehend my hands wring out pain that transcends translation words are so much emptier once i learn what they mean. of all the magnitudes in the universe yours is a candle set out to boil the ocean you are a bloodless sacrificial lamb 70

speaking in stolen tongues convincing them that you deserve your seat amongst the dying stars. once in a treacherous blue moon i conversate with god. i ask him if heavy, broken bodies still have to climb the stairs to heaven his silence is cruel, but telling even in a language not my own.

nadir(-est) by Linh Oliver

the art of starving incorporeal constellations picking your bones clean in archeological apathy the heresy of heritage you are vampiric you are your own victim and i am too young to do anything more than deify the progeny of warfare spoon-fed malice siphoned of surrender here honey is something to drown in the paradox of rage truth is synonymous with the curve of your palm i come to know enlightenment at the cusp of attrition even though you refuse to step foot out of the cave. 72

Kintsugi

by Chloe Onorato Of all the art I envy, the one I envy most is sculpture. Imagine being hand-crafted, every detail meticulously selected Every individual strand of hair, every dimple in cheek and spine, every wrinkle in a knuckle Tenderly gouged into your malleable skin. The flaky cracking of your drying body soothed by a waterlogged, calloused hand. Wooden, metal, and living tools bringing you into existence slowly, painstakingly, adoringly— Only to break. Humans are fragile. Our hearts shatter like pottery Our foundations snap brittle like oven-baked wishbones Our lifeblood congeals into cold conglomerations of raw muddy garnet stones We turn to wax, newly-dipped candles with black-burned wicks All that is left, we think, is to burn them into our minds and out of sight. After our eyes turn to one-way glass, we cannot be restored. Fill our mouths with the blood of the gods, that petrichor of golden ore Until it has nowhere else to go but through our fractured vessels. Cracked lips ironed smooth by ichor, Glass eyes gilt with golden tears and golden lashes, Bruised hearts made bullion, and

Bask Until it dries in feathered tufts like phoenix plumes We are broken, yes, but we are gold-joined, We are kintsugi, Art that celebrates the beauty of imperfection We are resilient, we are strong, we are beautiful Imagine: our scars, painted gold. Imagine feeling the pin-poking stares of curious eyes. Imagine letting them stare.

The Luna Moth’s Visit by Chloe Onorato

The gold-green evening invites the eye to string together sunbeams Pressing intangible kisses to summer sycamores and maples, blushing chartreuse Everything is warm and rustling, soundlessly singing Canticle of the Sun All but one. It sings in a minor key Providing a hibernal harmony for the sea of blazing vivacity It clings to jagged ochre bark as it weathers the storm of sunshine The balmy breeze ruffles white fluff, like a living cotton ball, And twin antennae, more feather than wire, wave like toneless chimes It must not see much, pressed against the tree But the sun is bright to all eyes today And this gentle being would burn to a single sea foam fleck should that intensity find it The creature shields itself from the fiery fanfare in an Indiglow-green cloak Limned with violet along the hems Two coattails coyly curl under the languid gaze of the day-worshippers The poor thing has lost one of the golden buttons adorning its fine frock Either it is searching for a new one, or it has not noticed. It does not ask for help, so no one offers Though I cannot help but feel it would ask, shyly but politely, If it only had a mouth and voice. It seems out of place here, in the sunlight, But I cannot begrudge its

Seeking a moment of warmth, and a moment’s notice From those who close their eyes night after night Glowing ethereally as it glides on silent, cool zephyrs Majestic even with a missing button.

a hung jury: on overthinking by Elizabeth Prater

i tried to report a robbery last week & they asked me to describe the person. in soliloquy, i described their crooked nose & their eyes that resemble pine trees that grow along the coast of the pacific crest trail & that look of panic they get every time they have to speak in front of a crowd. they asked if i knew the perpetrator, because i described them with such great detail, but i responded that i didn’t. it’s hard to get to know somebody else—even harder to get to know one’s self. they asked what had been taken, & i told them i didn’t know. they told me that i was wasting their time, but it’s hard to describe what is missing when you don’t know what it was in the first place. they let me leave, & so the robber went free. one part of me gives, & the other takes. like a corrupt judicial power, one fails to keep the other in check, & i wonder how many other people are victims to their own thoughts—a penal colony of neurons that constantly battle for power while the host merely watches and withers.

Cliffside Aubade by JP Spoonmore

Do you cower under the banshee’s scream? Huddled from the crashing tide behind latched windows, Her cries mean something to you, Don’t they? You feel the sea barge against your door, Yet peek between your blankets, Praying winds will change, Hearth abandoned, you twitch to the banging sleet. I’ve been watching you from a distance, A pair of eyes tethered to your back, Bare feet punctured on salted rock, I stand at the edge of your twig-scrap altar, The fat from the salmon drips with knowledge, But you’d rather fill your thirst on the siren’s call, Tripping into the footprints of giants, You leave a future with me. Let the hinges buckle, the hurricane burrows inside, Soak your heart in the pouring sea, Anchor your toes in barnacles as the kelp nets your arms, Sink below the tide where her spell can’t breach, 78

Storm-thrown waves claw rock into dust, A silent lighthouse shines not for you, Push through the night away from her voice, Before it pulls you to the West, I promise to forget this day, Allow me to tell you my fears, my joys, By holding onto your frame in the sun. Burning under your shade is all I ask. As I witness your final plea shatter in the breeze, My heart’s nightmare roots reality into my eyes, Her phantom song lulls you deeper into the storm, Another shipwreck to add to her collection. May the moss and stone tell my story So you can carry my sorrow with a familiar name, My open callouses write our mistakes into the land, Gravel and ice are woolen fleece after a life spent on you. My knees press on blindly beneath the crushing sky, Grounded, my home shuts me in your world, Clipped scars drip with each step while I wonder into the dawn, Do you realize your wings came from me?

Midnight Calling by JP Spoonmore

My brain slips through the nose, Split down the middle for each nostril, Fingers ready to catch, My eyes watching the world sink black. Shivered milk chunks against the inner cranium, Like a paste of expired memories. Cooling systems down, graphite tipped for cash, Subterranean miners’ skins burnt to a marshmallow crust. Fiddle tuning atop the wall, I relish one last time in the sunset, Thirteen years before the roof, Santa Anna waits for the dawn. Riffling into the dark, An endless crevice nestled between thumbs, Pink extract scooped through cartilage with sticks, For the jackal-faced jars buried in my limestone tomb,

I sit calcified, watching Magpies solve puzzles and bite off tracker chips, Cavemen had better teeth than me, But at least I copied their brow. My sapling neck bends in the tornado, Knowing everything means nothing, Eyes branded in red, green, and blue I close the desk early before morning ends. Time to let sleep win, I’ll finish my surrender tomorrow.

Scarecrow for Hire by JP Spoonmore

“Back porch with a forested view, Year-round shade at no extra cost, Far away from the city — but not too far To commute in the morning before you’re stuck in the traffic. Oh? What a thing of the past! Congrats on retirement, Up next is the tour of our clubhouse and executive 9 Open sunrise to sunset! The driving range looks out over the river. What more could you want?” What more could you want. I will never forget the smell Of storms hauled by the cold-front wind, Morning rain stewing broth, Darkened leaves and mud. You plot on forested ground Leaving bankrupt farmlands to collect dust Because virgin soil is so Visually pleasing. Who’d want to tee off flattened ground anyway? Of course, you gutted the forest,

No point in decorated farmland The rusting trailers and manure piles don’t make good sandpits So, it’s off to swing the axes. Deer chased away by mechanical bobcats. Abandoned fauns limping into my patch of pillaged dirt, Too petrified to notice the coyotes that stalk in the night, Salivating at future house cats and hamsters. “Where did the birds go?” You will ask, Silent skies echo in the bluest void, My purpose flies past my fallen horizon. Now there is no one to scare from the harvest, But the ones that built around me, Stranded. Barren fields sprout inescapable weeds come springtime I break the stake planted within my heart to see the neighbors. Following the smell of woodchips and cologne A path of stumps lay before me. Felled trunks rot beside cooling concrete pits Too many rings to count, too many years marked for the butcher to see Bark spilled on the road Lost seeds on smothered ground. Sawdust coats the mailbox, Sprinkled white on glossy black Ornamental leaves melded as buttressing

Frozen in a metal breeze. In the coming seasons, When children play in the yard, And carts dance along the green, There will be new life. But all I will see is Death. Your time will come, When the grass looks greener elsewhere and your children have left Unfortunately for the both of us, You trapped in your foundation and me plucked from mine, They will leave you just as they left me. That itching doubt between your hair and sweat My sack-cut, button eyes peeking through your window Coarse stalks brushing against skin. You thought I’d rot away, But I was dead to begin with. You only remember now, once it is too late. But what do I matter anyhow, Just a strawman of pitiful posture Watching, waiting, After years of serving in the fields, I will forever drift along the dusted winds, A scarecrow for hire.

most grievous fault by Anna Staud why do you wear red does it remind you of scooping blood out on the bathroom floor closed door your rubied cuticles tender how do you look so still pursed lips your eyebrows clenched like fists round a monstrance what do you tell yourself as you lay awake at night what do your golden-orbs see do you dream in red do you sweat crimson how did the buttons feel in your fingers the dull plastic smooth and hard when you pull each hair into place each morning does it hurt is pain easy for you to preach does the host throb in your wrists do you know anything about yourself that’s true do you still think about last june and the white-tiled bathroom floor closed door did you change since then does your red stole stick to your skin like a sermon

The Artist

by Anna Staud I’m a locked diary of unfinished melodies torn at the spine I’m your anorexic prom queen witch at the stake the echo in your myth I kill myself every three years in a bathtub of wine you bury me with Gatsby I want to go back to the lake but each cab leads to empty bars my bones wilt like crushed roses in cobblestones you sit on the olive cushions in my foyer your ears clogged with brine oil lathers on my vocal cords in perpetual laryngitis my throat sand papered did I bleed enough for you to call it art?

May those green eyes become starry once more

by Matelda Sweis

I see the violence here, at the periphery of my vision The aftermath to a story I skipped out on I see it in the bullet holes strewn across buildings, In the broken remnants of glass hanging from window ledges, In the collapsed foundations of once-structures now reduced to crumbled rubble And yet, I see also the strive for peace In the seemingly untouched places of faith In the newly graduating civil engineers In the painted flowers blooming from gun barrels. And I realize In the heart of Syria, Lies a deep wound that has just begun to heal

Concluding Rites by Hannah Tonsor

Bow your heads to all things beautiful Kiss the hushed air Drink the filling emptiness Particles, pixie dust, drenched in our pores. The earth has settled like a gumball in my gut. Plopped on its hands, waiting to float up with my next gulp of God. Let me go in peace.

Here’s your starting pitch. by Hannah Tonsor

the one with the piano hands looks down at us on Sunday while my lungs let my legs take the day of rest while they inhale the steeple’s dust cough and blow it out as sound waves catching on gold-painted stars one only with the steeple sky the starry atmosphere of earthenbeings stay with us in the loft and reach into the soil below to seed a new earth in between an earth ruled by his piano hands starlight for sunlight wine for water the right playing too beautifully to uphold any more than just melody surely we’re upholding ourselves with our own mouths steeple-tall vowel shapes upholding our own liveliness perhaps we’ll never break the steeple sky and our souls will become sound. the one with the piano hands? i heard you call him God.

Window pain by Hannah Tonsor

There is sunlight under my shiny pink eyelids. It blinks itself into Baptismal tears, Holds the retina in its embrace, Suspended in A Womb. A shiny pink womb that licks yellow sunlight until It Is Raw. Warmly rashed with a new air, Surfaced upon dreams like soda bubbles That burn and swallow The Fonts of Breath. Swallow to welcome fresh. Here are the exposed lungs! Let sunlight touch them And see how it burns To be fresh, To be seen by the awakened sky Before applying sunblock.

PROSE

Passing Time

by Carter Cheeseman I walked without aim, pondering possibility. Open to suggestion like leaf to morning dew.

To what do I owe this pleasure?

Asphalt guiding me like Socrates to Plato, Aristotle, and Alexander. But I am a greater land conqueror, backed by a vast army. My feet march with the soldiers who came before, my boots unsoiled by the earth. Straight black tar. Celestial ruler has conceived of nothing better. Water greets me. A river rushing toward its destination, heedless of those ancient stones (perhaps thrown by some men who would not recognize my appearance) in its path. Somehow tamed by the metal bars that frame my view. Click move on… shuttered by the “The Industrial Revolution and its Consequences,” people do not linger. Cogs must keep the machine in motion lest Rome fall again, but down with homeostasis. Attempting to listen, I can only imagine the confusion of Caesar upon his approach to the Rubicon: The river has been muted. Iacta Alea est. Muffler music dominates the airways. Oh the death of Rock & Roll! Yet Clapton’s guitar cannot weep true tears; the tears of Plenty Coup after the last Bison disappeared. “After this nothing happened.” The river carries those tears to my eyes if not to my ears or nose. Sniffs of Hiroshima and Chernobyl replace Ponderosa Pines in winter.

But the water moves on, unconscious of difference.

So too does the asphalt and so too must my feet. I walk without aim, but my body knows its purpose and is freedom truly freeing?

Sickness

by Alena Coleman The first time I felt the sickness, I was laying on my back on the burgundy couch at grandmother’s house in a room that had once been a garage but was now a living room. It was the room where grandmother slept, on the flowery couch. She liked it better than a bed. I did not like sleeping on the burgundy couch, stinking like dog piss that had been diligently washed out but not entirely removed. The TV was on one of its three channels, infomercials, and grandmother was fast asleep. She had not believed me earlier when I said I wasn’t feeling well. Well, she had believed me, but only in the way that adults believe kids: half-heartedly and with the full sense of their own superior knowing. She had given me some kids chewable Tylenol, but it was much too weak for me, now 11. I took it and didn’t finish my pizza. I took a shower, the water weak from having to pull itself out of the well and sour-smelling like limestone. I danced round grandmother’s shower chair while I tried to wash every part of me with her Dial soap. It made my skin feel taut, dry. I brushed my teeth and laid down on the burgundy couch while grandmother watched whatever the outside antenna could snatch from the ether. I couldn’t stand to watch it, so I concentrated my eyes out into the darkness past the windows. I imagined I could see all the way to the pond, all the way to the moss-covered hill where the bullfrogs croaked their ballads, all the way past the cornfields and 95

down to Big Creek. I saw only the darkness half concealed by the light of the TV. Grandmother fell asleep, and I reeled back and forth on the couch, trying to find a place to hold my head where it wouldn’t ache, trying to catch a draft of wind from the window that might cool the clamminess pooling in the places my body bent. I felt ants crawling up and under my skin, pulling against all the folds. I yanked myself up and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirrorme looked back at me for a long time. The only color on my face was my lips, redder than normal, red like a sunburn. I pressed my face against the bathroom window and felt some relief. From here, I could really see out into the night. The steeple of the Baptist church across the street cut upwards towards the stars, and their security lights sent slivers of light onto the road and into grandmother’s front yard. The window began to warm up to match my temperature, so I pulled back. I grabbed a hand towel and soaked it in cold water. I put it on my forehead like I saw them do in cowboy movies. I held the towel in place, walked back to the garageturned-living room and settled back down on the burgundy couch. The ringlets of water that curled down my face from the cloth caught in my mouth, and I relished the tang of the wellwater. I imagined it tasted like earthworms. The cloth eventually turned lukewarm as well, but I didn’t have it in me to stand up and wet another cloth. The ants had returned, and this time I felt them building their colony in my stomach. It would be rude to move now. I had read in a book that ants were very smart, maybe smarter than humans, they could build colonies miles wide and 96

miles deep. They fought wars. They built empires. I felt my body becoming empire. Shriveling. Shivering. I clenched my teeth and counted the popcorns on the ceiling. Time passed and grandmother eventually began to stir. I hid the cloth in my hand and closed my eyes as if I had slept. She moved slowly, through water, and passed into the kitchen. I heard noises like the oven clicking on and the refrigerator opening, and the sun began to crack over the sky. As sunlight inched into the room and forced itself over my eyes, I started to feel normal. The ants stopped crawling. My skin grew taut and then plushy, returning to its pinkish hue. I was no longer sweating, and my head stopped aching. I clenched the cloth in my hand, and it was no longer there. ——— Later, when I had pieced the pattern together, I would learn that this was a typical case, a type 1. The sickness would come with the darkness and leave with the darkness. The next day would be fine, and so would the next day after that. I would have a good month, maybe more, before another slipping. After the first one, it was a year and change before it came again. I had almost forgotten the feeling of the ants crawling, of my body writhing. But of course you can’t really forget, not once you’ve sat in it. I certainly hadn’t learned the signs yet, though, so I was caught off-guard when I had to heave myself out of a sleeping bag and drag myself along the carpet to throw my body against the cool, tiled floor of Bailey Burnes’s bathroom. Her mother found me sitting there, sometime in the middle of the night. 97

“Oh, poor thing!” She reached under the sink and then handed me a pad. “First time? Don’t worry, I won’t tell the other girls.” She left the bathroom, and I held the pad with the tips of my fingers until dawn came and the world started to feel less tight around my body. After that, I started to learn how to feel them coming. A tingling under my armpits three days before, for just a few seconds. A queasy feeling behind my eyes the day before, or the day of, if it was going to come on fast. A pervasive nausea. And something I never knew how to describe to doctors, the way I knew it wasn’t just something I ate—a humming in my bones. When the humming came, there was no escaping the slipping that night. ——— I sat in the waiting room, staring at a mural of a ladybug sitting on the leaf of what I assumed was meant to be a peony. It looked kind of like a wad of pink chewing gum, but I imagined the mural had been painted by high schoolers trying to get in their service hours. I envisioned them in their uniform skirts and Oxford shirts, sleeves rolled up, painting in thick strokes with house-brushes. “Oops,” one says, veering over the line. “Ahhhh,” another says. “It’s okay we’ll just kinda do this….”and in a few seconds a flower is salvaged from haphazard wet paint. What did they do after they painted the mural? There was a skatepark down the street. Did they go there? Were they 98

skaters? I imagined them again, this time with blue streaks in their hair and Chuck Taylors and thick eyeliner. No. They weren’t skaters. Did they all go to a diner? To the first one’s house? To the second’s? Did they laugh and talk about boys and listen to music until their mom screamed from the bottom of the steps? I wondered. I wondered what it would be like to be laughing with them, screaming with them, to hold my voice between the voices of friends. “Margaret?” The nurse in blue scrubs called from the doorway. “Let’s go,” my mother said without looking at me. I sat on the blue padded observation table and wiped my palms against the crunchy white paper. It crinkled under my thighs. Crunch crunch crunch. And the doctor wrapped a tube around my arm and placed a circle on my chest and shone a light in my ears and hit my knees with a piece of rubber and looked at my spine and asked me when my last menstrual period was and still the crunch crunch crunch. “Okay, is there anything else you want to tell me?” Crunch crunch crunch. “Oh ummmm yeah there’s… well…. I get these… it’s not the right word but… headaches?” “Hmmmmm,” the doctor said, pinching his eyebrows in the look that adults make when they’re trying to take kids seriously. He scratched something on his notepad, “Any nausea?” “Yes, but, it’s—” 99

Scratch scratch scratch. “Vomiting?” “Yes, well, sometimes—” Scratch scratch scratch. “Sensitivity to light or sound?” “Yes, well but like the sound is coming from inside?” The scratching stopped. “Yeah and it’s like, the world starts spinning under me but only under me? And I get really hot like sweaty but not a fever, and there are like these, um, these, yeah, ants under my skin. Well like not ants but they feel like ants, well I think they can’t really be ants, right? And then like, hmmmm, my bones, they….” He was looking at me again, eyebrows pinched, lips held together in a tight smile. “Well this is the first I’m hearing of this,” My mom said with a half-laugh, shaking her head at the doctor. He nodded back at her with the widening smile of someone acknowledging that they were on the inside of a joke. “And how often do you get these headaches?” “Well…” Crunch crunch crunch. “I’ll tell you what, little lady, next time you have a headache, take some Tylenol. See if that helps.” My fingernails curled into the fleshy places under my fingers. 100

——— I spent the better part of my 16th birthday in a diner’s bathroom stall. I loved Casey’s diner more than I loved any place on Earth, besides my bedroom. I would go and sit there after school, get a cup of something, and do whatever homework I needed to get done to stay afloat. I liked the smell—slightly burnt coffee and hash browns—and I never slipped after spending a few hours in a booth at Casey’s. And they never minded me much, even when I took up a booth during Friday dinner hour. And they never asked any questions, never tried to be my friends, never asked why a girl in that antiquated prep-school uniform liked to sit all day alone in a diner. And I never slipped the day after spending a few hours in a booth at Casey’s. So when I started to feel the humming coming on faster than it ever had that morning, I ignored it. It was my birthday. I would go to school, go to Casey’s, and order something special— like brownie a la mode and pancakes and hash browns and whatever weird soup was leftover from yesterday because it was fun to guess what it had been meant to be. It was what I did on my birthday the year before and the year before that. No parties anymore. But during school everything was humming, humming, the world was dipping and the hallways were full, full, and I was walking straight from force of habit not any force of will. I was biking to Casey’s because it was like riding a bike, and I was at Casey’s because I never slipped after spending a few hours in a booth at Casey’s and if anything could stop this slip it was slightly 101

burnt coffee and hash browns. No one looked at me as I walked in. I was in the bathroom and I was in the stall and I was slipping, harder than ever before. When I came out of there, it was dark. No one had noticed me, checked on me. Good. No need to worry them. I biked home, still feeling bile in my mouth but out of the worst of it. I sat my backpack of un-done homework down on the floor of my bedroom and sometime later was asleep. I could still feel the hollows the ants had left under my skin. It was the first time I slipped during the day, the first time the sickness didn’t respect the boundaries of light and dark that we had held so sacred between us. But later, later, I would know this as a type 2. Classic example, with its fast humming and its gradually pulling me into itself all day. And later, much later, I would cherish the feeling of pressing my hands into the tiles of Casey’s bathroom. I would relish in the familiarity of my ants and the empire they were building. Those were the days of holding the world against me and not cracking, not cracking, only slipping. ——— I didn’t go to Casey’s once I started college. It didn’t matter much, Casey’s could do nothing against a type 2 slipping. I chose a school close enough to home but far enough away, in a bigger city. I thought there I might be able to find a doctor that… but I never did. I got good at college, really. I picked classes that didn’t take attendance, and I sat in the back of big lecture halls, and I 102

never said anything—not to the professor, not to whoever was sitting next to me. I turned assignments in, mostly. I was majoring in Psych or something like that, so it didn’t matter much. I did not have friends, and it was easier that way. I kept track of the slipping, kept a journal of each slipping, documented each type 1, each type 2. When I felt a type 2 coming, I didn’t bother leaving my dorm room. I had learned that lesson the hard way freshman year when I tried to take a midterm when I knew a type 2 was coming—I woke up in the men’s bathroom being prodded with the pointy-end of a mop by a woman with an apple-doll face. “Building’s closed,” she said, “Get out of here.” And so I did. My dorm room was decorated with empty bottles of Tylenol and ibuprofen and orange bottles with strangers’ names that I had bought from Mark down the hall. He would not be happy if he knew I were telling you his name, but who cares. It’s just Mark. And besides, who will you tell, especially now? Anyway, whatever pills Mark gave me never worked, and when I felt the tingling under my armpits or the queasiness behind my eyes, the nausea or the world spinning, the sweat in my mouth or my ants under my skin, there was nothing I could do but hold all my bones against me and hum, hum in time to the whirring of my heart. But this time, this time it came with no fanfare, no frills, no play at the courtesy of advance notice. I was writing a paper on the Russian Revolution, why? Who knows. And then it was like someone hanging from the ceiling had poured a bucket of glue over me—hot glue, tar maybe? Although I don’t really know much 103

about tar. Wax, yes, it was like wax, the kind I used to watch trail down the purple candles at grandmother’s house. Anyway, it was hot, and I stood, and I tried to run because maybe if I could get to the shower I could pour cold water on me and the hot hot wax would run down the drain and I could finish this paragraph on Nicholas II and everything would be like it was before. But the wax was over me now and I could not run I could not move. My whole body cramped inward, and my whole skin was becoming wax. I screamed then. But I heard no footsteps, no RA running down the floor, no neighbors knocking, I was sure I screamed with the full force of my lungs, but they were filling with hot wax now and ants were pouring out of them. A thousand million ants each pulling itself up my esophagus and down my tongue. I felt a flash of sorrow for the homes and tunnels and aqueducts they had built inside of me all these years, the wondrous empire they had built for themselves in the soft parts of my body now filled with purple wax, and I hoped this would not be the end, not the end for them. I fell, I knew I fell, I could see my dorm room only from the ground now, a tight carpeted floor grabbed at my cheek. I didn’t want to scream anymore, I didn’t want to scream, but I was I knew I was. I could see my tongue halfway out of my mouth— extended as flat as an ironing board. I watched the ants trail down that taught muscle. They were calm, they were calm, they were walking towards the crack under my door, they were scrambling out the crack under my door. I tried to move my hands, I did not want them to leave me, not like this, I stretched out my clawed hand and tried to scoop them back into me, but my arm did not work like that anymore. 104

The wax was all over me now—sinking into each of my pores one by one—but I could still see. I could still see, so I watched each ant on its solemn march out of me. I named them one by one, Benny, Jerry, Eleanor, Fitz, and I prayed for them, I watched and prayed. I watched and prayed as the last one, little Fanta, smaller than the rest, finally made it out into the hall, and I closed my eyes, and I let the wax in.

105

Left in the Lurch by Victoria Dominesey STOP TALKING. The mustached man slid a small white rectangle in her direction. The black lettering was unmistakable on the card. Her time had, once again, come. This was her second card in three months--her second curse. This game she had involved herself in had become very tiresome, but there was no out. She moved her eyes up from the card to the eyes of the man who had passed it along. He released a chuckle. “Good luck,” he laughed. The relief in his voice was accompanied by a shaky hoarseness, indicating that these two words were likely the first he had spoken in weeks. The train slowed, and the man rose from the seat across from her. She knew she shouldn’t have ignored the voice in her head this morning telling her to just walk, but it had been weeks since she had encountered another player. Still, such a public mode of transportation was a risky move. The train came to a stop, and the doors slid open. Her russet hair danced with the wind that had suddenly rushed in. The mustached man waited in a line to exit. One of his hands clung to a worn, brown briefcase. The other moved about freely. He let his fingers play a game with the wind—squeezing them together and then stretching them out. He appeared to be playing an invisible 106

piano. She watched him, jealously. He was reveling in his freedom, completely ignorant of how long it would last. She continued to watch him as he exited and stepped out onto the platform. He stood in the center of a black tile and looked around nervously. The train doors slid to a close, but not in enough time to miss the sound he emitted. ——— The scream continued to echo through her ears minutes after the train had departed the station. She was in awe of what she had just witnessed. Surely his behavior was a dead give-away to any other players who could’ve been on the platform. No man screams in the middle of the day for no good reason. At least, no sane man. She tossed the card in her hands. STOP TALKING. She wondered if this included screaming. It couldn’t possibly. She started to believe his desperate cry was less of reliever and more of a suicide mission. She started to imagine the deck that could’ve brought him to that state. She started to imagine how long he had been playing. Was he just weak? Cracked easily? Or had he been wrapped up in this twisted way of living long enough to give up on the end goal? The card he’d passed along seemed like a childish breaking point in the grand scheme of things. Not talking until she was able to pass it on would be the most challenging curse she’d been given, but it was certainly not the worst. This game had, so far, cost her three friends, one sweater, 107

and two pints of blood. Being mute would pose its challenges, but maybe it was what she needed at this point. STOP TALKING. She didn’t like it. But there are worse cards to get, and there are far worse games to play.

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Chapter XXII from “Thirds” by Giacomina Fabiano

I half think this is a dream. A dream where everything works out in my favor. I break the chain, I open the cell doors, and we walk out of here, not one Enforcer to go through. A dream it would be to walk out of here unscathed, but like all dreams, they must end. “Let’s go,” Zeek says, leading the way. He hobbles along with a heavy limp, favoring his right side. I can tell the standing alone is a lot on him, but we both knew what we signed up for. We had no choice. I assume my limp isn’t much better than his, although my wounds aren’t remotely as bad, and mine have had many days to heal. I hold the chain in my hand, wrapped around my wrist and still attached to my now bleeding ankle. At least that pain is taking some focus off my hip. The alarm still echoes through the compound, vibrating louder with each step we take. Zeek speeds up our pace, grunting as he approaches the door. “Let me,” I say, pushing past him. He hesitates before letting me through. “Be careful, Raven,” Zeek warns as I push open the door. I almost hit Lilac in the face with the chain, his expression worried and stunned. Zeek almost bats him with the metal bar. Lilac holds his hands up in surrender. All of our faces match one another, pure surprise. 109

“What are you doing?” Lilac asks loudly over the alarm, “they...attacked.” “Who attacked?” I shout back to him. He looks at us, what we hold in our hands, his eyes lingering on the chain still around my ankle. “We are escaping, Lilac,” Zeek yells, “you should come with us.” Lilac shakes his head. Could he come with us? We don’t even know what happened… “I can’t,” Lilac shouts, his eyes still in shock, “My daughter...” He can’t leave, they would kill her. Suddenly his eyes snap back to ours. “Go,” he demands, “go now, you can make it out. Go to the loading docks.” You can make it out. What? I sure hope this isn’t a dream. Zeek hugs Lilac and I am just about as surprised as he is. Lilac returns the embrace with an uneasy look. I can’t imagine the guilt he must feel, for what he has done to us. That is for another time. Zeek nods to Lilac, then makes for the stairs beyond the door. range.

“Were you coming to get us out?” I ask once Zeek is out of

“Something like that,” he says handing me a pair of boots. Thea’s boots. I never thought I would see them again. My eyes twitch, tears threatening to appear. I pull him into my arms and he does the same. I can almost feel how darkness and loneliness 110

reside in him. “If we survive, I will find her,” I vow, letting go of him. He nods, not needing a further explanation. “I don’t doubt it for a second,” he says with a faint smile. “Go!” That sliver of joy he just felt evokes hope in me. I put on the boots and turn towards the stairs, Zeek already halfway up, using what is left of his energy to conquer them. “Raven,” Lilac yells behind me. I turn to face him. “You were put here for a reason. Don’t stop until you’re satisfied.” His words ring in my head along with the alarm. Don’t stop until you’re satisfied. “I won’t.” With that, I face the stairs and what may come for us on the other end. ——— The brightest light I have ever seen blasts through my eyes when we open the door at the top of the stairs. It’s the sun that I have to shield my eyes from. Living in fluorescent lights must have made me forget how vibrant and violent the sun can be. My eyes physically hurt and we aren’t even outside yet. Zeek gasps from the burst of light too, panting after the stairs and shielding his eyes. It takes us a moment to adjust to the light. Distant booms and pops echo through the walls, dust settles in the sunlight like mist, falling from the cracked ceiling. Down the hall, there are rocks and concrete fallen from broken walls, and bodies on the floor. Presumably dead. Zeek squints his eyes, gazing at the bodies ahead of us. 111

I am not going to waste any time; we have no time to spare. I grab Zeek’s arm and push forward, towards the limp bodies in blue. The Enforcers are dead? Who set off the bomb? We step over the Enforcers and chunks of the concrete ceiling that crushes the other halves of their bodies, dripping with a dark thick liquid. The ceiling that is now on the floor leaves a crater open to the sky. The fresh air in my nostrils is a feeling I never knew I needed until now. Its earthy and distinct smell brings a smile to my face, despite the distant sounds of battle. The wind from outside elicits a shiver in my body, the air much cooler than the last time I felt it. Our dainty white clothes ripple from the autumn air. Zeek doesn’t stop to revel in the sun and beauty of the sky. He now pulls us forward, helping me over the fallen roof. The hallway leads us around a corner and then to another long hallway that leads to the main hall. The combination of light, sounds, and the air sends my senses into motion. We approach some windows in the hallway, the screaming and hollering more clear now. The gunshots are not from darguns, but bullet guns, the banned and bloody weapons. Were those guns already here? Or brought here to kill us with more satisfaction? The thing that kills leaving a gory mess. I stare out the window, only the distant cries of battle ring through the glass, but what unfolds in front of us is hard to miss. Thirds fighting back, against the Enforcers. Enforcers shooting every Third they can, but even the Thirds aren’t just fighting back. A group of them have darguns themselves, one of them has a bullet gun. The rest wield their blades in close combat. For a moment, just a moment, it’s as if the Thirds are winning. We are winning. 112

One Enforcer slides his blade through a Rallys abdomen. I think I recognize the kid, the new one that transitioned. As soon as the Enforcer pulls his blade out, a Deca does the same to the Enforcer. Such a sight to see: a child piercing a grown person with no remorse, only vengeance. The siren still sings the air. Zeek is captured by the battle as he just stands erect by the window, his arms limp at his side and his eyes wide. He watches as a group of Enforcers run past our window right in front of us, and they don’t even notice. No wonder no Enforcers came to get us. “Raven.” Zeek stammers, his eyes wider than I have ever seen, every surface of his earthy green eyes visible. He pushes me with a heavy force, crashing to the ground. My temple hits the floor so hard I see yellow sparklers in my vision, complemented with a shallow ringing in my ears. I roar as a thick material pins my left leg down, smashing what feels like my bones. More things pile on top of me like jabbing blows from a large fist. I don’t hear anything after that. Only the ringing and singing. Heat comes from all angles, an orange and blue heat from the explosion, rubble falling over my face, dust covering my damp skin. A soft warmth leaks over my right arm, the chain digging into my wrist as concrete pushes me further into the ground. Blood probably, I am going to die as my blood covers me like a blanket. More liquid oozes down my right cheek from somewhere. I think I scream for Zeek but my ears don’t hear it. I scream again, feeling the rush in my throat, but again no sound. I reach for him with my free arm but I only feel concrete. He was to my left when he pushed me, where the majority of the rubble had landed. 113

A limp hand pokes out from the destruction next to me. Zeek. I reach for his hand again but cannot touch it. My body is utterly trapped, confined, just as it has always been. My whole life has been confined, and here I am in my last moment, literally trapped down to the very last limb. Only his hand to reach out to, laying there cold and unmoving, complete comatose. “Zeek!” I yell, urging him to move. I don’t think he can hear me because I can’t even hear myself. I cough the debris from my lungs, stinging my body with every exertion. Small parts of the rubble fall off my body, my arm and leg still bound. “Zeek?” I yell his name again, waiting for him to cry out mine. Some of the sound returns in my ears, but clouded like I am underwater. My head is pounding from the inside out. Calloused hands and muscled arms I don’t recognize pick me up from the rubble. Another set of arms remove the large pieces that held down my limbs. When the piece is lifted off my leg, pain like a hot torch stabs my thigh. I don’t look at the wound. More hands bring me out of the broken concrete and lay me down elsewhere. Where is Zeek? “Get Zeek,” I mumble. Or I think I mumble. “Get Zeek,” I say louder. More hands tie something around my thigh, to stop bleeding perhaps, or keep my leg strapped to my body. I still don’t look at the wound. I try to wiggle my toes in Thea’s boots. Good. I can feel them both, so my leg is attached. I try to push the hands away as I anticipate an Enforcer ready to take me back to my cell. Instead, a familiar face stares at me. 114

Wren? Am I dreaming? I know I’m not dreaming because my dreams can never capture the deep sea blue of his eyes and his striking blonde hair. He was the one who lifted me out of the rubble. It reminds me of when we were in the ruins before we came here. That feels like years ago. “Raven,” he pants, “I can’t believe I found you.” He cups my face in his hands scanning me up and down for any more injury. He eyes my temple for some time and touches the top right side of my head. He rubs his thumb over the spot, smearing the blood on my skin. He just stares at me. “Zeek?” I ask again. “Where is Zeek?” “Who?” Wren seems perplexed, then shakes his head, “we have to get you out of here.” He looks a bit different than I remember. Tense but stronger, much stronger. How long was I down there for? His hands are more calloused than I remember too, his muscles basically bulging from his t-shirt that is clearly too small. It used to fit him like a glove. He takes off his jacket and puts my arms through it. A chain-like imprint is left on my right wrist, already forming a violent bruise. A stygiant pull coming from the pain in my head tells me to sleep like a soft lullaby. Zeek, where is Zeek? I’m probably concussed. Focus. “No, Zeek!” I yell to Wren. I look him in the eyes, desperate. “Please, you have to get Zeek.” I point to where his body lays under the pounds of debris. Wren nods ahead of him and two others start lifting rubble away off of Zeek. One of them is Harlow, her hair still in one braid. She also seems a bit bigger than when I last saw her. I want to yell to her, to say hi and embrace her, but Zeek 115

is below all of that rock and I can’t breathe with him under it. They take away the few pieces that covered his head. I prepare to see a smashed human skull, but his head was perfectly preserved, his body, however, did not look the same. From his chest down, his shirt is soaked in blood and the rest is not visible under the fallen building. His eyes look peaceful though, like he always did when he was sleeping, not in any pain. He looks even more at rest, like he is finally comfortable, like he won’t wake to chaos. Like he is somewhere else. Harlow reaches down to his neck and places two fingers under his jaw. Zeek’s hair is a tangled mess matted with streaks of blood. His handsome face ashen from dust but strong from years of living, surviving, though now it looks like his fight is over. I pretend I don’t see Harlow shake her head at Wren. “Come on guys, we don’t have much time!” The other person says. Shay, the other person is Shay. How did I not recognize her right away? Damn concussion. I reel my thoughts in. “No!” I say to no one in particular. Zeek’s face does not wake up, he does not flinch. “Please, Zeek!” My stomach starts to shatter, it starts to growl in pain, no, my heart is the thing that shatters. There is a weeping girl, but I can’t register if it is me or not. I break from Wren’s grasp and fumble through the rubble, trying to reach for Zeek again. Wren picks me up again, arms under my legs and my torso. “Raven,” he coaches, “Raven, look at me.” I look into those sea eyes, and they reflect the pain that I feel inside. I almost break into a thousand shards of glass by his 116

look alone. “We have to go,” he says softly, streaking a stray curl out of my face. Hot tears fall from my cheeks. Wren squats next to Zeek’s body, bringing me closer to him. I grab Zeek’s swollen hand, cold. “I won’t forget you,” I think I say out loud to him. I won’t. I squeeze his hand, and then I’m being pulled away. I feel the tether of our souls snap, leaving me empty and broken. Empty.

117

All We Are Is Names by Ariana Howe

He sighed, hands resting behind his head. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The brisk morning wind tugged at his jacket, rippling the fabric in waves. The tree line to his left blocked the warmth of the rising sun as he lay out in the freshly mowed field. I should head back soon. The sky above him roared as a whooshing plane flew overhead. Tracking it with his eyes, the passenger plane slowly passed beyond his line of sight and behind the trees. Is Brandon’s girlfriend on that plane? Wasn’t she supposed to arrive today? The clouds overhead shifted from a light blue-white to a darkening gray, chasing after the aircraft with ferocity as the shadows crept over the land. I hope her plane gets back okay. He closed his eyes, listening as the breeze wailed warnings into his ear. He yanked the sleeves of his hoodie down further, grasping onto the scrap of extra warmth it provided. He felt the light prickle of grass poking into his sides and groping at his legs, folding under the weight of his limbs as he shifted. The ground was icy cold beneath him, sucking away any semblance of warmth 118

and coziness he had. Recalling his thin bunk-bed mattress back in his dorm, he knew the cheap unyielding sheet would probably be more comfortable than the rock-littered ground he now lay upon. But Brandon is probably awake by now. The rocks he was laying on left sharp imprints in his back, yet they were nothing in comparison to the awkward silence which would surround the two of them now. The ground was far more comfortable than that inevitable conversation was going to be. I would’ve expected him to text by now. Wait, where’s— Sitting up, panicked, his eyes hunted for his backpack. My homework, my mask, where did I— He relaxed, seeing his bag leaning against the side of his bike with its silvery rain tarp over the front. I’m terrible. Shrugging it off, he stood, approaching his bicycle and slinging his bookbag over his shoulders as he hopped on. A flash lit up the sky in the distance, a promise of the shower soon to come. Brandon… we can talk later. I’ll try something easier first. ——— I should probably order now, or else I just won’t do it at all. Sitting in his background booth, tucked away in the corner of the world, he felt safe. Customers passed by, getting in and out of line as they pleased, making sure to stand a good distance away 119

from anyone not within their group. Tension was building up in his arms and around his chest, circling his lungs. He breathed in, taking in one last glance at his peaceful solidarity before standing. Feet stomped on the floor behind him as he shuffled forwards towards the line. The background chatter which he was aptly ignoring before now echoed in his ears; the volume of their voices were a crescendo, growing louder and louder each step he took. His head involuntarily snapped to the side, fingers curling into his palm. Heat gathered in his face as he looked up from his feet to the menu of drinks on the wall behind the register. “Hello, sir. Welcome to The Coffee Cup, what would you like to drink?” He snatched his wallet from his pocket, hands shaking as he tried to open the thin leather. He glanced back and forth between his wallet and the menu on the wall. “One m-moment,” he stuttered out, wincing as his voice cracked, hoping she wouldn’t notice the light layer of sweat beginning to build on his forehead. Is it always so warm in coffee shops? His eyes avoided the people surrounding him, hoping to avoid contact both physically and mentally. The people here were packed together, bumping into each other as they rattled up and down the tables at the cafe. The idea that one of them could touch him and interact was enough to make him wish he was back in his uncomfortable dorm, with Sara and Brandon. The dim lighting shone down over the lady at the register. He opened his mouth again to speak, lips brushing against the fabric of his mask. Not a 120

word came out. “Sir? Are you going to order?” The world froze as her dark brown eyes penetrated his skull. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. Just order and stop wasting everybody’s time. He tried to speak again, his voice breaking and coming out in a wispy rasp as he incorrectly pronounced his order’s number. “What was that?” “Six, number—” There were too many people staring at him. Too many people in the building. The world was too crowded, there was too much, all at once. He shoved his hands back into his crumb-lined pockets, head down as he power walked over the cracked floor tile and the coffee stained rug, through the doors which didn’t close all the way, onto the spotted sidewalk, littered with the remains of raindrops, and to the side alleyway. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. You can do it. “Damn it, not again,” he leaned forward against the brick wall, head held to the chalky surface as if it was the cover he hid under as a child. They can’t see you. They can’t see you. Pressing his palms pressed against his eyes, “Nope, nope, nope. It’s okay, it’s okay.” After a while, he dropped his shaking hands back to his sides, his head still against the outer wall of the cafe. Hopefully I didn’t make too much of a fool out of myself. 121

He waited a minute there, resting against the side of the building as people passed him by. This was what it meant to be invisible, unseen by the world. He simply disappeared and no one noticed. The ability to become a shadow, where no one else cared who you were or what you were doing, freed him from the chains of social situations and granted him the chance to exist, in his own way. Others desired and even lusted after the popular spotlight of the world, yet he would gladly discard it for them. “Here’s your order, sir.” He leapt back, staring at the woman who had followed him out of the shop. Caught up in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed his surroundings changing, the sound of the wind, and the looks from people jogging back to their cars. Her hand was holding the fresh cup; he noticed her dark brown hair was split into pigtails, as she stared at him calculatingly. “What?” “Your order. Here, take it.” He slowly reached out, cautiously accepting the warm styrofoam coffee cup, eyes skimming over the scribbled line of “number six” on the outside. “You made this for me? I’m not sure I have cash—” She stopped him, holding up her hand. “It’s on me, come again soon, okay? It gets better.” He nodded graciously, watching her disappear back into the shop. 122

Before, he was a ghost, ethereal and see-through as the world passed by him, either ignoring him or wishing it could. The students in the hall would side step him, if he hesitated in moving; the lecturers would rush out of class immediately when he tried to ask a question. All the effort he put into not being noticeable vanished in one moment, as the world he knew fell away beneath his feet; another person was there, who brought him back to reality. He caught his breath again, both hands clutching the hot cup of simmering coffee. Does Brandon see me? Raindrops tickled his shoulders, dripping from the roof into his tousled, wind blown hair. The clouds he out-biked earlier had caught up with him, as the gray sky sparked with thunder; its boom echoing down the street. The light patter of rain splashed on the roads as he rounded out of the alley and hid under the awning. Sipping, he watched the pedestrians rush into neighboring shops and cars, narrowly evading the rain before it picked up in a chilly embrace. I didn’t say thank you. What was her name again? He thought for a moment as he took another sip, trying to remember what was written on the silver name tag. Mirabelle.

123

Misguided Love Triangle by Kimani Krienke

She’s looking at the pair of them sitting across from her. See, even the way she refers to them — the pair — already puts a sickening taste in her mouth. It also means her lack of confidence has begun to betray her. He was the last to get here and he chose the seat that wasn’t occupied by a winter coat or a person. The other girl had briefly gotten up to go to the bathroom and then grab a round of drinks, so he thought the less awkward thing to do while they waited was to sit across from her. To not be that horrid couple that sits next to each other and must painfully turn sideways to even ask the other to pass the salt. But then at least they’d be defined as a couple in that scenario… And yet she watches the two of them do the exact thing he didn’t want to do with her moments earlier. They turn painfully close towards each other, deep in conversation. Laughing, touching, smiling. Ignoring her. ——— He turns to look at the girl across the table, who already happens to be looking in his direction but not at him. “Why didn’t the two of them sit next to each other?” he wonders. But then he 124

remembers his tardiness that resulted in the other two arriving before him, possibly at the same time, and making the socially correct choice to sit on opposite sides of the table. Practical. He tried to time his journey over better, but he missed the bus because of a loose shoelace and had to run a block over to catch another bus that would drop him six blocks from where he needed to be at yet another bus stop that would then drop him across the busy street from where the trio sits now. Although he loved these outings with the girls, he hated being a third wheel. Nothing was out in the open, but he knew deep down the one opposite him had something for the one asking him to pass the salt. The way she always glanced at her. Always followed her movement. Love was the only explanation. ——— Isn’t it stupid to be heartbroken over someone you never dated? I don’t mean that it’s stupid to have started the long descent of falling for them in the first place. That feeling makes the act of falling feel somewhat beautiful and graceful. No, no. I mean, why are you letting someone that you never verbally committed to have such an effect on your well-being? I yearn to be loved — hell, even just liked — by someone in the same way that I deeply do. I want someone to cry, stare at a blank wall hoping for it all to stop, yearn to yell obscenities at me to get the hurt out. They should crumple wads of tissues and unsent text messages, sending them all into the garbage. I want them to do all of this as I break their heart with as little to no words as possible. Because this is what he’s doing to me. 125

But I can’t, and I won’t. And I know you can’t, and you won’t, either. And maybe I’ve already broken hearts. After all, not every tearstained message is sent with a shaking right thumb. I’ll never know… maybe life is better that way. To be naive means I don’t need to hurt, and I don’t need to see other people hurt, unless I want to. Yeah, actually, I remember now. I have broken a heart once before. I thought I was doing the right thing. Thought that we’d both be better off this way. Of course, this was months after I had already detached myself from our “relationship,” and a second before he was officially single, not of his own accord. Is it different if this heart was broken by literally breaking up with someone? You tell me. Would you rather have your heart broken by someone you’ve dated, or someone you almost dated? Almost. A word that I can’t get it’s disgusting, metallic, oozing taste out of my mouth. It hangs in the air like fog beaconing me into its murkiness. And what do I see on the other side? Me, looking at her as she passes him the salt. Her, looking at him like it’s just the two of them in here. Him, mindlessly reaching for the salt, brushing her fingers in the process. I’m too focused on my body tingling with heat as I watch her eyelids, arm, and smile melt to notice him looking at me.

126

The Fallen

by James Krusinski The next matches passed by in a wild fury. Beneath the white light, burning flesh pierced the cold air as limbs clashed and thrashed. The fights tried wills until they endured or shattered. Every raised hand marked another war story and another disillusion. I roamed in the shadows against our wall, far from the spotlight. Here no one could see my limbs tremble with meek terror. My heart thumped slow and ominous. Blood kept time with the lurid yellow scoreboard, counting down the seconds and away the years. In the beginning, I lived for the matches. I loved the fights and dueled every man like hellfire. I was young then. But now I feel old at sixteen. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to wander through the sweet pine scent and sleep for a long time beneath my grandfather’s magnolia tree. I stared at the black tape on my middle finger. I am tired and weary, achy and very old. I do not want to fight anymore. I passed Micah wandering with me in the shadows. Short, thin, stocky—classic 126 pounds. He caught my eye in the dim light. “You ready?” He asked with a quick nod. “Hell yeah,” I lied. “We look solid tonight,” Micah said. “Best we’ve looked in a long time.” 127

“You would know, old man,” I said. “You’re old, too, bruh. You’ve seen lota things.” His eyes darted nervously through the partial darkness towards the blazed flesh and the tangled limbs squirming, thrashing beneath the white spotlight. I followed his gaze and felt my soul twist in the familiar ghastly fear. “113’s on now. You’re next match… Good luck out there, bruh.” I blinked unsteadily and meet his pale gaze. His tenderness seemed to pierce my delusions. “You too, man,” I murmured. “For the fight.” He clasped my hand, rugged callouses pressing into my palm. “For the fight.” Our hands parted in an instant. Alone, we wandered our separate ways through the shadows. ——— We’re in the third period now. I’ve beaten back the tide. Held back the onslaught of his shots for four minutes, sometimes successfully and too often not. And now me, him—we’ve made it to the third period where we know this all must end. The faded scoreboard reads 5-8 against me. The adversary has taken me down four times—twice in the first period and twice in the second. I escaped every time and chose down and escaped in the second period, which is part of the story of how we got to this point but, really, the story goes back way further than these 128

four minutes and even further than this night. The match is still within reach, I suppose, but I will have to fight like hell. He chooses on his feet because he is confident there. We put our feet on the lines that separate the two halves of the twentyeight-foot white circle. Reminiscences, for a moment, of the beginning… He shakes my hand way too firmly, pinching my gaunt fingers together, twisting the fragile bones beneath my pale flesh. A pulse surges up my right middle finger and tingles, flames, burns in the plushy red flesh hidden beneath the black tape. His cruel touch whispers You’re mine, bitch, hoarse and crude. He wants to scare me right before the match. It’s no use, I think. I’ve been doing this sport for twelve long years now, and I’ve had all kinds of guys—stronger, cruder, meaner—pinch my hands and slap my head, and every time I’ve held my composure. I even had one throw a punch in a match and I did not flinch. But he got to me just the same. Maybe it’s because it’s senior night and we are shutting them out. Maybe I was just too old and too tired. Either way, I am terrified standing on that decisive line in the center of the white circle, burning with a cruel white radiance. The ravenous crowd is alive in the churning shadows. Stares feed their eyes. They want more. They want another pantomime, another gladiator match. I feel their cold pitiless gazes, feel them urge me to abuse this man for their amusement so they can flourish in his pain and his shame and hail me, the victor, as their own. 129

But I am scared here, crouched in my fighting stance before their focused gazes. I was scared to fight and I was scared to die… but now I must do one or both. It must just be the injured finger. The red finger with no nail, soft and weak. It’s messing up everything. “Ready,” the referee announces, but only we can hear him. His firm voice takes me back from the past and places me here, in the present, in the third period that will decide everything. I catch a glimpse of him with the side of my eye. He is older and his skin is wrinkled and patched like faded fallow parchment, and his scattered hair fades grey with his scratchy beard. He looks like that grey-haired referee with the brown-eyes who always stands over the orange mat in my mind. But he isn’t because his eyes are grey, too, just like everything else about him. I look over at the man across from me, his foot planted on red line. I normally never look at my opponents—it never matters, their appearance or size or strength, really. Just how they wrestle. Yet I look at him for whatever reason. His face is stern, narrow, streaked red with several scratch marks and scattered orange with ugly freckles. He has orange hair, too, a bright orange that blazes like fire in the blaring white light. The boy curls his lower lip, then bites down on it with his crooked, yellowed teeth. His dark eyes stare uncannily into mine. Pierce my scowl and stolidity and glimpse the trembling, twisting fear within me. Inside I shriek, cowering slightly. I am too old and too weary. It is time for me to go back and sleep on the blue pine needles. His brown irises shine 130

abyssal in the harsh light, I swear, as though they lost their mortal soul. The whistle shrieks. Time begins. The crowd piques. The scoreboard marks one second past. He steps forward and I fall back. Circle, circle—back, out, and away. He follows me tight. He will not let me out of his sights, will not allow me to flee. He comes close to me. I reach for inside control. He peels my hand, my right hand with the black tape covering the plushy red flesh. He holds it tight—not by the wrist, but by the gaunt fingers. The fragile bones shift and crack in his grasp. Let go, damn it, I think. No, his eyes say. You’re mine. He pulls down hard on my captured hand and the tape around my middle finger shifts. I step towards him, foolish, helpless, with my right foot. My weight shifts forward, moving with the exposed leg caught in the inertia. And then he strikes. He pounds down on my head, palm slapping my face and my wide eyes toward the mat. He reaches with his left arm, shoots low, and lifts my heavy leading leg. I fall backward and land on my ass, almost supine, but I turn fast and do not give up back points. He follows faithfully and rests upon my back. I lay dazed—colors blurring, sounds shrieking. All my senses cacophonous. Safe for the dull soreness where my body struck the ground, the faint burns where my flesh scathed the mat, the firm presence where his chest lies upon me. A few seconds. He tries to run his arms through the critical gap between my arms and my rib cage but I do not let him in. I 131

rise now. I push back against him, pull my knees underneath my chest, and stand again in the circle. He follows me loosely behind, but he gives little pressure. He is mostly letting me go. He may be weak on top, or he wants me to stand up straight and dazed so he can get an easy second take-down. Either way, this match will be fought on our feet, like real men, buzzed in a bar at 2:00 a.m. Sure enough, he lets me out easy, and I turn and face him in my stance. Head up, back arched and flat, feet staggered, knees bent, hands alert and protective. The referee holds up a single finger and the scoreboard flickers 6-10 against me in its harsh yellow glare. “That’s it. That’s it. We’re up now,” coach calls from the corner. We circle for what feels like a while even though it is probably only twenty seconds. He makes the same move again— grabs my right hand, grinds my gaunt fingers, pulls down hard. I step forward again like a damn fool. I should have learned after he just struck me, after I had already fallen five times to him. I am too tired, too weak, too weary. Snap—my head jerks towards the mat. He lifts my heavy-leaning foot out from under me. I am too old. Fighting is a young man’s game and I am an old man now. I fall again. The sixth time this match, the second time this period. I want only to rest my head beneath the dogwood tree and watch the broad green leaves sway and shift the silhouette of shade and sunlight scattered on the long summer grass. He rests firmly on top of me and I feel his presence again. I could sleep here. Sleep and dream. But I climb back up another time. For old 132

time’s sake now, I suppose. I push back against him, pull my knees underneath my chest, and stand in the circle. I am an old man and this is no country for old men. He follows loosely behind me with little pressure. The scoreboard flickers 7-12 against me in its cruel, yellow glare blinking like fallen stars in the darkness of the gymnasium. Its light looks foul to me, dim beside the spotlight’s burning white. The crowd is uncannily silent now. They know that I won’t do it. They know the match is out of reach and that I won’t pull through. They had all thought so after the second fall, and probably even after the first. But now they know I will fail and that I will fall for certain before their dull gazes. Many of them are bored now, I can tell. The electric blue glows begin to emerge in the shadows, glimpsed obliquely in my peripheral vision. For a moment I think they resemble a cold constellation of dwarf stars— former giants who shone so bright they lost everything and bleed faintly now with only a pale memory. There is not much time left. Maybe twenty-five seconds. It will all be over soon. And it doesn’t matter. The duel will still be won. The duel’s been won for a long time, actually. You never mattered, even from the moment of your first step in the circle. You will fall, for the little that’s worth, and that will be all. I turn again to face him. His orange hair enkindles in wild, iridescent flames under the spotlight. Uhh, I grunt and feel the pain surge within me. I look down on my right hand and see the red plushy flesh on the tip of my middle finger, a hollow pit 133

where the nail had once been. There’s a small indentation, too, where a piece of flesh had been slashed off in the fight and fallen away into obscurity. Yes, sadly yes. The black tape had fallen away like a veil and now my hidden wound, the secret horror I carry, is visible to all. The flesh seems to attract the light above me. Ravenously absorbing the radiance, glistening blood-red against my pale hand. The wound burns fierce, potent, opaline. As hellish in the light as my adversary’s hair. The hideous sight glares for all to see, the pain surging down my finger and my bones in a shrill trembling. But this doesn’t matter. And why should it? The wound is minor and the fight still goes on just the same. We rage on for the last few seconds. “Come on, man. Fight out there!” Coach yells. I circle, circle, and prepare a desperate last shot. It is all I have now. My only chance is to get a quick pin to win or a critical five-point play to send the match into overtime. But he is confident and he tests me again. He grabs the wounded hand, pinches hard against the fingers, and twists and twists with no clemency. The wound shoots fire and pain into my veins. I grunt and grimace. Swear a foul unchristian storm in my heart. He pulls me down by my injured hand. Snaps the head. Reaches fast. Lifts the heavyleaning foot. I tumble down to the mat… tumbling, tumbling for a long while in my mind. 7-14, the yellow glare mocks. I will finish this match on my feet. I will face the end 134

dignified. I will fight to the last second—on my feet, like a man. A faint, impotent anger flames but then smolders. I try to rise but he holds me down. He has his knees planted firmly on my knee pits. I squirm a little. I try to push back into him and pressure my way up, onto my feet again, as I had done seven times this match. But he resists me hard with his full strength. I cannot rise. There will be no last stand. No dignity, no manhood. Only accepted, passive impotence. Now I just lie here beaten… and wait for the ugly yellow light to run out of time… and wait for the final whistle to cry quiet armistice. I’m surprised he isn’t here, I think in these final moments. He’s always present for my falls… No… he is here. With me, always, in my mind. And in my flesh, especially. He is here watching me fall. Maybe delighted, maybe indifferent. But that smile is always smug. Always cold in its pitilessness… Damn it’s so cold in here… I had fallen seven times that match and three times in the third period. But that third time would be my last. I would not get up. I would not return alive, breathing resurrection. I could never shake him from my back. It is not so scary to die. It is just a nice, gentle sleep beneath the purple maple tree. Soft, sweet, in its indolence. And in the late summer, the warm wind blows white magnolia petals on the place where you rest, for this is her tender offering to the fallen. ——— 135

After the match, I ran into the shadows along the wall of the gymnasium. But it didn’t matter. They had already forgotten me. Coach had muttered something quick when I sulked off the mat. Something like “I appreciate the effort” or “we’ll work on it at practice tomorrow.” And I nodded and looked him in the eye like a man, because that was what I was told to do, and that was all I could do anymore. Then he patted me once, gentle, on my cold perspiring back and sent me on my way. I passed our row of chairs lined up militarily. “Good job anyway, man,” I think Kenny muttered. “Good fight.” And I think Dion nodded in my direction and said, “Tough luck, dude,” once stolidly. And there were a few silent stray glances as I passed but they fled quickly. They looked at the mat and the white circle again, for Micah was up and it was his last match there ever. I ceased to be relevant and rightfully so, I suppose. They gazed toward the mat with expectations. And the spectral crowd gazed with them and put away their phones—just to see how everything would end. And my teammates were all there, all sitting in their chairs in a military row. All easy grins and hearty laughs and inside jokes I didn’t know. They slapped each other on the back in good humor and talked easily now that they were once again spectators. Then, the scorekeeper announced Micah’s name into the raspy microphone. The boy took the mat and shone bright and brief in the spotlight. Then the whistle shrieked. I think he was damned from the beginning, to tell the 136

truth. The man he had to wrestle had him in height and strength. Must have started off competing 138 back in December. The adversary was tall, broad-shouldered, hefty, muscular. Crisp, short-cut black hair, almost military. Stern expression, cold gaze, dark eyes. But the most notable of all features were his golden shoes, reflecting the white light in a victory march every time he took a step. I did not know his name and did not know his record. But just by looking at him I knew enough. This man, surely, was one of the greats. Micah fought hard and he fought long up to the very end. His opponent took him down right from the beginning and rode him heavy for a while. Micah wanted to build up his base, scoot his knees under his chest, drive off the mat, and take a stand on his feet. But it was no use. The other man was dominant. Once, Micah tried to brace himself with a posted arm. But the adversary chopped his flimsy limb out from underneath him. The smaller boy fell hard. Face slamming against the coarse Resilite. Arm wrapped tight against his chest as a noose laces the neck. And all the meanwhile, the larger boy, a man really, drove his far fist into Micah’s backend until he surrendered his base and lay defensive with his chest flat on the ground. Then the adversary crossed-faced him ruthlessly, the sharp bone of his index finger grinding against the boy’s flimsy nose bone. Micah grunted and scowled in pain. He stared straight ahead—lost, distant, in his desperate wrath as he fought off death. The foreshadowed end he knew too well was bitter always, yet it felt so sweet to him then in his suffering. He closed his eyes. Maybe in submission. Maybe just to hide from the hazy whirlwind of colors. 137

But still, he fought. Or tried to, rather. He grunted again, grimaced even more savage, desperate than before. Yet, tried as he did, his neck bent slowly backward with the motion of the cruel bladed bone against his nose. The adversary dragged his faithless leg, twisting and squirming, towards his flimsy neck. Micah’s spine arched outward on the side, away from his body, bending until it resembled a semicircle. Then at last his weak neck and knee were so close—laced together in a knot by the rugged muscular arms. The other boy’s biceps and triceps were ghastly pale from the winter, but they bulged thick with the veins outlined harsh in his flesh. His forearms, too, were wide and triangular. Covered with long strands of black hair, cold and dry without a single trace of perspiration. The end, defeat, death in the sport seemed inexorable to Micah in the man’s strong grip, frigid in its refusal to yield. The adversary locked up the cradle tight. He placed his head against his temple and his knee against his fragile ribs and rolled Micah onto his back, trapped tight against his dominating body. He rested like this for a while. The referee knelt on his knees to watch the shoulder position scrupulously. He counted with his hands—one, two, three, four, five—and held three fingers, parallel to the black mat, to mark future back points. Micah sat tight like a fetus trapped in the womb. Neck arched, head staring at his knees, back on the mat, one shoulder flat on the Resilite, the other just leaning up enough to avoid the pin, the large pale body resting all around him. When there were only ten seconds left of the period I began to think he would actually do it, that he would actually ride out the time and fight again the next period. 138

Then, with four seconds to spare, the referee called the pin. Right hand slammed against the black Resilite. The faint sound shattered the myriad noise of the gymnasium—silenced every cheer and shout from the stands or the coaches or the benches. Time froze. The singular pound grew and resounded like a funeral bell across the cold emptiness. For a splintering instant everything seemed cast even more in monochromatic grey, absent entirely of true light. The sound reached the sticky-painted walls and reverberated back again until it faded into dull whisperings. The match ceased, but it was so pointless now that I felt it had never commenced. Micah trudged off the mat with his head lowered—this mat, in this gymnasium he had known so well. Never again would he return here or fight here the way he once had in his better forgotten days. But it did not matter. We had won the duel long ago. And as Micah joined me in defeat, alone and melancholy in the peripheral shade, our teammates and the small crowd stood up and whooped wild for the victory. ——— I left in a fury, nearly running into the winter night. I was still wearing my wrestling shoes, shorts, and t-shirt, with my singlet on underneath. The wind ran its spectral fingers up and down my flesh. My breath fogged white and opaque. I knew the cold would scathe me with frostbite, maybe kill me if I stayed out for too long without protection. But I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t even feel cold, really. Just dull and numb. 139

I stared across the grey parking-lot, still dark and desolate and lonely as before, with a few scattered silent cars as its only inhabitants. The top of the cell tower behind the distant bare winter trees blinked bright orange like a dying flame. But this was all—the only color in the setting. Everything else was dark and dim and covered with shade, various hues of black and white and grey and all the melancholy tints in between. My backpack and gear bag felt heavier on my shoulder now. I did not know if I could carry their weight all the way. I shrugged and yawned sadly. I took a single step forward and then— “Casey.” A calm voice called from the distance behind me. I turned and faced my grandfather. The once-great wrestling coach stood a few feet away in the parking lot snow. His grey hair and thick eyebrows were illuminated in the dying light trickling from a small second-floor window. Expression stern and stolid as ever. But his wrinkles felt less sharp, his old eyes gleaming tender. He walked a few feet and closed the distance between us. “Are you alright?” It was the same hoarse Cleveland accent but without any gruffness. I was silent. Hurt, somehow, by his kind gaze. I looked down and began to carve a small divot in the snow with my shoe. “Yes,” I said finally. “I’m just… disappointed, I guess.” “Well you should be,” he said. “Hell, we’d have a problem if you walked away like nothing had happened.” 140

“Doesn’t make losing any easier.” “It ain’t supposed to be easy,” the old coach said softly. “Life’s often hard and depressing as hell… But you know that. You know that well.” I nodded. “It’s just that, once, I was one of the best. But now, I’m—I’m—” “A ruin of who you used to be… Believe me. I feel that way, looking back on my career.” My grandfather glanced down sadly at the fallen snow. “We all destroy ourselves sometimes. Can’t tell you how many guys I’ve had who got crushed underneath the weight of what they carried.” He rested his grey eyes on me again. “It’s tough and it stings and you never forget. But you have to carry the memory on your back… and move on.” “But what if I can’t?” “Then you move on anyway. You move on because it’s the only thing you can do.” I stood there in silence, tracing the heavy snow again with my tired foot. Behind the wall I heard fragments of loud celebrations, blurring with their easy euphoria. But outside in the winter, the dim yellow light flowed fainter from the window. I shook my head. “Maybe I was just… dehydrated.” “No, you weren’t,” my grandfather said. “You were injured and mentally not there… But you fought anyway.” “That supposed to make me feel like a winner?” “No. It shouldn’t,” he said curtly. “Not if you really care. 141

But you should take it for what it’s worth, because it is worth something.” “Thank you,” I muttered. “I’m sorry—thanks. That… means a lot… Really.” He nodded. “It’s cold and it’s late. Go home and rest. I don’t want you to dwell on this, but make sure you never forget it,” my grandfather said quietly. “And don’t forget your prayers… Sometimes they’re the only things we have.” I hugged him, tightly for a time. But then we parted and made our separate ways in that cold night. It was a long walk across the parking lot. My body strained beneath the weight of my baggage while the winter bit savagely. My forehead burned with heat, a headache pounding my skull. I coughed once, twice, as I trudged through the cold. Though the way was even more painful now, my mind felt lost from my body. “Like I was… dehydrated.” I thought of that father standing beside his boy, trembling on the cold linoleum floor. The older man could barely hold himself up. Weathered, twisted hands planted on the back of an empty chair. How long ago was that now? Two months? It felt so much longer. Now I know how he felt leaving the mat sick and broken and twitching wildly, I thought. You did that to him. You hurt him the same way you were hurt… You—I… back then… I must have forgotten the pain of being broken… after what he did… me, a child, a young child… me, a boy trembling on the floor, just like the boy I hurt… I 142

thought I would never forget how he hurt me, yet I must have… But I only forgot during that match. Because this isn’t something you can ever forget, really… I can’t forget him ever… children always remember… You might think you’ve forgotten him but you haven’t. It’s still there… He’s still there… always… always… Then my thoughts, too, faded in the night. The cold, the pain, the fatigue absorbed the wanderings of my mind. The two bags on my back felt much heavier. I could sense the falling of the weight, the strain of my muscles, the loosening of my grip. I breathed deeply, struggling to carry the burden the entire way. I listened closely as I trudged forward. The night was quiet, almost silent. Every so often a car passed along the nearby road. But, otherwise, silence. There were no people, no birds, no planes flying overhead. All signs of life had died in the winter. I exhaled forcefully, wanting to create a human mark in the frozen landscape. My breath fogged white, illuminated in the pale ghostly light of a lamppost. The breath cloud floated there for a time. Almost sparkling in its brevity. Beautiful in its loneliness, quietly melancholy… until it scattered like the snowfall. Fading forever into the night and the cold. At last, I arrived at my car, parked alone in the farthest row. I leaned against the bumper, retiring my wrestling shoes as I searched my bag for a coat. I paused and looked around the landscape. It felt uncannily peaceful despite the evening matches. The high school was a dark silhouette, only a few lights glowing in the night. But 143

behind the school, through a skeletal grove, the city skyline cast a yellow haze on the horizon. Somewhere within me, I felt the numbness fade a little. For in the purple winter sky there were the stars, glistening silver in the silence. Though the air around them was frigid, though there was no one there to look upon them, they shone with a brilliance undeterred.

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Shutter Shock by Chloe Onorato

—12— The first twelve pictures were all either unfocused, crooked, or washed out. Rory discarded those and sighed miserably as he saw the rest of the photographs in his meager pile were all the same: mediocre. Being Greendale High School’s student photographer was a demanding job, but Rory couldn’t decline. He loved to take pictures, and he aspired to be a nature photographer once he graduated next year. However, he quickly found out that he spent almost all his time at the school, rushing to all the different events and taking care of his professional (schoolprovided) camera as if it were his own child… it was exhausting. The school wasn’t interested in birds, insects and abandoned farmhouses. It wanted pictures of sporting events, honor society induction ceremonies, theater productions, and talent shows. He gazed longingly out at the dusky sky. Rory could spend hours taking pictures of the wildlife just outside his room, but he was imprisoned inside his house until he finished finding a halfdecent photo or two from tonight’s basketball game to send to the yearbook committee. It was impossible to ask anyone for a picture, though. To everyone else, he was “that glasses kid.” Nobody knew who he was, and therefore, nobody wasted time with him. Their lives were 145

much too important to indulge him for a photograph. He rubbed the bridge of his aching nose under his glasses. Maybe he should just quit. —17— Rory found at least six out of the seventeen pictures he’d taken at the tennis match to be… not bad. They were still blurry, but much better than the ones he’d taken a week ago. His heart fluttered and he smiled shyly as he flipped through the sheets. Progress! Some of the pictures were action shots: the girls from his school leaping and lunging, faces furrowed in concentration, skin glowing with sweat under the lights. There was one picture he was absolutely going to scrap, and – there. It was one of the garbage pictures: unfocused, skewed almost completely sideways, and the lens smudged with sweat. He’d been standing a little too close to the players, and the Greendale girl had whipped around to grab a refreshment during a break when she’d walked right into him. Rory, being the beanpole of a teenager he was, stood no chance against a muscular female athlete. Camera thumping against his chest, he’d fallen backwards in a heap as the girl staggered but caught herself. “WATCH I—Oh, sorry.” She had leaned over and grabbing his limp hand, yanked him up as if pulling a carrot out of the ground and placed him back on his feet. Rory had been too discombobulated to notice that she picked up his glasses and after 146

a few seconds of indecision, decided to shove them haphazardly in the general direction of his face. After almost poking him in the eye several times, Rory reached up and pushed the glasses into place with a finger on the middle of his nose. “N-No problem… sorry to get in your way,” he’d said and rushed off before the girl could try and talk to him. Never had he been so humiliated and mortified in all his life, and, adding insult to injury, he’d accidentally snapped a photo of the embarrassing moment. Rory buried that photo at the bottom of the deck. —21— Finally, some content he could truly be proud of! Rory shifted through all twenty-one pictures with a smile. The mistakes were barely noticeable, and even then, with some digital editing, they would be practically invisible. Rory was actually excited to hand these in! As he tucked the pictures into a manila envelope, he looked up at his wall with pride. He’d been practicing his photography skills with people, and now, though he had once found them mundane and boring, the diversity and variation of expression fascinated him. He loved setting up different backdrops and taking pictures in all types of weather, experimenting with color and lighting, distance and cropping… he loved it all! To his surprise, he saw that a majority of the pictures he’d taken had included Quinn. Quinn Marie, he’d learned, was the female athlete who simultaneously terrified and impressed 147

him. He had expected her to treat him the same way all the other athletes he photographed did: ignoring him completely, or posing briefly for the camera before leaving to catch up with a teammate. But Quinn had felt genuinely guilty about knocking into him, and even though she hadn’t hurt him or damaged his equipment, she’d sought him out during class to apologize and offer her services if she’d broken anything. Rory, who’d done a fantastic impression of a cooked lobster, had stuttered out a thank-you and a polite rejection of her proffered help. She’d reluctantly accepted his words, and then promptly left, leaving Rory in a state of shock, embarrassment, and wonder. He felt bad, though. He hadn’t meant to snap pictures of mostly one girl, not even the other teammates or the game itself. Rory silently pledged to himself that next time, he would take nothing but action shots of the game, and of the other girls, to make up for it. —35— His head rested in his hands, and he groaned for the umpteenth time. His camera charged on his desk next to the spread of perfect pictures. Thirty-five pictures of the game. Every single one… of Quinn. What part of his pledge last week hadn’t he understood? Rory didn’t know what he’d say to the yearbook committee tomorrow when he came in with an envelope full of pictures of one girl. 148

Even worse, the pictures of her were all stunning. One he’d taken showed her in mid-swing, her ponytail in an arc behind her and her face frozen in a fearsome roar as she sent the ball into the stratosphere. Rory squeaked as his heart jumped. Nervously he filtered through the photographs, frowning. This girl must be insanely photogenic, like a professional model working undercover as a high school student. There was no way a high schooler could look so flawless no matter— The last picture was his favorite. Quinn, proudly holding a golden trophy as her teammates hugged and cried all around her. He remembered how that last, nail-biting match had started. The Greendale player had bounced the ball a few times while he’d snuck around to get a picture of her profile, zooming in on her face. “Thirty serving love!” Quinn had had the audacity, the nerve, to stare right into his camera lens, and wink before smashing the ball over the net like a lime-green comet. Rory had never had an aneurysm in his life, but in that moment, he’d come so close he’d almost felt it. He shoveled the pictures into a manila envelope, and grabbing a thick black marker, he began to label it. His mind raced frantically; how was he going to explain the pictures to the committee? Could he somehow take more pictures of some other event before he went to see them and switch some out? Would the committee be alright with including so many pictures of Qui—? 149

Rory let out a horrified gasp as he realized he should have been paying attention to what he was writing. In big, black letters, the word “QUINN” was scrawled across the front, with a tiny heart in the dot of the “I.” Rory choked. Did he… have a crush?

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Cold Tile

by Annie Wiese It was my second day on the bathroom floor. I lay in my own puddle of tears, immersed in emotions. I was on my stomach, head turned to the right, staring at a mountain of used tissues. The cool tile was relief for my hot skin. My nose was chapped from blowing it so many times, and my eyelids felt like they were ten pounds heavier from sobbing. My father came in at least once an hour, wholeheartedly concerned for his ‘baby girl.’ This gesture, of course, only made me cry harder. He told me how sorry he was, and that he knew from experience how painful it is when your heart gets broken. I would just listen to his voice while he stroked the hair behind my ear, sniffling and quivering. Mom came in a few times. She would sit down, her back against my white cabinets, typing away on her computer. Sometimes she would look at me with pursed lips, never saying exactly what she was thinking, which I knew was “I told you so.” Other times she would talk aimlessly about her friends or what errands she ran that day. Sometimes, when I was extra loud, my sweet dog would whine outside of the bathroom. I would smush my fingers between the tile and carpet to pull the door open from the bottom so that he could come in and lick my face. I would look at his precious, 151

concerned eyes and the tears would start again. My brother had to fly back to D.C. I winced whenever I thought of him and all he had done for me in the days prior. I called him in the middle of the night after it happened. I couldn’t get words out. All I could do was scream. Gut-wrenching, earsplitting noises, and he just sat there and listened. “I love you, I know, I know, shhhh, I love you, I know…” he repeated over and over and over again. It could’ve been minutes; it could’ve been hours. When I drove home from where it happened, I managed to stumble up the stairs and crawl into my mother’s bed. She eventually got in with me, and we laid there in silence because she knew words weren’t enough. After a day she asked my brother to move me. As he picked me up and approached the door to my room, I screamed and begged him not to open it. I just couldn’t face it. I wasn’t ready. The memories were scattered everywhere. His sweatshirt strewn over my desk chair, pictures of us framed on the bedside table. As I laid there on the tile, my mind raced. I thought of all the things I could’ve done or said differently. I played the scene repeatedly in my head. The words he spoke, the way he looked at me. The way I must’ve looked back at him. It felt like my chest was being split open, like a scalpel slicing me without anesthesia. ... I woke up startled from a dream. I must’ve fallen asleep after replaying what happened for the hundredth time. In the dream, I kept running after him as he left me. I ran and ran but 152

could never catch up. Suddenly, there was a huge gap in the pavement, a giant abyss separating us. I never saw him jump, but he was somehow on the other side sprinting away. After thinking about the dream for at least ten minutes, I realized that I could either risk it all by jumping an impossible length, or accept my pain, and sit with it. I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling. My stomach growled, angry at me for neglecting it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten anything. I had the sudden urge to stand. My joints protested as I lifted myself up, popping and cracking at their first movement in days. I looked in the mirror at my hollow cheeks, puffy eyes, ratty hair, and tattered pajamas. I was stunned. I sucked in a gasp, and my hand flew to my lips in shock. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. Who was this girl? Whoever she was, I didn’t want to be her. It was in that moment that I decided to stitch myself back up. I thought of the abyss, staring at me, tempting me to jump in. How easy it would be to let myself slip away. It seemed romantic to off oneself for love. No, I thought. I told myself to forget about it, and turned my back on the girl who laid on the tile. ... I went into my room, threw all his stuff in a corner, and covered it with a blanket. The next few months went by with no call and no text. Just my memories. I noticed myself getting better, slowly. Every stitch was an inch, and I had miles to go, but dammit, I was healing. By month two, I didn’t sit down in the 153

shower anymore. I didn’t drive ten minutes out of my way to avoid seeing his street. Things got better after I went to college. It didn’t hurt as much to smile. I stopped falling to my knees when someone said his name, or I scrolled past those months of photographs my phone. I made friends whose love felt like scar cream on my chest. We danced on tables. I let a boy kiss me, even though it nearly killed me to do so. I saw him a few months later. I yearned to be back on my bathroom floor in the fetal position. And a few of my stitches popped out. ... My apology came three years later on a Monday night. I was eating dinner in my pajamas. In between texts from my new boyfriend, his name popped up on my phone, and I almost fell out of my chair. What the hell? I thought. My heart sank into my stomach, and a lump formed in my throat. I immediately thought of the cold tile. I thought of the screaming, the lowest point of my life. I thought of my ratty ponytail and my father’s words. It was ironic, because just two days prior I started dating someone who truly swept me off my feet. He held my battered, stitched up heart in his hands and kissed its imperfections. He was the best man I had ever known, second only to my father. My face strained. I bit my lip and squinted, determined not to let the tears fall. I was pained from the resurgence of past trauma, but mostly angry at the universe for this sick twist of fate. I finally mustered up the courage to open the message. 154

I know this is out of the blue, but I’ve been thinking of you. I just wanted to apologize to you. For the way I acted and the things I said. Everything that happened was my fault. I don’t hate you. I hope you’re happy and well, I really do. I don’t want to hold any negativity in my heart anymore. All love. ... That evening, after kissing my boyfriend goodnight, a silent tear ran down my cheek. When I got home, I went straight to the mirror, and stared at my reflection. I know this girl, I thought. And I really like her. I said it with confidence. And for the first time in a long time, it was true.

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ART

“Dúlamán” Montanna Kirven 159

“Dziękuję” Montanna Kirven 160

“eden” Montanna Kirven 161

“Untitled Image of Anytown, U.S.A.” Montanna Kirven 162

163 “Frog Green” Christina Onorato

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“Trickster” Chloe Onorato

165 “An Evening’s Reflection” Wendy Ruan

“Uncertainty” Wendy Ruan 166

“Warm Seclusion” Wendy Ruan 167

“Girl Daydreaming on Balcony” Camila Salinas 168

“The Echoes of Liberation” Camila Salinas 169

“Virtual Fashion 5.8” Lauren Tarnhoff 170

CONTRIBUTORS

Noah Cha is a senior from southern California studying Finance. He enjoys writing short stories and poetry. Carter Cheeseman is a junior English major minoring in Sustainability and Classics from Nashville Tennessee. He writes poetry and music in his free time as a way to think about the world around him. You can find him at a café pondering life in the reflection of his coffee… or just enjoying a pastry. Alena Coleman grew up in New Harmony, Indiana — a utopian experiment turned living museum. She is a senior studying English and Spanish. Her work has also appeared in The Juggler and Zeniada and is forthcoming in Asterism. She hopes that all your fences have gates. Claire Crafts is a sophomore at Notre Dame studying psychology and business economics. She self-published her first book at sixteen and is excited to be recommitting to writing and publication. Prose is her more natural creative medium, and she has only more recently been trying her hand at poetry. Much of her work touches on themes of love, loss, and grief, honoring her brother who passed away. Victoria Dominesey is a sophomore English and FTT major at the University of Notre Dame. Though a native of the east coast, she currently calls O’ahu, Hawai’i home. She enjoys traveling, making films, and scrolling mindlessly on TikTok when she should be doing homework. She hopes others take something from her writing. 173

Will Dwortz is a sophomore from Marblehead, Massachusetts, and is majoring in neuroscience and English. He developed an intetest in poetry after being exposed to the work of Mary Oliver. While he does not know what career path he may follow, he believes that writing will always be a part of his life. Giacomina Fabiano is a Senior at the University of Notre Dame. She will graduate with a Bachelor’s Degree of Art in both Psychology and English. She has accepted to receive her MA in English at Wayne State University to purse her dream of becoming an author. Anna Falk is a sophomore at Notre Dame majoring in Neuroscience and minoring in French and Linguistics. She is from Cincinnati, OH and lives in Pasquerilla East Hall. She does not have a brain and has never had an original thought. Anna is a proud and avid bumper sticker enthusiast. Analie Fernandes is a senior at Notre Dame studying Political Science, Pre-Health, and Poverty Studies. She loves hiking, music, and bad rom-coms & is enjoying learning more about poetic expression. Ariana Howe is an Indiana-native studying English at Saint Mary’s College. She aims to write about the struggles surrounding COVID-19 and social anxiety.

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Angelica Ketcham is a fourth-year architecture student who moonlights in as many creative outlets as she has time for; her love for perpendicular lines and window details is balanced by her love for Capitalizing Things and using run-on sentences with too much punctuation. Angelica’s hobbies include obnoxiously long walks and eating meals at the wrong times. Montanna Kirven is a senior majoring in English and a coxswain on the ND Men’s Rowing team. She enjoys beating her friends at card games, playing the guitar poorly, and calling any deviation from the plan an “adventure.” When she graduates, her dream job is to be employed. Kimani Krienke is a senior studying English, creative writing, anthropology and journalism, ethics & democracy at the University of Notre Dame. Portage, Indiana is her home away from campus. Krienke will be attending New York University to study magazine writing and journalism, eventually seeking a career as a travel journalist. James Krusinski is a junior at the University of Notre Dame, where he studies political science and English. He is from Cincinnati, Ohio. He is a Brennan Scholar and a member of the Glynn Family Honors Program. Isabelle LeBlanc is currently a sophomore at the University of Notre Dame, and is majoring in Psychology. She has been writing poetry as a hobby since she was 15 and is now enrolled in her first poetry class under Professor Jillian Fantin. 175

Paula Leppert is a freshman German exchange student and is only here for two semesters. She is from Munich in Bavaria. In her free time, she loves any kind of sport in the mountains. She also does vaulting and plays the violin. She is really into poetry and started writing about three years ago. She had a great time at Notre Dame and wants to thank all the wonderful students she got in contact with! She will really miss this place. Victoria Lyczak is a sophomore at Notre Dame studying management consulting and theology. On campus, she is involved in TransPose Dance Collective, Her Campus, and KiND club. In her free time, she loves jamming to disco music, watching rom coms, and spending time with her friends. Claire Lyons is a sophomore pursuing majors in Political Science and English and a minor in Science, Technology, and Values. Hailing from the rolling hills of Texas, she appreciates the unique beauty of Mod Quad and South Bend’s forests and lakes. When she isn’t reviewing student productions in The Observer or studying Chinese, she’s doing practical things like taking long walks around St. Joe’s or drafting poetry in her head. Natalie Munguia is a senior Pre-Med Neuroscience major originally from Yakima, WA. A previous Lyons Hall resident, she now lives off campus. When she’s not in class or studying, you can probably find her baking, playing soccer, or running around the lakes when the temperature rises above freezing.

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Bella Niforatos is a Psychology and English major with a Creative Writing Honors Concentration from Albuquerque, New Mexico. She is in the process of completing a novel that employs magical realism to discuss Jewish identity and antisemitism. She also enjoys dancing and immersing herself in the mountains and is passionate about gender-based violence prevention on campus and in the community. Molly O’Toole is a Sophomore English major from Arlington, Massachusetts. She enjoys long, contemplative walks, baking cakes, and “angry girl music of the indie rock persuasion.” She would like to thank the South Bend Amtrak for giving her something to write about. Linh Oliver is a sophomore Political Science major, with minors in the Hesburgh Program and Poverty Studies. Raised in Portland, they have an intimate knowledge of what it means to be weird as shit, and are a vehement hater of South Bend weather. Chloe Onorato is an English major with a Creative Writing concentration and Studio Art minor at University of Notre Dame. She has published writing and art in The Juggler and enjoys the Mustard Creative Writing Club. Her dream is to be a professor who writes and illustrates her own books. Christina Onorato is a third year Visual Communication Design major and Business Economics minor studying at the University of Notre Dame. Artistic expression has always been an important part of her life. She loves painting, photography, digital media and design, drawing, sculpture, and singing. 177

Elizabeth Prater is a sophomore studying Marketing and the Program of Liberal Studies at Notre Dame. She enjoys editing for The Observer, playwriting, and creating short stories and novels. In addition, she loves to play fiddle music on the violin and hike in the rainy Pacific Northwest. Wendy Ruan is a senior at Notre Dame with majors in Preprofessional Science and Asian Studies, and a minor in Studio Art. She enjoys drawing human figures and uses a variety of mediums, such as watercolors, oil paint, and digital art. Her works have been exhibited seven times in the Duncan Student Center and featured in three issues of The Juggler magazine. Camila Salinas is 19 years old, and from McAllen, TX. She was born in spring, hopes to die in winter, and to have a life full of seasons. The first time that she decided to do digital art was in quarantine in 2020. She hopes you enjoy her work, and know that she is still growing as an artist. JP Spoonmore is a Junior, majoring in Film, Television, and Theatre with a minor in Irish, Language, and Literature. He is the current President of Notre Dame’s Mustard Creative Writing Club, videographer for the Fisher Hall Regatta, and spends most of his days in movie theaters. Anna Staud is a senior at Notre Dame studying Economics and English with an Honors Concentration in Creative Writing and minors in Theology and Latino Studies. She is the Co-President of the Folk Choir and loves vanilla lattes and Dove chocolate. 178

Matelda Sweis is a junior from Tinley Park, IL majoring in Computer Science. She’s always found poetry to be an elegant way to express the feelings that regular speech can’t seem to. She often looks for the experiences in life that call out to her, begging to be memorialized through poetry. Lauren Tarnoff is a Visual Communication Design major at the University of Notre Dame with minors in Digital Marketing and French & Francophone Studies. Her hometown is Huntington Beach, California. She is working towards a career in the sports marketing industry. Subsequently, she is on the Irish Women’s Volleyball team and is President of the Sport Management Association. Hannah Tonsor is a junior from southern Illinois. On campus, she sings with the Notre Dame Folk Choir and blogs for the DeBartolo Performing Arts Center. She’s always looking for good suspense novels if you have any recommendations. Annie Wiese is a senior studying Political Science, English, and Constitutional Studies. She is a diver on the varsity swimming and diving team, and is working at the George W. Bush Library and Presidential Center after graduation. A native of Carmel, Indiana, she enjoys spending time with family and friends, sun-tanning, reading, and playing with her dog.

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