Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

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h a r b i n g e r
A journal of Art & Literature

Copyright © 2019 by the authors, the artist, and Texas
Tech University. All rights reserved. No part of this
publication be reproduced in any manner without
permission from Texas Tech University.
Published by
Harbinger, Texas Tech University
Lubbock, TX 79409
Prtinted by Partks Printing Company, Lubbock, TX
Designed by Kathia Ramirez

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“A writer can do nothing for men more necessary,
satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the
infinite possibilities of their own souls.”
– Walt Whitman

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SPECIAL THANKS TO OUR SPONSORS
COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES
Dr. W. Brent Lindquist
HONORS COLLEGE
Dr. Michael San Francisco
SCHOOL OF ART
Robin D. Germany
Dr. Joe Arredondo, Faculty Advisor
OFFICE OF THE PROVOST
Dr. Michael Galyean
ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
Dr. John Poch, Faculty Advisor

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EDITORS NOTE
In each of the works found in this journal, a piece of the artist
can be found. A piece of their mind, heart, story, or soul.
Artists and writers take pieces of themselves and give it to us
through their work. With each word or brushstroke, they give
us a part of their broken hearts, tell us an important part of their
stories, or give us a glimpse into their souls.
In the pages of this journal, you will find vibrant, emotional
art pieces as well as a relatable comic strip. You will read a story
that catapults you into a futuristic world to learn the intricacies
of nanotechnology and the complexity of what it means to be
human. You will follow the twists and turns of a mental health
journey, and you will feel the hilarious terror of what it would
be like if you learned your pets could speak to you.
Each of these stories and pieces of art, serious or lighthearted, is
a piece for us as readers and viewers to take and use for ourselves.
Let the fiction pieces take you to another world, let the nonfiction
move you, let the art help you heal, let the poems impact
you deeply, and let the plays show you a new perspective.
My hope is that each reader takes just one thing that the artists
have given and lets it inspire them to give a piece of themselves
back through their own creativity. I urge each person who picks
up this journal to pay it forward and create something meaningful
for others to use as well.
Sincerely,
JAK KURDI
Editor-in-Chief, 2018 -19

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Peotry
Native Tongue Hali Salome Cardenas 1
Memories of Desert Storm Sarah G. Huerta 2
Albuquerque Sarah G. Huerta 3
Another Poem About Him with Five Lines Stolen from
Twin Peaks Hali Salome Cardenas 4
Static Anne Lovering 5
A Translation from Pablo Neruda’s Soneto 45 B. N. Tanguma 6
In Santa Cruz Sarah G. Huerta 7
Close Your Eyes B. N. Tanguma 8
A Hermit Prayed and A God Answered Him Tyler Seale 9
Non-Fiction
Grade A Plants and A Jade Plant Too Brittany Thurmond 10-13
A Mother in Fragments Hali Salome Cardenas 14-15
Happy James D. Loss 16-17
Breathe It All In: A Memoir Madelyn Gunnels 19-20
Why I Live George A. Stern Jr. 21
Fiction
One Pursuit Of Happiness Brian Hottinger 26- 32
Aurora Melissa Beal 33-37
Lily-Livered Taylor Watkins 38 -41
Feed Me Kellis Pike 43-44

Holy Incomplete Joanna Byrne 45-52
Stella James Loss 53-55
Baby Blues Jenna Hefele 55
Cracked Jenna Hefele 56
Something Slightly Sane Brittany Thurmond 59-61
Drama
Creative Process Theodore Leo 63- 69
Greener Pastures Nicolas Rivera 71-76
Art
11
It's Heavy Aris Neal 10
2405 Bailey Manning 18
Nose Cliff Morgen Macke 31
Untitled Katie Knight 36
Weekend Blues Gabrielle Walter 41
Melt Down Gabrielle Walter 42
My Sapphire Pendant & Earring Ann Sikes 50
Fugly I Aris Neal 57
Claire Above, Claire Below, Emily Massey 58
Mountain Range Alex Genette 61
NYC DAYZ Ndo Chiedu 62
Decisions, Decisions, Gabrielle Walter 67
Untitled Katie Knight 70
Sister’s Peridot Necklace Ann Sikes 75

NATIVE TONGUE
Hali Salome Cardenas
The man on Ancient Aliens talks about the Mayans.
How they tracked the waxing and waning
of the moon, the turning of the planets – finding
sense in the stars. He says they did this while
Europeans rolled like pigs in muck – polluting
the idea of the Great White Race. So – it had to be
aliens, right?
Because when the colonizers came and brought
their missionaries and a plagiarized word
of God, they named us savage and scattered us
like those heads we kicked around for fun.
poetry 1
And when you’re ten you’re afflicted by something
you can’t name as you invite your white friend
to your abuela’s house. She had made lengua,
and she cowers before your friend
with “I hope you like it mijita.” You stare
as Cassie ate the meat – you relished
as the grease oozed down her small pale arms,
puddling in the middle of the cheap Styrofoam plate.
“This is so good,” she said. You felt wicked and cruel
but quenched when you revealed
that it was cow tongue and her placid face
turned sour. And you wonder if these small triumphs
are what those distant ancestors saw in the sky.

MEMORIES OF DESERT STORM
Sarah G. Huerta
I am writing at the coffee shop on 4th and Slide,
at the table against
the window, watching
the West Texas wind
assault the trees, rip through
the dead and still dying grass.
I buy a bagel and a latte and tip
the barista who shared my name, dropping
the crumpled bills from the bottom of my bag–
but I think the bagel was only out of habit.
I saw a new therapist yesterday
so I could stop thinking about you
without having to stop thinking.
But at the coffee shop on 4th and Slide,
all that I write about
is how they carted you off
to Kuwait, a country devoid
of permanent rivers,
how you spent several moons
and a birthday or two
in a hole in the ground without much
more than a bottle of tabasco
and a picture of my mom.
You never talked about it–
I didn’t even know details of that war
until taking AP History,
until I found that word document
from when you thought you’d become a writer.
At the coffee shop on 4th and Slide,
my back is to a man.
He tells of how he loves his daughter.
He will never know me,
and I will know him
as well as I know you.

ALBUQUERQUE
Sarah G. Huerta
You met me
when my finger was broken,
and we fell in love
(supposedly)
when my hair was long–
but last week I took a pair of safety
scissors to my waist-length locks,
and now my finger has healed.
poetry 3

STATIC
Anna Lovering
I lie awake and hear gunshots tonight.
One, two, three, they echo like a shoe
hitting the wall hard—then, the noise falls off.
Somewhere in the caustic communication
I am receiving from a person, their
gun, “Who are they really?” I think, as my
mind drifts into a dream where people loathe
warmth, are blind, and continue to fall into
a living pauper’s grave. The landscape is
littered with drained poppies, there are no more
soldiers to feed the soil scarlet red.
The sound of violence creates a hemisphere
splitting curtain darkness toward a rising
sun rising, the grasp, as night folds the night
away and I am supposed to wake up.
It is easier to think of comfort
as a closed window.

ANOTHER POEM ABOUT HIM WITH FIVE LINES
STOLEN FROM TWIN PEAKS
Hali Saleme Cardenas
I am dead yet I live, the girl wrapped in plastic
whispers to Special Agent Dale Cooper on the TV
playing in the background at your friend’s party.
Laura is full of secrets. The words sting
like an open palm. You looked at me
from across the room with the word secret hidden
in your dark eyes. I looked away – my tongue tracing the welt
where earlier your hands introduced the insides
of my cheek to the jagged edges of my teeth.
poetry 5
Sometimes my arms bend back. I was ignorant
of what that meant until you showed me outside of that house.
The vintage dress adorning my body and its missing buttons
were evidence that arms could violently splay.
We all knew. I wonder –
did your friends know? I am fluent in silence as your phantom fingers
snake around my throat, choking me, though you had said nothing –
done nothing. The bruises peppering my small wrists were a token of love,
of loving, of what I was taught love was.
Women in fragments, women dead, wraaaapped in plastic, women’s bodies
tattered and scattered and served to us on screens, and still they ask
why we stay – like we aren’t being hurt with the same parts they use to show us their love.

A TRANSLATION FROM PABLO NERUDA’S
SONETO 45
B. N. Tanguma
Do not be far away from me for even a single day. Why?
Because, I do not know how to say it. The day is long
and I’ll be waiting for you, like those who wait in the empty stations,
when the trains have fallen asleep somewhere.
Do not leave, even for an hour, because,
then in that hour the drops of anguish will coalesce;
and maybe all the smoke that is lost and looking for a home,
will come to kill even my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette in the sand never break.
Oh, may the butterflies of your fluttering eyes never fly into empty distance.
Do not leave for a minute, my love,
because in that minute you will have gone so far,
that I would wander the whole earth asking,
if you will return, or if you would leave me dying.
*
Pablo Neruda: Soneto XLV.
No estés lejos de mí un solo día, porque cómo,
porque, no sé decirlo, es largo el día,
y te estaré esperando como en las estaciones
cuando en alguna parte se durmieron los trenes.
No te vayas por una hora porque entonces
en esa hora se juntan las gotas del desvelo
y tal vez todo el humo que anda buscando casa
venga a matar aún mi corazón perdido.
Ay que no se quebrante tu silueta en la arena,
ay que no vuelen tus párpados en la ausencia:
no te vayas por un minuto, bienamada,
porque en ese minuto te habrás ido tan lejos
que yo cruzaré toda la tierra preguntando
si volverás o si me dejarás muriendo.

IN SANTA CRUZ
Sarah G. Huerta
I look down at the map
that cost me five euros
and about twice as many
blisters on my feet
caused by my shitty American sandals
on too uneven sidewalks.
A rough sketch of synagogues
of the past are highlighted
in white. They are all churches
and restaurants now, one
of the hundred Jews left in Sevilla
tells me in broken English.
I step through to the other side
of the curtain separating the single room
exhibit.
Is it even my place
to cry? A spiritualist
raised Catholic, imposing myself
in the remains of the Jewish Quarter,
a lighter way to say ghetto,
or quarantine, barely able
to read about the atrocities
my family’s church committed
through new stains dirtying my glasses.
poetry 7
I exit through a small hall,
the walls covered in mirrors,
and I walk until
I am facing ten of myself.

CLOSE YOUR EYES.
B. N. Tanguma
Close your eyes and think of me.
Close your eyes and think of tiny frozen yogurt cups and conversation that
flows like a river with no dam.
Think of the scent of acrylic paint and Elmer’s glue, accompanied by the
sound of hair dryers and my high laughter as we giggle over spilled paint
that would create a beautiful picture.
Think of sleepless nights where what we had to say was more important at
8am than what papers needed from us by 10am.
Think of art shows, mixed drinks and purple flowers.
Think of the first time “I love you” escaped from your lips as I was asleep
and dreaming of a world with you.
Think of parties and vape smoke.
Think of stolen kisses and words.
Close your eyes and think of how that spilled paint on our second date
painted much more than just a beautiful canvas.

A HERMIT PRAYED
AND A GOD ANSWERED HIM
Tyler Seale
Way, way down in the red, red sands
You’ll find a small and barren stream
Where serpents writhe and spiders dance
And buzzards go to chat and dream
Way, way West on the wild, wild breeze
How many prayers are carried there?
The mesa hears, the sunset sees,
But no one answers, no god dares
poetry 9
Way, way deep in the small, small grains
You’ll discover worlds you’ve yet to know
Where shackled men throw off their chains
Where hells and heavens heave and groan
Way, way out on the flat, flat earth
Where little grows and death is near
I’ve built my home and tend my hearth
No longer slave to pain and fear
Way, way down in the red, red sands
I look around and come to see
Some forgotten god’s forsaken land
Has given life again to me

GRADE A PLANTS AND A JADE PLANT TOO
Brittany Thurmond
Aconite
I had a general hate, dislike, and distrust for the human species and held them in contempt
for even breathing the wrong way while passing me. Depression is a real thing.
Have you ever seen an Aconite? Why is it such vibrant purple if it contains poisonous
chemicals and is the most common cause of severe herb poisoning in Hong Kong?Seems
like a trap to me. Looks so beautiful on the outside yet poisons you when you come in
contact—kinda like humans. I had high dreams my whole life, like going to college and
having a career, although, I don’t know why.
My mom has been a raging alcoholic my whole life. My parents got married after
knowing each other five months. My mom got pregnant with me at 36—oops! Four
years later and I was the worst thing that came out of the marriage.
I was in Kmart with my dad one day, waiting on my mom to get off work, saw her
secret co-worker friend and said to my dad, “that’s mama’s friend, he comes over all the
time when you’re at work.”
The feeling of loathe, distaste, and disapproval directed distinctly at you is a feeling
I’ve come to understand quite too well from the interactions with my parents throughout
the years. If only I had kept my mouth shut, my parents may still be together.
Then again, maybe not.
One day my mom chased my dad out of the garage with a shovel. Not sure if it was
the beer causing this insanity to radiate out of her, or the bipolar tendencies kicking in.
All I know is that my dad beat her up when she was pregnant with me, but she probably
deserved it.
People have a way of exploiting the actions others have taken upon them, but never
mention the things they did to cause the resulting actions.
I decided when I was in kindergarten that I was going to be a teacher some-day.
Neither one of my parents went to college or any previous generations of ancestors before
that. My aunt on my dad’s side was the first. My half-sister was the second. College
is not a typical life stage that my family grows through and, although, I dreamed of it my
whole life, depression creates a deep, dark, distant, desolate, discontented feeling in your
mind and heart.
It is hard to escape the dreadful reality of everyday life in a world no one wants you in.
ARIS NEAL. It’s Heavy,
Handmade copper blocks, brass, and ribbon.
▲

non-fiction 11

Azalea or Anemone
Pick whatever stupid flower you want to call it, they all die, anyways.
As if I was not already a disappointment to everyone surrounding me, I then decided
to wait a year to go to college, and started dating a “damn nigger,” as my dad would say.
I moved in with Cameron a month after graduating high school and when I say the
whole damn thing was toxic, I mean the whole fucking thing was a shit show. I had no
self-worth, “daddy issues,” as they call it. Cameron was demeaning, demoralizing, disastrous,
and dreadful. He used to, and still does, refer to me as a bitch, whore, slut, and
every other expletive or derogatory term you could ever happen to stumble upon.
“You’ll never find anything better than me.”
“A universal key can enter any lock and be useful, but no one wants a lock that is
losing its tread from every key trying to unlock it.”
These were some of his favorites to use on me. He brainwashed me into believing that
I wasn’t worthy of anyone else and that I may as well stay with him cause he was the only
person that could love me. He wanted to make sure I knew that I would never find better
than him. Cameron never actually wanted me either, if we’re being honest here. He fed
off my depression and wanted to make my soul cower and cringe with every stab he took
at my lifeless existence. He broke up with me around November, but I continued living
with him because ex’s as roommates always works well. I would have picked anything
over going back to my mother’s house, though.
Why does everyone hate me? Why can’t I make friends? Why doesn’t anyone pay
attention to the increasing suicide rates? In a world of over seven billion people, how can
one person feel so lonely?
Here is the sad truth; the people surrounding you don’t give a damn about your
depression until you selfishly cause them pain and suffering because you finally decide to
cure your own.
I needed you to take care of my fragile well-being as if I were Azalea, but instead, you
heard forsake me like an Anemone.
In March 2015, I finally decided I had enough of Cameron’s entitled, snarky, shitty
attitude towards me, and moved out. We remained friends for a few weeks, until one day
he told me how much he regretted meeting me and that he never wanted to hear from
me again.
The next day, I found out I was pregnant.
Ambrosia, Arborvitae, Aster
Who knew that a tiny little bean sprouting and growing could bring so many emotions
to one person?
Excitement and fear rushed through my body and weakened me, almost to a collapse.

I wasn’t taught about unconditional love, just knew I never experienced it.
Here, baby girl, take some Ambrosia for the reciprocating love, Arborvitae for your
everlasting friendship, and Aster for your success in bringing light to my life with this
unconditional love and happiness.
At least I finally have one person that will love me forever, not that she really had a
choice in the matter. I am going to be everything my mother wasn’t. I will choose to
believe the tragic events she tells me about. I will not bring strange men around her. I
will not be drunk around her.
When I was sixteen weeks pregnant, the depression hit hard.
Abortion, suffering, adoption, suicide, a…..
million and one things tormenting, agonizing, racking away at my brain. I didn’t
invite these thoughts into my head, so why were they torturing me? I never acted on any
of these thoughts, of course, but I am one to consider all my options.
Aloe and Amaryllis
In 2016, I decided to start college at South Plains College, a junior college. I earned my
Associate of Art in Teaching in May of 2018. I started Texas Tech in the fall of 2018 and
will graduate with my Bachelors’ Degree in teaching in 2020.
“Amaryllis,” my mom would say. Greenhouses sure do have a way of familiarizing you
with plants and their symbolic meanings.
You know how your mom always told you to rub Aloe on your sunburn to soothe the
ache and heal the burn?
Thanks for the healing remedies of Aloe, mom.
I’ll go ahead and take some Amaryllis and Aloe for this plant collection, too.
I am all better now. No more pain and suffering. It’s gone on far too long.
Aconite, Azalea, Anemone, Ambrosia, Arborvitae, Aster, Aloe, Amaryllis…
End of collection.
non-fiction 13
Jade Plant
Oops, almost forgot the Jade Plant.
I got my first succulent this summer. If you know anything about succulents, they
don’t require a lot of watering. You water about every two weeks and forget it’s there
most of the time, just like me.
Apparently, Jade Plant is symbolic for growth, renewal, and don’t forget wealth and
prosperity, as it is thought to activate financial energies. It can also be referred to as the
good luck charm.
Good luck, depression. Good luck, suicide rates. Good luck, to the many people suffering
and never receiving help. Your cries are too quiet, until you do something “drastic.”

MY MOTHER IN FRAGMENTS
Hali Salome Caredenas
RUSSIAN RED
I’m five, it’s your twenty-fifth birthday party. I’m wearing the itchy tweety-bird tights,
your hair is falling around your heart-shaped face in golden brown ringlets. You plant
a MAC Russian Red kiss on my warm earth-brown cheek. You swing my small body
around the glowing dance floor and tell me, my sweet girl, I love you, I love you, I love you.
BLUSH
I’m seven. We are on one of our weekend ventures to the used bookstore nestled between
the Chinese restaurant and the tobacco shop. I browsed the children’s books while you
darted toward true crime. You read to me in our favorite nook and you play with my hair
as I read back to you. I am ashamed when I stumble upon the big words, yet you urge me
on, ignoring my blushing cheeks. Despite everything, at least you gave me this.
RUBY
I’m nine. We are driving around town looking for Dad. It’s witching hour late, it’s cold,
the windows in your red car are foggy from our hot breath. You’re crying hysterically,
you’re cursing him, you’re cursing ever having us, you’re cursing yourself – your face is
a blur. He comes home in the morning: eyes shot, whiskey-breath with ruby red at his
collar. You don’t wear red lipstick for a decade.
SANGRE
I’m ten. You’re pregnant again. You tell yourself this will change him - this will make him
stay. You share your musings with me. Slowly you start to go inside of yourself again,
even after the baby comes out. Her cries don’t reach you when you’re dwelling. Javan
and I take her in - we love her as best as we can.
MAROON
I’m twelve. You’re calling and calling Dad and he doesn’t answer. I say, have you tried his
cell phone? “I’ve already tried his cell, Hali,” you say, in a tone that makes me feel like I
have been slapped across my face. I say something like, “No Mom, the maroon one.” I
wasn’t aware that you didn’t know about the other phone. Your eyes become a question
mark, your face pales, your mouth emits a guttural cry as you crumple to the floor. I am
left to pick up the pieces of you when he is gone.

SIREN
I’m fourteen and this one is the one that still aches. We come home from dinner with
Dad, our first since he moved to the Valley. The house is pitch black, black as night, you
didn’t turn the porch light on. You always turn the porch light on. There is a faint glow
behind your curtains. I call out to you, you don’t respond. I call again – after all, your
light is on – I am greeted with an oppressive silence. My stomach is a knot; my feet are
lead. I walk to your room, you’re in bed, you look like you’re only sleeping. I move to
wake you, to tell you that we are home, and that is when I see the letter – the “I’m sorry”
written in your loopy girlish handwriting, the red-inked “I can’t share you with him,”
and it is only now, writing about this, that I think to myself “of course she used a fucking
red pen.” I scream and shake you. I call the ambulance and I tell them what you’ve done,
that you’re still breathing but barely and you’re so heavy I can’t move you I can’t help
you I can’t do anything, I tell the operator that I am just a kid and you’re my mother and
I can’t m o v e you. I call Dad from the landline and shriek until he comes and I’m holding
back your perfect chestnut curls while he is gagging you with his fighter hands and I
hear the sirens before I see the red and blue lights on the wall. You’re lifted up and carried
away and missing for three long days that drag and drag and drag. You come home and
you make jokes of the charcoal they pumped your stomach with, and you promise us it
won’t happen again.
non-fiction 15
MERLOT
I am twenty-four now. I am sitting on your burgundy ikat couch – we are drinking West
Texas merlot and singing along to Depeche Mode. You ask if everything is okay: “how
is the baby? How is Rocky?” This is the first time we have spoken since we got into a
screaming fight on the phone a couple of weeks before because you were worried about
me and I didn’t want you to be right. I break down into the bitter wine and you bring
me to you. You play with my hair and let me talk and when I ask if we can come back,
just for a little bit, just until I get on my feet, just until, until, until. You call me your
sweet girl again and say, “of course, I love you, of course.”

HAPPY
James D. Loss
The sweltering summer heat beat down on the streets of Frisco, Texas. Four O’clock; the
height of school zone congestion. My car inched forward with the traffic. My left knee
throbbed from working the clutch for the past thirty minutes. In a town with ten high
schools, seventeen middle schools, and forty-two elementary schools, it’s impossible to
make it through an afternoon drive without being slowed down by the flashing yellow
lights of school zones. Locked in the mandatory twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit, I
crawled forward with my chin laid on the steering wheel as I wondered if I will find
an end to this line of cars. Yet, an ironic optimism found me in the traffic; my days of
navigating these overcrowded streets drew close to an end as my freshman year of college
approached. Finally, I could free myself from the mundane, repetitive suburban lifestyle.
Finally, I could live somewhere where the average income didn’t turn everyone into
selfish snobs.
My jeep progressed down the road in slow and painful manner as my mind played
with fantasies of open acres far away from any of this industrial poison. A flash of white
caught my eye. I turned to see Frisco’s local legend dancing outside my window. No
one could tell you his real name; he told you to call him “Happy.” He didn’t dress fancy
with a black tank top, basketball shorts, and Jordan’s. Happy spent his free time dancing
down the major roads of Frisco as he waved signs of joy, love, and motivation. His feet
skipped across the pavement while he held up those signs in one hand and an eternal
peace-sign in the other. I’d never paid much attention to Happy. He had become just as
common as a light post on the street corner. But now, as Happy waved his sign outside
my window, telling me to “smile more,” I couldn’t help but be drawn in by the man’s
energy. While I waited for many car lengths behind a red light, I reached over, cranked
down the passenger window (yes, my Jeep still had crank windows), and waved my hand
to bring Happy closer.
Happy, looking as happy as ever, bounced over to the car with a shake of his hips and
short whistle. He looked young—no more than forty— and he wore a black durag.
Beads of sweat rolled down his face, where starched-blue eyes beamed out from ebony
skin. I could feel his energy, his spunk and splendor.
With one extravagant twirl, Happy shot me finger guns and said, “What can I do for
you, friend?”
I couldn’t help but smile at his street ballet. “You working for tips?” I asked.
Happy seemed to be offended by the question. He leaned back and placed a hand on
his chest, feigning pain. “No, sir! No, sir! Happy dances for love!” he said with another
twirl. “Happy dances cause he’s happy!”
I stifled a laugh at the third person reference to himself. I, myself, certainly enjoyed

Happy’s attitude. Frisco needed more freedom and expression such as himself.
“You oughta’ take yourself somewhere where everyone is not a zombie,” I said. “These
people won’t appreciate what you’re doing.”
“Do you appreciate me?” Happy asked, jumping into another twirl and pointing
his finger.
“Well…sure,” I stammered. “I was having a pretty lame time in here.”
“Then Happy has done his job for the day!”
I opened my mouth to say more, but Happy danced his way up the sidewalk and disappeared
behind the other cars. The interaction felt so quick. I might have never thought
it happened. Yet, as the light turned green and my car lumbered forward, I felt struck
by awareness. It felt as if Happy’s words had left an impression on me which no coach
or teacher had ever come close to. Beyond my open window, the air felt cooler, the cars
seemed quieter, and the short, hearty trees had sprouted a new layer of color.
For the rest of my drive home, I could not stop replaying the conversation with Happy.
How could some always be so…happy? In a town like this, where the nine-to-five,
suburbia idealism reigned supreme; how could anyone find such joy? Could it be from
the soccer moms who drove eight-seat SUVs to transport only their Teacup Yorkies?
Could it be the painstaking, unavoidable commutes? Or could it be the neighborhood
dads who stood in their driveways and yelled at cars to slow down? How could anyone
be that happy in such a place?
Then it hit me.
As I listed the sarcastic question to myself, I realized it was me who could not be
happy. It was me who chose to be this way, holding onto my pessimistic views of my
environment as if I would lose my “cool-kid” status otherwise. Happy chose to be happy.
And everyone had the same choice every morning they woke up. Happiness could never
be defined by possessions or environment as I had thought. Happiness came from yourself,
from a conscious choice to see the lighter side of life.
A faint smile danced on my lips as I made the turn onto my street. Maybe Happy
hadmagic inside him because I had never felt so relieved. As my house drew closer, I saw
my neighbor, Mr. Torres, standing in his driveway. I could feel his scowl even from this
distance. He held a persistent grudge against my loud car, and I didn’t care for his attitude.
Normally, I would have thrown my gears into neutral and given the engine a good
roar as I passed by, but not today. Today, I took a lesson from Happy and raised my hand
in a polite wave. The shock on Mr. Torres’s face stuck out like a rose bud in the tundra.
He paused, raised his hand, and gave a smile.
non-fiction 17

BAILEY MANNING. 2405,
Oil and xerox image transfer on canvas, 4 x 5.5 feet.

BREATHE IT ALL IN: A MEMOIR
Madelyn Gunnels
All is dark, the drop of a pin would easily echo as loud as a boom of thunder. Silence
takes center stage in place of sweaty hands, beating hearts, and the multitude of butterflies
in respective stomachs. Then, light. It graces the stage in a spectacle of surprise and
built up anticipation. Deep breath, eyes forward, game face on. Hours upon hours of
blood, sweat, and tears have led up to this moment, now is not the time for anxiousness
and stage fright, now is the time for magic, fun, and wonder. Take a breath, break a leg,
and let the show begin.
The art of theatre has existed within the world as early as 8500 B.C. in the forms of
ceremonial dances and rituals and has continued through history as being a driving
source of entertainment and storytelling for as long as we can remember. My experiences
and personal story with theatre is and will be merely a single drop in the vast ocean of
this art, in the entirety of this story, yet I believe my small contributions to it will allow
the art to continue on for years to come. While this so far will mainly seem like a piece
of historical writing, that’s not the case. In truth, while there will be some sprinklings
of history, this is the story of a girl and how she didn’t discover theatre, but how theatre
discovered her.
The history of theatre and great amounts of contribution to its production and preservation
by great minds such as those of the Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, Saint Augustine,
Miguel de Cervantes, Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and even Rosie O’Donnell had existed
long before my theatre story ever began. However, one thing that I do have in common
with these individuals is that my influence to go into theatre wasn’t simply out of my
own will to do so, it was from a single individual. In truth, I can’t put the main influence
of my story of theatre on one single person like those listed above. It wasn’t one of
the great minds such as these, it wasn’t an actor I saw on TV, and it wasn’t a teacher or
mentor, because my influence was, what I discovered later, my greatest restraint. It was
my mother.
My mother and I had a shared story of theatre for some time of my short life. She has
always said that I came into this world singing, and that doing so was as easy as breathing
when I was a child. She would always take time on our trips down memory lane to stop
and constantly remind me how she always placed dingy, Walkman headphones on her
swollen belly and play songs from famous Broadway musicals that I could only now
dream of being a part of, and how she somehow always knew that I “was destined to be
on the stage”, and of course, with childish ambition, I had always believed her. When I
walked through the studio doors on my way to my first ever theatre class, she was always
right behind me, cheering me on and pushing to my limits to ultimately do the best I
possibly could at that age. Whether it was through practicing my lines to singing show
tunes together in the car on the way to school, to being the first person I saw whenever I
non-fiction 19

was on stage, she was always there. But no story would be complete without a little bit of
drama, especially the story of theatre.
While the history of theatre most definitely had more ups than downs, there were
many bumps in the road towards its present state. To put it simply, the story of theatre
is the story of breaking rules, and paying the consequences for them. From the introduction
of plays mocking religion to cross-dressing on stages, thespians (that’s a fancy
word for actors) and their craft have always had ways of “bending the rules” and defying
opposition to get a story told and overall have fun with what they did. However, the consequences
of some of these actions ranged from minor, to severe, and even deadly. Some
examples would easily include religious segregation of plays in Rome and Greece, to the
class division in Elizabethan Age theatre, to martyrdom on stage, either out of free will
or persecution. Luckily, my story only experienced an extremely mild form of the prior
consequences listed, and none of the latter. If that were so, a pike of ash would be telling
the story, and it would overall be a little drier in overall experience.
The later years of my theatre story were definitely met with some opposition, mainly
from my main influencer that I previously mentioned. While my mother had always had
her fears of me continuing to participate in the art, it became more apparent as I began
my high school career, when the balancing act of studies and extracurricular activities
were main weights on the scale. Out of fear of being somewhat segregated by others in
my class and overall being labeled a permanent “theatre geek” as she put it, she continuously
insisted that I overall drop the idea of theatre wherever I was without giving it a
double take and move on to other things where success was more likely to be made, and
keep the experiences I had built up so far as fond memories. Of course, the hormonal,
acne-covered and defiant teenager in me simply brushed her off with an utter of “Whatever,
Mom” and kept on going. Our shared story was slowly beginning to crumble away
without my realization, and with it came the emergence of the overall fact that she would
be right in the end, like most mothers are. Grades plummeted in a downward spiral,
friends left were left behind, parent-teacher conferences were made, and tears were shed
with the fact that decisions had to be made for the betterment of my future. While it
may seem like an unhappy ending at this point in time, these consequences did have a
strong impact on the continuation of my story, much like those involved in the history
of theatre, they didn’t stop me from what I was doing, but made me realize and help rise
above the challenge at hand.

WHY I LIVE
George A. Stern Jr.
Suicide. I’ve considered it, a place I never expected my sensation-loving, life-savoring
self to come to. But when said sensations pale into fleeting, manufactured distractions
from a stagnant life with all the appeal of days-old guinea pig rejects, it is easier than you
might think to be seduced by the idea of exerting one final bit of indisputable, irreversible
control over your life - and to some degree your story - of ending it on your terms.
How seriously did I consider it? Seriously enough to be thankful that the only weapons
in my home are kitchen knives and Khali sticks. This place I reached: it’s the instant in
juggling when you and only you know that all your balls - the ones in the air, the ones
you’re making such a show-and-tell of putting up - are out of your control and coming
down in an inglorious, inevitable cascade; it’s that brink of a moment when you think
that perhaps the death of unrealized promise is preferable to a long life of breaking them,
disappointing yourself and others; it’s the chasm between who you could - should? - be
and who you are that whispers echoingly of the might-have-been advantage over the
never-was. My father is particularly eloquent and impassioned in advancing the theory
that I’ve consigned myself to such instances of debilitating hopelessness by rejecting the
Christian faith and its covenant-keeping, miracle- working, eternal life-granting god. To
hear him tell it, every apostate and nonbeliever is a twitch of divine mercy away from
having the proud citadels of our contrary minds shattered Nebuchadnezzar-style, leaving
us to wander witless and despondent, rooting through trash cans for our supper. But I
never did live for either God or afterlife, even when I believed in both so hard my dream
job was to be a missionary in “Africa.”
Nor can I say that ambition, hope, stubbornness or sheer habit provide particularly
insurmountable attachments to life. No, what keeps me alive is remembering that I live
to love and that loving requires neither degree, nor status, nor especial material success; it
requires only that I am alive to give it to those who need it.
non-fiction 21

INTEGRAL
Joanna Byrne
Life found me somewhere I never planned to be, but I was doing the best I could with
what I had been served. Fate some would say, or bad luck had altered the course of my
life. Over a year after my accident, I found myself before a class of twenty-four aspiring
mechanics and realized I could not talk.
Public speaking was not the problem, I had done plenty of that. No, it was my accident
rearing its ugly head and reminding me I was not myself anymore. The hazy events
of that day in March rewrote what had been a well thought out career path, altering my
course sharply in a matter of moments. I don’t remember what happened, and what I
do remember I don’t trust as accurate. After I could not speak correctly, jumbled sounds
falling from my lips with no order or sense to them. My body did not follow the orders
of my thoughts, my limbs ignoring them and functioning as if someone was pulling
puppet strings and I was just the audience. My memory ran from my mind like water
through a sieve; thoughts, sounds, and images jumbled until I questioned the truth of
everything I thought I remembered.
I stood there, before my new students, in my new job, desperate to prove that despite
their doubts I was, in fact, qualified to train them. To show that my age and my gender
had nothing to do with my qualifications. My new instructor’s textbook, carefully studied,
tagged and highlighted, lay across my hands like a bible as I explained engine block
designs. Until I reached ‘Integral.’ My eyes saw the word. My inner ear could hear how
the ‘in’ should build in my mouth, the ‘t’ vanishing in my Texas accent, then the grind of
the ‘g’ in the back of my throat before the ‘r’ rolled off my tongue followed by a crisp ‘al.’
Integral.
My mouth opened, and it moved, but nothing came out. Anxiety washed over me.
It was like a nightmare where everything has gone wrong at a crucial moment. I had
faltered, I had made a mistake, and I had their rapt attention. I hesitated, my mind racing
for a solution.
“I was taught they are called ‘parent bore’” I choked out, slamming my book closed.
“Go get coffee and be in the lab in ten minutes.” I fled the classroom like a startled deer,
hesitant at first, then swiftly.
My office became my sanctuary and my place of torture. In the evenings when the
building was silent, the only light was that of my office, spilling down into the lab below,
kissing the chrome of lifeless machines, the building’s stoic walls were silent, and the
only sound was the front doors straining against their latches, tempted by the wind to fly
open. That was where I found myself, crying as I stared down at my textbook, trying to
relearn how to speak a single, infuriating word.
Integral.
I wrote it out.

I spelled it, one struggling letter at a time.
Integral.
It sprawled across sheets of printer paper, across the monthly calendar still on May of
the year I graduated, left by my professor, who had occupied the office before me. His
looping scrawl was eclipsed by the harsh lines of my own hand.
Integral.
“In.” The sound felt harsh and sharp in my mouth. “Te…”
The ‘g’ escaped me.
Grail. Gravity. Graveyard.
Through tears I read my lesson plans, counting how many days until I faced that word
again. How many times I would have to replace it with something else. How many nights
I needed to stay after students left or come back here after my own time as a student in
night classes and force the sounds out of my uncooperative mouth.
I worked, for three weeks, yet I could not master saying the word. I found it was not
just integral that foiled my tongue. I would halt mid-sentence and struggle for a word I
needed while my students stared at me, and in my mind, they thought I was crazy.
Oil. Ash. Volumetric. Viscosity.
I would halt, suddenly, searching for the word I needed, the word I wanted, even if it
lay in front of me on the page.
Integrated.
Integrated broke me. I slammed my book down on the metal table in front of the
whiteboard, furious to the point of tears. They gaped at me, exchanged glances between
each other.
“This is useless. I can’t talk!” I threw my hands in the air. “You might as well know,
I had an accident a year and a half ago, and I can’t talk. I can’t say,” I snatched up a dry
erase marker and scrawled ‘integral’ across the board as I spoke, “this freaking word. They
are parent bore engines, but that is an ar.. an ar… damn it!” I wrote ‘archaic’ in large black
letters. “Freaking old-fashioned.” I pointed at the textbook. “I hate this book, it doesn’t
have half the stuff in it that the book I learned from has, and now I can’t say this word!”
I stopped, took a few deep breaths. They all sat calmly, looking at me like I had just
told them you could buy bread in pre-sliced loaves. There was no surprise on their faces, I
was stating the obvious, and someone just needed to say ‘duh.’
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix it. I’ve sat in my office every night for three weeks
trying to say that.” I pointed at the board behind me. “So…” I was running out of steam,
“I’m going to my office. Lab in ten minutes.” I left them in the classroom, to find their
own way.
non-fiction 23

I was leaned back in my office chair, hands clenched on the arms, my eyes studying
the water stain pattern in the ceiling tile over my desk. The most recent victim of the
seemingly never-ending roof leak problem. There was the sound of steel-toed boots on
the metal stairs, and I felt the change in the air that came with someone crossing the
threshold of my office door.
I looked down from the ceiling tiles. One of my students stood in my open office
door. He scuffed his steel-toed boots on the old linoleum before he settled in one of the
old-school chairs by the door. I waited. He was quiet in class and sometimes would think
about things before he spoke.
He did not ask what happened to me. He told me his story, in plain language, without
any pity in his voice. He told me he understood what I was going through. That it was
hard to get your mind to act right again. And then he left.
Not long after that, another student slid into the same chair, his hands shoved in his
blue jeans’ pockets. He told me he’d had a bad accident, a lot like mine. I realized as he
told me what happened that he had a hitch in his speech pattern, a hesitation while he
gathered the words he wanted to say. He told me that if I kept trying, that the words I
could not say would get easier.
The next day in lecture, when I got hung up on a word, one of them filled in the gap
for me. My speechlessness was from surprise that time. I stumbled over a thank you and
went on. Over the semester it became a routine, them filling in words I could not say,
and me carrying on like I had said it myself.
Over the following weeks, when our department was done for the day, and I sat at my
desk studying for my own classes, one or two of them would show up in my office and
tell me about something that had happened to them. I listened. They talked. We would
sit in silence for a few minutes. And then it was business. Engines, turbos, questions
about lab tests or tools.
In the spring it will be five years since that day I don’t remember, and if you hear me
talk, I still halt in the middle of my sentences and look for a way to say the words I want.
Or I will spit one out, let it tumble across my confused tongue, and it will fall out all
wrong and ugly. I sill limp, if I sit too long. Sometimes I’ll try to do something, and none
of my limbs will work as they should. I don’t question my memory like I did though, I
just try to write everything down, and keep my scattered brain in order. They were right,
my students from that first semester, it has gotten easier.
Next time you see me, you can ask, and I will say ‘integral’ for you. The ‘t’ will be
almost silent in my Texas accent, the ‘g’ will grind in my throat before the ‘r’ rolls on my
tongue, followed by the crisp ‘al’ on the end. Integral.

non-fiction 25

ONE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
Brian Hottinger
“What is the meaning of life? It is a question that many have attempted to answer since
the dawn of man. However, I believe that we have succeeded,” the man on stage said. His
black buttoned-up shirt and glasses just a shade off from circular made him look like a
poor man’s Steve Jobs.
“The only thing of any meaning to this guy, is his paycheck,” Aaron whispered into
Jasmine’s ear, making sure to not disturb anyone else sitting in the large auditorium.
From the front row, Aaron was able to see the beads of sweat already beginning to form
on the man’s brow.
“The meaning of life is happiness.” The man on stage continued, pacing back and forth.
Aaron couldn’t help but let out a sustained groan at this cliché. His wife nudged him,
trying to get him to shut-up with the unwanted commentary. Jasmine knew that they
both needed this. The death of Aaron’s first child still clouded over him. It has been seven
years of sarcasm and disconnect to cover up for the loss of the child; and it was only
through Jasmine’s proposal of an ultimatum that Aaron agreed to go to this corporate
seminar.
“Now how are we to attain this? Is it power? Fame? Of course not. Due to advances in
neurotechnology, we now know that happiness is nothing more than the movement and
amount of various chemicals in the brain. Now, how can we at HappinessPlus help you
gain the life you’ve always wanted? It is quite simple: We pay HappyDonors to voluntarily
donate some of these brain chemicals, which we store in one of our state-of-the-art
facilities. Then you, the customer, come in for a once-a-week appointment to ‘refill’ your
happiness with the donor’s chemicals. I suppose that money can buy happiness,” the
man on stage said.
The auditorium of suited men and well-dressed women laughed. Even Aaron had
to admit that he was intrigued by this idea. This could be a great opportunity for some
people to get a little extra money donating; and for the buyer to gain the happiness they
seek. After all, there are some people with plenty of happiness to go around.
“And now, we will have a live demonstration of the process, so any skeptics in the
audience can see with their own eyes,” the man said, walking to the side of the stage to
direct two people standing behind the curtain. The curtain behind the man on stage was
lifted to reveal two hospital beds--each about 5 feet apart--separated by what looked like
a blood plasma extraction machine. One man and one woman walked to their respective
beds and sat straight up. Aaron noticed that the woman sat straight, eyes fixed on
the bright lights in front of her—which glowed on her almost luminescent skin. Aaron
also noted her smile, which looked as if it was personally glued onto her face by years of
social conditioning. The man was different. His eyes did not hover far from the ground.

He had an untrimmed beard, and long hair so oily that it was a surprise the US hadn’t
invaded it yet. These features did not fit with the clothes he was wearing, which were so
new that it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if they still had the tags on.
“Now we will begin the unobtrusive and painless procedure. The woman on my left
is Mrs. Lydia Manchester. Mrs. Manchester is a teacher and mother of four, who can’t
seem to find that elusive thing we call ‘happiness.’ Mrs. Manchester has tried all that she
could hope to try: Drugs, therapy, taking a walk; but none of these seem to provide the
right antidote for her struggle with depression. However, thanks to the kind donation
from Xavier, Mrs. Manchester will be able to find that which she seeks most,” the man
on stage said, causing an eruption of applause from the audience. Even Aaron found
himself applauding along, giving a nod of approval to his wife next to him.
Physicians were led onto the stage, and they began the procedure. “For those of you
who are still doubtful of the effectiveness of HappinessPlus, we will be putting MRI machines
over the patient’s heads, so we can see exactly what’s going on up there,” The man
on stage said, as the doctors continued to prepare the equipment. The doctors inserted
a small needle into the back of each patients’ neck, and placed suspended bowl-shaped
machines over the heads of both patients. A live MRI depiction of both patients’ brains
were displayed on a projection ten feet above them. “Now, the areas of the brain in red
are where brain activity is most active. As you all can see, these areas of the brain that are
most associated with happiness, are some of the least active parts of Mrs. Manchester’s
brain. As the procedure commences, keep your eyes on the change in these parts,” the
man on stage said, pointing to the projection with a laser-pointer. Aaron noticed that
the man forgot to mention Xavier’s brain, which seemed to also lack a certain glow
in those same regions. Very soon after, a small amount of liquid began to drain from
Xavier, into the machine. The machine then processed this fluid, and moved it into the
back of Lydia’s neck. Aaron was impressed by the fact that neither of the participants
flinched during the whole process. As soon as the procedure finished, the man on stage
drew everyone’s attention to the changes in the MRI readings. The auditorium erupted
in applause when everyone noticed that the parts of Lydia’s brain that were a dull red,
lit up like a Christmas tree. When the procedure was finished, and all of the medical
equipment was removed, both participants were asked to stand up. Aaron couldn’t help
but notice the immediate change in Xavier’s demeanor. It looked as if dark circles had
formed around his eyes; and his already nonchalant look, turned into one of unrepentant
apathy. The man on stage told Lydia to step to the forefront of the stage, while
Xavier was left behind the darkness of the closing curtain.
Alas! I present to you all a changed woman. No longer will she be burdened with the
hardships bestowed by depressive thoughts. Now, for only $1,000 per month, you and
your loved ones can be bestowed with the gift of happiness,” the man said, throwing his
arms out toward Lydia, as if presenting the first patient to be cured of cancer. The audience
took a moment to look upon Lydia. There were hush whispers among the audience,
who were dazzled by the confident posture, bright eyes, and beaming smile that exuded
fiction 27

from her. Even Aaron was impressed by the changes he witnessed. What was once a contrived
display that alluded at happiness, was now one of genuine comfort and contentment
with herself. The audience then erupted in a thunderous standing-ovation. Aaron and his
wife followed with the crowd, impressed by the demonstration they were witnessing.
After the seminar, Jasmine and Aaron drove out of downtown Chicago, and into their
suburban community. As Aaron swiped his card to gain access to their gated community,
Jasmine said, “You haven’t said a word to me the whole drive here.”
“Is that so? I guess the voices in my head must be acting up again,” Aaron replied with
a smile.
“This is serious. You know why we went to that seminar. We went because I want to
start a family, and I need you to be in it with me.”
Aaron’s eyes remained fixed on the road. “Did you see what they did to that guy? How
much do you think they even paid him? It’s dehumanizing. There’s no pretense about it.”
“What about what’s happened to you? What about the family we want to start? I saw
what they did to that man, but I also know what you’ve been going through. The donors
are all consenting adults, capable of making their own decisions. Nobody is forcing
anybody to do anything. Besides, these people are paid for their donations. It’s a win-win
situation.”
Aaron did not say anything to this. They arrived at their house, and Aaron pulled the
car into their three-car garage. As Aaron took the key from the ignition, Jasmine let out
a deep sigh and said, “I know that you don’t want to forget about your child, and I don’t
want you to either. But it is time to move on. It’s time to make this family number one in
your life. I know there are problems you have with this happiness donation service, but
no system is perfect. At some time or another, you’re going to have to put your needs
first.” Jasmine then got out of the car, leaving Aaron in the dark garage to think.
The next morning, Jasmine emerged from her room in a rush. Aaron was eating breakfast
on the granite countertop, with a plate of scrambled eggs ready for Jasmine. “Damn!
I don’t have time for breakfast this morning. One of my client’s sons just got another
DUI, so I don’t have time to eat,” Jasmine said. While heading for the door, she made
sure to make a detour to give Aaron a kiss goodbye.
“I was thinking about what you said last night, and I’ve used one of my sick days to
make an appointment at the nearby HappinessPlus,” Aaron said.
“I’m glad. Tell me all about it when I get home. I love you,” Jasmine said, as she was
heading out the door.
Ten minutes before the appointment time, Aaron walked up to the nearby clinic,
which had a bright “HappinessPlus” inscribed right above the door, and “Receivers
Only” etched on the door itself. After speaking to the receptionist, Aaron was led to the
receiving room, where he was to be given his first dose of happiness.

Aaron was seated in a medical bed. The place was clean, and there was currently
nobody else receiving treatment. Aaron watched the one TV in the room, which he was
lucky enough to be placed right in front of. The news was on, and the headline read
“HappinessPlus marketing concerns.” The sound was not on for the television, so Aaron
read the subtitles. … And local advocacy groups have criticized HappinessPlus, citing
their recruiting of donors from specifically low-income communities. Meanwhile, HappinessPlus
centers continue to spread at an--. The channel was changed to a basketball
game. Aaron looked over to the receptionist, annoyed that he didn’t get the watch the
rest of that story.
Noticing Aaron’s annoyed look, the receptionist said, “Sorry, I had to check the score.
The game’s almost over. Do you want me to change it back?”
“No, it’s fine,” Aaron said. He began to reconsider what he was doing. Maybe Aaron
should just accept that where he is currently, is where he will always be. Just as these
second thoughts were beginning to creep into Aaron’s head, they were interrupted by
the physician introducing herself.
The physician explained the procedure to Aaron. After Aaron signed all of the
required documents, the physician had the equipment sterilized and ready to go. Aaron
wouldn’t have even known a needle was being inserted into the back of his neck if the
physician had not told him. The physician inserted a vial full of some murky yellow
liquid into the machine. After a few buttons were pressed, the machine began to drain
the vial into the tube connected to the back of Aaron’s neck. Immediately, Aaron felt an
instant change in perspective. This was not like a surge from any drug Aaron had tried;
but more of an astute awareness to everything that is positive. All negative thoughts and
feelings just washed away from Aaron’s mind.
Upon leaving the facility, Aaron looked up at the beautiful sky and took a deep breath
of the summer air. The summers in Chicago were always so nice. For a moment, Aaron
thought back to what he saw while sitting in the medical chair. He quickly brushed it
off, thinking, No news is good news, that’s what I say! Aaron then walked home with an
almost skip in his step.
While walking home, Aaron passed neighbors that he couldn’t seem to find a single
reason to hate. Aaron became lost in his own commentary on the world around him.
Ah, the McNeils! Sure, their poodle shits in my yard about once every other week, but
it can be hard sometimes to remember to clean up. Walking another block, Aaron recognizes
the Goldson’s house. Such a beautiful house they have, and such a large garage.
How many square feet is that garage again? I believe they said 606. Mine is only 602. Oh
well, can’t win ‘em all!
Later that evening, Aaron was waiting patiently for the arrival of his wife. When she
walked in the door, he ran to her like a dog who’s been away from their owner for a
month. Telling her all about the great day he had, Aaron convinced his wife to get the
procedure done. Jasmine had never seen Aaron this excited before, but she was not about
fiction 29

to stop and question him.
After what was hands-down the greatest sex Aaron has ever had in his life, he laid in
bed and stared at the ceiling. He could hear his wife’s soft breathing. God, he loved her
so much. Normally, this is the time that Aaron would lie in bed, sometimes for hours,
thinking about past mistakes and regrets. Which one would it be tonight? Maybe it’ll
be the one when he asked his 6th grade teacher if she was pregnant. Turns out women
can have beer bellies too. He could also think about the time his child died. When you’re
drunk, it’s easy to lose track of where a child runs off to. However, tonight was different.
Nothing of the sort crossed Aaron’s mind. Aaron was completely in the present, enjoying
nothing but the sound of his wife’s breathing, and the feel of her bare flesh.
Over the next several weeks, Aaron’s life got better and better with each passing day.
More and more of Aaron’s friends and neighbors began going to HappinessPlus. The
nearby HappinessPlus became almost like a social club. Every day Aaron’s same routine
was continued without a boring moment. He used to hate dealing with clients as chief of
sales at his company, but now he can’t get enough of it. He used to hate rush hour traffic
when commuting to downtown Chicago; but now, Aaron has noticed more and more
people in the nicer cars actually exchange pleasantries when the traffic is at a standstill.
Last but not least, Jasmine, who is also now receiving her weekly happiness, is pregnant.
One day, Aaron and Jasmine were sitting at the dinner table after work, eating a delicious
meal prepared by Aaron. Aaron had suddenly found an interest in cooking, so he
tried his hand at a Moroccan Tagine dish. “Did you hear? The CEO of HappinessPlus is
going to address the issues some people have with their practices.” Jasmine said, knowing
that this was something that bothered Aaron in the past.
“This is great news!” Aaron replied. Admittedly, Aaron hadn’t even considered the
problems he had with the procedure in the past. However, it can only be a positive thing
that the CEO wants to help in any way he can.
Jasmine got the remote and turned on the CEO’s speech. On the TV was the man
who first introduced HappinessPlus to Aaron and Jasmine, speaking at a podium. Aaron
was happy to see the man lose the Steve Jobs impersonation. The baseball cap and blue
jeans made the man at the podium look like an average guy. This look made him feel
more homely to Aaron, like he is speaking directly from the hearts of the people. “It is
no question that there are growing concerns among certain communities in our country,
and the effect of our product on their productivity. Low-skilled labor has declined, due
to their inability to work. These are certainly pressing concerns on our economy. After a
lengthy legal discussion with the United States government, we have reached a compromise
which I believe we can all get behind. HappinessPlus is currently building facilities
in several South American and African countries. Our company’s plan is to outsource
the donation process. Through this process, we will be giving money to third-world
countries, which they can use to fund better education, medicine, and infrastructure for
their people. For us, we will be able to provide our customers with lower prices, so more

MORGEN MACKE. Nose Cliff,
This piece is a composite image of a self portrait and a pioneer photo from the 1800's.
fiction 31
people will be able to afford happiness. Thank you.” The crowd listening behind the
camera applauded the man as he walked off the stage.
Aaron could hardly contain his excitement, knowing that not only will he be able to
receive more treatments, but more people he knows will be able to enjoy life as much
as he does. However, there was a slight twinge in the back of Aaron’s stomach, though
he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Aaron made sure to schedule an extra appointment at
HappinessPlus the next day.
Several months have now passed since the CEO’s speech, and things are better than
ever for Aaron and Jasmine. Their baby is going to be a boy, and they’re still trying to
decide on a name. Aaron wants his child’s name to be Leonidas, because it sounds really
cool. Jasmine is not currently on board with this idea, but Aaron is sure she’ll warm up
to it. Still working the same amazing job, Aaron has found no reason to change anything
else in his life. Since it is Monday after work, Aaron has an appointment at Happiness-
Plus. Aaron entered the HappinessPlus, said a warm “hello” to the receptionist, and
made his way to the medical chair to await his treatment.
Again, the news was left on in front of Aaron. The TV read, “Breaking News: Local
dog is best dog we’ve ever seen. More at 10.” Now this is the kind of news Aaron could

get behind. Aaron was glad about the new approach the news networks seemed to be
taking. Bad news just leads to bad thoughts, and bad thoughts lead to unhappiness.
After Aaron’s administration of his happiness, he left the facility and breathed in the
beautiful, fresh air. However, this time something disturbed the calm. Aaron could hear
a man yelling several blocks down the road, so he decided to investigate. Finding the
source of the yelling, Aaron saw a man standing on a large wooden block. The man’s
hair was overgrown and oily. Aaron felt like he had seen this man before, but he couldn’t
quite remember where. The only thing in his hands was a laptop. The man continued to
yell at passerbys, “Come, face what you are causing! Choosing to ignore these problems
does not mean they don’t exist! Please, they need your help.”
Aaron chuckled at these borderline-incoherent ramblings, but he didn’t like this sort
of negative presence in his neighborhood. Aaron decided to politely ask the man to leave.
“No! Sir, you must see what your actions cause so we can stop this.” The man yelled in
an almost frenzy, gesturing his hands wildly.
“Alright, I’ll see what you want me to see.” Aaron said. After all, maybe it was a silly
cat video; Jasmine always loves to show Aaron silly cat videos.
“Look here. A journalist managed to get candid footage into a state-sanctioned
Ethiopian HappinessPlus farm,” the man said. The man hit play on the video. The film
began in complete darkness, all that could be heard is the crackling of the cameraman’s
footsteps. Night vision was turned on, and a green light illuminated the environment.
The man was standing outside of what looked like a large compound, with tall fencing
surrounding the perimeter. Inside the fence, there were emaciated human-like figures
stumbling. Some of them were groaning, others laying in complete silence. The camera
panned over to the left, and a body was leaning against the fence, his face looking directly
at the camera. He mumbled something, but the camera didn’t pick up what it was.
Aaron took a few steps back to take in what he just saw. He stared blankly at the now
black computer screen, seeing only his own reflection. As it happened many months
before, that inexplicable twinge in the back of his stomach emerged. How could this
happen? He just received his happiness a few moments ago. While Aaron is not able to
properly feel the negative things he used to feel, he can remember when he did. How better
it is for Aaron to leave the past where it belongs. The only thing Aaron should think
about, is providing the best possible future for his son. Considering all of this, Aaron
turned his back to the protestor, and began dialing on his phone.
“Hello…. Yes, I’d like to report a neighborhood disturbance…. We have a vagrant
shouting the most unpleasant things at people, and I would like him removed…. Thank
you,” Aaron said, as he hung up the phone.

AURORA
Melissa Beal
I sat in the Taco Bell alone, squirming nervously on the cheap, faux-leather seats. This
place had always felt so safe. It was warm and comforting, even with its bright orange and
purple walls and those strange abstract paintings that looked like a five-year-old created
them. But now this Taco Bell felt like my prison. Today wasn’t about comfort or filling
my stomach with cheap, hot, and delicious ground beef. Today was about reconnecting
with an old friend, a friend who I had left behind quite some time ago. After all that we
had been through together, I never would have thought that our friendship would end,
but eventually some people do just grow apart I guess.
I had already ordered and picked out the table we would sit at. I was staring at her back
as she ordered, her silky black hair lying perfectly across her shoulders, her hips moving
back and forth as she shifted her weight while she talked to the pimply teenager behind
the register. Her waist was still slender, even after having her daughter, and memories of
wrapping my arms around that waist in friendly hugs sprang into my mind. She finally
turned to look at me, giving me one of those cute, excited smiles that I was so familiar
with, and my heart quivered.
Now both at the table, I wasn’t sure what to say. How do you re-introduce yourself
to someone who used to know everything about you? I sipped at my drink anxiously,
hoping that she would break the silence in some cute, awkward way, just like she always
used to.
“Well, uh. I mean. You look really good. That’s a new top right? Probably got it at
Kohl’s. I know you always shop there.” It wasn’t new. I’d had it for nearly a year now, but
fiction 33

she wouldn’t know that. By that time we had already been out of contact.
“Oh. Well, thanks. Yeah, it’s new. I really like it, and it’s super soft. Wanna feel?” The
conversation slowly began to flow like we had never stopped talking, and that adorable
smile broke out across her face again. Her fingers lightly brushed my arm; I felt their
gentle pressure through the fabric of my shirt, the touch causing goose bumps to rise up
across my arm. She pulled her hand away, not realizing what she was doing to me, and
continued on with the small talk. Stories about clothes and college and her daughter
flowed freely, but I stayed in that moment where her hand was on my arm. I wish I could
have grabbed that hand and held it tight, never to let it go again. But I couldn’t.
They called out our numbers, and we both rose to get our trays of food. The conversation
now turned to how our Taco Bell orders had changed since we had stopped going
together every week. Mine had grown, along with my body, because after she left me I
started eating enough food for the two of us. Hers had shrunk, because, as she told me,
she couldn’t eat Taco Bell while she was pregnant because it made her feel sick. Since
then, she had never been able to gorge herself here quite the same. So I sat down with my
pile of quesaritos, crunchwraps, and quesadillas, while she placed a light tray with a few
tacos on it on the table. I squirmed self-consciously at the difference.
We were silent for a while as we each picked out our first item to eat and unwrapped
it. Before she took a bite, she looked up at me seriously. “Why did you never try to talk
to me again? Like, look, I know that we had issues. After I ran away from home and got
pregnant, I didn’t have a phone and it was hard to talk. And then after that, we got in a
fight because you never seemed to have time for me. But I had to reach out to you to plan
today, because I felt guilty. Why did you never come to me? I mean, come on, it’s been a
year.” She lifted her taco to her mouth and took a small bite, her actions casual, but her
eyes repeating the burning question.
I held a warm quesarito in my hands and bit my lip. Why had I never tried to talk to
her again? She wanted to know. But how do I tell her that I couldn’t speak to her because
she broke my heart? How am I supposed to tell her that she wasn’t only a friend to me,
but my first love? I stared down at my food and chewed on my lip incessantly. Do I tell
her the truth or do I hide my love from her one last time?
“Well?” She sounded impatient, more than impatient. It was my fault for not trying
to contact her again I suppose. I looked up at her and opened my mouth, but all my
words caught in my throat. I closed my mouth again, unsure of how to tell her that for
four years I had loved her deeply and madly, that for four years I had dreamed of holding
her in my arms, that for four years I wished I could tell her to give up on those guys she
wanted to be with, those guys that all treated her like shit. For four years I had wanted
her to be mine.
But then she left me out in the cold a year ago because I didn’t have the time to visit,
and my heart had shattered into a million pieces. She had told me I wasn’t a good friend,
told me I had never done anything for her, told me that the guy she was with cared for

her more than I ever had or could. After that, I couldn’t bear to speak to her or look at
her again. All I could do now was look at her sadly, longing to go back to a time where
she had never spoken those words.
“There has to be some reason. You always came up with these wild excuses about
how busy you were with your relationship or things you were doing. I mean, come on.
We used to hang out all the time and then all of a sudden you’re always busy?” Her eyes
were burning with anger and sadness, a familiar look. I had seen her look this way every
time her mom had yelled at her, and I had seen this look every time another one of her
boyfriends left her, betrayed her, or worse. My chest felt tight knowing that I was causing
her similar pain.
“I—“ The words caught in my throat again. I cleared it and started once more. “Aurora,
I just… I was busy. I had been getting really serious with Daniel, so that meant two
holidays instead of just one. And school is a burden, and my parents were moving, and
my grandma’s health is failing… My life had gotten so chaotic. I just couldn’t keep up.”
More excuses. I fed her more excuses, the same excuses I had been feeding her for years
just to keep her from the truth.
“I mean look, I get it, but you used to always have time for your best friend. And then
all of a sudden it seemed like you had none. It really hurt.” I watched those beautiful
brown lips of hers as she took an angry bite out of her taco. I swallowed hard. All of
those old feelings were coming back, and I thought of that one night, 3 years back now,
where she had sat in my room, crying. Her mom had said something or other to her, and
her heart was damaged once again. I remember holding her in my arms, her head resting
on my chest, and my heart pounding in my chest. When she looked up at me and asked
me if life was still worth living, I looked into those tear-filled eyes and wanted to kiss
her so desperately it hurt. I wanted to press my lips against hers, taste her sorrows, and
tell her that she should live for me, for my love. Tell her that I thought she was the most
beautiful and amazing girl in the entire world. But all I could do was smile and say that
of course it was, because we were best friends and I couldn’t live without her; half-truths
that I had been telling her for years.
“I think I was just lost,” I glanced around the Taco Bell, now trying to avoid her
piercing gaze. “Lost in that relationship with Daniel, struggling to take care of him and
barely taking care of myself. Things are better now though, without him that is. I know
that I missed out on the most important parts of your life. Your daughter was born and I
never met her. She’s what, a little over one year old now? I’ve missed her birthday, and I
always promised that I would be there for your children. So I’m really sorry. I’ve failed as
a friend.” Tears welled up in my eyes. This was as honest as I could be with her. I would
never tell her that I loved her, but at least I could give her some insight into how terribly
distraught I was that I’ve missed years of her life. I didn’t even know who she was any
more. I missed her, but at the same time knew that I could never love her or be with her
like I was before.
fiction 35

KATIE KNIGHT. Untitled,
Colored pencil on 8.5" x 11" paper.

She sighed and put her half-eaten taco down, glancing at me dejectedly. “I know; I get
it. I’m sorry. You went through a lot too during all those years, I just… I guess I just wish
that we could have gone through all of this together. But distance and time tore us apart.
We both made bad decisions. I’m sorry. About all of it.”
I smiled up at her weakly. “Me too.”
“God, you know how much I’ve missed you? You are the only person on this planet
who really gets me, I swear. I love you so much.”
I choked on a bite of quesarito, coughing lightly. Love. We had always told each other
we loved one another but my love was different than hers. When we would hold hands
in the hallways of our high school, she thought that it was a friendly comfort, but I
cherished those moments, the softness of her skin against mine, our fingers intertwined.
When people whispered rumors about us being together, she laughed them off, while
I wondered if those rumors could ever become truth. When I jokingly asked her if she
wanted to get married, she thought up a plan for us to wear fake wedding rings and drive
away unwanted guys. But I would have actually spent the rest of my life with her, raised a
family with her, and loved her for all eternity if she had just let me.
“I love you too. I’ve missed this just as much as you. We should definitely hang out
more.” I knew this was bad for me. I knew that I would just end up falling in love with
her all over again and that she would never return my feelings. But I couldn’t help it. She
was perfect, and she was my everything. No matter how much it hurt never to feel my
lips against hers, never to lay next to her at night, never to look into her eyes and tell her
honestly how much I loved her, I still wanted her by my side.
She looked radiant now, knowing that she had rekindled our friendship. She happily
picked up that taco and continued to take dainty bites out of it. I lifted my quesarito to
my mouth and carefully took another bite. I was afraid of this, afraid of our friendship.
Because as much as I wanted to be around her, there was only so long that I could last before
my broken heart got in the way again, before I couldn’t bear talking with her again,
before I remembered all those terrible things she said to me a year ago when I didn’t have
the time to come see her. I chewed slowly. How long could I last this time? Another year,
maybe two? I looked up from my food and stared into those beautiful, dark brown eyes of
hers. She would never know how I really felt, and I knew that this would always cause a rift in
our friendship that would never heal, because I loved her. And she would never know.
fiction 37

LILY-LIVERED
Taylor Watkins
He’d been there for a while now. The buzzing hum of the dim fluorescent lights overhead
was the only sound in the bus station. He’d undershot it and gotten there two
hours too early. So, he waited.
He seemed to be the only passenger on the eleven-thirty bus to Duluth—to anywhere.
It was only him and the wiry, underpaid attendant sitting behind bulletproof glass on
the other side of the building. When he bought his ticket, she hadn’t said a word to
him—she’d barely even looked at him when she passed him the slip of paper.
His stomach growled for the second time in the past three minutes, and he stood and
walked over to the dated vending machines at the far wall. The faded gray buttons jutted
out of the machine, their bulky numbers slowly chipped away from all of the oil that
came with being touched by so many fingertips. The glass of the machine had a long,
deep scratch running down the diagonal of it, as if someone had once unsuccessfully
taken a knife to the machine in order to steal the goods inside. Bills weren’t an option for
this one—it only took coins.
Most of the spirals were empty, but there were a few cheap packages remaining. When
he finally decided on dill potato chips, he reached into the front pocket of his worn
jeans, which had become three sizes too big for him over the past six months, and pulled
out a handful of spare change. A quarter fell from his hand and collided with the cracked
tile floor with a clack.
He stooped down to pick it up, and when he straightened, he caught a glance at his
reflection in the glass. Against the black background, one could barely tell that the diaphanous
eyes that stared back at him were tinged with yellow. He averted his gaze and fed
the coins into the machine.
He pressed a short series of buttons and, slowly, the gears in the machine started to
turn, and the spiral that the chips were sitting on twisted obediently. The bag toppled to
the bottom of the machine and he bent down to grab the snack.
His back ached and sent dull pains throughout the rest of his torso. What else was new?
As he walked back to his chair, thunder boomed in the distance. The moon could still
be seen through the window, though, so the storm hadn’t reached the station yet.
The chips were stale. It was not surprising. He threw them in the trash can next to him.
He took an orange pill bottle from his right back pocket, popped an escitalopram, and
swallowed it dry.
It had been raining all week. The water pelting against the windowpane developed
into a familiar white noise over the years, and some nights now when the pain was too
much to bear, he would play a cassette that mimicked the sound of rain in order to try

and get some sleep.
He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his head on his open palm. His
eyes shut as he took a shallow breath, and then another. He put his faith into the distant
attendant. Surely, she would make an announcement over the intercom when his bus
finally arrived.
His attempt at rest only lasted about fifteen minutes, however. A raggedy man in a
maroon corduroy trench coat had collapsed into the chair facing him.
He would never be able to sleep with an audience. Irritated, he pulled a pack of Sterlings
out from his left back pocket along with a matchbook and lit one.
The stranger watched him carefully. “Mind if I bum one?” he rasped. It sounded like
he’d already had enough for the both of them.
He hesitated for a moment before he stretched out the open pack towards the man,
who slid a long paper tube from the carton, put it between his browning teeth, and lit it
with his own match.
After a moment of silent smoking between the two of them, the stranger said,
“These’ll kill yah, yah know.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“And it don’t bother yah none?” the stranger asked, his gray eyebrow arched.
He shook his head, but when he swallowed, his throat was thicker than usual.
The stranger studied him for a moment, and then asked, “Yah from around here?”
“Used to be.”
“Where yah headed?”
He sat back in his chair as the stranger across from him fiddled with a golden hoop
earring in his left ear.
He finally decided to answer him. “Duluth. Eleven-thirty. You?”
The stranger shook his head, his matted gray ponytail hitting the side of his neck as he
did so. “Not going nowhere. Just decided to get in somewhere dry before it starts pouring.”
He took a drag from the gift of a cigarette.
He’d supposed the stranger was homeless when he sat down, and his last comment
simply reassured him of that. He didn’t mind the interruption or lending a cigarette so
much anymore.
“Speakin’ of killin’,” the stranger began, “Yah ain’t doing so hot yahself, is yah?” He
looked pointedly at the shaking cigarette between the other man’s teeth.
He could tell that the old man was surveying the abnormal yellowish tint of his hands
and face. He felt a hot mixture of anger, shame, and surprise flare up in his abdomen.
fiction 39

“What kind of question is that?”
The stranger shrugged, unbothered by his tone. “An honest one.”
He felt his shoulders relax in defeat, and he sighed and rested his elbows on his knees,
his head hanging. He chuckled once, humorlessly. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Why are yah not at the hospital?”
He frowned. “I could ask you the same thing.” He inhaled and softened his attitude—this
man didn’t necessarily deserve any sort of rudeness, even if he was being a bit
invasive. “Don’t want to be. Almost nobody knows about it.”
The old man nodded and took another drag from his cigarette. “Believe yah going to
heaven, then?”
Now it was his turn to shrug. “Used to.”
“Lots of people used to. It’s a nice thought; a comforting one. People don’t like thinking
about their loved ones bein’ all but decayed and nothin’ else.”
“So, you don’t believe in heaven or hell?” he asked the old man.
The old man shook his head. “I used to be Buddhist. Thought that when I finally ate
it I’d come back one day as somethin’ I wasn’t in this life. Stronger, as a bull. Lither, as
a willow. Smarter, as a crow.” He hacked something from his throat several times, and
it took him a moment to realize that the horrid sound was actually the man’s laugh,
affected by decades of cigarettes and God knows what else. “Now I know it’s just wishful
thinkin’. Who’s to say, really? If there is a God, and a heaven, I’d be overjoyed to see my
daughter again. But what kind of a God takes a little girl away, eh?”
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes itched. He knew the sleepless nights were starting to catch up to him—the
body needed rest despite the pain, and he’d been tired all day today. He focused on the
stranger’s dirty brown fingernails as they toyed with a button on his coat.
The man spit on the tile floor and then scraped over it with his laceless black boot.
The action made him lift his brows at the stranger involuntarily.
The old man took another drag of his cigarette. “Yah know…I think the best way to
think about it is to be the best person you can be in life. Be kind. Be generous. Don’t
hold grudges, and let past anger go. Yer only gonna make yerself miserable if yer reserved
and cold yer whole life.” He spread his hands in a strange type of surrender and continued.
“Yer also gonna regret it if you keep to yerself most of the time. Sure, alone time
is fine and even necessary on occasion. But no man is an island. You make life great,
but friends and good company enhance it.” He put his hands into his coat pockets and
shrugged again. “Without knowing about after-death, that’s really all yah can do—that,
and hope for the best.”

His eyes had begun to droop involuntarily during the man’s speech, and, not wanting
to be rude, he said, “I know what you mean.” He realized that he meant the statement
genuinely. “But I’m very tired, and I think I should try and rest.”
The old man’s face broke into a grin—a warm, funny, grandfather-like grin—and he
croaked, “Go on, then. Thanks for talkin’ to an old frog like me for a time. I’ll leave yah be.”
He extinguished his cigarette and flicked it away, and then he propped his head up on
his palm using the arm of the chair and shut his eyes.
***
“All passengers boarding the eleven-thirty bus to Duluth, please line up behind the
yellow tape. All passengers to Duluth, please line up behind the yellow tape; you’re
boarding soon.”
The attendant over the PA woke him up with a jolt. The conversation with the stranger
was still fresh in his mind, and he looked up to thank the old man for killing time with
him, but the seat in front of him was empty.
He stood, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and looked around the station. No
sign of the man remained.
Thunder boomed once more overhead, and abruptly, rain pelted the skylight. Streaks
of water cascaded down the windows of the station, and in the darkness of the glass, his
reflection stared back at him.
fiction 41
GABRIELLE WALTER. Weekend Blues,
Pen.

▲
FEED ME
Kellis Pike
The sun has not even begun to rise as I feel my cat’s paw smacking my face. I roll to my
left side, eager not to let her win the battle this early on a Saturday morning. No
such luck, she begins smacking me with her now open-clawed paw. Brat, I think as I
throw the covers over my head to protect myself from her blows.
“My bowl, it’s empty.”
What? Who said that? My roommate left for work an hour ago, I’m home alone.
“Hello?” I whisper, my eyes fearfully shooting open as I pull the covers from my head.
“My. Bowl. It’s. Empty.” A voice echos once more.
“Hello?” I say again, my voice shaking with nerves.
“It’s me, you idiot!”
My jaw drops. “This is not happening. I am still asleep.”
“Did I stutter? I said, my bowl is empty. Fill it! Now!” My cat’s soul-capturing eyes are
now staring directly into mine.
“Did you jus-“
“Yes, yes, yes, I talk. Now that we’re passed this and on to more pressing issues, the
food bowl situation still remains empty,” she says beginning to lick her left front paw: as
if when she used it to wake me it gave her germs she could no longer stand to possess.
“But… How? Why? Why now?” I stutter.
“Because you nitwit, like I’ve so clearly mentioned before my food bowl is empty! I’m
hungry now!”
fiction 43
GABRIELLE WALTER. Melt Down
Chalk Pastels.

I rush out of bed and to my closet where I kept her food. “I’ll fill it now!” I say, suddenly
afraid of my 9-pound cat.
“Fresh water wouldn’t hurt, while you’re at it.”
“Of course! I’ll do that.” What the hell is happening?
“Don’t get any ideas by the way, say one word of me speaking here this morning, and
I’ll make sure you’re sent straight to the Looney bin.”
I stop filling the water in her bowl, “What? But, why?”
“Does it look like I have time for appearances? No time for Ellen DeGeneres when I
have moths around the house to keep under control. Do you think they’re going to kill
themselves?”
“No, Bu-”
“But nothing. No one can know,” she says, beginning to eat her fresh bowl of food.
“But we could be famous!” I bellow.
She stops eating abruptly, choking on her last bite. “FAMOUS?! Do you really think
I want to give up my life of absolute leisure for fame? Naps don’t take themselves you
stupid human!”
She had a point. Naps were a necessity in this household.
“But you talk! This is groundbreaking! We should at least tell NASA… Or something!
I don’t know.” I state, beginning to pace the bedroom floor, unable to sit still.
“Yeah, and so does that imbecile dog of your roommates, Morty. Stupid canine. This
isn’t new human.”
“Morty? No!” I barely whisper, astonished.
“See for yourself.”
I run from the room, fueled solely by adrenaline. “Morty? Morty! Where are you?
Come here buddy!” I find him on the couch in the living room, staring at me blankly.
“Can… Can you talk too?”
His head turns quickly to the side, like any curious dog before he dashes off the couch
and into my bedroom. I run after him, anxious for answers. Entering my room shortly
after Morty, I see him staring expectantly into the eyes of my now talking cat.
“It’s okay, she knows.”
Morty looks from her, to me, and back again before both of their eyes fall to me.
Silence fills the room, and then Morty begins towards me. Was this it? He stops in front
of me and looks up into my eyes; this is it, he is going to speak!
“Well, now that the cat’s out the bag… My food bowl, too, is empty.”

HOLY INCOMPLETE
Joanna Byrne
Travis lay naked on his bed, the sheets kicked to the side, his eyes fixed on the pattern
of ceiling tiles above him in the gray light. He thought they looked different than they
should have in a hospital, but this was not a hospital, and he should not even be here.
They were doing what they should, but they were not quite right.
They called him a dead man living on the news. The headlines on the tablet he had
been given said ‘the resurrected soldier.’ Dr. Larson said he was reborn of Chaos. The
chosen of the Divine Cosmos, according to the Church of Science.
His father would have called him lucky. Maybe, after a few drinks, he would have said
Travis had been touched by Odin. It would have taken the alcohol to bring up his father’s
old beliefs, repressed to live through Scientology taking over the Roman Catholic
Church, and subsequently the government.
His mother would have cried that he was a miracle that the Pope, the real Pope, not
the pretender that lived in the Vatican now, would need to hear about it. She would
have clutched her rosary and prayed thanks for a sign from God. His father would have
shaken his head and told her that advances in medical science coming from the Church
of Science were not miracles of her God or any of his gods.
She would have argued.
Travis raised his hands over his face, studying his palms. They looked like his hands,
but the left one was alien to him. His middle finger did not have the knot at the last joint
where he broke it as a kid. There was no scar from the stitches that had held the skin
together there. He imagined the color was a little different, more consistent than his right
hand.
His parents were dead. His dad had died of cancer not long after Travis joined the
military. The last time they had talked, Travis had told him that he had been accepted
into the space branch, that he would go to four more years of school, and be an officer.
He would have a chance at a good life. Though it was all too late to get his dad access to
the advanced medical treatment reserved for members of the military, the Church and
the government. His mother prayed a lot, but never got her miracles. Even though the
only legal religion was the Divine Cosmos now, she would have cried out to the heavens
that the resurrection of her son was a sign from God. If she was still alive.
He pushed his hands across his face, wiping away tears that had escaped his eyes, pushing
his too-long hair back from his face. The last conversation he had with his mother
fiction 45

was the morning of his crash. He always called her before he did a test flight.
“I’m going up in a new ship today, Mom.”
“Be safe and come home, Travis. I will pray for you.”
“We’ve talked about this, Mom. If you can’t let Catholicism go, can you at least accept
that it doesn’t exist anymore? Or that it isn’t legal?”
She was silent for a moment, her face drawn tight, and Travis imagined that he could
feel her anger across the telecom.
“You may be brainwashed by the military, Travis, but I know my God is real.”
He had pressed his face in his hands then, frustration rolling over him. “I can’t do this,
Mom. Bye.”
She held her silence, looking at him expectantly through the telecom.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Travis.”
Passing as a believer in the required religious system was easy enough for him, Travis
had been born into that new world, a world of secret beliefs and people passing as faithful
followers of the Church of Science. Growing up in a home with parents who did not
agree on religion had allowed him to learn the skills to play along. He did not believe any
of it, even his proclaimed devotion to the Divine Cosmos. That was just a requirement
of his job, and it was not a difficult religion to follow. You paid your tithes, preferably as
a direct draft from your check, just like you paid your taxes. You appeared at ceremonies
in your military uniform and promised to obey the orders of the Divine Cosmos as
directed by the leaders of the Holy Roman Church of Science. His mother had called it
the unholy union of Satan and the corruption of the Vatican, but Satan never came up
in the Church of Science. The Divine Cosmos did not have time for standards of good
and evil.
Travis sat up, pushing his back against the wall, and looking down at his body. The
seam between the old and the new, the organic and the machine, looked like the bead of
a weld where the nanobot technology meshed with his body. There were memories in
his head of the crash, they haunted his sleep, but he could not recall them in his waking
moments. No, his memories were jumbled, one of machines and cold, just a flash, and
then nothing again. His doctor, James Larson, told him that was when they had taken
his body out of cryogenic storage, let his brain thaw enough to see if there was anything
left. His brain scans had returned no response. His brain had been dead.
He had been frozen for twenty years, his body meant to be a science experiment for
the Research Technology Center, but never meant to be brought back to life.
The memory of his awakening was vivid, the real nightmare he lived.
Cold. Cold breath fogged above him, his eyelids dragging as he opened them. Bright

lights, and bitter cold. Pain. Hot, searing fire shooting through him, across him.
“Oh shit.”
Travis tried to sit up, but his body was not his own, and it ignored his mind.
“Get Dr. Larson. Now.”
A buzzing sound, then a hiss. A loud click of a heavy door closing.
Travis pushed the memory away. It was not a fond memory. Dr. Larson called him
Chaos. The unintentional creation born from technology that was advancing faster than
it could be understood. That was what Larson had said. He had said a lot of things to
Travis, in their private conversations, and Travis was terrified. The world had changed
while he was dead, with extremist groups rising up under the ever-tightening hand of the
Church and the government. Religious guerrilla wars had broken out across the world.
A second colony had been established on Delta Bravia 4, delivered by a ship that had
launched before Travis’ had died. The colony had terraformed the desert planet into a
farming utopia, and were a year away from completing their space station.
The seam between nanobot skin and organic skin curled over his shoulder, and ran
down his torso, a serpentine line, cutting across his hip bone. Halfway down his thigh,
it started again, a seam that marked all the missing pieces of his body. Under his fingers
the seam felt like the bead of a fine weld, slightly rippled where each puddle of metal ran
over the next, but it was malleable, giving to pressure just like the organic skin next to
it. Sunlight was beginning to turn the room a yellow gold, a beam of it reaching out to
touch him, moving slowly across the floor toward the bed. He imagined that when the
light touched his fake body, it would burst into flames, like a vampire, and that the nurses
who checked on him would have to push a stake through his half-nanobot heart.
He swung his legs off the other side of the bed, avoiding the sunlight, and reached for
his clothes. They were in a pile next to the bed where he had dropped them the night
before. The shirt was a soft white fabric that lay close to his body, letting the seam show
across his chest and down his back. He pulled the black pants on, dragging the fabric
across his fake skin. He thought that the real Travis was numb to its touch. That he was
still frozen, and the only warm part of him was the parts constructed of microscopic
machines. He would never tell that to anyone but Larson. Larson knew he was Chaos.
The feeling of spiraling out of control hit him. His chest tightened, his breaths came
short, and his hands shook as he pulled his shirt over the waist of his pants. His mind was
not in his body, his body was not his own. The world was spinning out from under him,
and he was watching himself, standing there in the stark white room.
Travis stood very still, squeezing his eyes shut, and raising his hands slowly to cover his
ears. He held a breath, forcing himself to let it escape slowly. Forcing himself to take a
long, deep breath in.
Right finger.
fiction 47

He tapped the side of his head with his right pointer finger.
Left finger.
He did the same with his left.
They aren’t the same. No. Right finger.
He tapped his right again. Then his left.
They both obey. They are both mine.
The weight started to lift, the pressure around his chest lightened, and he opened his
eyes. Spots swam in his vision, dancing across the wall, across the frosty screens of the silent
monitors left to sleep in this room, without disturbing him. Slowly the spots cleared
up, and he lowered his hands, studying the cabinet under the monitors. There were
socks there, and shoes. He knew it would be too much though, to drag socks across his
two different feet, to feel the difference in them, the sensitivity of the nanoskin, perfectly
warm under his fingers, and the cool, clammy feel of his natural skin.
Travis walked across the room, ignoring the beam of morning sunlight that had spread
almost to the door, letting it play across the fabric of his pants, pushing the fantasy of
bursting into flames back in his mind. The door slid open when he reached for it, letting
him step into the quiet hall outside. The Research Technology Center’s private rehab
facility was used exclusively for upper-level military, government officials, and upper level
members of the Church. The cozy atmosphere allowed privacy, though he knew that
every moment of every day was monitored. Everything he did, or did not do, was documented
and analyzed. Dr. Larson was very upfront with him about that. A nurse greeted
him at the end of the hall, looking up from her tablet and smiling.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan.”
“Hello, Nancy. Am I too late for breakfast?”
“No, they just put out the buffet, dear.”
“Wonderful.” He smiled at her. It was his smile, his mouth, his face. It just was not his
foot that pressed into the short Berber carpet or his fingers that trailed across the door as
he pushed through. Larson told him he should not focus so much on the differences, but
more on the similarities.
“Good morning, Travis,” Dr. James Larson was sitting in his usual place, a cup of
coffee by his hand, and his tablet on the table top. “How are you this morning?”
“I am chaotic, as always.”
The room was otherwise empty, though that was normal. There were few patients
here, and several of them were not well enough to leave their rooms.
“As always. Come sit, let us talk a while.”
Travis nodded as he stopped at the coffee bar, pushing an empty cup to the automated

system. A moment passed, and it came on, a stream of hot coffee falling into the cup.
Travis imagined pushing his fake hand under the stream and the nanobot skin burning
away, revealing tiny the nanobots underneath, all scrambling to hide as their cover was
burned away. The coffee was not hot enough to burn the nanobot skin away, Travis
knew that, and abandoned the fantasy. His cup was full, the stream of coffee had stopped
while he let his imagination run rampant. Careful not to spill the dark liquid, he walked
to the table and sat down across from Dr. Larson.
Larson studied him, his warm green eyes were framed with gray eyebrows and high
cheekbones, divided by an aquiline nose. His lifelong work had been designing the nanobots
that were used to rebuild Travis’ body, though they had not been created with the
intention of bringing anyone back to life. Three months of breakfasting with Larson and
Travis had never felt that the older man was lording his accomplishment over him.
“Dr. Cinta says you are ready to start reintegrating into daily life.”
Travis turned his cup, watching the surface ripple with the motion. His psychologist
was not aware of the things Travis told Larson in their conversations. Larson had
religiously kept his word that he would never share anything Travis confided in him. “I
would like to do something…”
“Being static is not good for a man. How are your readings going?”
“Good enough. The Classics were easy to master.”
“If you run out of topics, let me know.”
“I would like to discuss some things with someone who has also studied history
and philosophy.”
Larson took a draft of his coffee. “I believe you have far surpassed what is taught these
days, even in the Church.”
“Could you spare the time?”
“Happily, though it will be infrequent. Your resurrection did not bring the end of my
research.”
“Of course.”
Travis could feel Larson studying him as he stared down at his coffee, gently bumping
the cup to agitate the surface.
“Perhaps the Church could provide you with someone to discuss history with. They
may not advocate it being taught to the populace, but there are many learned men that
inhabit the Vatican,” Larson waved a hand, “and here too, though they might not welcome
being pulled away from their research.”
Travis looked up at Larson, at the tuft of white hair that fell over his brow, matching
the white lab coat that he wore, the pocket straining to hold a collection of pens and
notepads.
fiction 49

ANN SIKES. My Sapphire Pendant & Earring
Oil Paint on stretched canvas.

“Perhaps.”
“You know that you are theirs, Travis. They are going to use you as an icon of their
belief system, and you will be given the choice of complying or becoming nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“I do not really know what they would do with you, Travis.”
“I am your creation.”
Larson chuckled, “I am not Frankenstein.”
The first time Larson had said that Travis did not understand the reference, which
had elicited Larson to introduce him to history and literature. “Of course, you are right.
What should I do?”
“I cannot tell you what to do, Travis. That is for you to decide.” Larson tapped the
table with his finger, drawing Travis’ eyes back to the rippling surface of his coffee. “The
best I can tell you is that you should do what you do best, Chaos.”
Travis met Larson’s gaze, smiling a tight smile, barely exposing his teeth between his
lips. “Chaos.”
Larson thumped the table again, and Travis’ looked down at the coffee. The fantasy of
it burning the nanobot skin away overwhelmed him.
“Are you having a rough morning, Travis?”
“Yes.” Travis pushed the coffee across the table.
Larson picked the cup up, holding it over the center of the table, his eyebrows raised
to form the question.
Travis extended his left hand under the cup, grimacing as his breath quickened.
Larson turned the cup over enough to let a little coffee run out, down the side of the
cup, over Travis’ hand and wrist, splattering on the table. Travis sucked a breath through
his teeth, forcing himself to watch his hand, not flinching as the heat of the coffee
washed over the nanoskin. His heart felt like it would explode through the seam across
his chest, the organ itself constructed of half nanobot constructed tissue, half organic
tissue, and reacting to his anxiety as one organ. The breath he took in saturated one
organic lung, one built of nanotissue. He pressed his eyes shut, living the feeling of hot
coffee pouring over the hand.
My hand.
He opened his eyes, looking down at his hand, then at the coffee cup above it and
finally at Larson’s inquisitive face.
“My hand.”
“Yes, your hand.” Larson set the cup down. “I think that either Dr. Cinta does not
fiction 51

know you as well as I do, or you are more convincing with people who make decisions
about your future.”
Travis pulled the hand back, leaving the splatter of cooling coffee on the table top,
and took the napkin that Larson offered him, drying the nanoskin. He took up the cup,
in that hand, that thing, and pressed it to his lips, letting the bitter flavor fill his mouth
before he swallowed.
“I am tired of being kept locked away, a privileged prisoner.”
“You are not a man to be happy without action. I will see if the Church will introduce
you to someone who you can interact with. But for now,” Larson stood up, “I have work
to do.”
Travis stood, leaving his half-empty coffee cup and the small splatter of coffee on the
table. He clutched the damp napkin in his right hand. “What shall I spend my time on,
until then?”
“What you are expected to do, and what you need to do. Everything else you do
because it is what you will be.” Larson tapped his temple at the edge of his snowy hair.
“Make peace with your mind, Travis. I will see you tomorrow.”
Travis scowled at him, frustration filling his chest with heat, even as Larson turned
away, leaving him in the cafeteria, alone even as other patients and staff trickled in. He
could not speak with them, they did not know what he was, and no one asked. He could
not bear the thought of the plain white walls in his room, or the ceiling tiles that were
not quite right, so he sat back down, studying the spilled coffee. His right hand clutched
the napkin, the left lay open before him, perfectly still.
I am born of Chaos, the unknown. I will be Chaos.
He picked up the cup with his left hand and poured what remained of the coffee over
his right hand. The napkin soaked up what it could, becoming a soggy ball under his
fingers, the coffee pooling around his hand and running over the older spill. The frustration
in his chest cooled, and the whirring thoughts that spun around in his mind slowed,
narrowing to one thing, one single idea that shivered and trembled in the possibilities of
the future that could be. In the future that could be the dead man living.

STELLA
James Loss
Eddie leaned his head back and blew a heavy breath from his nostrils, letting the sun
warm his face. Spring had finally arrived and saved Eddie from frozen sidewalks and
shivering nights, where no amount of blankets or extra jackets could bring warmth.
Eddie smiled in the radiating sun, feeling as if he had absorbed all the light rays and was
expelling them from every pore.
Clink.
Eddie popped his eyes open. He saw the woman, another charitable pedestrian, as she
offered a wave over her shoulder. Eddie smiled at her and she turned around, hips swaying
in a tight pantsuit—a walk that said, “I have somewhere to be.” Yet she had stopped
long enough to make a donation into Eddie’s McDonald’s cup, unlike the thousands of
others who passed Eddie with wrinkled noses and clutched purses. Eddie looked down
into the pile of copper and nickel, rattling the coins together with a flick of his hand. He
could afford a nice meal soon. But not before Stella. Stella always came first.
Eddie sat on the ground outside a gas station in the deep of downtown Dallas. He looked
left, feeling his staled clothes itch on his skin, and peered through the shifting crowd of asses
and calves. They all pumped themselves forward with the same look of insistence as the
woman in the pantsuit, each of them with dire responsibilities to attend to. But not Eddie.
Eddie had not worried about things such as meetings, conference calls, customers, inventory,
or I-9 paperwork for a while. Now he only worried about Stella, and as he shifted his head
to peak through the dense crowd, Eddie wondered when she would return. She always went
looking for food in some other place no matter how many times Eddie told her she wouldn’t
find anything. But maybe she did. Maybe she just never bothered to bring some back for Eddie.
Eddie wrinkled his nose at the thought. She would come back soon.
The gas station’s front door opened with a tinkling chime, and Eddie turned to see a
familiar face.
“Ed!” the man exclaimed, spreading his arms out and walking over.
Eddie offered a weak smile, hoping the mental strain of trying to remember the man’s
name didn’t show. “Hey…man,” Eddie replied with a wave.
This man visited with Eddie most days, whenever he would dare to make room in his
riveting agenda. He would come down 15th street while immersed in the happenings of
his Blackberry screen, grab a coffee from the gas station, and stop to chat with Eddie while
he drank. And every day Eddie struggled to remember his name, having only heard it once
during a distant introduction. He didn’t feel bad for forgetting the man’s name, because he
knew people like him forgot about people like Eddie every day.
fiction 53

“Ed?” the man leaned forward to catch Eddie’s eyes. He offered a dollar bill from one hand.
Eddie smiled, shaking his head. “Sorry.” He took the money. “Thanks, as always.” Now
he had enough for dinner. But Stella first. Eddie glanced over his shoulder again, looking to
where she had run off this morning.
“Everything else going okay?” the man asked, taking a sip from his coffee.
“Don’t have much going. So yeah, we’re fine,” Eddie said, scratching the back of his neck.
Eddie appreciated the man’s help, but he always felt a sort of benevolence in the way he spoke,
like he was teaching a foreign kid to speak English. Maybe Eddie was just being defensive. Or
maybe he knew how many people saw the homeless as lost children, and they all thought they
could become Mother Goose and earn some good karma to share with their hot yoga group
on Saturday.
“So where’s the pretty girl?” the man asked, checking his watch as if this conversation was
just another obligation to carry out, but he never lost that artificially white smile.
“Hm? Oh, Stella.” Eddie nodded. “She went out this morning for something. Not sure
what. She drives me crazy sometimes.”
“I can drink to that,” the man said with a laugh then took a drink. “Hey man, I bet it’s
rough out here sometimes, but at least she’s the only thing you have to worry about.”
Eddie opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. He didn’t know how to respond. He
thought he should have felt insulted, as if this man knew anything about the struggles Eddie
dealt with. Did he think Eddie chose to live this way? Did he think Eddie had never lived a
similar life to his own? —the job, the house, the money. Maybe Eddie didn’t look the part,
but he was human. And he had plenty of things to worry about.
Eddie smiled. “Yeah, she’s a handful.”
The man returned a smile, tilting his head back for another drink. “Well that’s all the time
for me today, Ed. Take it easy, pal.” The man slapped Eddie on the shoulder and bounced
down the sidewalk, switching his focus to his Blackberry as easy as turning off a light.
Eddie watched the man leave, looked down at the dollar bill in his hand, and stuffed the
money into his pocket. He also stuffed away the short interaction, pushing it to the back of
his mind before it could boil over and ruin his mood. Instead, he thought of Stella and turned
around to wait for her return.
Eddie grew more worried as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky. He watched the
street corner where Stella had disappeared this morning, twiddling his thumbs and rocking
back and forth on his heels. It was getting darker. Eddie bit down on his bottom lip and
pushed away the thoughts of shadowed alleys and suspicious loiterers. Then he heard a jingle.
Eddie shot to his feet, losing all concern for his precious cup of change as he walked towards
the street corner. A few seconds later, Stella came cantering around the corner, her tongue
flopping with satisfied panting, and her tail wagging just the same. Eddie smiled, dropped to
his knees, and embraced his favorite person in the world, the only thing he needed in life.

BABY BLUES
Jenna Hefele
I looked down at my child and felt nothing. His big, blue eyes looked up at me expectantly,
hoping for some kind of response. My son, Samuel, cooed at me lovingly and
let out a gurgle as spit bubbles came popping out from his smiling lips. His hair was
starting to grow in slightly. It dusted his head with feathery blonde fuzz. His delicate skin
felt smooth as velvet and his fragile body rested trustingly in my arms. I looked into his
round eyes and frowned. He felt like a stranger. The baby began to cry, but I couldn’t
move. I just continued to stare down at him while his face grew increasingly more red
and angry. I felt stuck in my chair. Like a statue, unable to react. I shouldn’t be a mom.
He needs someone better. I felt like a shell of a person. This baby had stolen something
from me, leaving nothing behind except my physical self.
“What’s going on? Michelle? He’s crying! Can’t you see how upset he is? Why aren’t
you doing anything?” My husband yelled at me frantically as he came rushing out from
our bedroom. His words floated towards me through a fog, but they failed to generate a
response. I remained sitting.
He angrily scooped Samuel from me and tried his best to soothe the screaming infant,
shooting me a condemning look.
“What’s wrong with you?” my husband shouted, further upsetting the baby. My baby.
I stood up slowly and walked over towards the front door. I opened it and closed my
eyes as a rush of cold air hit me smack in the face. I stepped outside and closed the door
behind me. I didn’t look back as I blindly walked down the snow-covered road towards
the freezing river.
fiction 55

CRACKED
Jenna Hefele
Her turn was rapidly approaching. She sat in a circle with the other patients and stared
blankly at the bleak walls. She couldn’t help but fixate on the small crack that creeped
down from one of the wall’s corners, and she began to ponder on how the crack got
there in the first place. In the corner of the room sat a potted fig tree, a weak attempt at
making the room more inviting.
“Frances, how are you feeling today?” asked Sandra. She sat holding her notepad, which
she scribbled notes on while listening to each patient.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Frances replied.
“Okay, why do you feel that way?” she inquired.
Frances stared at Sandra’s thick, chocolate colored hair. The bright florescent lights illuminated
the frizz that shot above her curls.
“I’m not crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“He’s crazy. I’m not crazy.” Frances pointed towards Charlie, who began to cry and mumble
something over and over to himself, rocking back in forth in his chair.
“How about we focus on you?” she continued.
“What about me? I’m fine.”
“I just want you to share with the group how you’re feeling today. Try and be open.”
“I feel like I don’t belong here. I am different from these people. I’m not crazy, okay?”
“Okay, Frances. I believe you.”
“I’m fine.” Frances repeated again, unsure of who she was trying to convince.
Frances walked slowly down the long white hallway back towards her room after the
torturous group session. She glared down at the cracks on the floor and became angry with
them. They taunted her and she began to feel dizzy. So many cracks. She walked faster and
faster until she was running. Once she reached her room, she collapsed onto her bed.
“These people here….they make me question myself. They’re all crazy.” Frances told her
roommate.
“You’re not crazy. I know crazy, and it’s not you,” her roommate replied.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone. We need to stick together in this place.”
Frances turned towards the door as a patient walked by her room, talking to themselves.
“See! Like them! Crazy fools!” Frances exclaimed.
Frances turned back towards her roommate, only to find herself sitting in an empty room.

ARIS NEAL. Fugly I,
Hair extensions, laser-cut ribbon and glitter.
fiction 57

EMILY MASSEY. Claire Above, Claire Below,
Watercolors.

SOMETHING SLIGHTLY SANE
Brittany Thurmond
It was a bright, shiny day and just like any other, Mama woke Jolene. “Wake up honey,
it’s time for your medication,” Mama would say to Jolene. Her responsiveness had
decreased over the years and Mama had to yank words from her mouth in order to
have any type of conversation. Mama took Jolene to many psychiatrists and specialized
doctors, but the only thing that would ever come from it was Attention-Deficit Disorder
(ADD) as the diagnosis. Mama knew that couldn’t be what Jolene was suffering from,
but she continued giving Jolene the pills she was prescribed. The past few years, Mama
had trouble making Jolene swallow the pills, so she resorted to breaking them up in her
food. Mama had struggled with Jolene from the time she was born, each year increasing
in difficulties. Jolene had an odd suspicion that Mama was trying to kill her, and no one
could convince her otherwise. She believed that Mama was poisoning her food.
Mama was always so vibrant and full of laughter with the radiant color of joy always
kissing her face. Mama’s smile was always wide, spreading from each side of her cheeks
and covering the surface of her face. Her teeth were always shiny and sparkling white. It
was this very depiction of Mama that haunted Jolene. Jolene could not understand why
Mama was always bursting with immense happiness. No one could possibly be that happy.
The constant happiness had to be a cover-up for the evil act that Mama was planning.
Jolene could not enjoy a meal anymore and had stopped eating any meals prepared by
Mama months ago, but Mama was still unaware of this fact. Jolene would take each meal
that Mama served her and analyze it, attempting to find out what poisons were imbedded
in the food. Jolene would often tell me that Mama had to be aware that she was not
eating the food, because she still hadn’t fell over dead from whatever was in it. Countless
times, I tried persuading Jolene that she was being crazy, and that Mama actually loved
her. Jolene’s mood swings worsened toward Mama, which led to constant bickering and
Mama telling Jolene to stop being disrespectful. Jolene had every right to be hostile toward
Mama since there was reason to believe Mama was going insane and poisoning her.
When Jolene complained about Mama the first time, she explained to me that she had
found white powder in her food, and that Mama was attempting to poison her. I knew
that Mama had been breaking up her prescription Adderall into the food and I didn’t
think Mama would ever resort to killing Jolene until Jolene convinced me otherwise.
Jolene confided in me and asked if I would help her teach Mama a lesson. I was not sure
what she meant by that, so I figured that we would just be confronting Mama and simply
getting answers from her. Jolene had always been smarter than me, so I agreed to help
her. She did not tell me what the plan was, so I just followed her actions and did what
she told me to do. Later that day, Mama came home from the store.
It’s all a blur and I cannot recall the exact events that took place. The only thing I can
fiction 59

remember after Mama coming home was her lying there on the white linoleum floors
and Dad rushing through the door screaming, “What have you done? What have you
done Belladonna?”
Why is he instantly blaming this on me and asking what I had done? This was Jolene’s
idea and she is the one that asked me to conspire with her. Why isn’t he hounding her?
After the police arrived, I watched Jolene get tackled to the ground, almost feeling
the pain myself. She fought with every muscle and bone in her body, making me weak. I
watched as they restrained her arms and legs to the stretcher. They gave her a shot, which
instantly stiffened her body and cut off all motion. With a dumbfounded look on my
face, I pondered what she had been injected with as I watched the life ejected from her at
the same time the needle was.
I do not know where they took Jolene, but Dad did not seem to care-- not that he ever
did. I did not understand why Jolene was placed in an ambulance and shipped off. Mama
was the one hurt, not Jolene.
It’s like waking up from a nightmare.
“Jolene is a figment of your imagination,” the psychiatrist tells me.
“But I remember her. I remember her telling me about the horrible things that
mother would make her do when we were children. I remember seeing the white powder
smashed up in her food and her convincing me of Mama’s plans,” I argue.
“Jolene never existed. There is no documented record of Jolene being your sister and
your dad would certainly know if you had a sister. You created Jolene in your mind years
ago and now you are using her as a coping mechanism for your mother’s murder, one
that you organized on your own,” the psychiatrist explained. “Don’t worry, you are in a
safe place now and we will take care of you here,” he continued.
As I fell asleep that night, the white walls surrounded me, caging in my existence. The
tiny 2X4 window, shaped like a rectangle, running vertically with the door, was the only
way of seeing the outside world. The echoes of Mama’s voice saying, “It’s time for your
medication, dear” flooded the room and ran screeching into my ears. I drifted off to sleep
and started to picture harsh lines of blood splattering the empty white walls. I awoke,
holding my throat and gasping for air.
*The administrators rushed through the door and into the room to find the sharpened
razor blade on the floor with no idea how it had gotten there or how Belladonna could
have gotten it. Belladonna lie there, surrounded and drenched in a puddle of blood. The
emergency signal transmitted through the air and voices filled the walkie-talkies. Help
was on its way, although, everyone knew there was no helping Belladonna. Implanted in
the pillow, beneath all the feathers, there lie the medication that had been stuffed away
for the last week*
In that moment, I watched Jolene wave goodbye to me as doctors stood around not

ALEX GENETTE. Mountain Range,
Sterling Silver.
fiction 61
knowing what to do, and probably pondering any lawsuits that may be coming their way
if anyone knew there was a razor blade in the room.
I could see bursts of white light, shining more brightly than I had ever imagined. The
light was trying to reach me and then, all at once, the light drifted away, and a very loud,
deep voice said to me, “THIS IS NOT THE PLACE FOR SOMEONE LIKE YOU.”
A little confused by this dream, I tried like usual to pop the rubber band on my wrist
to wake myself from this nightmare but failed in doing so. There was no rubber band on
my wrist this time. At that moment, I felt tingling in my body, making my body cringe.
Then, my arm suddenly burst into flames and my whole body started feeling numb from
the heat. Panicking and terrified at this point, I tried popping the rubber band three
more times, but still nothing on my wrist. Another failed effort. All at once, my body
burst into flames and an evil laughter came to me, “WELCOME TO YOUR NEW
HOME, MY DEAR,” followed by more laughter. Then, the voice spoke again, “I’ve
been waiting for you.” It was clear to me that this was no dream, this was eternity for me.
“Belladonna was pronounced deceased at the scene,” read a report, laying on the desk
at Creedmoor Psychiatric Hospital.

▲
CREATIVE PROCESS
A One Act Play
By
Theodore Leos
CHARACTERS:
ALEX TSERA. 21. College student.
ADRIEN RISINGER. 23. Alex’s boyfriend.
PLACE: An apartment in New England.
TIME: Present Day.
ACT ONE
Scene One
SETTING: The one-room apartment of ALEX TSERA , 21 years old. There is a mattress
on the floor and a sold-out table with two chairs with a mannequin nearby.
drama 63
AT RISE: ALEX is at the table, fretting over the cloth that covers the table. He lays the
cloth onthe mannequin, frowns, then tosses it back on the table. ADRIEN is asleep on the
bed. ADRIEN begins to wake while ALEX gets progressively more frustrated, eventually
throwing squares of cloth around the room.
ADRIEN: (Groaning) Alex, it's too early, come back to bed.
ALEX: It's noon.
ADRIEN: I'm French, we aren’t supposed to be up this early in the morning.
ALEX: You've been in the States for 5 years now, you should be used to it by now. Besides,
wouldn't it be like six P.M. in France right now?
ADRIEN: Which means it is time for an early night. Come back to bed. (Sits up) Still
working on that new piece? I told you the line is fine.
NDO CHIEDU. NYC DAYZ,
Digital Photography.

ALEX: That’s the problem! It’s just…fine. It to be inspired.
ADRIEN: Come to bed and I’ll leave you so inspired you’ll be breathless.
ALEX: You’re not nearly as suave as you think Adrien. And all you’ll do is inspire me to
laze around all day.
ADRIEN: See? That sounds like a beautiful day to me.
( ALEX turns away, returning to the cloth. He compares a few more clothes before growling
audibly. ADRIEN gets up and walks toward ALEX . ALEX , frustrated, throws the latest
cloth behind him and into ADRIEN’s face. ADRIEN grunts. Pause.)
ADRIEN: I do love the smell of satin in the morning.
ALEX: …Sorry.
ADRIEN: (Pulls ALEX into an embrace) Are you alright? I knew this project was
important but…
ALEX: It’s everything! Not only is this my final project, but the best line gets to be in
Fashion week! So many people from the industry will be there, this could be my big
break. (Pause) If my designs weren’t shit.
ADRIEN: Don’t say that. You’re designs are très magnifique and I know it. Why?
ALEX: Because you’re French. ADRIEN: Because I’m French
ADRIEN: And there’s nothing the French know better than fashion. (Grinning) Well
there is one thing we French know better than fashion. Come back to bed?
ALEX: Are you kidding? I need to focus. If you’re that riled up, deal with it yourself. I
don’t need you being a pain.
ADRIEN: A pain, am I?
ALEX: (Turns away) Don’t look into it. Forget it. Now let me get to work.
ADRIEN: (Pulls ALEX around, hands on shoulders, looking face to face)
No no no. Tell all about how I’m distracting you from your Creative Process .
ALEX: (Shrugging ADRIEN off) We’re not doing this.
ADRIEN: Oh yes we are. Tell me.

ALEX: Why?
ADRIEN: Because I wanna know.
ALEX: Sure your ego can take it pretty boy?
ADRIEN: You know damn well how well I take it, airhead.
ALEX: And there’s issue number one! If it weren't for your inflated ego, I'd be sure your
headwas empty. You do all your thinking below the waist anyway.
ADRIEN: I do, do I?
ALEX: YES! You came over here to be with Eric, that long distance boytoy you did Swan
Lake with. You got your job at Mood Fabrics because you were fucking Jason when that
shit with your mom went down and he runs the damn place. Hell, you just saw me passing
by around campus and figured I’d be good for a quick lay to start all this off!
ADRIEN: Uh huh, and all that makes it hard for you?
ALEX: When you’re acting like a horny puppy, yes.
drama 65
ADR`IEN: Let’s step back to that second point, though. My JOB? (Picks up the red
strip of cloth and begins waving it around) The one that covers our food bills and lets us
afford all the materials for your Masterpieces? The one I’ve been working so I can stay
here with you as opposed to touring with a dance troupe? The job I’ve taken to support
YOUR dream while putting my own on hold? The one I’ve kept working at despite how
much of an ass Jason is now that I’m with you? Who berates me for every mistake and
still tries to pull shit despite how many times I’ve shut him down?
ALEX: He still tries?
ADRIEN: Of course he still tries! But despite being a “Horny Puppy”, I’ve turned him
down each time because I have you, and what we have is special. Or at least, I figured it
was. (Tosses cloth back at ALEX )
ALEX: Shit, Fuck. (Sighs) It is, Babe, you know that. I just. I just can’t figure out what
to do. Usually something comes to me by now but everything’s just blank. And then my
brain tenses up and it’s like everything is silent, but the silence is deafening and I wanna
stop thinking about it, but I can’t! so I just keep worrying about it and-and the whole
cycle repeats and I just… (Falls to the bed and yells into the pillow)
ADRIEN: (Sits down besides ALEX ) Babe, I had no idea you were struggling so much.

ALEX: Why not? I thought it was obvious.
ADRIEN: Because while French, I am also a man. As such, feelings and subtleties can,
at times, escape me.
ALEX: We’re both men.
ADRIEN: Which means we’re both hopelessly lost about solving things like this. But
C’mon, what’s the line you always parrot from your father?
ALEX: (Sniffling) “Just rub some dirt in it, you’ll be fine”?
ADRIEN: No, beautiful. You know the one, “Nothing worth doing…”
ALEX: “…Is ever easy, but it’s damn worth it”.
ADRIEN: Damn right it is.
(ADRIEN hugs ALEX)
ADRIEN: So come on, walk this dancer through the steps and let’s see what we can do
about this problem of yours.
ALEX: (Rises and starts to return to the table) Okay. You remember that one summer
piece I made that summer we went south?
ADRIEN: The one with the embroidery? The small uhh, roses?
ALEX: Lilies, but yes. Its come back into style recently, what with Agreste’s new line, so
I wanted to make a spring line with it. I just can’t figure out a piece to put it all together.
I’m missing that-that…
ADRIEN: Centerpiece?
ALEX: Exactly!
ADRIEN: Okay, okay. Well, wait. Wasn’t that old piece supposed to capture like, the
feeling of refreshment when all the green returns?
ALEX: Yea. I’ve based each piece on feelings like that. The smell of morning dew, the
feeling of warm sunlight trickling down, the smell of blooming flowers. But this last one
just eludes me. I’m just stuck in here and this whole thing is pissing me off!
ADRIEN: (Pacing) Think-think-think-think. The essence of Spring… Flowers, warmth,

GABRIELLE WALTER. Decisions, Decisions,
Chalk Pastels.
drama 67

Hmm… (Pause) I’ve got it!
ALEX: Really?!?
ADRIEN: Yes! Wait… no. Nevermind.
ALEX: Goddammit, Adrien.
ADRIEN: Sorry, Fashion is hard! (Nervously) I guess that’s the issue, huh.
ALEX: I might as well give up. This is going to be worse than that show in Dallas back
when I was a freshman.
ADRIEN: Hey, that trip wasn’t all bad.
ALEX: Really? Not only did my line fall apart, we missed our connection flight, our
hotel was shabby as hell, and our rental broke down so we missed the show at Casa
Mañana!
ADRIEN: Yeah, the trip didn’t turn out like we thought. But do you remember that last
night? We decided to take a walk in that nature reserve…
ALEX: And I was moaning about how bad the trip had been when you started playing music…
(ADRIEN turns on a slow waltz and grabs the red cloth from the table with a flourish)
ADRIEN: (Re-enacting his actions as he describes them) And I grabbed you by the waist,
spun you around, and /
ALEX: /…said “any night spent with me was a night worth having.” (Chuckles) I guess
there MIGHT be something to that suave French exterior.
ADRIEN: I was quite charming, wasn’t I?
ALEX: (Taking the cloth from ADRIEN and swiping him in the face with it) You have
your moments. How do you come up with that stuff anyway?
ADRIEN: I simply drown myself in the passions of romance and let the words spring forth.
ALEX: (Halts) A spring of passion, huh.
(Beat. ADRIEN and ALEX pause, looking at each other in shock.)
ALEX: (Glances down to the red cloth in his hand) You beautiful French bastard, that’s

exactly it! The essence of spring, the passion of love blooming, springing forth! Oooooooh
the ideas are flowing now! Quick, help me through this mess, find the pastel colors!
(ALEX runs to the mannequin as ADRIEN begins to gather cloth)
ADRIEN: Of course! Do you want me to get out of the way or…?
( ALEX turns abruptly, wrapping the cloth behind ADRIEN ’s neck to pull him into a kiss)
ALEX: Hell no. I’ll need you close at hand for when I need a refresher on Passion. Alright?
ADRIEN: Yes, Sir!
BLACKOUT
END OF PLAY
drama 69

KATIE KNIGHT. Untitled
Colored pencil on 6" x 8" paper.

GREENER PASTURES
A One Act Play
By
Nicolas Rivera
CHARACTERS:
JAMES O’MALLEY. 21. College student
HECTOR MARTINEZ. Senior aged janitor.
PLACE: Greyhound Bus Station in Dallas, TX
TIME: The Present.
ACT ONE
Scene One
SETTING: The inside of a Greyhound Bus Station around 1 PM on a Friday.
drama 71
AT RISE: JAMES sits on a secluded bench Is his hand is his ticket; at his feet is a backpack
packed full of overnight clothes. A single sleeve of a t-shirt sticks out of the backpack
as if hastily packed. JAMES sits impatiently, his black and white converse taps a
rapid nervous symphony against the marble floors. HE checks his watch, shakes his head,
and grabs his stuff to leave, but instead only paces back and forth just to sit back on the
bench again.HECTOR comes into view wearing his Greyhound custodial overalls and
pushing his cleaning cart. He wipes his hands as he spies JAMES sitting nervously on a
bench. HECTOR grabs his plastic lunch box then half-walks, half waddles his way to
the bench that JAMES is sitting on.
HECTOR: Oye, mijo. Do you mind if I sit here? (Motions to the bench with his faded
blue lunchbox)
JAMES: Uh, no. Go ahead man.
HECTOR: (Smiles and nods his thanks as he plops down onto the dark wooden bench
to unpack his lunch) I’m glad you said yes. I don’t like to eat alone. Sometimes, at the
dinner table, I crave dinner talk more than the food itself. Of course, that’s really only
when I do the cooking. My wife takes good care of me. (Pats rounded belly affectionately)
Maybe too good of care… (Laughs)
JAMES: You know something? I don’t think I’ve eaten all day. My stomach won’t let

me eat lately.
HECTOR: What’s her name?
JAMES: Beg your pardon?
HECTOR: What’s the girl’s name?
JAMES: (Shifts on the bench uncomfortably) What makes you think there’s a girl?
HECTOR: Well, (Pauses to swallow a cracker) I figure there’s only a few things that
makes a boy of your age not want to eat. You’re either hungover, sick, or lovesick. It’s 1
PM, and you don’t look like a cat just dragged you in from the gutter, so hungover is out.
You don’t look green or nauseas, but you do look nervous enough to wash my car with
the sweat on your palms. So again I ask: What’s her name?
JAMES: Her name is Melanie.
HECTOR: That’s a very pretty name. Is she the girlfriend? (Opens and takes a drink of
a his Topo Chico mineral water)
JAMES: No, my girlfriend’s name is Anna-Lisa.
HECTOR: Ah, this… (Motions at JAMES) ...is starting to make sense. And the bag? To
which of the lovely ladies are we traveling to?
JAMES: (Sighs guiltily) Not to my girlfriend.
HECTOR: I see. How long of a trip are you about to make for this ‘girl who is not your
girlfriend?’ If you don’t mind me asking of course.
JAMES: Roughly 8 hours there and 8 hours back.
HECTOR: That must be quite a lie you told, Anna-Lisa, is it? You must have a tongue
of silver and words of silk to get away with a whole weekend. (Winks playfully at
JAMES )
JAMES: Not really. Anna-Lisa, my girlfriend, left for the long weekend to go see her parents
in the valley. (He watches HECTOR bite into a sandwich) As for the other girl, she
doesn’t know I am coming yet. The plan was to show up at her door and pray she was
home. The eight hours was to fine tune the plan… or come up with a better one. Now
that I’m here… (Pauses to look at train ticket) …this doesn’t feel as right as it did an hour
ago… (Drifts off in thought)

HECTOR: Maybe that’s a sign eh? Tell me a little about this Melanie. How did the two
of you meet? (Takes another drink of his mineral water)
JAMES: We met at a week-long conference for undergrads, and within a few hours, we
knewbasically knew everything about each other. Our conversations just… flowed, as if
we had known each other for our whole lives. She’s so much like me, but so fundamentally
different at the same time. Does that make any sense?
HECTOR: Oh yes. Some would argue that opposites attract.
JAMES: I would say that too.
HECTOR: And the girlfriend? Anna-Lisa? What about her?
JAMES: Well, we have been together the last two years, and for the most part, it has been
pretty great. We get along, our families get along, and we will probably graduate around
same time. She knows what she wants to do, which is scary because I’m not committed
to a career just yet, but we always said we would take it as it comes. God, this makes me
sound like a piece of shit.
HECTOR: (Pauses to consider his words and to swallow another cracker) I don’t mean
to pry, but as a person who will mostly likely never meet your Anna-Lisa, I would like
to know what is so special about this other girl, Melanie? What does she have that is so
intoxicating, you would risk your relationship to be with her?
drama 73
JAMES: Wow. You get right to the point, huh?
HECTOR: I’m old. Tiptoeing around the subject is a young man’s game.
JAMES: Fair enough. (Pauses in thought, then continues carefully) It’s not something
that Melanie has necessarily, but it’s the thought of what we could have together that is
driving me crazy.
HECTOR: Ah yes! The classic “the grass is greener on the other side.”
JAMES: Yes, but I’d like to think it’s a little less cliché than that.
HECTOR: How so?
JAMES: Well, I know that the grass is pretty damn green on my side right now. But
what if this grass isn’t the best grass for me? This grass is the only kind of grass that I’ve
ever known. I’m young and there are a lot of pastures, really green pastures that are out
there. How do I know this is the grass that I want to take care of forever?

HECTOR: Can I give you a little piece of advice?
JAMES: If you think it will help me figure out what to do, I’m all ears.
HECTOR: One of the most important things I’ve learned in my years is that the grass
is greener where you water it. Sure it might start out thick, lush, and beautiful, but even
the prettiest of pastures will dry up and die without the right care.
JAMES: You make a good point. I… I just don’t know where to water.
HECTOR: That’s a tough decision indeed. (Points to JAMES’s chest) It’s an extremely
personaldecision. One more piece of advice?
JAMES: Shoot.
HECTOR: In my experience, you only have enough water to keep one pasture green at
a time. If you try to water them both, neither will be very green.
JAMES: That’s another good point. I think I’m only here because I panicked. I thought
I needed to try something different before it was too late.
HECTOR: Are you older than you look?
JAMES: I just turned 21.
HECTOR: Do you age backwards like that guero in that movie where he was born an
old man?
JAMES: Oh, uh, Benjamin Button ? No.
HECTOR: Then don’t worry about it. You have time to figure it out. The fact that
you have doubts means you are human. We like to think we have our emotions all under
control, but it’s like you said, you have to take it as it comes.
JAMES: I did say that. But let me ask you this; How did you know that your wife was
the one for you? How did you know where to spend your water in a world full of pastures
to be watered?
HECTOR: It didn’t know at first. I was in a similar situation as you when I was a
younger man, except I did get on the bus, so to speak. But at that time, I wouldn’t have
taken a bus eight minutes to get to a girl, let alone eight hours. And on a bus no less!
(Pause) Long story short, it didn’t work out with either of them, but I learned that I
would rather give my all to one pasture and know for sure one way or the other than risk
it all on the empty promise of a greener side. You get what I’m trying to say?

ANN SIKES. Sister’s Peridot Necklace,
Acrylic paint on stretched canvas.
drama 75

JAMES: I think so. So you have everything you ever wanted with the woman you are
with now?
HECTOR: Mijo, if I had everything I ever wanted, I would not be wearing this jumpsuit
and talking to you right now. I would be on a beach somewhere with a cold Corona
in my hand and a lime in the other. I’m saying that what I found in my wife is someone
who loves me as much as I do her. We keep each other green. I know that if I water that
land, it will stay green forever. Does this sound like something you could have yourself?
JAMES: (Quietly; almost a whisper) It sounds like something I already have…
HECTOR: There you go. I can guarantee that if you go through with this, (Points to the
bus ticket) you will never be certain of anything. The “what could have been” with who
you have right now will stay with you forever.
(JAMES pauses to think it over, then nods to HECTOR and tears the ticket in two)
JAMES:You should charge people for conversations like this.
HECTOR: Did I not mention? We’ve been on the clock this whole time. You can see
the receptionist at the front for the bill.
(The two exchange laughter)
JAMES: Seriously though, this is the best I’ve felt in weeks. You kind of just changed my
life man, and I don’t even know your name.
HECTOR: Hector. Hector Martinez. (Extends his hand)
JAMES: (Shakes HECTOR’S hand) James O’Malley. You know what Hector? I’m am hungry.
HECTOR: (Reaches into his lunchbox and grabs a small bag of chips) Here you go.
JAMES: Are you sure?
HECTOR: (Pats his belly) You need it more than me.
(The two sit and eat in peace)
BLACKOUT
END OF PLAY

drama 77

AUTHOR/ARTIST BIOS
ANN SIKES
Ann Sikes is an undergraduate Visual Studies (Art Education) major at Texas Tech University
with a minor in Human Development and Family Studies. In studio, Sikes works
primarily through painting; she finds inspiration from the children she teaches and her
own childhood.
ALEX GENETTE
Alex is an artist from Dallas, Texas. He has been working in metals for almost 4 years.
ANNA LOVERING
Anna is a senior in the Creative Writing English program at TTU. She is also working on
another degree in Studio Art with a specialization in painting. She has been published
before in the 2014/2015 edition of The Harbinger, ‘Coffee.’
ARIS NEAL
Aris Neal received her BFA from Texas Tech in 2018 and is continuing studies in the
Jewelry Design & Metalsmithing program at TTU, while pursuing a degree in Graduate
BAILEE NI. TANGUMA
Bailee is a senior at Texas Tech University who is a pre-law student majoring in Psychology
and English (Creative Writing). She grew up in New Braunfels, Texas and has
been writing since grade school. Throughout this time she has found a deep passion for
creative writing in all genres, such as contemporary poetry, short story, non-fiction essay,
and translation poetry.
BAILEY MANNING
Bailey is a senior in the graphic design program. When she isn't designing, she is painting,
reading, or drinking coffee.
BRIAN HOTTINGER
Brian has graduated from Texas Tech in December 2018 with a BA in Philosophy. He
plans on attending law school starting in the Fall of 2019. He is currently living and
working in the Austin metropolitan area.

BRITTANY THURMOND
Brittany is a junior, completing her degree in Education, specializing in 4-8th grade English.
Brittany believes that reading and writing are the fundamental foundations to all other
knowledge. She hopes to show teenage students how powerful the English language is and
how they can express themselves through the art and creativity of writing.
EMILY MASSEY
Emily Massey is a Senior Marketing major, from the DFW area. Her work is often focused
on portraiture and anatomy, and she hopes have a career as a storyboard artist.
GEORGE A. STERN JR.
George is a senior at Texas Tech pursuing a major in French and a minor in Classics.
When not occupied in the rat race against deadlines and due dates, he enjoys engaging
with the thornier issues of humanity and cooking for his classmates.
drama 79
GABRIELLE WALTER
A Junior at Texas Tech University, Gabrielle Walter is a Visual Studies major originally
hailing from Magnolia, Texas. The majority of her work concentrates on the representation
of the female body as a manifestation of the confident, the beautiful, and the authentic.
HALI SALOME CARDENAS
Hali is a West Texas native pursuing her degree in Creative Writing. She spends her free
time buying books she will eventually get to and hanging out with her toddler and their cat.
JAMES D. LOSS
James is a Junior at Texas Tech pursuing a bachelor’s degree in creative media industries
with a minor in dramatic writing. Born as a west coast native, James has spent the latter
part of his life in Frisco, Texas where he has found a love for the southwest and its residents.
He hopes to continue his writing career through fiction novels and screenplay.
JENNA HEFELE
Jenna Hefele is a senior biology student at Texas Tech. After graduation, she hopes to
attend medical school and travel around the world.

JOANNA BYRNE
Joanna is an undergraduate senior studying for a Bachelor of Arts in English, with a minor
in Technical Communication at Texas Tech University. She is certified in Equine Sports
Massage Therapy and holds an Associates of Applied Science in Diesel Service Technology
from South Plains College, where she was an Instructor of Diesel Service Technology.
KATIE KNIGHT
Katie Knight is a Nutritional Sciences and Dietetics undergraduate at Texas Tech
University. Her artwork is within numerous public and private collections, and she has
shown her work in several galleries and shows.
MADELYN GUNNELS
Madelyn is a sophomore English major at Texas Tech. She is from Pflugerville, Texas,
where she did theatre arts throughout all of high school. She hopes on becoming an ESL
instructor and travelling abroad while writing on the side.
MORGEN MACKE
Originally from Brownwood Texas, Morgen Macke is a studio art major with an emphasis
in photography through The School of Art. He will be obtaining his Bachelor's
Degree in Studio Art this May.
NDO CHIEDU
Ndo is an upcoming junior in advertising. She loves blogging, film & photography. She
wants to be a major contributor to the creative world in the future.
NICOLAS RIVERA
Nicolas Rivera is currently a junior at Texas Tech University and is seeking a degree in
plant and soil sciences with an English minor. Nicolas enjoys writing and has a keen
SARAH G. HUERTA
Sarah is originally from the Dallas area and is a third year English major concentrating in
creative writing. Her work has previously appeared in Underground.
TAYLOR WATKINS
Taylor graduated with a degree in English and a minor in Technical Communication in
December 2018. She enthusiastically aspires to be involved in academia as a career. In her
free time, Taylor enjoys hiking, camping, and reading and reviewing books for her book
review blog.

THEODORE LEOS
Theodore Leos is a graduating Creative Media Industries major. The son of a theatre
actress, He has had a passion for theatre and storytelling since he could walk.
TYLER SEALE
Tyle is a graduating Anthropology major/English minor. Her work this year is all thanks
to procrastination and good coffee.
drama 81

JAK KURDI
Editor-in-Chief
STAFF 2018-2019
Jak is a Senior English Lit major who enjoys rescuing and hanging with dogs, writing
poetry, and going on impromptu road trips with friends. She hopes to pursue a Master’s
Degree in Creative Writing after her graduation in the Fall of 2019.
CECILIA SMITH
Poetry & Prose Editor
Cecilia is a junior English literature major hoping to pursue a career as an editor after
graduation. In her free time she enjoys rock climbing, baking, and watching every terrible
rom com on Netflix.
VICTORIA VANZANDT
Fiction Editor
Victoria is a senior Technical Communications major and English minor graduating in
May. After graduating, she is excited to marry her best friend of eight years before beginning
her journey into Texas Tech’s MATC program. Victoria hopes to one day become
an editor of Fiction novels and enjoys kayaking, reading, and baking new creations.
drama 83
TABATHA MILLER
Non-Fiction Editor
Tabatha Miller is our Non-Fiction Editor for The Harbinger this year. This is her first
year as an editor, but she is looking forward to the experience. She is a Creative Writing
major with her focus on fiction. She is a senior from Breckenridge, Tx. In her spare time,
she loves playing with her two dogs and writing fantasy short stories.
CALLIE WATSON
Drama Editor
Callie is a Interdisciplinary Arts Studies major with concentrations in Dramatic Writing,
Theatre Design/Technology, Creative Media Industries, and Music. She is as eclectic as
her degree plan sounds, and enjoys performing in the TTU Tango and Elegant Savages
orchestras.
KATHIA RAMIREZ
Designer
Kathia is a senior graphic design major from Richardson. Mexican born and Texas
raised, she credits her vibrant designs to her culture and experiences. In her free time
she enjoys exploring new places and hiking.