Sheepshead Review XLV no. 2 (Spring 2023 Edition)

Sheepshead
Review
University of Wisconsin - Green Bay’s Journal of Art and Literature
Spring 2023
Volume 45 no. 2
The inside covers feature 20 years worth of Sheepshead Review covers.
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Editors
Genre Staff
Editor-in-Chief .......................................Jair Zeuske
Advisor ...................................Dr. Rebecca Meacham
Managing Editor .................................Hannah Behling
Assistant Managing Editors ...........................Olivia Meyer
Abby Kaczynski
Layout Editor & Illustration ...........................Elsie McElroy
Fiction Staff
Will Kopp
Matthew Everard
Madeline Perry
Conor Lowery
Visual Arts Staff
Whitney Johnson
Sophia Loeffler
Tatum Bruette
Nova Grieb
Rising Phoenix Contest Coordinator ................. Tori Wittenbrock
Web Designer ......................................Nova Grieb
Publicity Team ......................................Olivia Meyer
Abby Kaczynski
Nova Grieb
Kyndall Haddock
Chief Copyeditor .................................. Serenity Block
Assistant Copyeditor .............................. Nicole Johnson
Nonfiction Staff
Tori Wittenbrock
Nicole Johnson
Tanner St. John
Poetry Staff
Russel Kilian
Olivia Meyer
Issac Azevedo
Sheepshead Review wants to highlight the High School and UW-Green Bay
student submissions for their high achievement to enter into this publication.
These icons mark those submissions.
Poetry Co-Editors .................................Abby Kaczynski
Serenity Block
Fiction Editor .........................................Ethan Craft
Visual Arts Editor ................................Kyndall Haddock
Nonfiction Editor .....................................Austin Votis
High School
Student Submissions
UW-Green Bay
Student Submissions
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Contents
Letters from the Editors ...................................................7-10
Rising Phoenix ............................................14
Nonfiction Winner: Holiday Break is Over by Madeline Perry ...........13-16
Poetry Winner: The Taste of an Orange by Mickey Schommer .................17-18
Poetry Winner: A Toad in Spring by Lily Greeley ............................19-20
Visual Arts Winner: Nightmarish Phantasm JOKER by Alora Clark ..............21-22
Fiction Winner: Amanita Muscaria by Madeline Perry ........................23-25
Nonfiction ............................................... 28
Bye Bark by C.R. Kellogg ...............................................29-30
Laughter Like Breaking Glass by Gretchen S Sando ..........................31-37
Avocado Lady by Nicole Johnson ........................................38-40
A “Little Man” Named Rusoff by Sid Sitzer .................................41-42
No Olympians Here by Melissa Sharpe ...................................43-45
My Cousin, My Brain, and Chris Farley by Darlene Campos ..................46-52
Poetry .................................................. 54
A Most Curvaceous Ghost by Matt Gulley .................................55-56
Starry Night by Issac Azevedo ...........................................57-58
Spilt Milk by Mia Huang ................................................59-60
/bAIR/ by Darwin Michener-Rutledge ....................................61-62
Coffee Date by Erica Berquist ...............................................63
Joni’s Going Through a Linear Cat Phase by Ed Brickell ..........................64
DISHES by Aria Jean ......................................................65
the journey up from hell was an emotional one by Kylie Heling ....................66
Coming upon an Ex at the Coffeehouse by John Grey ...........................67
Intracontinental Soul-Drift by Kelly Talbot .....................................68
Crumbled Tissue by Mia Huang ..........................................69-71
One Last Dream by Camilla Doherty .........................................72
Quantum by Hailee Murphy ................................................73
Pearls by Camilla Doherty ..................................................74
Contents
Visual Arts .............................................. 76
Meal Prep by Alora Clark ..................................................77
A Place of Uncanny Scarlet by Alora Clark ....................................78
The Magician by Coriander Focus ...........................................79
Title Piece 1: It’ll Do. by Ana Casbourne ......................................80
Overtaken by Brooke Biese .................................................81
Inviting in Spring by Kelsey Harrison .........................................82
Fall by Ccrow ............................................................83
Leaves by Ccrow .........................................................84
Breathe in, Breathe out by Larissa Hauck ......................................85
The Cliff by Ava Weix .....................................................86
Still Life by Ava Weix ......................................................87
The Beauty of Space by Brooke Biese ........................................88
Glistening Falls by Kira Ashbeck .............................................89
The Devil by Coriander Focus ...............................................90
Someone in the Nobody by Aditi Singh .......................................91
Derealization by Ava Weix .................................................92
New York State Landscapes by David Carter ..................................93
Taxco, Guerrero, México by Kyra Christensen .................................94
Autopilot by Aluu Prosper ..................................................95
Can You Feel Our Pain by Aluu Prosper .......................................96
Fiction .................................................. 98
An Open Base by Roland Goity .........................................99-102
Site Selection for a Witches’ Sabbath by Colin Punt ........................103-105
Lady Ophelia and the Missing Mitten by Dani Fankhauser ..................106-110
The Colossus by Karen Court ...............................................111
The Fakers Game by Geoffrey B. Cain ....................................112-115
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Letter from the Editor
Welcome to the Spring 2023 Issue of the Sheepshead Review! This semester
marks the 20th anniversary of what I refer to as Sheepshead’s ‘revivification’ at
the hands of our wondrous Dr. Rebecca Meacham. While the Review had existed
since UW-Green Bay’s earliest years, it had petered out in the years before
Dr. Meacham took charge and laid the groundwork for the system that exists
today. This issue exists as a celebration of both Dr. Meacham and the countless
staff members who held each of our positions in the past, all of whom have made
their own contributions to the identity of the journal which culminated in the book
you see before you.
I’m a sucker for grandeur, so when I got the inkling of a legacy beginning two
decades ago leading up to my staff and myself only to surpass us and continue
on into the future, I knew I wanted to run with the theme of time and history. Then,
it was proposed that we fill this issue with the imagery of some of the prominent
cornerstone issues of the past twenty years to show the evolution of the Review
over the course of a single issue. Admittedly, it sounded like a fantastic idea that
was well beyond reach.
However, just as last semester, I owe this masterpiece to my Layout Editor and
dear friend, Elsie McElroy. I knew this would be a higher ball than last semester,
but she, Meacham, and our Managing Editor, Hannah Behling, all loved the idea
so we provided Elsie with a stack of at least a dozen issues with the coolest covers
and strongest themes for her to synthesize into something coherent. Two weeks
later, she returned with the line art concepts for the existing genre spreads and at
first sight there was no turning back, the concept was too perfect.
I could talk for pages about our process, but instead I’ll leave room for Elsie to
talk on her process instead and give my final remarks as Editor-in-Chief.
Dr. Meacham’s faith in me and Hannah and Elsie’s support has the highest honor
of my life and if you had told me last year that I would one day not want to
leave a leadership position, I would have called you a poor judge of character.
Sheepshead Review and my editorship has been a transformative experience and
a spectacular privilege, and I share this honor with each Editor-in-Chief that came
before me and all who will come after me, so I dedicate this issue to them all, past
and future.
I would also like to thank our Rising Phoenix judges: Bill Gosse, Denise Sweet,
Ali Juul, and Saul Lemerond for lending their time to review some of the best
pieces submitted by our student body here at UW-Green Bay and provide us with
their commentary on what made their favorites so extraordinary. Congratulations
as well to the students whose pieces were chosen by our judges as exemplary
works of art exhibiting the incredible creative skills held by the students here at
UW-Green Bay.
Finally, I thank the rest of our wonderful contributors and staff members, who
keep the cycle running here at the Review by creating such beautiful works of
art and by dedicating a considerable amount of extracurricular time to analyze
every beautiful work of art I assign to them. And thank you to you, our readers,
for supporting this endeavor. I hope you enjoy this issue we’ve created and
continue to enjoy the Sheepshead Review beyond the end of this issue’s pages.
Jair Zeuske
Editor-in-Chief
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Letter from the Advisor
Over 20 years ago, I interviewed for an Assistant Professor job at UW-Green Bay.
On campus, I met a group of students who shouted poetry to the world from downtown
sidewalks. They presented me with an anthology of their work.
These students are passionate, a little offbeat, I thought. We could do great things
together.
I took the job in part because my duties included reviving Sheepshead Review. As a
former fiction editor of a national journal, I’d learned firsthand—and wanted to share—
how editors read submissions (caffeinated, on volunteer time), and why (because we
must, because we love art).
Sheepshead Review began as Sheepshead Revue in the 1960s, during our young
university’s first years. The journal operated as a student organization, advised by various
faculty. But in 2002, the journal had no budget or staff. That fall, I walked into my first
class ready to recruit. Five students signed on.
By spring 2003, operating as both a new three-credit course and a student
organization, Sheepshead Review relaunched with a staff of 22 students. Our office was
a tote bag. Our first issue’s cover featured a hammer breaking a lightbulb: inspiration,
exploding.
Since then, students have smashed lightbulbs again and again. Staffers became genre
editors, then Editors-in-Chief. They started the Rising Phoenix contest, now in its 19th
year. They created web pages, social media, themed issues, launch parties. They made
space to publish high school students alongside international artists and UW-Green Bay
students.
And, oh! The design! Layout editors dreamed in color, then made it so. They
introduced us to soft-touch covers, spot varnish, the joy/headache of fold-out pages. It’s
still thrilling when a layout editor unveils their concepts.
Along the way, Sheepshead Review staffers have inspired the development of an
undergraduate-run book press and a new major. The impact they’ve made on our
campus, and beyond, is immeasurable.
Measurably, 20 years post-reboot, we received 1300 submissions this year, including
60 from high schoolers and 150+ from UW-Green Bay students.
Parenthetically, this is my first (and likely only) “advisor’s letter.” I’m stealing prime real
estate—a whole issue page! This journal exists for our students to share their innovations
with the world. My job is to guide them—and clear pathways to blaze.
It has been—and will continue to be— the best job I could ask for.
Let’s raise a celebratory glass (and smash it): to 20 years and counting!
—Rebecca Meacham, a.k.a. Dr. M.
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Letter from the Layout Editor
To celebrate the 20 years of Sheepshead Review’s revitalization, we in the Top Brass,
as well as our Advisor, Dr. Rebecca Meacham, decided that the theme of time would fit
the bill for this semester’s layout theme. Yet, the concept of time is often difficult to convey.
So, we turned our eyes back to the heart of the matter: the journal itself.
I was only able to overcome the difficulty of this theme for two reasons. The first
reason being Dr. Meacham and my fellow Top Brass editors, Editor-in-Chief Jair Zeuske
and Managing Editor Hannah Behling, for being incredibly encouraging and working
hard on bringing together the theme. They are truly the ones that embody the heart of
the journal. The second reason, and the reason why I’m honored to write, is quite literally
standing on the backs of 20 years worth of Sheepshead Review staff members.
This is the issue that attempted to smash together 20 years worth of material into a
tribute. The journal starts with the UW-Green Bay’s mascot, the phoenix. Like the phoenix,
Sheepshead Review was reborn anew from the ashes of the old back in 2003 under
the guidance of Dr. Meacham. The phoenix, once unbound, will grab and break the
hourglass representing Sheepshead Review’s lifetime. The four content-based spreads
seen throughout the journal each represent a different era of Sheepshead Review. The
first spread representing Nonfiction is a call back to the first issue from 2003, where the
budget only allowed for printing in print black and white. The second spread featuring
Poetry signals the shift in 2007 to going with the first full-color issue featuring a tree on its
cover. Visual Art’s third spread is to represent the era of graphic design, with the famous
“train car cover” and many others. Finally, the final spread with Fiction is to represent the
most recent years, where the previous staffs have focused on themes, drawing characters
and concepts to represent the journal.
As inevitable as time itself, thus comes the Spring 2023 issue’s last spread. The final
spread features a shepherd from the 2020 issue cover, whose entrance had been hit by
the pandemic, guiding the staff of Sheepshead into the future. This current staff that has
put together this journal will not remain, some graduating, some staying. Yet, our work,
the contributors’ work, will live on bookshelves, in backpacks, and wherever else this
issue may find itself. Sheepshead Review will continue on, making new volumes—adding
the sand of time to the dunes that others may be able to walk across.
Best of luck to the future.
—Layout Editor and Illustrator Elsie McElroy
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Rising Phoenix
Every spring since 2004, Sheepshead Review has held the Rising Phoenix
Contest to honor the best UW-Green Bay student submissions as judged
by esteemed local and national recognized artists. The purpose behind our
Rising Phoenix contest is to highlight the best and brightest work produced
by students at our University. For this issue, our judges awarded honors in
four traditional categories: Nonfiction, Poetry, Visual Arts, and Fiction. The
winning works are displayed here, at the beginning of the journal, aloingside
comments from the judges who selected their work. We are always searching
for exceptional work, and our Rising Phoenix Contest is one of the many ways
in which we strive to honor local talent.
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Nonfiction Winner
Judged by: Bill Gosse
Bill Gosse is passionate about improving the
environment in youth sports. When not helping
the needy as Executive Director at SVdP Green
Bay, he’s speaking of sportsmanship countrywide,
and for ten years wrote a weekly column.
Now, he’s the author of SCORE: A Guide to
Supporting and Instilling Exceptional Sportsmanship.
He’s married, a Green Bay resident,
and father of five boys.
This is a short story about two young ladies experiencing a change in their
lives. Or were they, as they reminisced about memories of a wonderful place
along coastal shores? From what I concluded, these sisters are about to have their
routine altered as their grandmother is moving to a new home. They struggle with
what they are losing – if anything, because they have their golden memories. To
most, a day’s sunset may seem like a routine, common event, but not in this story,
as it is a valued treasure to be remembered forever. This descriptive piece was a
joy for me to read as I followed these sisters navigate one of their final afternoons
in what I envisioned as a small town along the Pacific Ocean. Monterrey, California,
a honeymoon stop, popped into my mind when I read this reminiscing tale
of wonderful experiences with “water whipping against the shore in great white
crests.” Because of the author’s descriptive palette, I was able to “read” this story
in color, which made it more inviting to peruse again and again, bringing back
those early marital experiences I treasure in my life.
Holiday Break is Over
by Madeline Perry
A girl glanced out an antique window, drinking in the view of the bay.
The sun, a brilliant ball of gold so late in the afternoon, made every flower
and dock, tree and mast glow in a color that never failed to make her fall a
little more in love.
She drew her gaze away, trying to force herself to ignore the feeling of
finality that threatened to wash over her.
You’re not losing that, she told herself firmly, shaking out the fresh
laundry with more force than was necessary.
A well-worn mental list came to her mind almost automatically, all the
things that she could still do and places she could still go, and she tried to
ignore how desperate it made her feel. She ignored the thick feeling in her
throat, determined not to think about it at just that moment.
“Hey, do you wanna go watch the sunset with me?” a second girl asked,
popping her head into their shared bedroom.
“Yeah, sure. What time is the sunset?”
“Soon, we have to leave in a few minutes.”
The first girl nodded, setting down the shirt she’d been folding, and
headed downstairs to find her sneakers.
***
The pair of them took the longer route to the beach, the one that
meandered through the older part of town and took the path through the
trees. The first girl busied herself focusing on how the world looked- the way
the setting sun brought out all the beautiful tones in the greens of the flora,
highlighted the dirt-and-mulch path in gold.
You’re not losing this, she repeated to herself, a dismal mantra that was
swiftly losing its meaning.
You’re not.
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She didn’t have to look at her sister to know she felt the same way.
It felt silly then, for just a moment. How could she feel so upset about
something so surface, so trivial, when other people had real problems?
This is a real problem. And I’m not losing everything.
She wasn’t sure she believed that anymore.
“Do you- do you think Grandma is going to make us cut hosta flowers at
the new house?”
The second girl stressed new, and her sister wondered if it was because
she was still reconciling what their future looked like.
The first girl tried not to be bitter. It hurt, and it sucked, but she hoped to
be okay sooner rather than later.
The pair of them arrived at the beach, taking up their usual place on the
large rocks placed in front of the wall. Most people didn’t think to sit there,
but the girls knew the stones were stable and it had the best unimpeded
view of the water.
The sunset was beautiful, in all the ways a beautiful sunset can be so. The
sky was just a little cloudy, purple and magenta-pink edged in gold leaf,
and the sky was aflame, ranging from burning red-orange to a pretty pale
indigo.
A sigh. A camera shutter going off. A tear wiped surreptitiously with a
slightly damp sleeve, don’t let your sister see.
You’re not losing this.
Another sigh.
“I know,” the first girl said quietly. “This sucks.”
She shifted her feet, the stone digging its harsh edges into her ankle.
“It really does,” her sister replied.
Neither looked away from the sunset for a moment, drinking it in as
though they’d never seen one before and wouldn’t get the chance again.
That wasn’t the case, of course. They’d lived here every summer they
could remember, sitting at the same rocky beach a hundred times with
sunsets of varying degrees of stunning. Sometimes they came to watch the
wind whip the water against the shore in great white crests. Sometimes they
brought the dog here. But their local nature could not be determined from
the looks on their faces.
“At least we aren’t losing this,” the first girl said suddenly, gesturing
vaguely past the waves rushing over the smaller rocks that made up the
shoreline. She was trying to be positive.
“Yeah. I guess,” the second girl replied.
Her tone was dry. She wasn’t buying it.
The first girl sighed.
The others on the beach began to clap as the sun disappeared over the
island on the horizon. Despite the sky’s desperation to hold onto the color,
grey-blue and pale indigo began to leech in and bleed into the brighter
colors, dulling them down to match the mood.
“We should get back home. Mom ordered pizza.”
The first girl watched the second try to hide her flinch, but she didn’t say
anything.
The first girl had ignored the twist in her own heart, and she offered a
small smile as she stood.
Neither spoke on the walk home, enjoying the fact that they still lived
within walking distance of everything, at least until the end of this last
summer.
I’m losing a lot, but it’s not everything.
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Poetry Co-Winner
Judged by: Dee Sweet
The Taste of an Orange
by Mickey Schommer
Anishinaabe from White Earth, Dee Sweet is
WI’s second Poet Laureate (2004-08). Along
with her collection, Palominos Near Tuba City,
her work is featured in anthologies such as
When the Light of the World Was Subdued,
Our Songs Came Through, a Norton anthology
edited by Joy Harjo, and Undocumented:
Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice,
edited by Ron Reiki. A Professor Emerita of
UW-Green Bay, she is a community organizer,
and also serves as Poet Laureate for the city
of Bayfield.
While the poem’s obvious strength may be found in its rich sensual language
and magnified detail, I appreciated the poet’s decision towards a more
spontaneous appearance to its form and development and less of a careful
unfolding of select childhood memories. Within the inspired moments of
procuring, peeling and eating the succulent oranges, the poet builds credibility by
moving confidently from stanza to stanza, and does so through triggering insights
and recollection rather than by sequence or chronology. The physical rendering
of the poem is influenced by the very nature of the workings of memory— what
seems to be random neural firings of the poet, now has coherence and intention
within this poem.
Here is a poem shaped by form and content to arrive at a final last line: love
is the taste of an orange. And while poems will often rest heavily on the impact of
their final lines, the mention of “twelve *peeled oranges” (*my emphasis) in the
opening line meanders its way to power and significance by restating its simple
title as its last line. Deliberate in its art and craft, I am pleased to submit “The Taste
of an Orange” as a co-winner of the Rising Phoenix Poetry Competition.
For your birthday, I gifted you twelve peeled oranges.
Your fingers had always fumbled against its porous skin,
pulling aimlessly at the rind until it left a massacred pile
on the table, rivulets of its nectar trickling into pools.
When we were younger, we discovered an orange tree
in your neighbor’s yard. The thievery, dismissed by our youth,
was euphoric enough, but the soft bite of the orange, its sour-sweet taste,
was a breathless, easy promise.
I remember those sour-sweet days bathed in golden light,
holding those oranges in the summer as if the heat alone
ignited our palms in a fiery glow.
The golden drip of juice sliding down our arms was something holy and
we never forgot the innate childlike movement
to lick it up with our tongues.
Now, though I don’t know you, I still think that
love is the taste of an orange.
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Poetry Co-Winner
Judged by: Dee Sweet
Anishinaabe from White Earth, Dee Sweet is
WI’s second Poet Laureate (2004-08). Along
with her collection, Palominos Near Tuba City,
her work is featured in anthologies such as
When the Light of the World Was Subdued,
Our Songs Came Through, a Norton anthology
edited by Joy Harjo, and Undocumented:
Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice,
edited by Ron Reiki. A Professor Emerita of
UW-Green Bay, she is a community organizer,
and also serves as Poet Laureate for the city
of Bayfield.
A Toad in Spring
I am but a warted toad in love,
Finding beauty in every odd thing;
Sent alone to the heavens above.
by Lily Greeley
Unsullied, unbothered, a golden dove,
Yearning for her gaze; to hear her voice ring;
I am but a warted toad in love.
Poinsettia stylings and satin gloves,
Rain-soaked shoes and novel dates; this must be Spring.
Sent alone to the heavens above.
The love I received, or lack thereof,
Look, touch; my love’s broken wing
I am but a warted toad in love.
What I most appreciated about “A Toad in Spring” is that it’s a formal poem. A
good villanelle isn’t easy for a younger poet to write; in writing workshops, lines
are scrutinized and syllables are counted. Here is a tightly wound, wonderful
example of the form to celebrate the reawakening across Wisconsin of all the
toads in spring. I am thrilled to announce “A Toad in Spring” as a co-winner of
the Rising Phoenix Poetry Competition.
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Visual Arts Winner
Judged by: Ali Juul
Nightmarish Phantasm
JOKER
by Alora Clark
Ali Juul is an illustrator, writer, and editor based
out of Two Rivers, Wisconsin. She graduated
from UW-Green Bay in 2021 with a BFA in
Writing and Applied Arts. She continued to
work with the university’s Teaching Press after
graduation, illustrating the blog-turned-book
Call Me Morgue by Morgan Moran.
I love how beautifully layered this piece is; everywhere you look there’s something
new to notice. My eye was immediately drawn to the magical jellyfish in
the foreground with the pops of red, blue, and purple. I was so busy admiring
them that it took me a moment to realize the nightmarish elements lurking in the
background. The contrast between the colorful and the black and white is what
truly made this piece stand out to me. Not only that, but every element is carefully
detailed and perfected, yet still very fluid looking with a considerable amount
of motion behind them. I love the swirling tendrils of the jellyfish, the billowing
clouds, the flowing curtains, and the clawmark-like lines surrounding the creature
and their terrifying eye. Everything about this piece is beautifully executed!
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Fiction Winner
Judged by: Saul Lemerond
Originally from Green Bay, Wisconsin, Saul
Lemerond is a dyslexic writer who, along with
the love of his life and their dog, lives in Madison,
Indiana where he teaches Creative Writing
and American Literature at Hanover College.
His fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared
in Bourbon Penn, K-Zine, JMWW, and
elsewhere.
This story is lovely for so many reasons. It personifies one of the most beautiful
and perhaps most recognizable of mushrooms, the amanita muscaria, with its
red cap and white spots. The author then complicates this personification with
several universal themes: the loneliness of isolation, the tragedy of desire, the
transience of beauty, and the fragility of existence. This parallels nicely to modern
life with its contemplations, its office parties, and its constant cycle of endings
and beginnings. There is also a subtext of danger here. For if the young girl who
picked this beautiful mushroom decides to eat it, she’ll become as ephemeral as
the Little Red she so blithely plucked from the ground.
Amanita Muscaria
by Madeline Perry
Little Red sat on her stump, contemplating. She was always
contemplating. There wasn’t much else to do, to see, especially this early on
a misty morning. Her cap was slick with dew, dribbling down to drench her,
but she didn’t move to shake it off.
She was contemplating the small grey mushrooms on the stump beside
hers. There were many of them, clumped together, grown like the stump’s
personal umbrellas. One in particular— the third one from the left, near the
middle but not quite central— was shorter than the rest, standing out like a
young child at an office party.
Little Red didn’t know about office parties, but if she did, that is what she
would have said about the small grey mushroom.
A breeze picked at the still-damp leaves scattered across the forest floor
and threw a handful at Little Red, and still she did not reach to pluck them
from her cap. She rather thought they might suit her, matching the stump she
rested on.
She wished she had friends like that small grey mushroom did. There
were so many of them over there, all grouped together, and she could
almost hear them talking to one another. Little Red would only need one,
just one friend, to talk to about the small grey mushrooms and the leaves
that landed on her and the dew that made the world soggy. Just one friend,
that was all she needed.
She wondered if the small grey mushrooms were looking at her, with the
leaves on her cap. It was hard to tell with small grey mushrooms.
Wishing her stump were closer to that of those lucky grey mushrooms,
Little Red felt as the leaves on top of her slipped off to land beside her on
her stump, but she did not afford them any further attention.
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She thought she ought to give the particular small grey mushroom a
name. Lacking much in the way of creativity, Little Red decided to call
the small grey mushroom Grey. The rest of the small grey mushrooms, she
decided, would be called Grey the Mushroom’s friends.
The mists of the forest morning were slowly turning into the clouds of the
day as Little Red contemplated. So invested was she in her naming of the
grey mushrooms she did not notice the young girl with a basket in hand
quickly approaching.
Quick was the picking, faster still the drop into that basket, and suddenly
Little Red found herself surrounded by woven reeds, though she did not
know what reeds were. She was rather surprised to find the world had
gone all sideways on her, and her cap felt crooked and her stalk felt
wrong.
Little Red had no time to consider this before suddenly she was being
squashed.
Grey the Mushroom and all of his friends were piled on top of her, but
she could not complain. It was she, of course, who had wished for friends,
and now she had some.
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Nonfiction

Bye Bark
by C.R. Kellogg
Dogs only die metaphorically. They cross the rainbow bridge or frolic in a
magical apple orchard. Conversely, my grandfather is in an urn next to my aunt’s
bread maker. We tell our children their dead pets went to a farm far away and,
years later, they pay a therapist $250 an hour to process the trauma of that lie.
Our dog died recently. That sounds very passive. We euthanized our dog is
more accurate. He was suffering, etc. The why doesn’t matter, he’s dead now.
To save on future psychotherapy bills, we decided to tell our son directly and in
concrete terms.
My husband explained, “Bart was sick. He had ouchies. So he went away.
Died. We won’t see him anymore.”
Our son repeated, but could not, at this time, pronounce hard “tee” sounds.
“Ouchies. Bye-bye Bark.”
The next morning, we fed our remaining dog and our sweet son asked, “Where
Bark?” with a comic shrug, hands forming a W, his brow concerned. It was very
cute. My husband and I burst into tears.
We explained again the dog was dead. Bye Bart. Not coming back. Gone.
That night, I cooked dinner and heard our toddler singing to his Legos. I tuned
in.
“Bye-bye Bark.” His croons rose from whisper to mezzo-soprano scream.
I wept into the sweating onions. Then I knelt among the blocks and told him
Mommy felt sad when he mentioned Bart. He looked at me blankly then mimed
the drooping sad crayon from the Crayon Book of Feelings. We were on the right
track. He was getting it.
Then the next day, I read him GO DOG GO. On every page, he pointed to a
dog and said “Bark.” Then he whipped around to try and catch my expression,
shrieking with laughter then hanging his head in mock despair.
I hid the dog books. But toddlers have a hawk’s vision for forbidden objects,
and one morning I found in his bed Big Dog Little Dog, Two Dogs, and Good
Dog Carl.
Then, a week later, I paused outside the door to my son’s room. He was having
a conversation with Bark. He introduced Bark to his two stuffed dogs, both named
Puppy, and babbled incoherently about sharks.
I opened the door and, despite myself, scanned the room. Wearily, I sat beside
my son’s bed and asked if he was talking to Bart. He nodded.
“Where is Bart?” I asked.
My son pointed through the window to where the morning sun streamed
through bare maple branches like a finger of light from the heavens.
“Sounds about right.”
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30

Laughter Like Breaking Glass
by Gretchen S Sando
1969. I’m twelve now. The seventh-grade dance is this Friday. Everyone’s
talking about it. Except me. I’ve never been to a dance before—and I don’t want
to go to this one. Mother says I’ll change my mind. That means I have to go.
Craig’s been going to dances for years and knows all about this kind of stuff.
He has a girlfriend. Craig is popular and good looking—even with glasses. He’s
on the boy’s swim team, so his blond hair has that chlorine shine. So does mine—
but who cares.
Craig and Scott share the front corner bedroom above the garage. Their door
is open. Craig’s at his desk with his chair tipped back on two legs and a book in
his lap. I knock twice on the doorjamb. He looks up.
“Craig, can you please talk to me about something? I have a serious problem
and figured you’d be the best person to ask. I can’t talk to Mother about it.”
“What’s up?” He downs the two legs of his chair and his book gets a twohanded
slap-shut-frisbee-toss to his dark green corduroy bedspread.
I cross the carpet-line boundary from the hallway into his room. “Where’s
Scott?” I glance at his half of the room. “I don’t want to him to know about this.”
“He’s downstairs somewhere. What’s wrong?”
“It’s about the seventh-grade dance.” I crinkle up my face. “I don’t think I want
to go.”
“Why not? You should go.” Craig smiles into the air—probably because his air
just turned into Sue’s face—that’s his girlfriend. “Dances are fun. You’ll see.”
My hands fly into fists up under my chin. I kick at the flecks of black and white
in the carpet. “What if a boy asks me to dance? I don’t know how to dance.”
“Say yes and just follow along. When you get there, watch how the other kids
dance.”
I scuff at the carpet again. “But I don’t know how to act around boys.”
“Just act natural. And don’t try to act like anyone else.” Craig grins, “Just be
yourself.”
“But how do you know how to do that?”
“Just be your usual self. Be who you are—and go to the dance. You’ll have
fun.”
My usual self—what’s that? “You won’t say anything to Mother—will you?”
“‘Course not. You worry too much. Go to the dance.”
I turn inside out and head down the hall. How I act depends on where I am or
who I’m with. I watch others. How else would I know how to act? It’s the only way
I know to get around in the world. The floor is warping.
How do people know who they are? How do they know what their usual self
is? Why doesn’t anyone talk about this? My head is flooding.
My stomach reaches a wall and does a flip-turn. I close the bathroom door.
Time speeds away. I stare at the mirror. “Myself . . . Me. Myself. And I.” These are
one? At the same time? All the time? So . . . I is me. Me is myself. And myself is
I? They’re supposed to be together? My face is hot and red. Do other kids know
about this? Is that why some kids always seem to know what to do or how to be?
Does everybody else have one—a usual self—for all the time, no matter where?
There’s a stabbing in my head. My ears are throbbing. I’m underwater—in the
dark. Alone. The pool filter is running. I’m floating away—into nothingness.
—That’s because you aren’t real. You’re just an empty space that moves
around.
There’s a whispering—then laughter that sounds like breaking glass. I’m startled
back to the bathroom—and the mirror. How long have I been in here?
I’ve got to forget about this and act normal. But I have no idea what that is. I’ll
have to hide instead . . . in plain sight. I’ve got to be quiet. So quiet that no one
notices me. I’ve got to blend in with the walls.
—You’ve got to blend into the walls.
Head to feet my body shudders.
The dance is this Friday. If I go, I’ll be discovered. It’ll be obvious that
I’m different—that I don’t have what they all have. I can’t go. I won’t go.
Grandmother and Granddad are visiting this weekend. They arrive the day of the
dance. That’ll be my reason not to go.
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***
Turns out, Grandmother and Granddad know all about the dance.
Grandmother bought me a new skirt for it. “A belated birthday gift,” she says.
It’s bright red, pleated, and made of polyester. I hate it for all of those reasons.
But I thank her. Over and over again, I thank Grandmother so she’ll know how
much I love it. Then I say, “I don’t really want to go to the dance.”
“Oh, you must go to your first dance,” she says. “You’ll regret it someday if you
don’t. And you have this new skirt for your first dance.”
Mother knows I hate red and she already okayed the dark blue dress, white
sweater, and white knee socks I planned to wear. But she immediately agrees
with Grandmother and holds it up against my waist. It falls to my calves and is
about four inches too wide. Thank you, thank you, thank you, God.
“Try it on. I can pin the waist and hem it,” says Mother ever-so cheerfully.
“But there isn’t time before the dance, Mother. I can wear it to the next dance.”
“Nonsense. There’s plenty of time and you’ll look very nice in it. Go put it on.”
“But I don’t have a blouse to go with it.” There’s got to be an out.
Mother stands up to fetch the pins, needle, and thread. My eyes fall to their
knees and plead. She glares disapproval, but in her sing-songy voice says, “I’m
sure we’ll find something. Now hurry so I can get started.” She follows me into
the kitchen and tells me, “I know this isn’t your favorite color, but we’re doing it to
please your grandmother.”
Mother refuses to hem the dress any shorter than my knees. Every other girl
at the dance will have a short dress or skirt. How am I going to blend into the
wall wearing red? Mother rummages through my closet and finds a blouse that I
hate—striped with red, orange, and pink on white.
“It doesn’t even go with the skirt,” I complain. “I don’t want to go at all and
now I have to wear this? I look stupid.”
“It’ll go well enough. Straighten up and stop whining. You look fine.”
***
Downstairs, everyone says I look so nice and that I’ll have a good time. I smile
and say, “Thank you.” No one can hear the screaming in my head. My eyes
brim up.
“This is the last first dance you’ll ever go to,” says Granddad. He hugs me with
a sharp slap on the back. I stiffen with the slap—and his joke. But I laugh with
everyone else.
Dad hands me a quarter. “This is mad money. If you need to come home early,
you can use this to call. Grab your coat and let’s get you there.”
I’m already mad. I’ve never used a pay phone in my life. If I call, Mother will
be furious.
I have the urge to stomp my feet all the way to the car—like a four-year-old.
Instead, I try to walk the gravel drive without making a sound. I never succeed—it
crunches under foot.
Oh perfect. Dad is taking me to the dance in his green Olds Ninety-Eight—a
fancy car with fender skirts. Skirts—of course. They make the backend look like
it’s dragging on the ground. I open the door and slide into the stink of cigarettes.
It clings to my clothes like static. Sinks into my pores. Filters through my hair—
wrapping each strand in nicotine.
It’s raining and already dark. I stare out my side window. The houses we pass
blur and warp through the rain that hits the glass. Dad asks, “Honey, can you tell
me why you don’t want to go to the dance?”
I half shrug to the window.
“I would have thought you’d be excited about going.” He continues. “There
must be some reason why you don’t want to go.”
My head explodes. “Nobody I know is going. I don’t know how to dance.
I don’t know how to act around boys. I don’t even like boys. I hate what I’m
wearing. I’ll be the only girl there with a skirt down to my knees. I’m ugly and
everyone will talk about me at school on Monday. I hate school. I hate dances. I
don’t understand why I have to go, especially since Grandmother and Granddad
are here.” I snuffle up tears. Dad reaches to pat to my shoulder.
“Okay now. Slow down and take a breath. Did you talk with Mother about all
this?”
“Not all of it. She knows I don’t want to go and she knows I hate the skirt.” I
sniffle repeatedly. Dad fishes for his handkerchief and hands it to me.
“I didn’t use it today,” he says.
My “thank you” gets caught up in another snuffle.
“I’m sorry, Honey. But I agree with Mother and Grandmother. This is an
important step in growing up. And you’re selling yourself short. You’re a beautiful
young lady, inside and out. You look very nice in your new skirt. I bet lots of boys
will ask you to dance.”
It’s no use. I shouldn’t have said anything. Dad makes the turn to Beaty School.
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“Just drop me at the lobby entrance, Dad—please.” He puts the car in park.
“You’re going to be fine. Why don’t you stop at the ladies’ room first to rinse
your face?”
“Okay.” I swallow, sniff, and blink away more tears. “Thank you, Dad.”
As I get out of the car, he says, “Go ahead and keep my handkerchief with
you. And don’t forget. It’s okay to use that quarter if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll
pick you up at nine.”
“Okay. Thanks for the ride, Dad.” I know he’ll be late. I’ll be standing alone in
the dark by the time he arrives. That’s how it goes at the Y after swim practice. The
last person out of the building locks the door and asks if I’ll be all right. “Oh sure,”
I always say. “Dad will be here any minute.” Sometimes I wait an hour. That’s just
the way it is—our family is always late.
The dance started thirty minutes ago. I walk in alone to an empty lobby. Music
crashes out of the cafeteria. Why do they have it so loud? I already want to leave.
A teacher I don’t know greets me at the door. “Have fun,” he says with a smile.
I nod and turn quickly so he won’t see my efforts to avoid crying. I hardly
recognize the cafeteria. It’s mostly dark, except for sparkling lights that spin and
bounce off every surface. The tables have been moved against the far wall. The
music is coming from the opposite end of the room. Craig told me there’d be a
DJ—a guy who plays the records.
“Would you like a glass of punch and a cookie?”
My hand jumps into a fist—ready to throw a punch. I scan for the voice—then
relax and pretend that I wasn’t startled—like trying to sound awake when the
phone rings late at night and the voice asks, ‘Did I wake you?’
It’s a smiling lady I don’t recognize. “Oh. No thank you. I didn’t bring any
money.”
“The snacks are provided by the school. You don’t have to pay for them.”
“Oh. Well . . . I’m stuffed from dinner. Maybe later.” The cookies and brownies
look so good. I can feel my stomach growling. Why didn’t I say ‘Yes’? What’s
wrong with me? Mother’s not here to disapprove.
—Everything’s wrong with you. You’re an idiot and you don’t deserve cookies.
Some of the popular kids are dancing. Around the edges, groups of boys hang
out with boys and groups of girls hang out with girls. But some kids sit alone or
stand against the walls. I’ll be one of those. I find a chair with empty seats on both
sides. Settle in. Listen to the music. And disappear into the sparkling lights.
***
I blink hard as the cafeteria fluorescents flash on in rows. The sparkling lights
are gone. There’s no music. Students are mish-mashing through the doors to get
to their coats in the lobby. A female teacher with swept-up dark hair and tall
shiny black boots hurriedly swipes paper cups, plates, and napkins off tables
and chairs into a trash bin she drags along beside her. Two male teachers hustlecrunch
molded aqua-blue chairs into stacks—jangling the metal legs into each
other. The mirrored ball floats down a stepladder. A four-foot-wide dust mop
silently shifts lanes around my feet—across the vinyl blue and white tile of the
cafeteria floor. The DJ is coiling electrical cords, piling equipment into boxes on
wheels, latching lids—scanning every outlet, table, and floor beneath. The dance
has ended.
I join the other stragglers exiting the cafeteria. The lobby is a crush of hurry-up
seventh graders. A tired-looking teacher leans against the trophy case and swings
his arms—bouncing a flat-sided fist into his other hand. I have no reason to hurry.
I’m last in line for my coat.
It’s cold outside. Breath-like white shadows rise and fade—beaten down by the
rain. A chaos of cars maneuver in and out—edging up to the overhang—honking
for their children and for other cars to move.
Within ten minutes, the crowd and chaos dwindle—a dozen of us still wait
under the overhang. The wind picks up at an angle, gusting down the narrow
drive for the bus exit. Another five minutes and all are gone but two boys—heads
hunkered into their turned-up coat collars, at the end of the platform—smoking.
Two glowing red spots track to the concrete and snuff out before they land. The
doors behind me are chained and locked. The boys step off the platform—trot into
the rain and out of sight down the bus lane.
Four cars from the teacher’s lot roll by—up the rise onto Conewango Avenue.
I stare at the rain in the single street light, listen to the splatter overhead, and turn
my back to the wind. It helps distract from my shivering. At least I’m wearing knee
socks—should’ve brought my gloves.
There he is. Dad slows his Ninety-Eight to a stop in front of me. I open the car
door, which draws his last puff of cigarette smoke into my face. At least the inside
is warm and the seat is comfortable.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I misjudged the time,” says Dad.
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“That’s okay,” I say. That’s what I always say. I’m glad it’s dark and Dad has to
look at the road instead of me.
“Well, how did it go?” he asks. “Did you have a good time?”
I shrug to my ears. “It was alright.” When he begins with more questions, I turn
to look at the splotchy street lights through the rain on the window.
“Did you dance with anyone?”
“No. But a short boy with glasses talked to me as I walked by the snack table.”
“Oh? What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Hi.’”
“And what did you say?”
“I said ‘Hi’ back to him. Then I went to the restroom.”
Avocado Lady
by Nicole Johnson
I was working on filling the strawberry table for an hour. People rushed to grab
at them, messing up the entire display. Stray strawberries had lost their original
container and were fatally stomped on by loose children. Other containers
were flipped upside down, and some had been abandoned in the lime display.
Customers couldn’t care less about the work that goes into keeping everything
stocked and clean.
It’s one thing to just pick up a container and take it; it’s another thing to dig
three layers deep in the strawberries to find the “better looking” ones when they
all looked exactly the same. It was summer; strawberries were in season. Every
container was good looking. Then there’s the issue that the berries were going for
99 cents, and that it was a Sunday after church services let out, so half the city
was actively throwing the store into chaos.
It’s annoying that I couldn’t keep up because I was already breaking a sweat
from the hour of lost labor. I was filling the strawberries because they were low,
but I couldn’t fill them fast enough. Customers were taking faster than I could
replace, and the display kept getting lower as I attempted to solve the issue. In
between each box, I would get interrupted to answer a question (like “where are
the strawberries?” as if I wasn’t holding an entire box full of strawberry containers
while being asked). I used to believe in the philosophy that “there’s no such thing
as a dumb question!” until I started working at a grocery store.
There was no hope.
They were taking straight from my pallet, which I wheeled out straight from the
truck as the load arrived. Customers only took from there when they assume that
they’re more important than every other person in the store, including the workers.
They have little care, or little knowledge, for how that messes with the process of
filling a display.
At this point, I was pissed, and I needed everyone to just leave. Though, if
they do, then I wouldn’t have a job. I was conflicted, because without customers
I would be bored, yet having customers proved that there was no time to catch a
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breath. Between the yells of babies who just wanted to nap, the snappy remarks
of the elders who want sweet potatoes (absolutely NOT yams) to feed their dogs,
and the lost husbands sent by their wives to “do the shopping for once,” I started
to question if it was really illegal to hit someone.
Just as I started to turn around the production, just as I met the point of ‘filling
more than what’s being taken,’ I was met with the judgiest eyes I’ve ever seen.
And she was an avocado lady. You avoid the avocado ladies. They’re
prestigious, they’re superior, and they expect much more than you can give them.
She opened her mouth: “Do you have any more bagged avocados in back?”
She asked this in a way that I knew she was holding back her anger, but her
grimace showed the rage hidden in her throat.
I opened my mouth, carefully. “We don’t store that product in back, so all
that we have is all that is out.” There were a few bags left, though they were a bit
overripe. I tried to inform her of the details the best I could, because maybe she
was understanding. Maybe she wanted the real reason as to why her desperately
needed product wasn’t out for purchase.
“Ugh, well, can you go check?” She said snarkily with a head tilt, a stink eye,
and one hand on the hip. Or maybe she was a bitch, and maybe I shouldn’t have
even tried to give her the benefit of the doubt.
I let myself take a deep breath, and threw the fakest smile on my face. “If we
did, we would have gotten it in today, but we already went through inventory.
Unfortunately, I really don’t think we do. I apologize.”
“Do you think or do you know?” She crossed her arms, and her foot was
tapping impatiently. She was staring at me like I was her un-potty trained dog that
took a massive gooey shit on her brand new carpet.
She pushed me past my limit.
I looked back at my strawberries, which I had abandoned for this entire
conversation. They were dwindling down by grabby, strawberry-sucking hands.
An hour of work had gone to waste, all because someone needed her bagged
avocados, even though there were loose avocados to choose from instead.
I made eye contact with her stare. I narrowed my eyes. I remembered back to
what my boss had told me when I was first hired: “You have to be rude to them to
survive. You aren’t risking your job by being mean back, and we won’t hold any
complaints against you. You’d be risking your sanity to be kind.” Just do it. Be a
bitch back.
“I know that I don’t help people who act childish like this,” I said it. Did I really
just say that? Holy crap. Stay strong. I tore a produce bag off of the roll and
held it out to her. “If you really want bagged avocados, then bag the loose ones
yourself.”
My strawberries were so low, and she looked like she was about to rip the
produce bag out of my hands to strangle me with. The crowd had already killed
my strawberry display, and I was convinced that the avocado lady was going to
kill me next.
I had no choice but to run through the doors that were clearly labeled “No
Customers Beyond This Point.” At last, I was safe. No more screaming. No more
dumb questions. No more strawberries. But best of all, no more avocado ladies.
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A “Little Man” Named Rusoff
by Sid Sitzer
Yes, it is the truth. I am a little man. I stand only five feet, two inches tall, but I
can reach up very high. Everyone always said that my arms are very long, and
so, even as a kid, I could reach up and touch the sky.
Now at 32 years old, I still live in the same small Russian town of Vilnius where
I was born. I have lots of family in the city, including two brothers, one sister, more
cousins, aunts, and uncles than I can even count.
These days I am more concerned with my mother’s family that is living across
the ocean on a farm in a big country that I hear a lot about. It is called the United
States of America. It is my fondest dream to go there one day and be reunited
with all these Americans. But, there is a problem and not a small one. I am
ashamed to say what it is, but I feel that I must continue my story.
The very large problem is that the leader of my country, a most selfish man by
all accounts, wants to own the world. All of Russia is not enough for his short legs
to walk upon. He wants to walk upon and fowl up the neighboring country known
as Ukraine.
The people who live in this country are, for the most part, hard working. Some
are farmers, and others are city people. Some are even shopkeepers. But this man
they call Putin is known mostly because of his threats to take over the neighboring
countries and the rest of the world.
And now we come to tomorrow... There is to be a grand parade. It is being
held to remind people that during World War II, Russia fought against Nazism
and succeeded along with America and other members of Europe to defeat the
“Nazis.” May 9 was a glorious day in Russian history. And so, this leader is now
believing that he is in a war against the Nazis, and that anyone who is not with
him in this war, is against him and, therefore, considered to be a Nazi enemy.
It does seem like the thinking of a young child, except that this is a grown man
with the power to influence hundreds, if not thousands or millions, into believing
this fairy tale of his own design. I, too, am thinking of my own fairy tale that I will
bring to life during this grand parade! Through my squinty eyes I can make out
the sun as it hits hard on Putin’s brightly uniformed band made up of blaring, shiny
instruments, while I, a little man, stand in the crowd, and pray for rain.
For years, I have stored my Derringer pistol underneath my bed, I think it gives
me a feeling of security, though, being a peaceful man, I am glad to say that I
have never had occasion to use it. For me, a gun is not a sporting mechanism.
But I checked on it. It still lies there waiting for its big moment when it will come
alive and do something great!
I am planning to be in the front row watching tomorrow’s parade, a little man,
amongst many taller men. No one will notice me, or my little weapon friend. I will
say nothing to anyone, just hide in the crowd and wait for Putin to pass by.
Torn, I lie on my bed, my head filled with plans to change history. I am thinking
about what will happen if I go ahead and succeed with this agenda. Will I be
a hero and stand tall, or will I be despised by fellow Russians who will hate me.
I ponder about who is in line to be chosen to replace the Putin man. Will he be
worse in his treatment of human beings than he who stands there now! Do I dare
risk it!
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42

No Olympians Here
by Melissa Sharpe
Today, school boards don’t approve funding to build pools in middle
schools. But in 1948, when the Grosse Pointe Public School System added
Parcells Middle School to its fleet, it included both a pool and a bomb shelter.
By the time I entered the school in the early 1990s, the bomb shelter had been
converted into eighth-grade classrooms. These basement classrooms hummed
from their proximity to the boilers and pumps that kept the school’s water, heat,
and electricity running; the rooms so dark that post-lunch, they lulled people to
sleep should a teacher try to use an overhead projector. Even better than rooms
designed for mid-day napping, the school allowed eighth graders to each paint
a single drop ceiling tile, which would then live in the basement hall ceiling. Any
1950s student returning to visit Parcells would struggle to identify the bomb shelter
now retrofitted with lockers and a ceiling decorated with more than one portrait of
Jim Morrison.
However, all those time-traveling students would recognize the pool, as it was
exactly the same as the day it was built.
The Parcells Middle School gym curriculum included a swimming unit, in
which sixth graders were made to wear school-provided, communal bathing
suits plucked from a warm-from-the-dryer pile. These suits were not labeled by
size; instead, they were color-coded by size. Everyone knew that green was the
smallest size, and everyone knew that red was the largest size, with black and
blue somewhere in the middle.
After grabbing your thread-bare, borrowed bathing suit, and changing into
it in the open locker room, you would cross your arms over your abdomen and
tiptoe out into the pool area, girls entering from one side and boys from the other.
Everyone lined up in full display of varying degrees of puberty and color-coded
by their clothing size. It was diabolical. The CIA could have learned some tricks
from the gym curriculum director.
The pool was in a tiled room, with just enough room on the sides to climb out
and line up. The lights in the room were either burned out or glowed orange as
they sat in clouded covers. The row of narrow windows trimming the top of the
only exterior wall gave no extra light. It was humid, slippery, and the air was so
thick with chlorine that the girl with a chlorine allergy broke out into a blistery rash
as soon as she exited the locker room.
The pool was only a few lanes wide, each one marked with a thick black line
painted on the bottom of the pool. One end was shallow enough to stand, and
the other was so deep and murky that you couldn’t see the lane line marker.
Even though I had spent my entire summer at the public pool turning somersaults
underwater and clogging up lap lanes with my best friend, a single lap of the
Parcells Middle School pool left me winded. Was it longer than regulation? Was
the chlorine to oxygen ratio slowly choking me out? Was anyone else having the
same struggle?
A few people found fun in the pool. Boys who liked to push each other seemed
to enjoy the swimming unit. Treading water, we bobbed, spitting mouthfuls of the
chemical-laced water at each other when the teacher wasn’t looking. My best
friend tried to copy the underwater somersaulting skills she had perfected over
the summer to this environment. “I opened my eyes, and I’m blind. I’m, like, blind
now,” she said as she tried to rub the middle school pool water off her face.
I clenched my eyes shut for each plunge underwater. The only relief was when
we practiced the elementary backstroke, which is slow, beautifully face up, and
thanks to underwater ears, quiet. A lap of elementary backstroke was a moment
to figure out what illness to fake to get to sit out next week.
I didn’t have a good excuse to miss class the day we had to dive for the brick,
but I wasn’t going to dive for the brick. Never. The first problem is that I could only
dive down about the depth of my own height. My anxiety, which was unknown
to me at that time, wouldn’t let me get too far from the surface. I had only learned
to open my eyes underwater without goggles that summer, and I struggled to do
that in our sparkly, upper-middle-class, public pool. No way could I do that in
this pool. Also, being one of only two people in the green bathing suit meant that
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the brick weighed about one-third of my body weight. Additionally, I don’t do
meaningless things like this.
Yet we all lined up to dive for the brick. The gym teacher dropped four bricks
into the deep end, and the person in front of me, without seeming to question
the whole situation, jumped in, ready to grab the brick that landed in our lane.
I took a step forward. Three of the four students in the pool surfaced, panting,
holding bricks above their heads. The girl who was in front of me came up, empty
handed, looked around, and dove back down. The next step in this challenge
was to manage to swim to the shallow end of the lap lane with the brick in hand.
Two of the three who could retrieve a brick were able to do this; the third lost his
brick while swimming and had to dive down again to retrieve it. The fourth student
bobbed back up in the deep end, empty handed again, wiped her eyes, and got
out of the pool vowing to retrieve the brick next time.
The gym teacher dropped the three retrieved bricks back in the deep end and
peered over the edge to ensure the fourth was still there.
The next four of us in line got ready and jumped in at the sound of the whistle.
In my pretend attempt to retrieve the brick I ducked my head underwater, didn’t
even look at the thing, and instead exhaled all my breath, surfaced, and said, “I
can’t get it.” Then I began to swim to the shallow end.
The gym teacher rolled his eyes. On my way across the lane, I rolled my eyes
too. The entire thing, from the design of the pool to the design of the curriculum,
revealed to me that collectively, people can come up with some really stupid shit.
The one great thing about the swimming unit is that gym class always ended
early to give us additional changing time. We would toss our wet suits into an
industrial rolling laundry cart, and even though living through a middle school
swimming unit was rough, it was someone’s job to wash the shared bathing suits
of suburban middle schoolers.
Today, the indignity of color coding 12-year-olds by size seems as distant of a
reality as the idea of a real-life bomb shelter was to us at that time. But there are
still boys who dive into the deep end, best friends who find ways to open their
eyes in places others wouldn’t dare, and when given the choice, some will choose
to glide on the surface without a brick on their chest. We all carry enough weight
as it is.
My Cousin, My Brain,
and Chris Farley
by Darlene Campos
Sobbing and Running
My cousin, Miguel, was thirteen years older than me. From what I remember
about his appearance, he was medium height, had an extra wide smile, and was
clean-shaven. When I was a very young child, my mom’s side of the family still
lived in Ecuador. We visited them sometime in 1996, and I recall the trip had to
be cut short because I got sick with a strange illness that produced boils all over
my skin. This trip included other memorable incidents, such as my older sister
giving my great-grandmother an extreme makeover that made me think she was
a stranger and a dog attack in which I was nearly mauled to pieces. There were
happier moments too, like receiving hugs and kisses from my grandfather and
eating an endless supply of the delicious food and desserts my grandmother
cooked.
However, one of my clearest recollections from this trip is witnessing my other
cousin, whom I will call Renzo, sobbing and running to his bedroom. In the
cultural views I was raised in, crying was something only women did. If a man
cried, it meant he was ‘weak.’ Yet when Renzo wept, my heart jumped, first with
fear and then with concern. I asked, “Why is Renzo crying?” One of the adults in
the house eventually said, “He’s upset because Miguel has cancer.”
But since I was so young, I didn’t know what cancer meant, and no one
explained it to me either. Even though I did not fully understand the situation, I
knew something was wrong.
Don’t Say a Word
As Miguel’s brain cancer progressed, my extended family decided to move to
Houston for more specialized care. Houston is famous for its oil companies, but it’s
also known for its medical center. MD Anderson Cancer Center, specifically, is the
place to get treated when cancer strikes. Soon, my extended family arrived at my
home, and we went from a family of five to a family of eleven. Space was tight,
food portions got smaller, and bathroom sharing was the biggest hurdle. Within
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a few weeks, my extended family moved to a place of their own. But whenever
we visited, I noticed Miguel was rarely there. I wondered if he had moved back
to Ecuador or got himself a separate living space. My mom explained Miguel
needed to be in the hospital sometimes.
“The hospital has what he needs,” she said. “He doesn’t live there though, it’s
only for a little while and then he’ll be home.”
One day, for some reason, I was at MD Anderson with my aunt and uncle.
They took turns visiting Miguel in his ICU room, but they didn’t take me along
because children under a specific age were not allowed. At a certain point, I
piped up, “Can’t I just sneak in? I haven’t seen him in forever.”
“You can’t, you’re too little,” my aunt said. “It’s against the rules.”
“I’m not that little,” I said, thinking being six years old meant I was an adult. “I
bet if I snuck in, nobody would notice.”
My aunt took me up on the challenge. She led me to the ICU’s double doors
and whispered, “Don’t say a word. If they don’t hear you, they won’t see you.”
I tiptoed next to her, my lips sealed and my breathing silent. A nurse smiled
at us, but she thankfully didn’t reprimand us. After what felt like years, my aunt
opened the door to Miguel’s room. I scurried inside, and my aunt told him, “This
is Doctor Darlene, here to make you feel better.” Miguel was in the bed, his body
topped with tube after tube hooked to beeping machines next to him. With the
smidgen of strength he had, he waved to me using two fingers.
I Am El Niño
My older siblings loved watching Saturday Night Live in the 1990s. I rarely
understood the skits, but since they’d burst into laughter every time Chris Farley
came on the television, I usually laughed with them anyway. On October 25,
1997, Farley made a guest appearance on Saturday Night Live, reprising his
skits, such as the motivational speaker Matt Foley. That night, during the classic
“Weekend Update” weather segment, Farley completed a skit of around thirty
seconds. Wearing a frilly, multicolored shirt and showing his bare chest, he
exclaimed he was “el niño,” a reference to the storm which occurs every couple
of years. I’m not sure if it was Farley’s tone or body movements, but I remember
laughing until I could hardly breathe. My siblings, to my surprise, didn’t laugh.
My brother commented on Farley’s voice, saying it sounded different. My sister
answered maybe he had a sore throat or a cold.
“I wonder if he’s okay,” my brother said about Farley.
Less than two months later, on the evening of December 18, 1997, I watched
the news with my siblings and my cousin, whom I’ll call Gavin. Gavin is four
years older, so he was not allowed to visit Miguel in the ICU either. That night,
my siblings were put in charge of babysitting us to give everyone else time to visit
Miguel. Channel after channel covered the sudden death of Chris Farley. Clips
of his Saturday Night Live skits and movies he starred in aired within the news
pieces. Those who had worked with Farley discussed their pained emotions. Like
Renzo’s anguished sobbing, I vividly remember hearing Farley’s age over and
over again on the news coverage. “He was only 33,” the reporters would say.
“Chris Farley is dead at 33.” “Chris Farley has died at the age of 33.” “Chris
Farley, Saturday Night Live cast member, was found dead in Chicago. He was
33.”
I was confused by the reports because from what the adults in my life told me,
death only happened to older people, those my grandparents’ age or beyond. In
1997, my great-grandmother was 93, and my family members sometimes spoke
about what life would be like when she was no longer around. Back then, she
was still healthy and alert, but had she died instead of Farley, I would not have
been so perplexed. It was the first time I doubted the adults around me.
As a six-year-old girl, I trusted adults, maybe even a little too much. Once,
during a weekend afternoon bus ride with my mom, a woman offered me
candy, and I took it without hesitation. When we got home, my mom scolded
me. She reminded me to never, ever take anything from a stranger, even if
it was something I liked. Then she doubled down, saying the woman could
have poisoned the candy, and I could have died a horrific death. Unmoved, I
responded, “Why would someone want to poison me?” She put her hands over
her face and breathed heavily from frustration.
“You could have died, Darlene,” she repeated. “You could have died.”
“Mommy,” I said, probably rolling my eyes. “Only old people die.”
But as I watched report after report of Chris Farley’s death, I became terrified.
If he was dead, I thought, then that meant anyone, young or old, could die.
Let Me Out!
Miguel died on February 23, 1998, at nineteen years old. His brain cancer
proved to be vicious, and the doctors at MD Anderson ran out of options. I didn’t
see him during his last moments, but from what I have heard, it was a traumatic
experience for those who did. When he died, my mom was in Ecuador visiting my
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grandparents. She’d call once a day, usually around dinnertime. That evening,
I got on the phone, saying, “Mommy, Miguel died. He went to be with Chris
Farley.”
Miguel’s funeral remains a little foggy in my memories. I don’t know how many
people attended, and I don’t remember seeing my dad there either. At the time,
my parents were separated. They would eventually reconcile, only to divorce
later. What I do remember is attending the funeral with my siblings. When we
were inside the funeral home before the service began, my brother picked me
up so I could see Miguel one last time. He wore his favorite outfit: a baseball
cap, button-down shirt, and jeans. He didn’t seem dead to me, just asleep. I
whispered, “Can you wake up?” He didn’t answer.
After the service, we headed to the burial plot. A bulldozer pulled up, and
using its ripper, the digging commenced. As Miguel’s coffin was lowered, my
cousins tossed in red roses, and my sister squeezed my hand, telling me, “Please
don’t you die,” and I answered, through tears, “But you told me only old people
die.” The moment Miguel’s coffin hit the bottom of the grave, another truck quickly
tossed dirt on top. Within minutes, all was finished.
Later in 1998, after my parents were back together, we moved since they
wanted me to grow up in a different school district. I started first grade with
intense anxiety since I didn’t know any of my classmates. As time went on,
I managed to make friends, but I was not growing at the rates they were.
Concerned, my parents took me to a specialist. Initially, my small stature was
attributed to the brain oxygen trouble I had at birth. Perhaps, the doctor thought,
the lack of oxygen I experienced affected my growth hormones. This made sense
to my parents, but in early 1999, they decided to get a second opinion. The
second specialist recommended an MRI. By then, I was seven and had no idea
what an MRI was or why I needed one.
On the day of the procedure, I was led to the freezing room where the MRI
tube waited. I got on a moving platform and it slowly maneuvered me inside the
cramped machine. Through the headphones I was given beforehand, I heard the
technician say, “I’m going to play music for you.” Suddenly, I heard a tune from
a Disney movie I enjoyed, but it didn’t matter. I cried and screamed, “Let me out!”
The technician paused the music and asked me to remain still because if I didn’t,
I would have to redo the MRI. Irrespective of his warning, I continued moving
enough to start an earthquake. At last, the technician finished. I sobbed on the
way home and accused my parents of having me tortured. When the results were
ready, the specialist called and spoke to my mom. He said, in a matter-of-fact
voice, that from what he could tell, I had a brain tumor.
Am I Going to Die?
The specialist suggested an MRI redo because since I had moved too much
during the procedure, he was not a hundred percent sure about my results. I
already knew what to expect the second time around, but I didn’t feel calmer. I
wailed, “let me out!” as the technician blasted more songs from Disney movies
into my ears. With the ounce of bravery I had left, I forced myself to remain
motionless, though I wanted to break the MRI and run away from the hospital.
My parents didn’t discuss the second MRI with me, nor did I bring it up, but the
pending results loomed over my head. By then, I was almost eight and had an
idea of what Miguel’s brain cancer did to him. When Miguel was diagnosed, he
was in high school. His first symptom was uncontrolled movements. During class,
he tried taking notes, but his arm would jerk, making his hand fly away from his
notebook. He’d attempt to take notes again and no matter what he did, the same
movement would happen. As I waited for my final results, I lived my life with a
giant, metaphoric microscope. Anything out of the ordinary I experienced meant
brain cancer. If my foot twisted while running during PE class – brain cancer. If I
couldn’t remember a friend’s phone number – brain cancer. If I tripped because
one of my shoes became untied – brain cancer. If I couldn’t pay attention during
hellfire and brimstone Sunday school – brain cancer.
One Saturday evening, I had a spontaneous nosebleed. My brother and his
friends were in the living room watching old Chris Farley clips, and I joined them.
A minute later, one of them told me my nose was bleeding, but I took it as an
excuse to shoo me away. When the blood oozed to my shirt collar, I ran to my
mom. Until I was ten, I got nosebleeds almost every week and was so used to it
I didn’t pay much attention to them. I could be outside playing with friends and
bleeding from both nostrils until I felt woozy and forced myself to go home. But
this time was different. Nosebleed? Brain cancer. My mom gently wiped my face,
and shared she also had nosebleeds often when she was my age, and eventually,
they stopped and so would mine.
“Am I going to die?” I asked.
“From a nosebleed?” she said, laughing. “Nobody dies from a nosebleed.”
“Did Miguel have nosebleeds?” I pressed on. “What about Chris Farley?”
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My mom likely answered me, but I have no recollection if she did or not. What
I do remember is seeing my thick blood on a wad of tissues and immediately
thinking I have brain cancer and I am going to die.
The Sticker
When my second MRI results were ready, I went to the specialist’s office with
my parents. His medical vocabulary sounded confusing and vague. He used a
pen to point at various places on my brain’s images. Following his lecture, he
finally said, “There is no tumor. She’ll be small in stature, even when she’s an
adult. Her growth hormones were unfortunately affected, but other than that, her
brain is in excellent condition.”
After the appointment, my parents took me to a fast food joint. They were strict
about eating only healthy, homemade food, so burgers and fries were reserved
for special occasions. The burger I ordered was topped with a savory sauce that
dripped onto my shirt, and the fries were greasier than the oil they were cooked
in, yet it was the greatest meal I had ever eaten. I wasn’t going to die. It was time
to live again.
But as I got older, there were moments of guilt, especially when I started high
school. I was nowhere near being a popular kid, and I mostly kept to myself and
my circle of friends. Even being somewhat of a recluse didn’t help me escape
name-calling. Since stature can’t be hidden, most of the names were related
to my height. Other categories included my weight, looks, style of clothes, and
my shyness. However, when it was time to play trivia games in class or exam
review period, I was the one everyone wanted on their team. I may have been
called many negative names, but I was also called “Darlene, the super genius.”
Yet when I received compliments for my ability to memorize facts and analyze
problems, I often thought of Miguel. I wondered why I was spared from a brain
crisis, but he wasn’t. Why did he suffer so much? Why did he die so young? Why
had I been given the gift of life instead? Why was I able to take pages of notes
during class, and he couldn’t?
As a way of paying homage to Miguel, I bought a sticker of Chris Farley and
stuck it on my binder. It was an image of him from his most famous skit, Matt
Foley, the motivational speaker. Every time I saw Chris Farley, whether it was on a
Saturday Night Live rerun or on a movie channel, I thought of Miguel. Even when
I didn’t see him but heard one of his catchphrases, my mind would immediately
return to Miguel as well. With the Chris Farley sticker on my binder, I thought of
Miguel every day.
The Flower Shop and the Tree
I visit Miguel’s gravesite on his death anniversary and every November 2nd,
the Ecuadorian date for the Day of the Dead. If I’m in the neighborhood on other
days of the year, I make a stop, even if I only have a few minutes to spare. Last
year on the Day of the Dead, I had trouble finding his headstone. I was puzzled
because I always knew exactly where his headstone was located. My husband
searched with me, and during our hunt, I said, “He’s right under the big tree with
the twisting branches. He’s facing the flower shop across the street.”
After more investigating, my husband found Miguel’s headstone. The tree
was gone, but its stump remained. The flower shop still opens for business every
morning, and traffic along the busy road never slows down. Miguel’s life ended
twenty-five years ago, yet the hustle and bustle surrounding his resting place
shows no sign of stopping. I placed a bouquet by Miguel’s name and stood in
silence. To be honest, I’m never sure what to say.
Despite sometimes being at a loss for words when I visit Miguel’s grave, I
know exactly what I would say if I were granted a phone call with him. I’d tell
him I didn’t understand what cancer was or how serious it could be. I’d tell him
it was my idea to sneak into his ICU room because I couldn’t stand not seeing
him around. I’d tell him even though I only have a handful of hazy recollections
of him, I think about him often. The last thing I’d tell him is how much joy his
memory brings me. Simply hearing “Chris Farley” makes me think of his comedy,
and while I laugh out loud to myself, Miguel’s face pops into my mind. Then my
anxious self feels a sense of bliss, and I smile, whether or not he can see me.
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Poetry
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A Most Curvaceous Ghost
This old mansion belonged
to the father of my father’s father,
and on this paper-thin
autumn morning,
I am twenty-five.
I inherit the Earth,
the grounds, the walls,
trees, trellis, and orchard
mine onward till death calls
as it did my forebears.
I am to stay for one gloomy night,
an oddity of the will,
but eccentricity runs
in the blood of my blood,
and I travel light,
so what’s the difference?
Fog sits on wet leaves,
my boots take me up the long driveway
till I am home in a new place.
I had been here once,
as a child, now I am a woman
but the memories
were of a human place,
warmth of talk, of games,
all removed now, the bedroom
beckons, and the nights come early,
so I remand myself to
these chambers gladly.
by Matt Gulley
A single sleeping pill
and a brandy swirled
makes peace with me
and I drift towards slumber sweet.
And yet, no hour commenced,
I awaken.
Before me, an apparition
a form ethereal,
a ghost with a rump.
A fair ghost with a wagon.
A real juicy toboggan on this phantom.
I beckon this wraith from the netherworld
to creep closer, to wisp from the foot to the head.
Will my hand meet the sweet resistance of
curved matter? Or will it pass through
as light through a window, helpless to grasp
that which refracts the joy of sensation?
Ghost, dearest phantasm, I exclaim
orange from a candle dancing on my face,
you’ve got callipygian firmament!
A departed derriere!
A hush fell upon me, I could not speak
Strange hums and mottled visions,
floating in the air before me,
the ghost thus spake,
“You must join me in the afterworld,
only then can we be”
And the ghost was gone.
Do I dare?
Do I cease, to really live?
There was a dagger on the dresser true,
but there are voluptuous ones in this world too.
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Starry Night
by Issac Azevedo
I awoke to a wonderful dream
On this eve
Of unhindered, quiet twinkling.
See, the town below
It is alight
With the tessellating glow of night
Tiny wooden doors
Lead to tiny wooden beds
With tiny covers and pillows
That rest even smaller heads
So, I stave off sleep
For another moment of hillside solitude
For one last instant,
before Apollo rakes the scene
with his oppressive gleam
My will, my wish, that I had a bow
I would strike him from his route
That night would become resolute.
I wonder if those heads know
that they can’t see what I do
I bet if they knew
They would be awake too.
But then again if they were awake
I’d have contenders for this view
Am I greedy?
should I share Nyx’s love?
Forged light could fade
these chthonic hues
The town will have no inkling
I fear
that if I shut my eyes
I may never yet see
a sight so serene
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58

Spilt Milk
by Mia Huang
The baby’s fingers tip over the bottle of warmed milk that
the mother had just retrieved from the double boiler.
The newborn’s fingers grasp reflexively, unable
to get ahold of the feeding bottle.
Warm milk traces its path around the table,
seeping into the crack between the glass cover and the hickory wood.
The pacifier drops. The baby screams, concealing
the rumbling of the second-hand washing machine.
The dog sits by the table leg, licking off the dripping milk that is no longer warm.
Infant in one arm, the mother rushes into the kitchen for a towel.
A towel drapes the splash, sheltering the spilt milk.
Water in the kettle boils, the screeching echoes around the house,
alarming everyone but the father on the couch.
The baby cries louder. The dog barks. Milk bleeds through the towel,
trickling down the table leg, vanishing into the wool rug.
The dog wiggles its way towards the baby,
its front paws sink into the milk-soaked wool,
leaving behind a few looming paw prints on the newly thrifted rug.
Out of instinct, the mother still checks the infant’s palms for any cuts.
She pours the water from the kettle into her thermal flask, adding in dried dates
and goji berries,
chugging it down with the baby pink painkiller, hoping to ease the sharp cramps
in her stomach.
The milk soaks up the corner of the rug, and the rest is cleaned up by the dog and
his flappy tongue.
The stove is turned back on, restlessly heating up another bottle of milk.
Noticing her numbed arms, the mother puts down the baby,
the dog traces its licks to the baby’s fingertips.
While everything goes down, the father is still asleep on the couch.
And the mother knows better than to wake up a man who pretends to be asleep.
She flicks the match against the maroon match-strip, reigniting the candle.
The dog sits on the wet rug, observing the burning wick and the hardened
puddle of wax.
The mother stares at her baby, silently waiting for rhythmic shriek to return.
Brisk wind blows, flashbacks flicker.
The afternoon picnics, with her hair bleached the color of sand, sweeping
across her face. And the scarlet lip print, bookmarking the margins of Jane Eyre
while she plays her game of solitaire.
Wind extinguishes the dollar-store candle,
toppling the empty glass bottle.
The bottle rolls off the table, timely caught
by the mother.
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/bAIR/
by Darwin Michener-Rutledge
What if I said we can lie in the bare fields?
What if I said we can lie bare in the fields?
After all, we have the right to bare arms,
we can lie in the bare fields bare,
we can learn how to bear it.
What if I offer to hold your sadness
cupped in the palm of my hand, unmoving
so none of it will spill,
what if I say I will be here,
watching over your grief
until you wake up from your hibernation?
What if I say I will stay long enough to bury you?
What if I say you could make me bare,
what if we became bears,
what if we were just two bare bears in the bare fields
bearing it all together—
what if I filled your mouth with honey?
Remember honey?
What if I called you honey?
What if we were bears who dreamed of honey,
what if we were bears who went searching for honey,
what if we bared ourselves to the wind and covered our
bare bodies in honey—
bear bodies in honey?
What if, honey, I, another bear, told you I could bear
your love
no really, I can,
I have been dreaming of bears and dreaming of you,
dreaming of your bear love;
honey, you should know that I will never bare your child
these times are too barren
but I will be a bear any day you ask
I will protect your misery between my own ribs,
I will bring you breakfast in my teeth,
I will bear it all, even if I am barely able.
I know I said we could lie in the bare fields but—
what if the bare fields all became bear fields
and we were bare bears in the bare-bear fields
what if the fields bore honey,
honey, do you think they could?
Honey, bear with me on this and bear with me a little
I will even bear my humanness for you on the days
you do not want to be bears,
I would hate to see the world grow bare, let’s go bear instead;
honey, all I want is your bare love.
What if I called you honey,
what if I said I would stay
long enough to bury you, honey?
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62

Coffee Date
by Erica Berquist
Joni’s Going Through a
Linear Cat Phase
by Ed Brickell
If you invite me in, I will come.
I follow you, lured by the promise of coffee.
The scent of it fills my nose,
Earthy, nutty, and sweet.
I watch you work, grinding coffee beans,
brewing the drinks,
and pouring milk into mugs.
I take it and it is hot in my hands.
I blow on it to cool it,
watching the surface of the liquid shiver under my breath.
I take a tentative taste,
and the bold, tangy blend explodes across my senses.
There is no sweetness,
yet I savor it to the last sip,
knowing that I won’t taste this blend again.
This isn’t a coffee I’d drink every morning,
and I have that at home already.
As good as what you gave me tastes,
I know I’ll regret it if I accept another cup.
“I’m going through a linear cat phase,”
I think I hear Joni sing
As she waters what must be blue hydrangeas —
She leans over my fence, eager to be noticed,
Cigarette dangling, French beret askew.
Such alien bohemian beauty
Is rare on our street.
I listen to her all day long sometimes,
I make up probably half of what she says.
Her voice floats above me like a halo,
I’m her footloose angel man.
I like to think she asked to borrow a cup of sugar:
I dreamed I saw it on her patio six months later,
A rose blooming in those tiny, sweet pearls.
But a linear cat phase, that’s just her conversation starter.
She tells me the same secrets she tells everyone else.
She tells them over and over, all those men who chased her,
All those men she chased, a bright carousel of sad desire
She’ll spin for whomever. It’s going round now
In my living room, her breath soft in my ear,
Baby, you’re my only one, but I just can’t stay.
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64

DISHES
by Aria Jean
the journey up from hell
was an emotional one
by Kylie Heling
To be a woman in love is to be a meal
Half-prepared and fully-eaten,
Letting hungry hands take before you’re done cooking,
Letting them pick pieces of food out of the pan while they’re still hot.
It’s to plate your insides for dinner, preparing everything you can—
Heart over rice, stomach with butter—
Still to have your rib cage licked clean like a spoon.
Still to be asked for seconds. Still to be asked what’s for dessert.
It’s to find that dessert and make it—
Brains for a cake, guts as candy—
Only to feel yourself becoming hungry and realize
There is not a place at the table set for you.
the walls are plastered in memories
and flashbacks are projected on the big screen
but there’s no time to stop and watch
unless you want the monsters of the past
to catch
you
it’s chilling to see the bones of your ancestors
lining the riverbanks of the underworld
you see, after you died and were buried,
there was no funeral
or celebration of life
there were no flowers left on your grave
or on your old doorstep
there was no one to remember your name,
you see, the Christian God doesn’t care that you died
but here, the gods will welcome you home
you’ve seen the bones of your ancestors
lining the riverbanks of the underworld
and the ghosts of the past will remember you here
and although the door slammed behind you
and there’s no way back home,
it’s okay to look through the shutters
and remember what could have been
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She’s sitting at the far table,
by the fire, alone.
With a kind of crouching,
uncertain movement,
you dare to sit down beside her.
Her face is vivid in the flame.
Yours is merely shiver on bone,
as colorless as your conversation.
How long has it been?
Enough time for repudiation,
for old recriminations
to have blossomed into awkwardness.
If you’d known she’d be here,
you wouldn’t have gone in.
But every dilemma has its coffee house
whose register ring,
aroma of cooked beans,
plays into the pretense of camaraderie.
And winter has its fire,
another symbol.
It has you believing
that the thawing is real.
Coming upon an Ex
at the Coffeehouse
by John Grey
Intracontinental Soul-Drift
Kinetic mesmerization
memorization eclipse.
I’m not the man
you want me to be.
Esoteric corrective
measures against tectonic shifts,
stomp shuffle, stomp shuffle,
desperation boulevard,
leather feet, feather street,
fettered, tethered, whethered,
shambling in stark relief
against fragments of I will/was
sprinkling in syllabic bursts,
humanization of the me
in polyphonic preponderances
persisting against self-gentrification,
railing against my antarctic soul,
calcification flaking in flecks.
Dehumanization of my me.
I’m not the man
I want me to be.
Combustion chrysalis
bursting my inner urbanscape,
engulfing synthconstructions,
rehumanization of I/me,
melting in the Anthropocene,
dissolving into saline rivulets
coursing across New Pangaea
in an ever-flowing current
toward a tomorrow sea,
toward a tomorrow me.
by Kelly Talbot
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68

Crumbled Tissue
by Mia Huang
There were days you cried about the pain of waking up hours before sunrise,
so your mother could braid through your frizzy curls,
parting them tightly till you felt your scalp torn apart,
combing out the residual products from the day before.
The sprays, the gels, and the creams,
while I stood in my shower, pondering
over the distinction between shampoo and conditioner.
The long silver bottle, the rectangular clear can, and the baby blue cream,
you read through the ingredients to pass time, while your mother pulled out
strands of fallen hair.
Comparing the ingredient lists of different products was your fun little
matching game,
and glycerin would be the first one you’d notice.
I didn’t know how to comfort you, or how to stop those trickling tears.
So I lend you a shoulder in the back of the bus.
You cried without a sound, pinching your nail-folds until they were swollen
and bleeding,
I’d press my hands over yours, until I felt your fingers loosening,
leaving my palms with a few scarlet smudges.
You’d squeeze the tissue I hand you into wet scraps,
scattering them across the umber cushion.
We’d try to clean them out afterwards,
but there was always a few white pieces stuck between the cracks.
You didn’t understand why you were always addressed as a black girl,
never just a girl, the hideous subtexts were all still concealed.
We gathered around Ms. Faustina during story-time,
you’d sit behind Elijah, back hunched, hoping
to hide your face behind his relatively broad shoulders.
As the story went on, you’d unknowingly lean forward,
the tail of your coiled braid brushing past Elijah’s nape.
He flinched away uncomfortably. You murmured your apologies over and over,
while you wiggled your fingers under the fleece carpet,
pinching out threads from underneath.
It was you who told me that Santa Claus isn’t real.
That December, I went to bed early,
without leaving cookies and warm milk on the dining table.
After Christmas break, I sat on the bus while the other kids gossiped about seeing
Santa Claus.
I tittered at their foolishness in falling for such ridicule, thinking of our
shared secret,
as if I myself didn’t just break through the foolishness a week ago.
Looking out of the windows as the bus decelerated by your stop,
I leaned my burning cheeks onto the cold glass, intuitively waiting
for you to run towards the bus stop with strands of hair swinging
in sync with the tempo of your steps.
Little did I know that these detailed memories
would become a catchy chorus I hum under my breath in every crowded room.
Every year when Christmas comes around,
I’d look out the window as my bus passes by the street that you once walked,
I’d push my face back onto the piercing glass and stare out until the window
fogged up completely,
leaving me with a mosaic view of your neighborhood.
The gates you half embraced every time you pushed open, the fences
you hopped over, the concrete square the wheels of your skateboard rolled
across,
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the orange tree that shielded us from the scorching beams of July, witnessing
every cartwheel we landed. And the abandoned wooden fort,
with its walls exhibiting our undecipherable doodles and silly poems with cheesy
rhymes.
I remember how crammed the school bus once was at this time of the year,
with our
puffer coats rustling against each other, and the metal sliders tapping against the
zipper teeth.
It’s quite spacious now. Me and my teal-green backpack, each having our own
seats.
I read my paperback, leaving the people around me unnoticed.
Did they ever send you a proper apology?
For their words that left you hurting in unimaginable ways,
for the time you wasted staring into the mirror doubting,
for the crumbled tissue and the bleeding nail-folds.
For you,
I’d pile my lunch bag on my thighs, my backpack between my feet,
squeeze my puffer a little tighter,
waiting for a whiff of the zesty scent of your citrus hair softener,
waiting for you to bump your elbow into mine.
One Last Dream
by Camilla Doherty
Ravens swarm and croon a song,
A ballad of death and ending.
Many paths I’ve walked myself,
And paths I’ve watched be taken.
I don’t believe in afterlife,
But my mind still searches for heaven.
Vultures circle, the hourglass stills,
a loved one’s hand grows cold.
Hades beckons at darkened gates,
with rotting arms unfurled.
Memories don’t serve us here,
our final departure forgotten.
It all seems wrong. The Reaper sighs,
defeated, unveils his disguise.
Morpheus stands and takes my hands,
I wake up - alive.
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72

Quantum
by Hailee Murphy
Pearls
by Camilla Doherty
They can tell me all they want
that mathematics is essential to understanding;
that the waves in the air are impossible to visualize.
But have you ever sat in a coffeeshop and watched
Two people fall in love?
Luster loses legitimacy and bows to quantum
who enters the ring with feverish intensity.
Love does not claim a zip code, or a time zone;
Love does not sit stagnant in the bottom of your coffee cup,
sloshing with backwash and grinds.
Love floats the frog who sails the lily pad,
with gentle intention love welcomes forgiveness
and playfully dances like ribbons entangling newspaper presents;
the way the violin holds the cello,
the way the pond lifts the ripple and asks for more bread to feed its fish.
They can tell me all they want
that love has no rhyme,
that you meet people for reasons and seasons.
But I’ll tell you what I know.
Love will hold you the way gravity holds the airplane,
and it will speak to you in chirping birds and church bells.
If love finds you, say hello, hold her hand, kiss her cheek,
thank her for coming.
And if she leaves, thank her for being here at all.
Thirty pearls sit atop pink thrones.
When curses are spoken, and secrets revealed -
pale faces ripped and torn, dethroned!
Bloodied pearls fill a mouth.
Sharp edges cutting at words unspoken,
ivory stained crimson by a tongue bitten.
Pearls and ichor spit into a palm.
Words of remorse hemorrhage thickly like blood,
pooling into puddles of regret.
Thirty new jewels untouched by scarlet stain,
take their place on emptied thrones.
How short is their reign?
Vermillion spills over lips and chin,
the torrent of bones cradled in trembling hands.
A cycle interpreted by waking.
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74

Visual Arts
75
76

Meal Prep
by Alora Clark
A Place of Uncanny Scarlet
by Alora Clark
77
78

The Magician
by Coriander Focus
Title Piece 1: It’ll Do.
by Ana Casbourne
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80

Overtaken
by Brooke Biese
Inviting in Spring
by Kelsey Harrison
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82

Fall
by Ccrow
Leaves
by Ccrow
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84

Breathe in, Breathe out
by Larissa Hauck
The Cliff
by Ava Weix
85
86

Still Life
by Ava Weix
The Beauty of Space
by Brooke Biese
87
88

Glistening Falls
by Kira Ashbeck
The Devil
by Coriander Focus
89
90

Someone in the Nobody
by Aditi Singh
Derealization
by Ava Weix
91
92

New York State Landscapes
by David Carter
Taxco, Guerrero, México
by Kyra Christensen
93
94

Autopilot
by Aluu Prosper
Can You Feel Our Pain
by Aluu Prosper
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96

Fiction
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98

An Open Base
by Roland Goity
I stand on a dirt mound with thousands of people gathered all around
watching me. It’s the moment I’ve envisioned for as long as I can remember, every
boy’s dream.
A pitcher’s Major League debut is unforgettable, but I figure mine will be even
more so than most. There are runners on first and second with two outs, and I
can’t let these guys score. It’s the bottom of the ninth and my team—the Giants—is
clinging to a one-run lead against the hated Dodgers. We’re in the thick of a
pennant race. Oh, and the batter is all-star left fielder Gerry Cassavetes, who’s
been a friend, enemy, and everything in between. We’ve known each other since
childhood.
Pitch Number One
I know my heart must be beating a million times a minute, but I can’t sense it
pumping because I’m concentrating so hard. The American pastime recently went
high tech to prevent teams from stealing signs, and Varney, our catcher, sends
me the pitch signal from the electronic device on his wrist. The earpiece in my cap
produces the verbal command: “Slider.”
I cover the ball I’m gripping in my right hand with my glove and check the
runners. I think about when Gerry and I first met: Fall 2007 at Joe Hanke’s house
for our inaugural Cub Scout meeting. Mrs. Hanke was our den mother. It was
raining hard; water cascaded over the eave gutters and gushed through the
downspouts, but we boys were warm and cozy by the living room fire listening
to Mrs. Hanke tell us about all the things we would learn that fall—ecology and
the natural world; survivalism and character development; and teamwork and
collaboration. Topics that appealed one way or another to my nine-year-old
ears. And to Gerry’s too. His enthusiasm for the activities she discussed matched
my own, while other scouts appeared either scared or dumbstruck. That day,
we made a pact to hang out together as much as possible. We went to different
schools but didn’t live too far apart. There was a park halfway between us, within
a mile of each of our homes. That became our home base practically every day,
rain or shine.
Enough. I start my windup, begin my leg kick, and throw the ball to the plate.
Gerry just watches it go by. The umpire lifts his arm and clenches his fist. “Strike
one,” he shouts. My baseball career is off to a nice start.
Pitch Number Two
We both liked to play ball—and were good at it. In fact, we both pitched and
played outfield on our Little League team. Gerry was clearly the better hitter and
fielder, but I liked to think I was the better pitcher. Perhaps that’s why we’re where
we are now, with me on the mound and him in the box. He stands tall and broadshouldered
there at the plate, with the same almond eyes and confident smile that
electrified tween girls in the stands then and probably many women in the crowd
today. Looking back, our team, the Cardinals, won the league championship in a
breeze. And did so for three years running.
The pitch call is in, the defense settles behind me, and I rear back and fire to
the plate. Gerry connects solidly with the pitch and sends the ball screaming
toward the left-field bleachers. But it hooks foul at the last second. I’m ahead in
the count now. Way ahead.
Pitch Number Three
The first real signs of trouble between us occurred when we were in seventh
grade. Gerry was always gregarious, while I was more reserved. I let issues that
bothered me go unresolved, so they ate away at me longer than necessary. My
sister, a year older, had an obvious crush on Gerry. She couldn’t stop looking at
him whenever he came by, and she gushed with excitement when speaking with
him. That worried me. Gerry talked about his recent fingerbang conquests, and
how he was looking for more. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that but hoped
Kaila would steer clear.
No such luck. He took her out on her very first date, and the rest is history.
While she seemed bright and cheery the next day, her mood changed quickly.
He never called her again and proceeded to ignore her completely after that.
Of course, word spread amongst our teammates, and even students at Kaila’s
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and my school that Gerry got his hand down her pants as easy as pie. I didn’t
have the heart to ask her, but when I confronted him, he didn’t exactly deny it
and broke out in hyena laughter with his buddies soon after I turned and walked
away. Things were never quite the same between us after that.
I need to stay composed and rein in my wandering thoughts. We’re just one
strike away from victory. But I release my curveball early and it sails high and
wide. Only an outstanding play by Varney, who leaps from his squat, prevents a
wild pitch. The count is now one ball and two strikes.
Pitch Number Four
Baseball soon became practically a year-round sport for Gerry and me.
Almost like it was our job, and we were workers as much as students. During
high school, after our team’s season ended, we’d continue playing throughout
the summer and into the fall on a traveling team of regional all-stars. We played
pretty much everywhere west of the Mississippi, including one trip south of the
border to play Mexico’s national amateur team. However, on a layover after a
hot and muggy weekend game in Little Rock, Arkansas, my tenure with the team
ended earlier than expected.
Our manager was a former Marine. In addition to coaching, he played the
role of disciplinarian. He set a strict curfew and laid down rigid guidelines for us
to follow—no exceptions! Gerry and I were, as usual, sharing a room. But that
evening I had joined a few teammates to play pinball at an arcade just around
the block from our hotel, while Gerry stepped out with the right fielder who’d
become his latest partner in crime. I was in a deep slumber when Gerry finally
stumbled into our room, dazed and confused, nearly an hour past curfew. He
flinched worse than I after he turned on the lights. I remember telling him he
reeked and to get his shit together, before rolling over and closing my eyes.
It couldn’t have been much later when the manager and coaches arrived and
woke me from my sleep: lights back on, accusations flying, and Gerry telling
them he had nothing to hide. They quickly proceeded to search not just Gerry’s
bag and luggage but also my own. Wouldn’t you know, Gerry’s bags turned up
clean. But—surprise! —in my baseball tote bag, tucked into the cavernous areas
of my pitcher’s glove meant for my thumb and index finger, were two baggies
of weed. Gerry must have put them there while I was snoring away. There was
no telling that to our coach—although I tried anyway. Gerry looked at me like I
had wronged him and cast away our friendship forever. Trying to explain to my
parents why I was kicked off the team was the worst part of all.
Gerry’s vainglorious smile reappears this very moment in the batter’s box, like
he’s going to defeat me, easy as pie, just as he did that night in Little Rock. I intend
to throw an outside-corner fastball by him, but this time I hold the ball too long.
It skips in front of the plate and shoots by Varney’s glove. The runners behind me
advance to second and third, and Dodger fans are whooping it up at a deafening
volume. I’m in a hell of a spot.
Pitch Number Five
I’m only four pitches into my career, but I’m already receiving words of
encouragement from my teammates behind me that belie their lack of faith as
to what’s about to unfold. Juarez, our pitching coach, leaves the dugout and
approaches me on the mound. Varney comes over as well to join us for a little
chat.
“Just one good pitch,” Varney says, “and we’ve got this one.”
“That’s right,” Juarez tells me. “And I brought you in for two reasons: you have
pinpoint control, and you know what Cassavetes can hit and what he can’t. You
know him better than anyone. Right?”
I simply stand there and nod, trying to relax my breath. It’s not easy—
especially with the crowd now going berserk.
“Don’t give him anything good to hit, you hear?” Juarez says. “You’ve got an
open base now, a base to play with.”
Suddenly, I’m tremendously relieved, like an overwhelmed skin diver who’s
just come up for air. Juarez is right, I have excellent control. And Gerry can have
first base as long as the runners don’t advance. The situation calls for something
special, and I now know just what that is.
“Four-seam fastball,” I say.
Varney and Juarez exchange glances. Then the coach claps his hands together
and says, “Okay, go do it.”
Varney settles back into his crouch. I check the runners. The crowd noise
escalates further but no longer bothers me. I start my windup and go into my
delivery. I use every force in my being to whip the ball 101 miles per hour
according to the stadium radar gun. It locates its target perfectly, striking a
twisting Gerry in the back between his shoulder blades, right across his name on
the jersey.
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102

Site Selection for a
Witches’ Sabbath
by Colin Punt
It was mid-June near the Austrian-Swiss border and Mephistopheles was
hiking nearly six thousand feet up in the hills of the Alps. Dressed as a gentleman
adventurer, his fine wool coat was open, exposing an equally fine cream-colored
jumper. A Tyrolean hat perched jauntily upon his well-formed head and he
sported a spectacularly full and luscious jet-black moustache. He marched up
the hillside at a brisk pace, making a beeline for the ridge and ignoring the paths
that crisscrossed the hills. The alpenstock in his hand was more of a decorative
element to complete his look than a useful implement, as he carried it but did not
use it. Reaching the crest of the hill, he paused a moment in the sunshine. With
the north face to his rear, he admired the sunny south face of the hill. Spying a
level outcrop of rock, Mephistopheles made his way toward it and sat down for
rest and refreshment. He opened his leather rucksack, which contained only the
bare essentials for his mission: three different types of caviar, a bottle of the finest
Spanish brandy, and a half-dozen Havana cigars.
After tasting all three caviar varieties, he lit a cigar and sipped brandy from
a small snifter as he reviewed his undertaking. Midsummer was now less than
a week away, and the witches’ sabbath on St. John’s Eve was planned to be
the biggest event in decades, possibly all century. From Akelarre to Blakulla
and Brocken to Lysaya Gora, every witch, warlock, sorcerer, sorceress, devil,
demon, and imp worth their salt would be there. The Great He-Goat had already
landed in Basque country and the Weyward Sisters of Moray were preparing
their biggest cauldron and shipping off crates of hensbane, nightshade, and
wolfsbane.
Already, there were comparisons to the great Walpurgis Night of ’66. The
only thing missing was a suitable location—mountaintops were ideal locations for
smaller assemblies, but mountain meadows were preferrable for these big events
as they allowed more gathering space.
Mephistopheles, charged with finding the ideal location, smiled down at
the broad mountain meadow: a green carpet delicately decorated with white
edelweiss, blue gentian, and pink rhododendron. This was the perfect site,
and after packing away the brandy and caviar and snuffing out his cigar,
Mephistopheles stood up, adjusted his rucksack, and headed down the sunny
hillside to investigate the meadow further.
Some hundred yards down the hillside, Mephistopheles stopped suddenly
near a boulder. The unpleasant feeling of alternating chills and heat swept
through his body in febrile waves. He sniffed the air, full of floral fragrance.
His face betrayed feelings of confusion, surprise, and pain all mixed together.
Mephistopheles could sense that whatever was wrong was coming from the
boulder. It looked like any one of the other thousands of boulders he’d seen on
his walk: granite with shiny specks of mica embedded in its surface, about three
yards across and nearly as tall as he. With extreme reticence, Mephistopheles
extended his alpenstock and gave the rock a gentle poke.
“Don’t,” said the boulder.
Mephistopheles shuddered. “Lord, is that you?” he asked quietly.
“I am that I am,” answered the rock. “Is that you, Mephistopheles? What are
you doing here?”
“It is nearly midsummer. St. John’s Eve is but four nights away. I’ve been
sent to scout locations for a witches’ sabbath. This is to be one of the biggest in
decades—maybe a century.”
“Well,” said God. “You can’t do it here. Can’t you see this mountainside is
holy?”
“I see, but I must admit I am a little confused as to why you are here.”
“It’s the inscrutability,” replied God, “but if you must have a reason, I’m taking
a rest. It was such a brutally cold and dismally wet gray spring that I chose to
summer for a while up here on a sunny southern exposure. It’s so pleasant, don’t
you agree? High enough that I’m not bothered by clouds and I can enjoy the
superb view of this lovely valley, but not so high that I’d be cold. I’ve been up
here three or four weeks now and let me tell you, I am really enjoying the crisp
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mountain air and bright sunshine. I had to bump a few smaller rocks out of the
way, but they don’t mind.”
Several smaller rocks that had evidently rolled down the hill confirmed that the
deep and resonate peace of residing in the shadow of God’s rocky incarnation
was a fair trade for the displacement from the seats they’d occupied since the last
glaciation.
Mephistopheles ignored the blessed stones and continued, “This particular
location is favored by many of my colleagues and compatriots, including several
in high positions. Would you mind very much moving? Just for the night, of
course—as you know, we’re always finished by dawn.”
“Go away, Mephistopheles. I’ve made my decision. Find somewhere else.”
“But—” began Mephistopheles.
“Don’t argue,” God interrupted. “Don’t make me threaten you. You know I’ll
follow through. I have to; I’m immutable.”
“I know,” mumbled Mephistopheles, and he sulked down into the valley to
look elsewhere.
Lady Ophelia and the
Missing Mitten
by Dani Fankhauser
Cindy merged onto the Soho sidewalk, a sea of people puffing speech
bubbles into their smartphones. She shoved her hands in her pockets to protect
her mittens from the dainty drops of snow. The matching set was the final gift from
her grandma.
“You’re going to have so much fun in New York,” she’d said last Christmas
when Cindy pulled them out of the Macy’s box.
She couldn’t afford to fly back for the funeral. The mittens, with dandelion
yellow and baby blue embroidery, were her only colorful accessory, and she
doubted she was having the kind of fun her grandma had imagined. If only she
could be more like her loud friend Michaela, the East Coast native she met at a
cocktail hour for creative women that was sponsored by a technology company.
At least tonight they were grabbing a drink before Cindy rushed home to finish a
slide deck for a client.
“Look at me. It’s karma time, and I’m dripping with good vibes!” Michaela said
with a shimmy. She pulled her bright turquoise leather bag off the barstool next to
her in the back corner of the French brasserie.
“Spiked cider?” Cindy nodded at Michaela’s drink, the antidote to an early
December snow. “I want one too,” she said to the bartender. Cindy shoved her
black nylon down jacket onto a hook, shoddy next to Michaela’s champagnecolored
fur coat.
There was no time to waste. “So I heard about Ryan...” Cindy said. The
headlines were all over Twitter. Michaela’s psycho ex, the one who took her to
Jamaica on their second date and proposed to her on a yacht in Greece, just
announced layoffs of his entire 200-person staff. His startup had gone under.
“So, did you have any idea? Did you see it coming at all?” Cindy asked.
Michaela gulped her cider. “The layoffs? God, no. But I mean, I wasn’t
surprised. You know? He wasn’t a good boyfriend. Turns out he’s not good at lots
of things!”
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If Michaela would have just stayed through the wedding, she could have
gotten an epic divorce settlement for what he did. Oh well.
“He was terrible,” Cindy said. “You deserve better.”
“I doooo,” Michaela cooed. “And so do you, my beautiful friend! Tell me
about your day!”
The friends swapped stories like they were each other’s external hard drive, a
safe place to store their fears and dreams. For Cindy, there was the conference
room booking battle, the slide deck she had to redesign tonight, and her manager
who kept canceling meetings and delaying her promotion plan.
She powered through her monologue of updates. All work, no fun. Did
Michaela even get it? Ever since they met as two fresh college grads in entrylevel
roles, Michaela seemed to glide through the city like an underwater
kingdom. She quit her job at an accounting firm, got a gig making TikToks for a
personal chef, met Ryan the startup founder on a bench in Washington Square
Park, moved in with him after two weeks of dating, and launched her candle
e-commerce company from his couch. And apparently, she dove off right in time
for his ship to go up in flames.
“Any boys?” Michaela asked Cindy.
“I just don’t think I’m ready for anything serious,” Cindy said. She barely had
time to swipe on dating apps. Once she got her career on track, she could be
more fun, like Michaela. She could finally have the life her grandma predicted.
For now, it was better to be single.
“I know, babe, it’s a sea of piranhas out there.” Michaela sighed and gazed
dreamily at the bartender, his black suspenders snug over a white sleeveless top.
Cindy looked at her phone. “Whoa, it’s 7:45. I’ve got to get home to finish a
project,” Cindy said.
“Check!” Michaela gave the bartender a cute wave.
***
On the train to Brooklyn, Cindy eyed the subway ads. Who needs romantic
love when you can buy luxury linen sheets? She touched her keys in her coat
pocket for comfort, but when she pulled her mittens out, Cindy realized she only
had one.
“Do you remember if I had mittens on when I got to the bar?” Cindy texted
Michaela.
Out the subway windows, the lights of lower Manhattan reflected off the
water, the Statue of Liberty invisible past the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge. She’d
have to go back to the bar, maybe back to her office to find the missing mitten. It
would be a late night.
“I don’t remember! But I know someone who can help,” Michaela wrote back.
“Let me text her.”
Thirty minutes later, Cindy was back on Canal Street where she had entered
the subway. She held out her single mitten to a senior chihuahua named Lady
Ophelia.
“Lost item? That’s a standard case for Lady O,” Ally said. Ally was the dog’s
manager. Lady Ophelia had short tan fur and a bald spot at the end of her tail.
Her age showed in the white speckles around her cheeks.
“She can do infidelity investigations and meet cutes, too,” Ally said. “You’d be
amazed—we had three couples married just last month. And around the holidays,
we have a two-for-one deal.”
The dog inspected the mitten. “It’s mostly for the smell, but the visual can help,
too,” Ally said. She had a blond buzzcut and an elk tattoo on her neck, barely
visible above her snowboarding jacket. Cindy wondered how Michaela had met
her. Crystal healing workshop? Sommelier classes? Pickup field hockey, at least,
before she tore her ACL? Michaela had so many hobbies.
Ally cradled Lady Ophelia, lowered her gaze, and started humming. Lady
Ophelia shut her eyes while Ally chanted in what might have been Sanskrit. Cindy
wondered if they would ask her to chant, too. After a few minutes, Lady Ophelia’s
ears perked up. Ally stopped chanting. She placed Lady Ophelia back on the
sidewalk.
The snow was starting to turn to slush as the night warmed. “Will the water
wash away the smell?” Cindy asked.
“Don’t you worry. Lady O works fast,” Ally said. “Just try to keep up. We’ll
want you there to identify the glove once she finds it.”
Lady Ophelia scrambled up the street, dodging tourists and commuters who
were eager to get home. There was a smell to investigate on Broadway and
Grand, but that was just a child’s abandoned sweater. Lady Ophelia took a short
break to urinate on a paper bag, but then got back to it. It seemed like she might
give up; she shivered and her belly was splattered from the wet sidewalk. She
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pulled the red leash sharply right, and they walked past the bar, all in succession.
Lady Ophelia followed by Ally and then Cindy, who would have stopped in to
check with the bartender, if Lady Ophelia wasn’t already so far ahead.
Lady Ophelia took them up Lafayette towards Spring, and Cindy wondered
if she should have trusted Michaela’s recommendation. Michaela, who once
spent $200 on bath salts from Etsy that were supposed to clear all romantic
challenges, and look how well that went. Cindy could wind up wandering around
Manhattan all night. She hadn’t been on this block today, possibly never in her
life. But they crossed back to Crosby and Houston, where Lady Ophelia sniffed
around a planter.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Ally said, peering at the contents of the planter,
waiting for Cindy to catch up. “This looks like your glove...”
“Yes!” Cindy exclaimed. “My mitten!”
“...and this is a wallet.” Ally finished.
“Huh?” Cindy said.
They opened the wallet. It belonged to someone named Damian Gold, who
had several credit cards and a Nevada driver’s license.
“You know, Lady O’s the brains of the operation, so I don’t want to jump
to conclusions,” Ally said. “But my amateur opinion is, okay, there’s a few
possibilities here. Damian and you both got pickpocketed, but the thief only got
your glove. Or Damian picked up your glove, and then lost it with his wallet,” Ally
paused. “Actually that doesn’t make sense.” She passed Lady Ophelia a chicken
jerky treat.
Cindy held her mittens side-by-side. The goldenrod embroidered flowers on
the gray wool. They matched. Lady Ophelia had earned her fee. But what would
they do with the wallet?
“Should I track down Damian, or...?” Cindy paused. She was grateful for this
unconventional service but still needed to get home and finish the slide deck.
Ally rubbed her head and set the wallet back in the planter. “I know it sounds
strange,” Ally said, pausing to gauge Cindy’s reaction. “But we’ll just leave the
wallet here. Lady O’s gotten into some weird shit recently, and I don’t want to dig
too much up. She’s an Aquarius.”
Lady Ophelia sat primly on the sidewalk, her big round eyes searing into
Cindy’s soul. “I don’t know what that means,” Cindy said.
“Astrology? It’s her Sun sign. Means she’s very principled,” Ally said. “One
time she pawed a pregnancy test out of a trash bag and nudged it right up to
some brownstone steps just as the boyfriend was leaving. He didn’t know! Dude,
we couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It was a whole scene.”
Cindy nodded. “Sure,” she said. “Ok. I’ll Venmo you the fee.”
“Great!” Ally said. “Glad your glove, err, mitten is safe and sound. Until next
time!”
Lady Ophelia and Ally drifted down the block. The gutters glittered in the
moonlight.
Cindy looked back at the stray wallet. She wondered if the dog had
misunderstood the service. If Lady O was as talented as Ally said, it was possible
she threw in a meet cute for free.
Cindy reached for the wallet. The spiked cider lolled in her dinnerless belly,
and the found mitten gave her a jolt of fortune. She could feel her grandma’s
words fresh, like they were a spell spoken from the other side: “You’re going to
have fun.” Christmas would never be the same without her grandma, and now she
was willing to take a chance at just how different it could be.
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The Colossus
by Karen Court
At first, I was terrified when it approached me. I shrank back into my corner
on the window ledge. It was moving and making noises, so I knew it was a
living thing. I studied it cautiously. It is a huge creature, and entirely impractical. I
couldn’t understand how it could catch its prey, I mean, it only has two eyes and
certainly not enough legs!
Then came the day when it offered me a live fly, all buzzing and squirming,
trapped in its pincers. The monster was making noises, soft gentle sounds as it
offered the prize. I couldn’t help myself; I zipped across the ledge and snatched
the fly from its grasp. Immediately, I wrapped the welcome meal in a silk net so I
could consume it at my leisure.
Since then, it will sometimes offer me another tempting gift, maybe a roach or
a bug, and murmurs encouraging noises until I’m brave enough to approach and
pluck the treat out of its grip.
Now, we eke out a companionable existence as the days drag by, two living
beings sharing this gray, concrete cell with the single, grated window. Me and my
colossal two-eyed, two-legged pet.
The Fakers Game
by Geoffrey B. Cain
How did I get here? You don’t want to hear about that. I thought the rule here
was that you weren’t supposed to ask? This is one of my longer stories, and I take
it you don’t like those very much. If you insist then. It will still cost you a cigarette
or two to hear it.
I am here because I went to a party. There was a party in San Francisco, and
it sounded like there was a game or gambling involved, and there is always a
party in San Francisco. I love that town: the sort of magical place that inspires
the worst sort of poetry. I was at the Carlton there, do you know it? I had been in
Amsterdam for the last three years in various capacities in the art trade and I was
looking forward to getting back to San Francisco. A forger? Good god, no! Not
anymore, not really, I am more of a reverse forger I guess. Now I am something of
an authenticator, a trafficker in provenance; one who will tell you, and document
it for a price, that your painting is what you say it is, or for a greater price, I’ll even
tell the insurance company. Oh yes, that little piece of paper is worth something. It
can turn a thirty-thousand dollar painting into a thirty-million dollar painting.
Anyway, there is this party in San Francisco, and my old pal Dave Linden
is hosting it, and if you don’t know who he is, well, he is the sort of person who
would poison someone for the sake of a good pun. He is a delicate mix of
calculated madness and a focused capriciousness. He builds and sells oriental
antiquity collections which is a field I could never get into. There are too many
Qing dynasty master craftsmen making copies of Ming dynasty copies of
Song dynasty vases. You get the picture. We have the same problem in the
West. Michelangelo himself trafficked in Roman antiquities. He used to carve
these gorgeous little angels, bury them in his backyard, and then dig them
up later to offer them as ancient Roman art. The ironic thing is that one simple
carving by Michelangelo today would be worth a thousand times more than an
authenticated Roman putti.
So, I am invited to this party at a very nice house somewhere on the edge of
the Sunset, you know, that part of town where the houses are all named as if they
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were historical landmarks. The invitation asked me to meet his assistant, Hans,
at Cafe Flore the previous morning. I loved Hans, he is in his twenties, has a
degree in Art History, is a fantastic chess player, and yet, he is so disenchanted
and bored with life that he gets himself into fantastic amounts of trouble. I hadn’t
made up my mind whether to go or not, but I loved the idea of meeting with Hans
over coffee to hear all the latest gossip. Maybe I could get all the information
I was looking for without going to the actual party. But the invitation was really
extraordinary.
Hans said that it would be a great party: everyone who wasn’t really anyone
would be there. It was all very mysterious: he said to bring an envelope with a
thousand in cash to the florist on the corner of Sutter and Divisadero, the florist will
then give me an actual, official invitation and a red carnation. A little theatrical?
Yes, but that is how they do things on the West Coast.
It was not just a party. It was going to be a game. All the other international
gad-about antiquity dealers, art restorers, authenticators, estimators, horse
traders, and appraisers of a certain class were going to be there. Hans named a
dozen people and half of them had all lived near me in the same shabby swath
of hotels in Amsterdam or Prague. The other half I am sure were from the Zagreb
or New York scene with a couple of locals thrown in for good measure. Everyone
there will have paid a thousand dollars. There were twenty fakes in the room:
paintings, artifacts, pottery, etc. It was simple. The person who guessed the most
fakes by midnight would win up to twenty thousand dollars. On top of that, there
was a ten-thousand- dollar bonus if someone guessed all twenty. There was to be
champagne, Beluga caviar of the highest quality, connections to be made, and
the winner could be contacted later by an elite clientele for possible work.
I laughed at the audacity of it all. I had to go, at first, for the sheer fun of it.
Dave and I had some previous financial misunderstandings and this would be my
way of saying that there were no hard feelings. Besides, I am almost sure that I left
him with the check one night at a party at La Méditerranée that had to have been
at least a thousand euros or two. I will have to ask him how he got out of that
because I am sure he didn’t.
The party was everything I hoped it would be. There were great wines,
exquisite food, and a jazz guitarist in the main room. I, of course, like everyone
else there, had a strategy. First, I came unfashionably early. I pretended to Dave
that I was still miffed about our past dust-ups, and he immediately made up his
mind to ignore me which is what I wanted him to do because he hates morose or
serious people. This meant he wouldn’t be in my hair as I went to work. I would
become more gregarious later as the evening wore on.
One by one as the guests came into the room, I tried to deduce their strategies.
The art critic, James Blunden, came into the room, gave his coat to Hans and
immediately went to look at the Russian icons in the hallway. He walked through
once, took out his notebook and began to scribble. This was his way. It was how
he talked to himself. He stopped at the first of five miniature icons and nodded
in recognition. He came to the second and frowned. The third, fourth, and fifth,
he was passive about and then he came back to the second, scratched the back
of his neck, and then went to review the icons again. Now, what James doesn’t
know is that when he is bluffing at poker, he scratches the back of his neck. This is
a piece of information I once sold for sixty thousand Kunas at a very opportune
time. I settled on the second icon, even though James still wasn’t sure. But my
strategy was to observe the others carefully and find their first thought. There was
a poet who used to hang out in North Beach who would say, among many other
ludicrous things, “first thought, best thought.” I decided to test this. I discreetly
followed each person that came into the house and just watched. I tried not to be
noticed, and when I was, I would say things like, “Obviously the silver drachma
is from Sicily...” but with a frown like I wasn’t sure. I wanted to appear completely
out of my depth which was true because I really was. And with this crowd, a
situation like this leads to a lot of showing off. One of the antiquity dealers from
New York started to give me a real lesson in late Etruscan pottery. He seemed to
know a lot about five of the six pieces thereby confirming my suspicions. And so
the night went on.
There was a handbag on the library table in the hallway. I noticed it when
I came in but assumed it belonged to a guest. But I was the first to arrive. Julie
Moran breezed through the door later, looked at the bag for a moment, gave a
little frown, and rolled her eyes a little, nearly imperceptible. And if the style editor
for the Times doesn’t know a fake Dior handbag when she sees one, who does? I
wrote that down. Julie also collects prints, vintage jewelry, and fashion models.
I saw through a lot of the amateurish stuff: the waiter’s fake Hungarian accent,
a Greek krater which was claimed to be from the 3rd century BCE when it was
clearly a late 2nd century, Common Era, all too common. But the amazing thing
was that at the end of the evening, we tallied everything up and I had gotten 19
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of them. Half of them I got myself and the greater half by trusting other people’s
instincts and first thoughts. I think there was a lot of luck there. The real geniuses
were those who deduced 16 out of 20 on sheer encyclopedic knowledge and
experience. They were really robbed. In fact, the numismatist, Kleinman was
sure that I had an edge because he suspected that I had created a couple of the
paintings. I assured him that half of my guesses were sheer luck, and I in no way
deserved to win.
We opened a final bottle of champagne, all toasted the host and said,
“goodnight and good morning,” and we were on our way.
I was pretty pleased with myself, a thousand had gotten me nineteen. I had a
couple of small debts to pay and then I would be off back to Amsterdam. This was
small change to most of the people in the room. They just needed an excuse to
show up and see everyone without letting on that it was a purely social occasion.
But all that week, while I was enjoying this money, tipping big, and solving some
minor inconveniences from my last visit to San Francisco the previous year, I was
tormented by the 20th fake, what was it? I was sure I should have known it. Was
it the antique mirror? Maybe that was it and we were all too vain to look beyond
our own reflections. All of the food and drink was absolutely the real thing. What
was it? I even talked to my barber about it: I reviewed every piece in the room in
my mind, and it even kept me up nights a week after the party.
Eventually, there was the inevitable knock at my door. It was the police. I
knew immediately what they wanted and started laughing. How could I have not
seen it? That old bastard! Dave used the party to launder money. As they put the
handcuffs on they announced that I was under arrest for passing counterfeit bills.
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