Elysian Literary Magazine
This issue is dedicated to the artist in all of us.
Designed by Mackenzie Reeves
The editors and staff of Elysian would like to thank the following groups and individuals for their support during the making of this publication:
​
Aurora University, English Department
Schingoethe Center of Aurora University
Dr. Natasha Ritsma
Dr. Sara Elliott
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Cover Photo by Claudia Mora
VOLUME 5 ISSUE 2
Lexington Candy Shop, Photo by Yaritza Argueta-Morales
Piano Hammers, Photo by Francis Balquin
The Weight
Francis Balquin
The Bard says “Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,”
But what royalty do I hold that crushes my mind?
What rank or title gives grief to my soul?
Must I carry this weight alone?
​
Everything, I feel, must fall upon me.
For I must always be:
An Academic Devotee,
A Perfect Son for Family,
A Patient Partner Constantly.
​
What does it say,
That I let these things define me?
What am I,
If not this weight?
Sky and Sea Spray, Photo by Francis Balquin
La Ville
Francis Balquin
​
City of Lights, what secrets do you hide?
You still live on, forever in my mind.
​
Your « rues » and « arrondissements » draw me in,
While my Second City’s streets wear me thin.
​
Spectacle your are: « Les Champs-Élysées »
Which makes modest the avenues by the lake.
​
Skyscrapers reaching further skyward;
« La Tour Eiffel » still the icon spire.
​
« Ton métro, tes bistros, tes jardins et tes arts »
I’ve visited once but have stayed in my heart.
​
Fascination or a mere obsession?
Nostalgia or a true affection?
Night Streets, Painting by Elizabeth Coleman
Red Sun, Painting by Elizabeth Coleman
Desecration, Drawing by David Crumpley
Brothers, Drawing by David Crumpley
U = mgh
Brooke Dowd
​
the bucket climbs along the metal spokes
built by clumsy minds
and weak hands
​
anticipation for the top of the world
buzzes in the atmosphere
as small hands tighten around
the leather padding surrounding the metal safety bar
​
worn in places
where the countless others
held on for dear life
​
the drop was never the surprise
the fear of falling was
obscured by the magnificence of the climb
to touch the clouds
​
for every flag planted at the mountaintop
there are a hundred bodies on the hillside
no one thinks about the fall
when the top of the world is so close
Floorboards
Shelbi Duster
​
i was raised
in the temperament of floorboards
and their indisputable whine
pressing each footstep into my mind
creak
A memorization of each spot
creak
the constant calculation
whether a step is too harsh or sudden
as the fear inflames
and the pot boils to the edge
creak
closer and closer
creak
trying to hide an uncommitted crime
until it all-
Creak
pops.
I'll Follow You Anywhere, Photo by Kelly Fischer
See The Light, Photo by Kelly Fischer
Bubblegum Secrets
Emma Fisher
​
There she sits
With her maize blonde hair
And eyes of ice.
Twirling her locks
And smacking
Her bright pink bubblegum.
​
She leans over
To the ear of the girl
Sitting next to her
And whispers,
“Did you hear what she did last night...?”
​
She then smirks as the girl
Widens her eyes
And drops her jaw.
Laughs to herself as the girl
Turns to someone else
To tell them the same blatant lie.
​
She pulls at her bright pink bubblegum
And watches as the chaos unfolds
And the lie spreads
Like a ripple in water.
​
Gossip
Ruins the lives of innocent people
One nasty fabrication at a time.
Everyone is susceptible to
The rosy, malicious wrath
Of the whispered canards.
​
You have two choices
When a lie comes your way:
You can breathe it in
To your dusty lungs
And cloud your vision
With the falsification
Or
You can beat it,
Overcome it with your own lie
To spread to others.
​
This is a girl-against-girl world.
Embrace it
Or let it embrace you.
So, next time you hear the rumbling
Of a murmur of fibs
Pull out of your pocket
Your pack of bright pink bubblegum
Pop one in your mouth
And smack the lie away.
Colors of His Last Day
Emma Fisher
Black
The color of his fur
Slick and soft
With wisps of white
Dashed along his chin
Flowing down his stomach
Sprinkled on his paws.
​
Red
The color of his collar
Which I held tightly
White-knuckled
To keep him standing
On his tiny, wobbly feet
When all he wished to do
Was fall down and
Lay on the ground.
​
Cream
The color of my shirt
Stained with saliva
From his drooling mouth
The knit sweater I wore on
His last day on Earth.
​
Silver
The color of my dad’s car
Which we piled into
My dad and mom in front
My sister in the back
And me holding him
Squeezing him
Tightly in my arms.
​
Gray
The color of my eyes
As I looked down at him
His motionless body
Except for a slight shiver
Because he was too weak
And in pain
To move anymore.
​
Tan
The color of the walls
Inside the hospital
Inside the room
Where we met with the nurse
To discuss the procedure.
​
White
The color of the button
I had to press
Signaling the doctor
To come into the room.
​
Blue
The color of the liquid
That snaked into his veins
Through a tiny, thin tube
Into his leg
And switched the light
Off in his eyes.
​
Brown
The color of his eyes
Lifeless at last
No more spark
But no more suffering.
​
Clear
The color of the tears
Washing my face
In rivers of sorrow.
Coup de Foudre
Emma Fisher
Je suis déprimée.
Mais, quand je te regarde, mon
Coeur est allumé.
​
​
​
​
Translation:
Love at First Sight
I am depressed.
But, when I see you, my
Heart is illuminated.
Burning Memories, Photo by Nahomi Geromini
Climbing Rose, Photo by Nahomi Geromini
Hiding, Photo by Nahomi Geromini
Luminant Branches, Photo by Diego Guzman-Favela
Reflection of Heartbreak, Photo by Diego Guzman-Favela
The Edge of the World
Connor Gwaltney
“Can you tell me the story again, Papa? One more time?”
“It’s time you go to sleep, little one. No time for stories when the sun’s fallen off the edge of the world already. Besides, you know what happens in the night when we don’t go to sleep, hm? Dragons come to the village and find those that are awake and –”
“No, they don’t. I’ve aged eight summers, Papa! I’m almost old enough to live on my own! I could stay up a little longer! Besides, you never told me what happened to him! What happened to Geirald?”
“Ah, I see. Fine, fine. I suppose a girl aged eight summers can stay up for the end of the story. So, Geirald was at –”
“No! From the very beginning. Please?”
“Alright, alright. Lay down and tuck yourself under the furs as I tell you. You have to sleep eventually; else your mother will have my hide.”
“As I had said before...”
Geirald stood on the docks as the cold wind of spring hit his cheek. Snow fell like soft kisses onto the wood of the docks and melted soon thereafter. Thornhold’s weather had never been kind to him, but today was the exception.
He looked out into the vast blue that had been his love for all eighty years of his life. Marvelous. He wondered as the waves of the Dread Sea splished and splashed onto Cold Coast. His gaze at the unwalkable road he had traveled for so long was unlike any other that day.
It was time, time for the waves and the wind to guide him to his end. His legs and back ached, his skin wrinkled and frail, there was no voyage he could go on that would be of use to anyone, and no one to share the payments with left in his life.
His first mate, Harald, walked behind him, slinging three packs and a satchel over his burly shoulders.
“Eighty years has led to this, my boy.” Geirald smiled upon the young man’s face, his beard merely whiskers and his eyes still timid.
“You’re sure you want to do this, Captain? No one knows how long of a drop it could be. Or where you’ll end up.” Harald had been fearful of Geirald’s plan, but the old man knew better than the boy, of course.
“No matter the drop or where it leads, I’ll end up in the Clestal. Every one of us will eventually.” It had been hard to make peace with such a thing for the longest time. After Relka had passed, Geriald wondered where she had gone, if she could see him, hear him call for her still in his dreams. No matter now, I’ll be with her once more soon enough.
He walked Harald to the deck of the ship, feeling the leather of his boots hit the creaking wood planks as if it had been the first time. And much like his first voyage, the nerves began to set in then.
He remembered that voyage well, Eceri it had been named, a wondrous place of polish and pride in the people and the architecture of it all.
This voyage will not lead me to such pastures. Or any, for that matter. Harald dropped the satchels and packs down onto the deck, the weight of them all might have caused a smaller ship to wobble, but not Geirald’s ship.
Velsa was as sturdy as ever, no doubt thanks to the black bark hull straight from Grivatine. Golden metal (of what kind Geirald had never been sure) fastened unused archer slits near the top of the body and embroidered the captain’s quarters just under the wheel.
“This is all that was left on the list to take out of your home, Captain.” Harald said.
“And that is all I’ll need, my boy. I thank you.” Geirald smiled at him and squeezed Harald’s shoulder. He could see the tears pushing behind Harald’s eyes as he did so. The boy had never known a father, only a captain and a crew.
“I thank you, Captain.” Harald peeped.
“You’ll be a great captain yourself one day, Harald. Especially with that new house of yours to keep you warm when you’re not on the sea.” Geirald began to walk up towards the wheel of his ship, a wide smile creeping onto his face.
“My house? Y-you...Your house? You’re giving it to me?” Harald walked up the stairs faster than was safe.
“Yes, boy. Go and enjoy it, now. And do remember, Plecquoan and Valyssra aren’t one of the Six, but they’re damn near as powerful as Them.” Geirald winked at him.
Harald embraced the old man, then went to get the sails ready to catch the wind, just before he jumped down back to the docks, tears flowing by then.
Geirald called out to him, “May the wind and the water be ever in your favor, my boy!”
Harald had yelled something too, but the wind in Geriald’s ears hindered him from hearing. He said he loves me. Something of the sort. The boy knows I love him too.
The wind was a gift that day, and as day turned to night it was much of the same. He slept in the captain’s quarters when it was too dark to see, for once in his life not caring if his ship would hit something or be found by water brigands.
Each morning he would nibble on what little food he brought, beginning to feel the pressure and boggling thoughts of how long he would ration them for. How long should my voyage be? Should I wait until I begin to fall off the edge? Or will I go before that?
His decision came when, by his count, the nineteenth night had come and gone. His body and mind both felt weak, his stomach was angry with him, and there was seldom any food left. Going to get water from the sea had been a dreadful task, and one he had not felt up for in quite some time.
Geirald looked around at the place he had called home one last time. Vast nothingness that had been far more than that to him for his whole life. He stood at the wheel of the ship and took off the two necklaces he wore. He had chosen the Builder as his sigil when he had seen seventeen winters, but Plecquoan and Valyssra were the ones he truly loved.
He wore one necklace for Plecquoan and one for Valyssra any time he was on his voyages. The wooden carved pieces had been with him for as long as his memory went back.
I won’t be needing you anymore. I thank you. He took both necklaces off and placed them onto one of the pegs on the wheel of the ship. He smiled upon the both of them as he did so.
Geirald walked down onto the deck, taking another deep breath of the open air. He laid down then, which took more effort than he could believe.
He whispered to the Heirs, to his sigil the Builder specifically, “Take me home. I am ready to go home.” He closed his eyes and waited for the Heirs to grant him his wish as everything went dark.
A fuzziness was about his mind and his heart for a moment. Time was passing. How much he couldn’t be certain of, but the moment he had laid down had long since passed. A tiredness was in him too, unsure if it were his mind or his body that felt so.
He had never intended to do so, but the sun’s kiss on his eyelids made him open his eyes. Geirald sat up, looking to his left and right, seeing the same ship he had gone to sleep forever on. Is this the Clestal? This is where we meet the Heirs Themselves before They pass judgment?
He stood up, foot by foot, his head feeling heavy and dazed as he shook it about to wake himself up. He walked back towards the captain’s quarters and touched the wooden structure. I can feel as if I am still alive. That was when Geirald made his realization. I haven’t died, I haven’t fallen, the edge of the world is yet to come.
He smiled, not certain to himself why, but he did, nonetheless. An extra hour, an extra day, perhaps. He walked as fast as his frail frame allowed him towards the front of the ship, hoping to take a deep breath and take in the same openness he yearned for. The vast and open blue that was desolate to most, but so pure and full in his eyes.
He was not granted such a breath, as shock and disbelief filled his lungs instead. When he looked out front of where the ship was headed, the sea ended, just as all the books had said it did, but there was not an edge, no windy abyss, or a dark wall that led to nothingness.
Instead, Geirald saw land, land far wider than Thornhold where he had come from, with trees far taller and less snowy. This must be the Clestal, the Heirs have created this illusion.
He began to panic as the landmass grew larger and closer to him. Geirald moved as quickly as the pain of his legs allowed him. He moved to each of the masts and lowered all the sails as best as he could.
When Velsa had come to a stop, he went to the side of the ship, seeing the small rowboat with paddles inside. Geirald pursed his lips, fear seeping inside of him.
He pushed the rowboat into the water, and he jumped into the sea with it. The chill of it had always bothered him, but he seldom felt it when he rose into the open air this time.
The climb into the boat was horrid, and fixing himself with the paddles was even harder, but once he had a handle on both of them, he began to approach the land.
Geirald reached the coast quicker than anticipated, the wind sending shivers through his body as the wetness of his clothes lingered. The land was all grass and dirt, and flatter than the capital of the Klovacar from the looks of it.
He climbed out of the rowboat, his legs burning from exhaustion with every step he took. The sun beating down on him, far warmer than he had remembered Thornhold being. Where am I?
Geirald did not receive an answer, but through short brushes of grass, a few beings walked towards him with more fear in their eyes than even Geirald’s had. They all carried weapons, maces, spears, and axes – the most common between them.
Their skin a few shades darker than his, their eyes shaped differently than his own, but the same as each other’s. Geirald had to pause to realize he was not seeing some other-worldly beings. These are men! Just as I am.
“Hello?” he asked, approaching one that wore a garment unlike anything Geirald had seen before. An odd-looking fabric that was laced tightly around the man’s small chest.
The man replied with some combination of words Geirald did not understand. Geirald began to laugh, falling to his knees and rubbing his eyes. This must be a ruse, a dream, some twisted fate that happens when one falls off of the edge of the world.
Geirald picked himself back up from the ground, more men speaking in some tongue he could not identify. They did not look like they would harm him, so he began to walk as if he knew where he was going.
There were mostly small fur tents erected in circles around piles of pelts and meats. Further in the distance, Geriald could see shacks made of wood, but those were the largest man-built entities.
Further in the distance was the tallest mountain Geirald had ever seen, its top hidden by fast moving clouds. This is not the Clestal after all. This is the same Plecria I have lived on all my life.
He turned around and walked back in the direction of his ship, and he touched the shoulders and faces of some of the men as he walked by, still unable to fathom what he had discovered. This is a land of men. One undiscovered and unexplored. I must tell the Klozga. I must head home!
Geirald cried out, his voice hysterical, “You must help me get back! The Klozga must know of such a discovery! New people! A new land! There is no edge after all!”
The people he saw only gave concerned looks, still pointing their weapons towards him. When he saw their reactions, he began to weep, unsure if he was more happy or more terrified.
Geirald ran as fast as he could, got back into the rowboat, and rowed his way to his ship. He climbed the hull with the little energy and muscle his body had left. His breath fading with every movement he made.
He looked at the land as he climbed up to the wheel of Velsa, calling out to the people below, “I’ll… I’ll be.. I’ll be back!” He tried to shout his words, but they were fading. His vision darkened at the same time, his legs were falling from under him, and his hands fell off of the ship’s wheel…
“The next time he would wake, he would be home, safe and sound.”
“So...so...Geirald…He lived? Did he get to tell the Klozga what he found?”
“Who says he found anything at all, little one? Who says Geirald was real in the first place?”
Dissonance
Kimberly Leslie
Love, they say,
enchants and seduces you,
singing its siren song from the bay
taking the form of a handsome beau.
​
Love, for me,
is a pair of ill-fitting shoes
I’ve crammed my feet,
short of chopping off my big toe,
hoping one day it’ll be Cinderella’s slipper.
​
(who would be dumb enough to cut off their toe for a man anyway?)
​
I know I’m supposed to
dream over and seek my future Prince Charming like any normal girl,
but I can’t see myself wanting him so badly
that my eyes are replaced with hearts.
​
(give me a furry friend over a prince charming any day)
​
I know I’m supposed to
date and marry my Prince Charming,
but I can’t imagine myself as a bride and proper wife.
I never looked good in white, and it doesn’t feel quite right.
​
(why else would my family force their prophecies of romance and marriage on me?)
​
I know I’m supposed to
make love with my Prince Charming and pump out kids,
but I can’t picture myself pounding with him in bed and screaming in agony,
bleeding and potentially dying as society’s aspiration for me slithers out of my body.
​
(i want to vomit at the thought)
​
My family says that it’s unnatural.
I’m being immature and selfish.
I’m too young to know what I want.
I’ll end up broken and unhappy.
​
And maybe they’re right
​
Maybe there is something wrong with me.
If I can’t love the way I’m supposed to,
then can I truly love at all?
Half-lives
Angie Lopez
I can no longer be your air and lungs
No longer the loveseat you rest on
Or the socks you wear to bed
It’s not your fault
I want to think
That I willingly gave my hands to your cause
Turned my back on my own life
to hold you up
My head has been pounding for weeks now
I wonder if I’m ready
To birth wisdom and war
I think i just need a break
From living your life
I think I just want to live for me
Because I need to breathe
And I need to rest
And I need warmth
You think it’s all been nothing
But I’ve soaked up half
Half of your pain
Half of your anger
Half of your despair
And I don’t want you to feel sorry
Or to understand
Or to stop taking
But at least don’t say
I’ve been no help
When I cut half-lives
Ojos De Oro
Gonzalo Magana
Carlos Gamez died back in 2013-ish. I didn’t know my maternal grandfather at all really. He stayed in Guatemala, but no one was torn up about it. He was a bastard. He found my grandma in the farmland boonies that no one bothers to remember. My grandma is a very hard worker, whose father didn’t even leave her a last name; being raised by half siblings that hated her guts. She would be the first to tell you that you gotta be tough when you ain’t that smart. She moved to the Capital with him, but she probably would have done better without him. He was an alcoholic abuser, and after four kids they were broke, all thanks to his endless spending of family money that he didn’t work for, on things that were just for him. Beating his kids and her almost every night.
She hated holidays the most. He was always coming through at random hours of the night with almost no clothes, pissed that he lost the shirt off his back gambling, and just itching to blow off some steam. The beating was always worse on those days, a lot worse. He did a lot of other things too, real bad things that don’t need mentioning.
You’d think my mom and grandma would be happy when they got the news that he died.
I know my grandma very well; she was a bit of a cry baby when it came to raising me and my siblings (I say that with love). Always making a big deal about what she considered disrespect, and getting real mad about what I saw are innocuous things. Being raised by her was something of an artform, something I’m grateful for now. I remember my mom getting home from work and breaking the news to me and my grandma. It was a bright day, but the sun had fallen, and it became cold. A good cold. They both cried really hard together, harder than I’d seen either of them cry. A primal sort of cry that you just don’t see all the time.
My grandfather’s death was not unexpected, but he went out bad, real bad. First, he went blind. Due to all the drinking, drinking real cheap stuff. His family left him back in the motherland, but someone took some sorta care of him. Next, he got Alzheimer’s, and in a couple years, he didn’t even know he was married, didn’t know what he did. I know he was in the capital city, but over the years I heard the people taking care of him didn’t treat him right. I remember hearing a couple of stories, one about coffee. He was like a child, asking for his coffee, saying “Café, café! Quiero café.” Whoever his caretaker was, they were sick of his shit, giving him his coffee burning hot, letting him burn his mouth. Then, he’d cry out like a child would. One day, this caretaker had to take him somewhere, and of course, he was being difficult. They would end up dragging him out of the house, shirtless and barefoot with just some jeans on; crying like a toddler. His caretaker just took the payments and didn’t really do their job. His body was found in his stuffy apartment, and he died alone.
It’s true that my mom and grandma cried for him (they were probably the only ones – I know I didn’t), but the next day was very normal. I thought the energy was gonna be heavy, but it was like any other day. It didn’t take long to mourn him, his body burned to ashes, and there were no good memories to feel some type of way about.
One character was even happy when he heard the news, the youngest of the Gamez kids, cursed with his father’s name. I didn’t even know my uncle’s government name was Carlos till I was in the 8th grade. He repped his middle name Roberto. He tolerated people outside the family calling him Carlos, but no one in the family even thought about it. He hated his dad’s guts through and through.
Tio stood about 5’6,” brown, a real funny guy. One with a loud laugh, he could make anyone laugh. Always talkin’ ‘bout “Pura Vida,” hated work, but man did he work. Getting sixty hours easy at whichever job he was working, and taking advantage of the time off, and the time he earned “THAT PT, BABY.” Real good at biking – he could bike to Wisconsin and back without breaking a sweat. He would talk to me about seeing the sun rise, while being shoulder to shoulder with deer. He was pretty good at pulling the ladies, but always skipped settling down, it took me a while to understand why. My uncle played an important role in my childhood, and considering how much my parents worked, he would take us out to a whole bunch of places. He introduced us to FUNWAY and the trail next to it. We’d go to movies and jump around theater rooms. It was always a lot of fun being with him. He’d always show up to the house with something, never empty handed. He knew how to keep me humble too, I had some real learning moments with him.
He was the most outspoken about how much he hated his dad, but out of everyone in the family, he just couldn’t let go. Ask a child of an alcoholic, “Why don’t you drink?” and they’ll say, “because my dad was an alcoholic.” Ask an alcoholic “Why do you drink so much?” and they’ll say, “because my dad was an alcoholic.” It is quite the duality. I didn’t know he had problems with drinking until high school. He disappeared for a couple of years, then moved back closer. He started living in some dude’s basement, renting it out. A somewhat common practice for Hispanics, but kinda sketchy. The house was owned by an older Hispanic, with one of those over-the-top Spaniard names, those dumbass names that are so unnecessary.
It was then that I took notice of the excessive drinking, how my grandma would give him a generic scolding, about how alcohol is poison for the body. When he got real drunk, he would lay into my grandma, talking about how she didn’t do enough to stop the old man, saying that she didn’t care, that she loved him more than her kids. I would just let them fight it out, but maybe I should have done more, maybe. This went on for years, just a cycle of them fighting and making up. There would always be this moment of, maybe we should do something, retorted by, he’ll just disappear again. At least we have him here, at least he won’t disappear again. We were too soft with him. Where the fuck was he gonna go anyway? We were all he had left. He did become elusive in 2020. He got into a big fight with his mom, but the cycle would kick off one last time.
By 2021, he stopped working. He just couldn’t do it anymore. Always in pain, couldn’t drink much anymore. He vomited every time he tried, but he vomited everything. Could barely eat, didn’t really want to eat anyway. He found a way to drink, just a bit though. It was a real sharp turn, his health I mean, and he started coming by the house again. He looked bad, real bad. Really skinny, but with a belly, kinda yellow. And a sharp, crisp, insulting pair of Golden Eyes. My dad would tell me “Tú Tío está viviendo con tiempo prestado.” There was an odd thing in the house. Everyone kinda accepted that he was gonna die. My dad lost a brother to the same thing. Cats like that don’t change, and it’s far too late now anyway.
In truth, I didn’t feel traditional sadness about it. I can’t really explain why. During those days, we would talk about innocuous things. I was telling him how the Bengals were gonna make the Superbowl for the first time in forever, and he would joke, “Maybe they’ll win before I die!” in the tone only he could pull off. I could tell he was angling for a deeper talk, but I didn’t really know what needed to be said. I didn’t really know what to tell him. Was I equipped, or just weak?
It was a bright spring day; melancholic blue painted the sky. That is my favorite sort of day where the air is truly honest – you can see the sky for what it is. My uncle comes through, but he looks worse than usual – he’s acting effetely. I guide him inside and end up leaving for the night. Turns out they ended up taking him to the hospital. He didn’t even want to admit that he had a problem, and now he was going to the ER. He had a lot of problems, scarred lungs, fucked-up heart, and don’t even get me started on the liver. I visited him twice. The first time was pretty normal, all things considered, but I’ll never forget the second time.
I heard that his condition got worse, not verbal at the moment. My iron-willed sister saw him in that state first and was in disbelief. My brother and I take the elevator to the fourth floor. They say time can be generous, but ultimately time is indifferent. The ride was long, the smell of a hospital can really make you feel small. It was busy, but we found our way to his quiet little room, a window looking over the overcast of the day. His arms were restrained, he was awake, but not there, too drugged up. His Golden Eyes stare at nothing towards the ceiling. I walked in and said hello to him, and he muttered some nonsense. He thought I was a nurse. He had gotten used to responding to them. I had been told he had about a forty percent chance of surviving the next few weeks, then it was off to palliative care. There, he would have roughly the same chance, but he would need a new liver, which he probably would not get. We could get another year out of him, if he made it out of these few weeks.
My brother and I stand there in reflection. My uncle is a Guatemalan man, and so am I, and so is my brother. What separates us from him? Nothing really. As a man, you’re born alone, and you will die alone. Are we able to break free from the legacy of Carlos? Sure, we went through different bells and whistles than the original Carlos, but who’s to say that changes anything. We will always be tethered to Carlos, even all these miles away from him. All these years away from him. All things that I thought to myself. Before we left, I got real close to my uncle, I told him “Have hope.” He nodded. I don’t know why I said that.
He would become conscious again, but I could bring myself there, I believed that what I said was the best way to end the story. He said, “After I get out of here, vamos a Guate” (Short for Guatemala). He spoke of a really nice exotic beach from his homeland. Talkin’ ‘bout “PURAAA VIDDAAAA” like he always did. He died at 2am of blood clotting in his brain of all places. My sister and mother were there. They said he looked peaceful.
It took the hospital forever to get us the ashes. They didn’t tell us he was an organ donor. Most of his organs were worthless, but not his ojos de oro – his golden eyes were the perfect fit for some old man. He wrote my mom a letter, with the whole “Sorry for your loss” thing that people gotta write. Of course, they clean the jaundice off his eyes before they were donated.
There’s this spot on New York Street run by a Guatemalan. They sell phones, but also mail packages of any size to places south of the border. My mom and grandma prepared this comically large box to send over to family in Guatemala, and me, my brother, and dad were gonna help, ‘cause that thing was heavy! I met the guy who runs the place, an old school Hispanic, the type to tell you the more traumatic shit you’ve ever heard (without you asking), only to end the story by saying “Pero, Gracias a Dios, todo está bien.” I admire cats like that. He was really stoic, until he found out that my mom was not only Guatemalan but married to a Mexican. That may not seem like a big deal, but during his time, and even today, Mexicans typically dislike Guatemalans a lot (that’s the nice way of putting it). There ain’t too many people like me, especially when considering my dad is northern Mexican, born and raised. My parents’ kids are proof that things can change, that hope is real. That’s what the store owner said, more or less.
I thought about my uncle, not in the moment, but that man helped me gain perspective. I understood why I said, “Have hope.” Slowly, we accept the legacy of Carlos and celebrate the legacy that our parents made for us. We have a responsibility to be hopeful. Also, understand that at any moment, we can fail and fail badly.
My brother was telling me about a dream he had the other day. He was in the kitchen, with my uncle, shooting the shit, and what not. Laughing real hard, my uncle with a beer in hand. Between the laughs my brother tells him, “Man, Tio, you won’t ever change, huh?” Tio laughs and replies “Pura Vida Compa.”
Best said by Los Cuates de Sinaloa in the song Soldado Imperial, “Hay buenas y malas, pero así es la vida”.
The Threat of Permanence
Ian Melgoza
On my desk lies a black mug, shattered and decommissioned
It’s shell will never shift colors again under the heat of my coffee
So there it sits, holding old memories and sharpened knives
Markers waiting to bleed, pens waiting to click
​
The truth is, I never found the courage
To reach in and risk permanence
The threat of an n that looks too much like an h
Or a highlighter illuminating a word I didn’t want to see
​
So I settle for a pencil
Scribbling doubt on dead wood
Wondering if these words came out right
Too afraid to hear the click of a pen,
And the commitment of it’s ink
Paramount, Photo by Juan Nuñez
Strolling through the night, Photo by Juan Nuñez
Dancing in Memory
Emma Schwarz
Waltzing and twirling
arms out, languidly wading through the air,
lids fluttering just short of the encasement in darkness,
unable to tell if my breath
matches the imaginary measures of song
or if I have yet to catch it,
all while stuck in a dizzying trance
of reverie bordering on madness.
Lips begin to stretch
with lifted apples moments from meeting lash tips,
swirling currents of air lift my tresses
nearly parallel with the cool floor beneath my feet,
and suddenly my body has picked up speed,
to the point I could’ve sworn that I was flying,
before tumbling down to earth
just to be secured in a radiant warmth,
only this time you’re not there.
Valentine's Day
Emma Schwarz
I look back
at the smiles I’ve had
since the day your peridots
first glimmered
in my direction.
​
I reminisce upon
my foolish giggles
and belting of love songs,
a bittersweet pinch to the heart,
knowing now
what we could not have seen then.
​
Paragraphs upon paragraphs,
all worshiping your smile,
your knowing glances,
your silly impersonations,
and most of all,
your patience.
​
Green was always
a favorite color of mine,
but your gaze gave me
a reason to dream.
Now all I have
are empty nights
of tenebrosity.
​
The night you told me
you found someone new,
everything that I was not,
I left your car with a smile
and entered mine
with only grief.
​
I had tried to ease
your jealousy and worry,
but I guess
that was not enough.
Or maybe,
it was too much.
​
After our winter mornings of intrigue,
spring afternoons of leisure,
and summer evenings of escapades,
it made sense that autumn
was when we were to fall
apart.
​
Sick with heartache,
what briefly began with smoldering,
turned to well wishes,
hoping that you would not sustain
the fate with which
you had left me.
​
A year now has come and gone,
since the Monday we locked eyes
as you sat directly across from me,
and asked my name,
as though you had not
rehearsed it a million times.
​
On the eve of Tuesday
I stand in front of the mirror,
a small smile on my face,
finally pushing ahead
on my journey
of learning to love
once more.
A Peacock Has Escaped from the
Brookfield Zoo
Brianna Smith
He must have wandered
down the artificial boulevards
unnoticed as he snuck
between cargo short-clad legs
and past the field trip
of wriggling fifth graders
more excited by the tired lions
to strut past the inert ticket takers,
through the towering iron gates
and the perfunctory gazes
of the parking attendants
to pose proudly, feathers
wide and shimmering
in the last few flickers
of the yellowed streetlight,
finally outshining everything
in this colorless square of cracked concrete.
Loons
Brianna Smith
I once sat on the end
of a sinking wooden dock
and cried back at the loons
as they drifted past, invisible
in the cavernous northern darkness.
I tried over and over to mimic
their mournful voices, mine
an obvious imposter echoing
across the cold, still water.
Until, once, it cracked
in just the right way
and to anyone listening,
I could have been a loon.
But I never was able to do it again.
Moose
Brianna Smith
There’s a moose staring me down
on the northbound Orange Line.
He’s chewing bright pink gum,
blowing a perfect bubble
as his brown eyes gaze unblinking
from the side of the school building.
He’s a campus conversation piece,
sentinel of the South Loop,
enforcing whimsy on commuters and concrete.
He’s the product of a contest—
a clarion call for art from alumni
who learned everything they know
right behind him,
in a room on the twelfth floor
with white walls and an analog clock.
Welcome to Womanhood
Jessica Somogye
I was thirteen. I had just gotten my first period
‘Welcome to womanhood!’ everyone says,
Welcome to womanhood.
How terrified I was of becoming a woman - I was
Thirteen - wearing training bras and not caring about
What my body looked like or what I wore
I was thirteen -
Excited to start my new highschool life
Excited to make some new friends
Not knowing
I was about to make some enemies
I was thirteen
I just had to go to the bathroom
The fucking bathroom
It happened so fast
It was dark, it was scary, I didn’t know
Left from Right
Up from down
Or
The ensuing trauma that would end up affecting me for the
Rest of my goddamn life
‘Welcome to womanhood!’
Because apparently,
I was asking for it
​
I was thirteen
Here’s a box of strawberries, the good kind
They’re sweet, perfect, and just the right temperature
Go ahead and try them, they’re good, I promise
But, I’m just warning you
One of them is poisoned, and it’s probably deadly
It will definitely kill you
But
It’s just one of them, you probably won’t eat the poisoned one
97%
97%
97 percent of women have been sexually assaulted, harassed, abused in some way
‘Not all men’
But it’s 3 percent away from becoming all women
​
I was fifteen and no
You don’t need to know what I was wearing because
It doesn’t fucking matter
I was fifteen
Yes, I was walking in
Broad daylight
I was fifteen
Yes I was holding
My keys in between my fingers
I was fifteen
No, I didn’t
Have anyone with me to
Walk me out to my car
I was fifteen
I was scared for my life
​
I finally found the courage to
Tell someone,
Someone who used to be a trusted adult in my life
But not anymore
‘Oh, they’re a good kid’
‘They would never do that to you’
‘You’re just exaggerating’
‘Nothing really happened’
‘What were you wearing?’
‘Did you say no?’
‘Are you sure you said no?’
Bullshit
Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to the victim?
Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?
Why?
Is it because
I was fifteen?
I long to be listened to
I long to be heard
I need to be heard
There is no reason why my body should have been
Violated
At such a young age
​
I was thirteen
Thirteen
Thirteen - that is 8th grade
Middle school
There is no reason why my body should be violated
At all
​
Why did you have to make the word ‘NO’ a public thing?
‘Any sane woman would have done it’
Somewhere, a man calls to a woman
Outside his car window
‘Hey sexy, come closer’
She says ‘NO’ he says
‘Cunt, you’re ugly anyway’
Somewhere, a woman argues for a higher salary but
Her coworkers call her a bitch in the break room for
Trying so hard
Somewhere, a woman’s friends sign her up for a
Makeover show and the audience laughs when she says
She loves to wear sweatpants
Somewhere, a girl is told if she doesn’t want to hear the song about rape
Don’t listen to it
But it follows her
In the supermarket,
The gym,
The girls clothing aisle and now she knows
All the words
Somewhere a woman is told to
Get naked at frat parties and
She refuses
A boy with a kind smile walks up to her
Puts his arm around her
And offers her a beer, filled with the magic that
Erases the word NO
​
I am sixteen in the manager’s office of my
First job when my boss whispers a list of things of things he wants to do
To my body
I say no and he
Threatens my next paycheck
A girl is asked to her senior prom by someone other than
Her boyfriend
She says no and his
Knife blooms a corsage in her chest
Every rape story sounds the same when you stop listening
​
Do not touch me
Unless
I ask you to touch me
I Sit
Alyssa Sondgeroth
I sit in darkness
A single candle to comfort my human need for knowledge
The lights edge enlightens my mind
​
I sit and study the walls
Darkness fighting the flashes of light
Moments of understanding glowing crisp and golden
​
I sit and write
Barely seeing my pencil touch the page
My hand places pressure with faith that my thoughts will gather clear
Lead syllables neatly outlined will form
​
I sit and the wide unknown ebbs towards me
Wisdom only within the single flame
Trust within every other breath or movement
​
I sit in naive hope and safety
There in the darkness is an unknown familiarity
Safety in the shadowed knowns
Fear in movements unsensed or unpredicted
​
I sit in a single flame
There in the light is small glimpses of reality, warped into it
I stare into the momentary wisdom
My heart pluses as golden as the erratic flame, both comforted by knowledge
​
I sit in the smooth abyss
My starved mind wonders and images
The darkness commands my thoughts
​
My lost and curious soul is greeted
I sit in this darkness, arms cloaking me
Belief even in the face of wisdom
Belief even in the golden pulse of my heart
Belief even in the darkest of paths and cages
​
Thoughts swirl and glow on the walls confusing the balance
It plays moments of my life
A projector of lost events
A director of my greatest hopes
A shield against my sharpest and heaviest pains
​
I sit in this darkness, arms cloaking me
The Ginkgo
Alyssa Sondgeroth
​
What once was clearly known is now pinned with hidden secrets
Stamped in codes of memories
Sentiments tacked onto things that are unmatching
Ginkgo trees and death
The crisp yellow leaves and lost laughter
Roots and trapped promises
Bark and the feet that once clawed up
Cuts and the kids that yelled as they attacked the enemy’s body
The incomplete names that were carved, now weathered
Pulmonary Fibrosis
Cassidy Tillman
I used to not need to worry about you
​
I remember you always remind me about the oil in my car
Making sure that there was enough,
Due to the fact that my car used it up quicker than others
​
I remember that you always congratulated me when I did good
You still do,
I do my best at everything, and you are there by the finish line
​
I want you to be by my side through it all
At my wedding,
I want you to walk me down the aisle
​
The father daughter dance which is special
I want to dance with you,
Like no one is around watching me be a goof
​
Thinking of having a world without you in it is scary
When I fall down,
You won’t be there to hold me and pick me back up
​
I want you there to pick me back up
It makes me angry,
I want you to be there for so much longer
​
I don’t know why but life is fragile
Fragile like a plate,
And in that case, I hate it, hate it
​
I want you to live to see my kids
To bring your dog over,
So, you can babysit them and watch them giggle
​
Giggle and watch cheesy kid shows
That won’t bother you,
But will make you smile and laugh with my kids
​
You are my lifeline, my knight in shining armor, my hero
You are the best dad I could have asked for
You will be cherished for as long as I live and as long as my kids live and so forth
​
I love you dad
And you will not be forgotten
I will continue to remember you are by my side day in and day out
Mournful Homecoming
Aurora Williams
​
I sat on the bus, elbows on my knees, fidgeting with my fingers. My head was swirling with so many thoughts, my mind was like a raging storm at sea, thoughts crashing against each other in utter chaos. God, I’m nervous. I haven’t seen them since I left all those years ago. How long has it been? Three, four years? I ponder what their facial expressions will look like when we reunite. Will they be thrilled to see me after all this time? Relieved? Angry? Maybe all of the above combined. Either way, it’s time that I finally do this. It’s time that I stop running away from it. I’ve been doing that for far too long… And what about her. Damn, she’s going to be pissed at me for sure. Any reaction I can imagine will likely be ten times better than the reaction she will most definitely have of seeing me again.
​
I was brought out of the hurricane of my own mental torture when a ding sounded throughout the bus, followed by a robotic female voice, “Twilight Road,” it said. I grabbed my black duffel bag - good thing I don’t have many belongings - and walked off the bus into the chilly winter air, my breath immediately visible in front of me in a small puff of white as if I was smoking a cigarette. I begin the trek home from the bus stop. It was the closest one I could get to my house, only about a ten-minute walk. I wasn’t worried, my winter jacket should definitely be warm enough to last me my own little walk of shame back home.
​
As I walk, I slow my pace, forcing this trip to be even longer than it has to be. Maybe I should stop here and turn back, they wouldn’t want anything to do with me after what I did. To make it worse, I just up and left, leaving them to pick up the pieces from my heinous misdeed. That day flashes in my mind every day. There isn’t a single moment I don’t think about what I did. It haunts me. It’s a never-ending whisper in my ear in the waking world; a nightmare that plagues my dreams in an endless cycle of grief, agony and regret when I sleep. Speaking of, I don’t really do much of that anymore. There would always be black bags under my eyes, so much so that I’ve had several random strangers on the street stop me and ask who gave me my “black eyes”. I wish someone had given me actual black eyes… it’s the least of what I deserve.
​
I finally made it home, the exterior the exact same as it always has been. It made me smile a little that Mom kept it the same as it was during our childhood. It brings back warm memories of the fun we had in that house, of the pranks, play fighting and bonding we did. Of what… happened that night… My words, my anger, my bitterness… and then…
I shake my head of the unwanted memories seeping their way into my brain again, like a black ooze corrupting my mind and plunging it deep into the depths of depression. I steel myself both mentally and physically and walk up to the front door. I raise my hand, balled up in a fist to knock on the burgundy-coloured door. After holding my fist right above the door’s surface for what seemed like an eternity, I did it. I knocked. My nerves began to tingle, I started to sweat despite it being minus twenty-two degrees Celsius outside. After another thousand years seemingly passed, the door opened.
“Hey, Mom.”
​
~~~
​
It was so good to see Mom again. She cried and so did I. Tears flowed from my eyes and hers’ like waterfalls mixed with happiness, relief, sadness and regret, though the latter mostly emitted from solely myself. I slept in my old room that night. Mom didn’t dare touch a thing, leaving my old living space the way I had left it. It was as if it was frozen in time, patiently awaiting my return. Last night I just kept my head down as I walked down the hallway to my room, so I didn’t see it then. When I woke up this morning and exited my room, however, the natural light illuminating the hallway forced me to look at it.
​
It was his door. I stare longingly at it, the memory of that night forcing its way to the front of my mind. Tears began to prick at my eyes and I quickly shook my head before I walked downstairs. I could smell Mom making breakfast in the kitchen, the scent of eggs and bacon hitting my nostrils before I completely made it down the stairs. That was always her signature breakfast and we would always go ballistic over it.
​
“Good morning, Jason,” greeted Mom as I walked into the kitchen with a warm smile on her face, “I’m making your favourite.” Based on the dark bags under her eyes, I could tell that she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, similar to myself. I walked over to her and gave her a hug. “Thank you, Mom,” I said, “when will it be finished?”
​
“Just about now,” she replied as she stepped away from the stove to return my embrace.
​
~~~
​
After I had gobbled down Mom’s delicious breakfast, I headed out. There was someone important I needed to see. I needed to see her. She deserved to be one of the first people to know I was back. I asked Mom where she might be and Mom told me that she typically goes to the library to hangout and read. Figures. She always loved to read, so it makes sense that she’d eventually develop the habit of going to the library for the fun of it. It wasn’t too far away, so I opted to walk to get there. Though it has been a long time since I’ve been home, I still recognize the landmarks to get to the library on foot… mostly. As I began my mini journey, I began to think of what to say when I saw her. How would I explain this to her…? How will she react?
​
As I continued to consider the possibilities I stopped dead in my tracks, both physically and mentally, as I rounded the corner of a building that I don’t remember being there. I was frozen in place, staring ahead. It was her. She kept walking but then froze as well when she met my gaze. Even from where I was, I could see the look of shock on her face, her eyes were as wide as dinner plates. After what seemed like years, the armistice ceased as she took a step towards me. And then another. And another…
​
I began to walk toward her as well, thrilled to be able to see her again. A small smile begins crawling its way onto my face as the space between us lessened. “Hey…,” I awkwardly say as I raise my hand in a non-moving waving gesture.
​
I’m caught off guard by her socking me in the face with a right hook. My vision goes white for a split second as a wave of pain explodes in my cheek. I stumbled back a few steps and brought my hand up to cover my cheek, stars dotting my vision. My head whipped around to look at her and saw that she had tears in her eyes. The sight of her crying made all of the words I was going to say completely disappear, just like I did years ago.
​
“Is it really you…?” She asked, her voice small and shaky, but loud enough for me to hear her, “Is it really you, Jason…?”
​
“Yeah, it’s me,” I replied, still holding my cheek. Despite the three-and-a-half-year age-gap, she still had one Hell of a punch. Her being an athlete was probably a factor to that…
​
“What the Hell?!” She screamed at me, the tears in her eyes streaming down her face in rapid quantities. “Where were you?! Where did you go?! Why did you leave?!” She continued to bombard me with questions and she did it so angrily, I could practically hear the hurt in her harsh words.
​
“Calm down! Calm down!” I try to cool down the situation with my hands in front of me in a calming gesture. “Look, can we go somewhere else and talk?”
​
~~~
​
We sat on top of a grassy hill overlooking the neigbourhood. The sun was beginning to dip into the horizon, projecting beautiful pinks, reds and oranges across the sky. I glanced over at her; her eyes were puffy and cheeks red from the crying that hadn’t yet completely subsided. Where do I start?
​
“I… I know that you’re mad at me…” That has to be the understatement of the decade right there… “And I’m sorry for leaving-”
​
“You’re sorry?!” She cut me off, standing up from her sitting position, scowling down at me while ferociously yelling, “Jacob died and you just up and left! I had to mourn the loss of one cousin and then lose another like a week later! You don’t understand what it was like. What it’s been like for me these past few years… I had no idea where you were. I tried everything. I tried to reach out to you, but you never responded!” She was pacing back and forth as she ranted, her fiery glare making eye-contact with me the whole time.
​
“I’m sorry that I-”
​
“And you know what else I tried, too? I asked about you. I asked my parents. I asked your mother! I asked everyone! And nobody would tell me anything!”
​
What…?
​
“Our whole family kept me in the dark! I thought that you were either in prison or…” She stopped pacing and hung her head low, her eyes squeezed shut as she fought and failed to choke back a sob. “I thought you were dead… and nobody would tell me…” She croaked as a fresh wave of tears made their way down her cheeks. “You two were like my brothers… and I lost you both. And now you’re back…?”
​
I stand up and slowly walk over to her. If this was years ago, I would have hugged her in a heartbeat, but now… I don’t know what to do… All I can do is let my instincts take over. I slowly raised my arms and wrapped them around her shaking figure. I hugged her against my chest, trying to hold back the tears forming in my own eyes. A few seconds pass when, to my surprise, I feel her trembling hands wrap around my waist and squeeze tightly like a snake enveloping its prey in a deathly grip, only instead of trying to kill me, she was returning my embrace as if I’d vanish into thin air if she let go. We stayed like that for I don’t know long. I’ve missed these hugs. I’ve missed her. She’s gotten bigger than the last time I saw her, more mature looking.
​
“Why? Why did you leave…?” she barely whispered into my shoulder, though I could still hear her clear as day. The anguish and grief were clear in her voice. “Was I not good enough? Did you not love me enough to stay…?”
​
“Of course not!” I shout, releasing her from our embrace and placing my hands on her shoulders. “I loved you back then and I still do now!” It seemed as if a part of her didn’t believe me…
​
“Then why?!” She demanded, fresh waterworks making their presence known. “Rory, look, let’s just sit down again and I’ll… I’ll explain everything.”
​
She complies and we both sit back down on the grass. I swallow the thump in my throat and begin my explanation. “Do… do you know how Jacob died?” I asked, eyes trained on my shoes, not able to look her in the eyes. “Yeah,” she responded, “he was in that car accident. He hit black ice…”
​
“Do you know what… what happened before the accident?” I asked, my throat tightening. “What do you mean…?” she asked, the confusion evident in her tone. Oh God… here it goes… “He… I got into an argument with him at our house…”
​
“You need to be more careful! You’re almost an adult, you can get charged for something like that!”
​
“It’s fine. Nobody got hurt and nobody saw me.”
​
“Yeah, nobody got hurt and nobody saw you this time.”
​
“Please, we both know that you’re just jealous of me!”
​
“What could you possibly have that I would be jealous about?!”
​
“I said… horrible things to him…”
​
“Yeah, well at least when Dad died, he knew that I would be the better son! He knew that I wouldn’t be a disappointment!”
“He stormed out… Later that night, we got the knock on our door…”
​
“Are you Mrs. Brown?”
​
“Yes, Officer, what is this about?”
​
“Mrs. Brown, your son, Jacob, was in an accident… We regret to inform you…”
​
“If I hadn’t picked a stupid fight with him, he wouldn’t have gone out there… He would still be alive,” I wept, all of the heartache and misery bottled up inside of me these past four years finally coming out like a dam breaking. I could hear Rory’s sniffles beside me, indicating that she was quietly weeping too. “I-I never made f-fun of him for being gay before. Why did I do it then?!” I don’t know how long I cried, but I knew that my explanation wasn’t complete just yet. “I-I left because I couldn’t carry on here after that. I needed to figure things out for myself. I got into some bad things… I was drinking and doing drugs daily. It was only after I watched a guy die of a heroin overdose that I realized what the point of me leaving really was. I got clean and I thought of you. I thought about how devastated you must have been. I used that as motivation to get better. I used Jacob as motivation to get better. And eventually, I did. I knew it was time to come home.” I finally paused to take a breath. “I was terrified when I first left, it was just before my eighteenth birthday.”
​
“I remember,” she said, “I was fourteen at the time. It’s kind of ironic. You left right before your eighteenth birthday and you came back just before mine.”
​
“Happy coincidence?” I say as I shrug my shoulders. There was a silence that lingered in the air. A weight I didn’t know was there was lifted off my chest. It felt reliving to finally get it all out, something I should have done a long time ago.
“Are you planning on staying?” Rory asked me. “Yes,” I replied, turning my head to look her in the eyes. “I don’t think things will ever go back to what they used to be…” she started, “but, I want us to be close again. I missed you so much. We can start out small and then work our way up?”
​
“Yeah,” I reply, “that sounds good to me.” I feel her hand gently hold onto mine, our fingers intertwining and locking into each other’s grip. “Rory, I… I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I forgive you,” she whispered. A smile grew onto my lips, more tears welling up in my eyes. If she of all people could forgive me… then maybe one day I can learn to forgive myself.
Perspectives
Mia Woltman
When you think you’re about to draw an ace,
but pull a three of spades instead,
that’s hope.
​
When you see a healing wound,
but keep itching it because the burn feels good,
that’s anger.
​
When you wish for the white of your roses to fade,
but pray that the flowers never wilt,
that’s love.
​
When you think of yourself as another leaf of autumn
but cry when your brittle body falls,
that’s fear.
​
When you’re skipping in the meadows of late June,
but look down to see the gloom of your shadow,
that’s happiness.
​
And when you seek the light of dawn,
but find solace in the night,
that’s regret.
​
But time goes by and you stare at your hand,
the scar.
Feel the petals,
the stillness.
Study the reflection,
the moon.
​
When you realize it’s nothing you wanted,
but everything you wanted at the same time,
that’s Life.
When Breakfast Tastes a Bit Like Fate
Mia Woltman
​
“The specials?” I perk up on my tiptoes to peer around the line of customers that bleeds onto the snowy street. The new vintage-themed bistro certainly seems to be starting off on the right foot. “I can’t see anything.” The blonde woman in front of me wears a large knit hat, blocking my view of the chalkboard’s menu. “I’ll get your usual if they have it, ok?” He takes too long to answer. “Ok?” Someone steps on my boot, soaking it in muddy snow. “Jameson?” I slide my wool mittens off to end the call. My fingertips are frozen with November’s blustery frost, but none of us in the line are complaining about the open door. The smell of éclairs and vanilla creamer is enough to excite us on a Monday morning at 6:45.
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“What are you planning to order, Miss?” I turn to the little voice behind me and it’s an older woman with a navy scarf hugging her chin.
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“I’m not sure yet, ma’am. I’m thinking the London Fog.” But she can’t hear me. The din of the kitchen and the chatty line makes it so that she must strain. I let her take my place, clearing my view of the menu. Why is it that baristas write the best cursive?
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“Annie Love?” I turn once again, but I know whose voice it is. It’s yours. “I thought that was you up there.” My black coat is suffocating. As you look me in the eye for the first time in a year, I struggle to undo the top button.
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“Charlie. Wow.” I really am amazed, stunned even. You look the same. You’re even in the same Rangers jacket you wore when I first met you. That was three years ago as of yesterday. I remember. We step forward after another customer receives a paper bag. I recognize him as the one who cleared the rack of cinnamon muffins. We’re side by side now and I check to see if we’re the only ones ruining the line. We are. “We haven’t run into each other in all these months.” I forget the button to fish for words. “And now? Ha!” I’m sure the entire building can hear the awkwardness behind the forced sound. I imagine the chefs cutting into that laughter with a knife: The years of happiness, the pain we shared, the abrupt break-up that left me crying for months. What a bittersweet taste.
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“Crazy. I think all of Manhattan is here.” Your smile triggers something inside me. Is that sadness? Nostalgia? Excitement? Your black hair is matted under a grey hat. The dreary shade lightens your hazel eyes. When you look at me now, here, do you still think my own blue ones are beautiful?
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“Excuse me?” Someone huffs. We’ve completely forgotten to move up and we’re at the counter. We share a giggle, pause at the missed sound, then step forward. You let me order first; you always have.
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We separate from the line once we’ve tipped the frenzied workers in mocha-colored aprons and stand near the windows where it’s quieter. The city looks like a shivering glacier.
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“For Owen?” You’re looking at the other cup in my hand. I had already sipped away half of my London Fog while you waited for your coffee and two bagels.
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I’m surprised you recall. I posted about him once on Facebook soon after we parted. It was a picture of Owen and me at a journalism conference together on my twenty-third birthday. He was a lousy writer. I shake my head. “No. Jameson. He’s in real estate.”
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“Oh!” Your smile weakens and I’m not sure what to make of the quick change. A customer orders two scones at the register. The tall man behind her fumbles with his change. He’ll have to cave and remove his gloves.
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“And Sara?” Your ex. After we mutually agreed like so many other cliché couples that “the time just wasn’t right” for us, you had found comfort in your past while I had come to fear the future.
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“Us? We’re great.” You blow on your coffee. I bet it’s black. “She’s getting a promotion at work.” You cautiously sip but it’s much too soon. The tall man drops his nickel. “And congratulations on your publishing.”
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But I can’t thank you. The memories overwhelm me: Three years of study dates in our university’s library, vacations with each other’s families, plans for our honeymoon. We were thinking somewhere in South America, where the leaves are bigger than the continent’s birds and the flowers are brighter than the ones here. I manage a smile and ask about your new marketing job Sara posted about at least three times. She’s supportive. I’m happy for you.
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“Great, it’s really putting my foot in the door.” He checks his watch and I sense that our surprise meeting is nearly over. Are you meeting Sara somewhere?
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“I guess everything has fallen into place then.” I mean to sound enthusiastic, but the words are flat, lifeless. I check on the change-fumbling man, but he’s already left. It’s almost cruel how put together you are.
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“I guess so.” And he waits a moment before shattering eye contact to search for a clearing in the line. “Well, good seeing you.” We share a lingering smile but like everything in this world, it fades. My straw wrapper distracts me as you walk out of my life for a second time.
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Then, I’m being tapped by the same man who ruined my boot. He mutters something about work as he shoves past me. I follow the rushed man outside to see you climbing into a cab that’s double-parked along the white avenue. I almost make a run for it like I’m Audrey Hepburn in the rain, but I can’t, because as I’m trying to decline Jameson’s call that’s just buzzed my phone, you’re already leaving in more ways than one.
Departing
Aaron Wyncott
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The stillness was harsh as I suddenly awoke
Greeted by silence
on a morning that meant leaving
a place away from home
yet so familiar
to the heart
and mind’s memory.
The warmth of the South held close to me
even as I stirred and dressed and prepared to go
Grasped closely for a moment
Received into my self a heartfelt message
I felt it all and left
Packed my dancing shoes
and before driving checked how much I was filled up.
Full.
Not perfectly
But enough for the journey
Taking with me what I had.
540,000
Nathan Yockey
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They’ll take time to post pictures
taken with me on socials
for condolences. Asking
how this ever could have happened. Taking
more time than they took to call.
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Once I’m looking up, arms folded
clasping a white bouquet,
The first flowers I ever got.
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After the smoke has cleared, they’ve wrapped me up,
and the wreckage has been pushed out of the flow of traffic.
They could have cared before.
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When my white knuckles were around the wheel,
seared with indifference and I
screamed over the blare of the engine, while my tears ran,
the speedometer danced along the red line and
my seatbelt dangled against the driver’s side door.
When I left nothing to chance and
drove toward the same brick wall I ran into
when I asked for help.
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Now I hope they know
men’s mental health was more than a hashtag.
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It’s sons, fathers, brothers, and uncles. 540,000 per year
Enough to fill up a football stadium
every month.
Now I hope they know
to take time and lend a shoulder to dry tears,
So they don’t know
one of the 540,000 men per year.