Elysian Literary Magazine
El Alma Del Pueblo
VOLUME 6 ISSUE 2
This issue is dedicated to
the little things.
Designed By: Nuvia Carrera
The mission of Elysian Magazine is to inspire students at Aurora University to create unique works of art and to provide an outlet where creative voices cannot only be shared but also admired.
Cover Photo: Huancas, Amazonas
Photo Taken By MacHelle Acurio
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“A print keepsake symbolizing creative voice and college memory."
Del Templo
Photos Taken By MacHelle Acurio
Viejitos
Meat Dealer
John C. Dunham Computer Lab
Andrea Barron
The room glows blue from the ocean of computer screens.
For just two hours, my rapid typing echoes in the room.
My phone buzzes. It’s my mom. She asks when I’m coming home.
I focus back on last-minute emails, assignment posts, and an occasional doom scroll.
Absolutely nothing preparing me for what begins to move like a child inside my womb.
my pain
Cold anxiety rushes through me with
salty water fuzzing the screen in my view.
My years in a country that hates me, the family I can never
turn to, the love I search for in everything but myself,
I wish I knew what it was this time tonight.
But I know it’s inside me, and I'm feeling it, feeling it
now and here completely. I am alone in the dark and
can’t seem to mother this hurt roaming inside me.
God knows this is the only universe where this version of me exists
quietly hiding my sobs from the janitor across the hall.
And for what seems like a moment, I allow myself to drown.
Eventually, coming up for a gulp of air, learning nothing but feeling everything
Pine
Andrea Barron
It was the summer of 2009, and every kid in my neighborhood raced in their bikes,
their hands still sticky from opening frozen ice pops.
Exploring every premise of our trailer park,
scouring for something other than rusty train tracks and squeaky trampolines.
However, like moths dancing around a hazy porch light,
we all gravitated to an enormous pine tree.
We fantasized about seeing every house and water tower from the tippy-top.
We were all eager to climb it.
Our tiny hands yearned for the next branch and the next.
Light-up Sketchers mounting up branches
as if there was a treasure chest at the peak.
We never got to see the top,
but we went so high and never fell.
And I remember watching in awe as I saw the tree lend her branches like arms
while the sunset spilled into the gaps between stems.
And still, we yanked her needles and crushed her pines.
The pine tree remains on the same corner of my neighborhood.
I’d liked to imagine her soft smile as she
witnesses the same children now driving cars instead of bicycles.
She doesn’t glow the same way she used to.
She seems to sit with sorrow, with a sort of pain.
She has not witnessed a child’s laugh in the last decade,
perhaps it's because she's more trunk than branch.
I’d like to imagine that she weeps during dawn
as she reminisces the past joy of giggles immersing her like fireflies.
How happy she must have felt to be loved even if it bruised her,
to give so much, yet expect nothing in return
Nostalgia
Andrea Barron
The ceiling collapses, leaving nothing but rubble.
The wooden floor bursts into flames.
The windows shatter and glass scatters everywhere.
The house is burning.
The naked window frames unveil an outside I have never seen.
My heart stiffens as my eyes meet the door– the only thing intact in this mess.
With ashes in my lungs, I freeze, unable to turn the doorknob.
It hurts to stay inside, but I cannot be who I am without it.
And I race past the laundry room full of old pen marks on the shelves, the dim hallway aligned with
pictures of us eating expensive county fair cotton candy, the sticky kitchen stove light no number of
concoctions could clean, and the empty living room couch.
My heart begs me to stay in this house, but I don’t fit in my bed anymore and the water tastes funny. I
need to move, but I remain planted on the floor. Why does everything I hold onto have to be pried out of
my arms? How I hold onto things I feel I cannot find again but never try looking.
I stay in the wreckage with charred lungs. I make myself believe that burning isn’t so bad, that I don’t
need to extinguish this pain because the rain outside has not seen me sleep and wake up for twenty years.
My heart. It makes me stay in this burning house, stay in something that knows me, in something that
cannot exist again, in something you love so much you want to burn with it.
Leaving the ashes of the aftermath as the only remaining proof of your love
Light Beams Between the Trees
Photo Taken By Francis Balquin
No Judgement
Madalynn Sedgwick
She stood on the other side of the faded blue door, lifting her hand slowly, hovering it above the cracking paint. She looked over her shoulder, down the white stairs to her car on the brick drive below. Why was she even here? She shouldn’t be here. As she started to turn to leave, the door swung open.
“Lillian?” His voice, a wave of calm across her body.
She turned as a smile spread across her face, “James.” She couldn’t control her heart as it raced, taking in his messy brown hair and vibrant blue eyes.
“Lil, W-What are you doing here?” James joined her on the porch.
“I just… I don’t…” Lillian started, unsure how to explain the mess in her mind.
James lightly grabbed her elbow, leading her down the stairs, “Walk with me. I need to check the mail.”
Lillian nodded, following James, keeping her head low as they started down the long drive.
They were silent for several minutes. Simply walking as the summer sun warmed their skin.
“I should have called,” Lillian announced as she turned to face James.
“You know you don’t have to call before showing up, Lil.” James laughed lightly, “I already told you, you’re welcome any time. Even if I’m not here. You know where the spare key is hidden.”
Lillian released a shaky breath, “I know, but I still should have called. What if you were busy with work or… found someone else…” Her voice trailed off, stomach tumbling, but she couldn’t explain why.
Lillian stopped at the end of the drive as James crossed the street to the mailbox, pulling out a few letters and examining them as he crossed back toward her. “You know that would never happen,” he whispered.
Lillian pretended not to hear his comment as they walked back, even though she couldn’t control the corner of her mouth as it curved upward.
“What’s on your mind?” James asked as they stopped at the end of the stairs to the small raised house.
“I don’t know, I just…”
“Wait a minute, what time is it?” James looked at his phone, “it’s only seven a.m.; you must have driven all night to get here.” He took her by the shoulders, turning her towards him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Lillian couldn’t stop the tears from building as they threatened to spill over.
“Oh Lil…”
James handed Lillian a glass of iced tea before sitting beside her on the sofa. She took a sip and sat it down on the coffee table. James threw his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. Lillian took a deep breath of his cologne, letting the leathery wooden scent calm her as she relaxed into his side.
They sat silently. James softly brushed his fingers across Lillian’s arm, trying to ignore her body’s reaction to his touch.
“Do you ever question what you’re doing with your life?”
James softly tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear as he sucked in a breath. “What has you thinking this way, Lil?”
Lillian sat up, pushing away so she could face him. “I don’t know, I just… I feel like I haven’t done anything with my life. All I do is work. And what I do isn’t even that important. I run papers from office to office, making copies for the big wigs as they edit and publish people’s writing…”
“That’s not true–”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“No, I–”
“No, James. I’m nearly thirty, and I haven’t done anything with my life.” Lillian shook her head lightly, tears threatening to spill down her face again. “I have no kids, I’m unmarried, I’m not even seeing anyone seriously right now… I mean… Am I really that unlovable?”
“What!?” James screamed in rage. He breathed deeply to calm himself, “Lil, you are the most amazing person I know…Why…Who…”
Lillian looked up at her good friend but quickly looked away from his piercing blue eyes.
“Lil,” he whispered softly as he gently lifted her chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “Tell me what’s going on…”
Lillian took in a shaky breath, “I just… I want to do something with my life. But I can’t…I’m…Scared. I’ve worked the last ten years at this company and need the money… I can’t just leave and change everything–”
James released Lillian's chin, taking her hands in his.
“I…Went on a date the other day…It was our third one, and…He said I was too old for him… ’m only five years older than him, James…Here I thought we would go to the next step, and I’m let down…Me, too old! James…I…I can’t be alone for the rest of my life.”
James watched the sorrow fill her eyes as he gently cupped her cheeks, pulling her towards him, pressing his lips to hers. Their bodies curved into each other as they fell into old habits.
They were best friends growing up, but it went to another level in high school. What started as an innocent pact to take each other's virginity rather than waste it on some shallow relationship slowly turned into a friends-with-benefits situation. Even after James inherited his uncle's beach house on the coast in Miami and despite Lillian's corporate job in Tallahassee, they were always there for each other. They respected when one was in a relationship but were there for when it fell through. And they always fell through. With their busy lives, they usually only made the eight-hour trek twice a year, not including the times they would visit each other's families for the holidays.
They had a unique situation. They found comfort in each other. Just the smell of the others' perfume or cologne could calm them down when they’re distressed or wind them up. This is what had happened when Lillian returned home late from her date gone sour. She kept a bottle of James’s cologne tucked away in her nightstand, usually only using it when she needed to get one out of her system or spray it on an old T-shirt of his to help her calm down at night.
It was then, as Lillian sat there rummaging through her dresser for his old T-shirt, his cologne in hand, that she realized she didn’t need the scent of him; she needed him. The gentle touch of his large, soft hands. The warmth of his skin pressed against hers. Her fingers weaving through his hair as his eyes fluttered at her touch. No old T-shirt would do. So, she quickly threw together a bag of essentials and hopped in her car to make the drive overnight. Lillian knew she could be there by sunrise if she limited her stops, catching him before he left the house.
Little did she know that James now worked from home. Hoping that she would come. Waiting for her. Not wanting to risk missing her because he was in the office. He had thought for months now about making the trek up there himself, but her life was so busy. She had told him all about the first two dates with that asshole, but he secretly hoped it would fall through, but he never imagined it would like this. James wanted to storm to Tallahassee and find the guy, but he was tangled in her. And she came first. She always came first.
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They lay in his bed, tangled together. Finding comfort in the sound of each other's breathing. The smell of their sweat-glistened skin mixed in the air. Neither of them said anything for several minutes as their souls relished in what they had done. Both at peace.
“What do you want for breakfast?” James whispered softly as he lightly ran his fingers up and down her arm.
“Isn’t it nearly lunchtime now?” Lillian laughed lightly.
They turned to look at the clock on the nightstand before James turned back to her, “Brunch?”
“Only if we can eat it on the beach,” Lillian smiled as she reluctantly pulled herself away from him.
They laid out on the large beach blanket. Both warming their skin in the sun as his hand held hers, his thumb gently caressing her soft skin.
When they were together it was hard for them not to be touching. Whether it be holding hands, legs bumping into each other under the dinner table, or exploring every inch of each other's bodies…Nothing else mattered as long as they were touching.
“Do you want to talk about it?” James asked softly as they listened to the waves rolling in, seagulls calling as they flew above.
Lillian sighed deeply, “I guess I should…But let me get something first.” She jumped up and ran back into the house, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of wine and two glasses, walking quickly as the hot sand burned her bare feet.
James took the wine and poured them each a glass, handing Lillian hers before they lightly clinked the glasses together. Each enjoyed a healthy swig before the sun could warm it.
“Do you ever feel…I don’t know…Like you could cease to exist, and the world wouldn’t even notice?” Lillian asked after several silent minutes.
“Lil–”
“I mean it, James…I don’t know what I’m even doing with my life, and I’m nearly thirty.” Lillian took another sip from her glass before allowing James to top it off. “I haven’t done anything I planned to do in life. And I can’t even start now; it’s too late.”
“Too late? It’s never too late to do what you want.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t know… Remember how I wanted to be a writer? I wanted to write and publish fiction books; that’s why I started working at Rowland Publishing years ago. I thought I could work my way up, give the boss my manuscript, and watch them read it in awe…But life isn’t a Lifetime movie–”
“Well, of course, it isn’t. Those movies all have amateur actors and horrible scripts–” Lillian hit James softly on the arm. “What it’s true!”
“I just mean…I thought I would be more ahead in life by now…But here I am, still at the same entry-level job since everything now requires some ridiculous degree. I don’t even have time to work on a story since they work me like a horse; they refuse to hire another assistant.”
“Then quit.”
“I can’t…” Lillian took a deep breath, “I can’t just quit. I have adult bills to pay…Unlike you, I don’t have a rich uncle who willed me everything.”
Lillian regretted the words as soon as they slipped out, but the expression on his face made it worse.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t–”
“No, it’s fine. I get it. I haven’t worked a day in my life to earn what I have all because my uncle, God rest his soul, decided to give me everything. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for him to die so I could get his beach house or his money. I wanted to earn it just like everyone else. Why do you think I still work? Huh? You think I just sit here drinking Mai Tai’s all day, tanning in the sun? My Irish skin would burn if I sat out any more than I already do–”
“James, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry…” Lillian finished the rest of her wine before asking, “What am I supposed to do…”
They sat silently for a minute before James took a shaky breath, “I work from home just so I can be here when you need me…It took every ounce of strength in me not to drive to you the past few months. I still work, so I don’t draw from that inheritance. I have it locked away in case you ever need it. It’s all for you. I don’t want it. I never have, from the second I got it. I mean…Why do you think I haven’t sold the beach house yet? You love this beach, that’s why I kept it. For you. You loved visiting it for spring breaks growing up. I remembered how wide your smile would be as you took that first deep breath of salty air…I kept it for you…Everything I’ve ever done has been for you…”
“James…”
“I love you more than I can even explain. And I know you do, too. Why do you think this has worked out for so long? Why do you think we always run to each other when something goes wrong?” James shook his head lightly. “I was waiting for you to notice first, but I can’t wait anymore. It’s agony not having you here, Lillian. Every inch of this house reminds me of you. What we’ve been through, what we’ve done together.”
They sat in silence as the words played over and over again through Lillian’s head: ‘I love you.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the words back. “What do you want me to do?” she finally asked.
James thought momentarily, “Pack everything up in Tallahassee and move in, here, with me. Quit that good-for-nothing job and join me. I’ll take care of everything…You can sit on the beach or in the office and write…Like you’ve always wanted to.”
“James–”
“No, don’t answer yet. I know you’re scared, so at least sleep on it. Think it over. Just stay with me tonight. Give me at least that. You can leave in the night if that’s what you decide. I won’t…I won’t be mad, and things can return to how they were. I’ll be here for you no matter what you choose to do. You know that.”
The two returned to old habits, sitting on the beach, enjoying the other's presence. Lillian thought about his proposition all day and well into the night as it woke her from slumber after they had indulged in each other yet again. She sat on the front steps, listening to the night waves rolling onto the sand, letting the cool salty air calm her.
It was here. Her heart belonged here, to this beach, to this house, to him… She was in love with him. She always had been. That was why all other relationships had failed. They were never as good as James. They never treated her the way he did. They never loved her the same. And she never loved them like she loved James.
Lillian rose from the steps, making her way to his office, where she wrote a letter. Leaving it on the counter before heading out.
James woke before sunrise. Reaching out for her, but his hand found nothing but an empty, cold bed. Her scent still lingered on the sheets as he shot up. If it wasn’t for the panic that set over him, he would have taken it in longer, not knowing when he would smell it again, but his heart was racing. She was leaving. After everything, she was going back.
James rushed out of the bedroom, not bothering to put on a shirt, as he searched the house. Hoping, praying she was somewhere. But the house was empty. He spotted the letter on the counter and recognized her handwriting from afar. He didn’t need to read it to know what it said. She was leaving.
James threw open the front door, nearly falling down the stairs as he rushed down them. Her car was still there. She had to be somewhere. The beach. She always lingered on the beach before she left.
James broke into a run across his lawn. Passing the hills of grass and native overgrown flower bushes that marked the start of the sandy beach. He slowed as he saw the sun rising over the horizon, lighting up the empty beach.
James fell to his knees. She was gone. Somehow, she had left him in the night. He sucked in a breath, trying not to let the tears in his eyes spill out onto his cheeks.
James was so focused on his breathing, on calming the ache in his chest, that he didn’t hear the quiet steps in the sand behind him. It wasn’t until a soft hand ran through his hair and down onto his shoulder, where it squeezed lightly, that he realized he wasn’t alone.
James quickly stood and spun around to face her. Lillian. In her favorite sundress that he had bought her years ago. Perhaps it was the sunrise behind them, but her eyes seemed to glow as she stared into his. Smiling softly as her cheeks flushed with life.
“I thought…” James whispered breathlessly. “I thought you left…The letter…”
Lillian laughed, “You mean my resignation letter that I need to mail?” She grabbed James’s hand, pulling him close as she looked up into his soft blue eyes, still brimming with tears. “I’m never leaving you again,” she whispered.
That was all James needed to hear before he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight against his body, burrowing his face in the crook of her neck. Letting the scent of her calm him before he pulled away. James slid a finger across her cheek, tucking a strand behind her ear before gently grabbing her chin and tilting her head towards him. He leaned in but stopped, his lips just inches away from hers. She happily met him the rest of the way.
They would figure out the rest of life, together.
Mountain Meadow
Photos Taken By Joseph Guarino
Reflections
Alaskan
Cigarettes
Robert McDonald
the book of matches fell on the floor
trodden by muddy feet
i was taking her home,
just like she asked
well, told
she told me to
i didn’t pick up the matches
or defend myself
as she berated me
between cigarette drags
“Don’t do it, I swear”
she snuffed out any chance I had
of opening up
whenever she got like this,
i sat there
like the matches on the floor
i sat there
and let her trod all over me
with wet, muddy, uncaring feet
she stepped out
slammed the door shut
so I picked up the dirty matches
and drove home
it took me a while to reach
the hidden drawer of love poems
i crumbled some,
laid out others with wood,
all to start a good fire
but the matches,
wet, muddy, uncaring,
wouldn’t light up the dark.
Stream of Questions
Robert McDonald
Who I will be able to hold
while the early hours of morning
drip by on the windowsill
is a question for April.
What I mean to you
makes me hesitate
to ask about the dew
and the dew-nots.
Where I will live has always been
a showering question, but
as sure as I am it’s flowering with you,
I’m as unsure as ever.
When I won’t be lost
in the salt and foam of sea
is the crux of it all;
a time I can’t foresee.
Why I love and need
someone who loves and needs me
in ways incompatible to mine
is tumultuous, riverbed reason.
How to collect dew drops
on your fingers
and not on your face
starts with the name of love.
Maybe I’ll ask in May.
Pool Time Snack
Photo Taken By Emily Zeitlin
Give Me Caramel
Kimberly Leslie
I gaze at the caramel in its clear wrap that flaunts
its smooth amber hue, and I can’t resist its charms.
I rip its plastic cloak off, squish its taunts,
and it hugs my fingers with its sticky arms.
One promiscuous kiss fills me with glee.
It boldly carpets my mouth with velvet,
and clings to my teeth, giving its sweet cream freely
before swirling to my stomach to swaddle it.
How can I refuse such lusciousness pleasing my
tongue, yielding to my sucking teeth?
Not even braces’ iron gates make me shy
about savoring caramel's velvet touch.
Why would men’s sweaty muscles and chests be my bliss
when radiant caramel promises paradise?
The Firelights Tearful Trail
Kimberly Leslie
The people, the rightful owners of the land, once danced proudly amongst
the flames of optimistic oranges and passionate reds,
their bodies—oblivious to deadly disease—swaying,
their legs—free of frigid chains—swinging, their hands—protected from stinging wounds—interconnecting.
Then the invaders with faces as white as skulls, emboldened by
Columbus’ false prophecies of white men’s destinies
as the rulers of a new frontier, came and squelched their fire,
stole everything: homes, families, land, lives.
Hateful crosses and rosaries killed their flames and dances,
severed them from what they knew and loved.
Some peoples were eradicated by
disease and warfare, never again to walk on
Turtle Island’s plains, forests, deserts, and mountains.
Instead of bright flames,
white ashes smothered the ground like the snow on the tearful trail
that the rightful owners were forced to walk.
Black brambles blocked out the pallid sky, or perhaps
they were the bodies of the dead people crudely covered with mud
or maybe the innocent babes slammed against trees and shot.
Maybe the brambles were the dying people lying in
the back of government wagons, their bodies being conquered by
cholera, or maybe they were all the rightful owners,
hidden in pitch-black shadow from history’s eyes so that the US
can pretend it’s the untainted land of the free and brave.
For years, their murderer and enslaver
was celebrated as the first man
to sail the ocean blue and find the
green and golden Americas. In some places,
he’s still heralded as an honest hero. They worship him
with white marble statues—stolen statues. But now,
the rightful owners—those that remain—
are starting to emerge from the
shadows, tell their stories.
The rightful owners reignite their fire and relearn their dance,
still lively and buoyant but with a slight limp in their feet. Legs that have been
chained up for so long forget how to move. Fewer people
dance in the circle, their loved ones lost to the descendants of their murderer.
Though the blood of their ancestors stains their land,
they dance in defiance of death and their murderer.
With each joyful step, they stomp on his grave. They say:
This is our home. It always has been.
We’re here to stay.
The Price of Victory
Kimberly Leslie
The loud, shrill ding of her car and a metallic clunk pulled Cleo out of her daydreams about Hawaii. Pursing her lips, she surveyed the interface to see what was wrong. An orange exclamation mark flashed near the bottom right of her car, and pixel letters said at the bottom: “Check tire pressure.”
What? She could have sworn that all her tires were in good shape. She’d checked them before she left the airport. Since she was the only one around, Cleo pressed the red triangle button and pulled over by the empty corn fields flooded with snow. The thumping continued as she eased the car into a stop on a patch
with less snow.
Cold air nipped her light golden-brown face once she stepped out. Cleo shivered, pulling her hood trimmed with synthetic fur over her black hair. She hated driving in the kind of midnight darkness where there were no streetlights and no glowing windows glimmering like stars leading the way home. The fog whirling around didn’t help. Who knew what lurked behind its gray tendrils?
However, if she wanted to return home, she had to see what the hell was wrong. Cleo crept around her black Toyota Corolla; at the bottom right tire, she bent down so she was level with it and used her phone as a flashlight.
“Are you kidding me?” she said to herself.
Near the top, a nail dug into the flat part near the grooves, and air leaked out by the second. Cleo pressed a finger into the tire to see if she could still drive with it. Unlike the other tires, the leather sagged and bent with Cleo’s fingertip. No good.
This wasn’t the first time Cleo had noticed a nail in her tires. It had all started after that tournament. There had been a special event where the players decided between three new settings: galaxy, medieval European city, and Wild West. Then they fought against the opposing teams to earn points for their team. In English-speaking forums, Wild West was more popular while galaxy was less so. Cleo couldn’t comprehend why; floating and shooting in the digital Milky Way was so much cooler than trudging through bland, colorless deserts. She’d fought for the galaxy on stream, and that environment won. On forums, people complained, insisting that the competition was rigged or that the people on the team had cheated.
In the past two weeks, she’d picked up four nails below her wheels. Those first four times—she'd gotten lucky. Not this time. Of all places and times, she had a flat tire at midnight in the middle of nowhere.
With a huff, Cleo lifted her toolbox out of the secret compartment in the back. Before she started taking off the flat tire, Cleo grabbed her pepper spray. Two weeks ago, a white SUV with a Chicago Bears sticker on the bottom left of the windshield started lurking at her college and places she frequented. At first, she thought it was incidental, but then she received random phone calls and in-game messages threatening to kill her.
As she loosened the lug nuts, Cleo thought of one note she’d received after the tournament, saying, “One of these days, you’re going to die somewhere no one’ll find you. You’ll cry and scream as I cut off all your fingers and slit your throat. And seeing your spilled blood will be so sweet, after everything you and your people have done.”
Those words dripped with blood, blood that could be spilled tonight. God, she missed Hawaii’s perpetual sunshine. Its rays soaked up all the frigid fear she’d felt at college. She didn’t feel the urge to check her back; after all, she was with friends away from freezing and drab Illinois where she lived. She didn’t have to endure comments calling her bitch or mocking her monolid eyes and Japanese heritage while she streamed herself playing Joust, an online third-person shooter.
Then another car creaked to a stop a few feet behind her. Cleo shot her head up, and suddenly, she felt colder than she had been before. Of course, it could have been some random stranger passing by who wouldn’t pay attention to her. However, between the nail and the note, it was very likely the man who’d been stalking her.
When the man surfaced from the car, Cleo’s suspicions were confirmed. The man was a hulk of muscle compacted into the v shaped body of a superhero, which his heavy tweed coat emphasized. He seemed to be in his forties, two decades older than her. His white square face, with narrow eyes nearly sinking into his cheeks and a thick beard, glared back at her.
Cleo stuffed the pepper spray in her coat pocket and stood up so that the man didn’t seem so giant, but she was still shorter than him. While he was six feet, she barely reached five feet. Thankfully, her puffy coat added bulk to her thin frame. Her skinny legs stuck out from her coat, but at least she had that extra bulkiness.
“I told you what was going to happen, didn’t I?” he said.
Cleo crossed her arms, putting on a brave face like she learned to do from her streaming. “Alright, dude. Why’ve you been following me around?” Maybe it was a bad idea, but she needed answers. Having played many games, it was in her nature to explore and prod the world for answers.
“I wish I didn’t have to do this, you know,” he said. “You could’ve made things so much easier for yourself if you didn’t stick your head where it doesn’t belong. You could’ve had a successful life at Harvard, making straight As and being a doctor or lawyer just like the rest of your kind.”
Cleo narrowed her dark brown eyes at the stranger. “I’m majoring in communications, and I’m not the studious wannabe doctor type. Your point?”
Of course, he didn’t answer; he just stood there, obviously taken aback by her response. She scanned him for any weapons. None were visible, but how could she know for sure? He could have a gun in the back of his car. “I still don’t get why you’re stalking me. Don’t you have better things to do?”
The man grinned, baring his teeth, but it looked more like the expression a dog would make before it bit. “Sweetie, Joust is a man’s game.”
Ah, a hater. Well, this was the first one stupid enough to show it in person.
“Really? Last time I checked, it’s not illegal for women to play, and the people seem to like me.” Cleo’s voice was flat yet brisk with an air of confidence she pretended to feel. Her legs itched, screaming at her to just spray the man. She tapped her fingers on her arms like she was typing a rapid-fire email. “I know. Because of bitches like you, there’s people who start complaining whenever there’s shit talk. They don’t even use English. Their names are just a bunch of drawings.” “Well, duh. Who likes being insulted because they’re a girl or they’re not white?” Cleo snarked.
Although she received toxic comments, Cleo also had plenty of fans who were women or people of color. Many of these fans were happy that they could see someone like them playing Joust.
“And now, you’ve ruined the game,” he said. “Galaxy didn’t fucking deserve to win! It only won because you cheated and everyone else went along with you.”
“Aw, is the manbaby having a tantrum because Wild West didn’t get added?” Cleo said. “Maybe you should’ve focused on actually playing the game instead of whining and calling people bitches.”
The man threw his car door open and whipped out his wooden rifle. Cleo didn’t know what to say and froze as that note burned itself into her retinas again. Just like when Cleo saw the note for the first time, a shrill ring shrieked. She didn’t notice how her breathing quickened into shallow breaths nor how her fingers stopped tapping. Only those words.
Tapping it against the palm of his hand, he said, “You’re paying for what you did to Joust. When I’m done with you, you won’t ever see home again. No one will know where you are. No one will find out, and no one will care.” He took one step forward from his car.
“Dude, chill,” Cleo said. “You don’t need to get this mad over a fricking game.” It didn’t matter that she blocked him in game nor that she reported him to the police. No vacation she took, no place she stayed was safe. All because people knew her name and face online.
The man fired, but Cleo snapped out of her stupor and whirled out of the way. The bullet dented her car door. He fired again and missed.
“Goddamn it! Stay still, will you?” he said.
Cleo ran onto the empty road, and he rampaged behind her. She had to somehow get out of his sight, so she could sneak attack him. What he had in physical strength, she could make up for in wit.
Then she turned back around and started running for her car, but suddenly, the man shoved her onto the ground and pointed the gun at her chest.
“Anything you’d like to say?” he said, breathing heavily.
“Fuck you.” Cleo whipped out her pepper spray and rained peppery particles on his face. Upon contact, the man screamed out and covered his flushed face.
The gun dropped to the ground with a loud thud. Cleo grabbed the gun and aimed at his head. In Joust, shooting the head was the fastest way to kill someone. She fired once, and then everything was silent. The man collapsed on the road haphazardly, no longer swearing or screaming. Blood spilled out of his head and his agape mouth; it splattered everywhere: the pavement, Cleo’s coat, her face.
There was never any blood in Joust. When she killed someone, they dissipated into pixels and spawned glowing items. They never screamed. Cleo was never afraid because there was no need to. It was just a game, it used to be a game, but now Joust was real, and she had almost died because of it.
Something acidy burned Cleo’s throat, and she hunched over just in time for a discolored chunky mess to erupt from her throat.
Once she stopped gagging and heaving, Cleo shakily stood up and finished changing her tire. She scrambled into her car and jammed her car key into the ignition. Her grip on the leather wheel trembled as she slammed her foot on the gas pedal.
The car nearly swerved on the ice and crashed into a snowy ditch, but Cleo jerked it back on the road. Snowflakes started fluttering and flaking her windshield, and the wind howled.
The white SUV wasn’t following her this time. Still, despite the heat in the car, Cleo felt a paralyzing cold stiffening her limbs and clogging her throat with a thick block of ice. It was the same frigidness she’d felt underneath her giddy excitement at playing Joust and entertaining others for two weeks now.
Maybe she shouldn’t play anymore.
Photos Taken By Haley Maves
Antique Boots
Sunset in Oswego
my friday
Jessica Somogye
january is one of those months
that feels like it lasts about a year
and february is supposed to be a short month!
you catch yourself saying that,
every few days.
well, i just have to make it to friday!
you say, every monday morning on the drive to school,
i just have to make it to friday!
you say, on every drive to work.
and then when friday comes,
it’s like a wave of euphoria has washed
over your soul
because friday means you get to relax
let go
unw i i i i i i i i iiiind.
you, my love, are my friday.
be human, too
Jessica Somogye
that's life
Jessica Somogye
isn’t it frustrating
that one decently pretty girl
can make a video, dance for ten seconds
and make thousands of dollars.
isn’t it maddening
that there are students
working multiple jobs just to pay for school
spend countless hours doing homework
just to end their day by watching
the video the decently pretty girl made.
isn’t it disappointing
that inflation is rising
they take more from our checks
tipping culture is on it’s way out because
most of us can’t afford to tip
and yet,
the federal minimum wage is still only $7.25 an hour.
isn’t it funny
that renting a two bedroom apartment
means you need to make $24.90 an hour.
and yet,
the federal minimum wage is still only $7.25 an hour.
what happened to the American dream?
we are living in a world where
having a double income
no kids
rent under $1,500 a month
in a relatively ‘safe’ place,
is the new american dream.
and yet,
the federal minimum wage is still only $7.25 an hour
monday
7 am-wake up
7:30am- breakfast
8am- class
9:20am- class
11am- 3pm- job #1
4pm- 5:30pm- class
5:45pm- homework
7:30pm- gym
9pm- dinner
9:30pm- shower
10pm- go to bed
tuesday
7am- wake up
7:30am- breakfast
8am- 9:30am- job #2
10am-11:45am- class
12pm- lunch
12:30pm- do most of the homework for the week, and
do laundry during homework time
6pm- gym
7:30pm- dinner
8pm- shower
9pm- go to bed
wednesday
7am- wake up
7:30am- breakfast
8am- class
9:20am- class
10:30am- 12:30pm- job #2
12:30pm- lunch
1pm- homework
4pm- 5:30pm- class
6pm- gym
7:30pm- dinner
8pm- shower
9pm- go to bed
thursday
7am- wake up
7:30am- breakfast
8am- 9:30am- job #2
10am- 11:45am- class
12pm- lunch
1pm- 9pm- job #1
9:30pm- dinner
10pm- shower
10:30pm- go to bed
friday 7am- wake up
7:30am- breakfast
8am- class
9:20am- class
11am-5pm- job #1
5pm- drive to boyfriend’s house
i am so tired, and yet
i still don’t have time to be a human, too
on top of everything else I have to do
i wonder
Jessica Somogye
i wonder what it would be like
if i were as good at speaking
as i am at thinking
i wonder what it would be like
i can communicate clearly… in my head.
i know exactly what to say and how to say it… in my head.
if i were as good at speaking as
i am at thinking,
would the world really be all that different?
would i really change society that much
if i were as good at speaking
as i am at thinking?
who would care
if i were as good at speaking
as i am at thinking.
i wonder what it would be like
if i was as good at thinking
as i am at speaking
i wonder what it would be like
i don’t think first…… i can communicate clearly
i don’t think first… …i know exactly what to say and how to say it
if i were as good at thinking
as i am at speaking,
would the world really be all that different?
would i really change society that much
if i were as good at thinking
as i am at speaking?
who would care
if i were as good at thinking
as i am at speaking.
it doesn’t matter if you are
good at thinking or good at speaking, but
it matters that you communicate your needs
Sticking into the Clouds
Blue and Black 4-Point Star
Photo Taken By Richmond Outlaw
Artwork By Richmond Outlaw
Old Soul
Mia Woltman
I want to talk to you through an old telephone with a curled cord and rusted dial. I want to wait for your call and let trust be trust. I want to listen to your muffled words while counting the coins I’d pull from my dress. Enough to see the film we’d watch before dancing in town. The soldiers on leave. I want to spin in the dress Mother would fix with the fabric she’d keep in the bottom drawer. Soft lace and blue tulle. I want to write you letters until my cursive is perfect. I want to save for stamps and stationery. A heart beside my signature. I’d spray the paper with the perfume on my vanity. Glass bottles, smooth creams, pink powders. I want to be there and not here.
Grieving in the Way of Burnt Toast
Mia Woltman
Your heart stopped beating but I, too, felt mine go numb when the startling ring of the telephone woke me in the middle of a July night. You had been in a car accident. It wasn’t your fault. You suffered a massive concussion.
That was the end of you. Your death changed me, of course, it did. What kind of fiancé would I be to you if your loss didn’t affect me in some overwhelming way?
It’s early November now and I can only compare the pain to the fragile leaves that sit crumpled on the frosted pavement - cold. When I say that your death changed me, I don’t mean in the way that most people experience grief. Normally when a woman's heart breaks for the man she's loved since the age of seventeen, she finds herself refusing to sleep in her empty bed or fearing the taste of coffee if she first meets the love of her life in a café, but I carried on as if your soul had never left this world, as if your presence still occupied half of our apartment, as if your pictures on the mantle never grew dust from not being held.
You left and I ignored the need to say my farewell. While your sandy ashes fell from my fingertips and onto the creamy buds of the honeysuckles in the park where we first met, I promised myself to never let you go, never to let us go.
So, I carry on.
I still leave your dirty pair of expensive shoes by the door, I load the dishwasher your way (little plates on top, big plates on the bottom), and even fix my breakfasts as if you're standing over me with your hands on my thin waist, saying, “Fay Margaret Middleton, how did you manage to burn the toast again?” You would eat the crummy bread anyway, using so much raspberry jam that you could barely taste it. Now I let the two pieces of wheat cook for a bit too long to recall those silly moments with you every day. It's become a simple routine, like running a comb through my moussed hair every morning, like brushing my teeth while I'm half asleep at night.
Those are the small things I do, but the things that remind me of you grow bigger. I wear your clothes every day to work. I take you with me. When my changed look made its first debut at the magazine company, my colleagues' judgment was displayed as raised eyebrows and tilted heads. My old wardrobe of pencil skirts quickly transformed into oversized flannels and baggy Metallica t-shirts. Even though I endured a major makeover in the world of fashion, they never said anything. I think they knew.
I watch only your favorite movies. I ditch my Monday obsession with The Bachelor to witness Rocky fight in the ring or Brian O’Conner survive another car stunt. I mute the television to silence the metallic crunch of cars colliding. I sizzle popcorn over our little stove, pour red wine, and suffocate myself in the blanket that fosters a lingering scent of your cologne. I always thought it smelled like sage. Those late nights usually end with me sleeping on your side of the bed, on your pillows. I whisper “Goodnight, Elliot” into the cotton sheets and relive our memories through dreams that make me hate my morning alarm.
It wasn’t until my best work friend stopped for breakfast at our place that I realized how big of an impact you left on me. Sara scanned our yellow apartment from the doorway, scratching a pretend itch on her head as she noticed your books on the shelf, your mug on the kitchen counter, your jacket draped over the wooden chair we bought last spring. “I’m still working on it,” I muttered while avoiding her pitiful stare. She simply nodded but insisted that I grab coffee with her brother-in-law’s friend the following week. She extended this offer after she had observed my toast-burning ritual and my large spoonful's of jam.
I drowned my reservations about the date in a ‘fake-it-til'-you-make-it’ gulp of wine before Nathan welcomed me with an awkward hug and a bouquet of fiery red roses. I accompanied him to a local vintage diner in Chicago more for Sara’s sake than mine. As soon as I smelled the freshness of those velvety petals fancied with baby’s breath, I knew that I wasn’t ready. You had always surprised me with white roses. We weren't big on clichés.
Nathan and I nursed delicate small talk for an hour or so in a sticky booth, all the while I was thinking about which movie of yours to watch next. He was a blue-eyed accountant, two years older than us at twenty-eight, and he paid for my cappuccino. Guilt eroded my insides as I declined his kind invitation for a second outing. I apologized to both Sara and my unwanted admirer the next day.
That was two weeks ago and here I am now, tangled up in your wool sweater watching the first snowfall of the season. The snow is wet since it’s still autumn, but the covered streets of 8th Avenue look like something you would find in a snow globe. It’s quiet. I’ve paused the television to look out the wide window. I’ve chosen Rocky again. The roses that I’ve arranged in an hourglass vase look even more vibrant against the wintery world. They’re almost wilted. The stems struggle to carry the dead weight.
I hold our fraying blanket up to my face but am shocked to find that your smell is nearly gone. I throw it across the living room and off of the grey sofa. My chestnut hair blows in the gust my outburst creates. A book from the shelf beside the television tips and lands on the rug. It’s one of your books on carpentry. I wedge my mug into the sofa cushions and reverse my tantrum, folding the blanket and organizing the shelf, but the worn cover steals my attention. It's made of leather like your favorite belt. I thumb through the pages and see all of your messy notes in the margins. My breathy smile fills the silent room and it comforts me - that missed sound, that missed feeling.
I curl up on the rug, feeling your sweater's brown wool kiss my pale skin. I lay the book open on my chest and lay there with Rocky's boxing glove frozen on the screen. For just a moment, I pretend the withered roses behind me are white like the snow. I will begin to learn to live without you, but I will let myself feel this for now. I will slowly heal, word by word, chapter by chapter, book by book until a fresh story that doesn't make you the main character is created.
That night, she sleeps on Elliot's pillows one last time before she picks up the pencil and writes this new beginning.
Midnight Perigee
Amy Melgoza
I found myself creeping down the steps from my room
Drawn in by some unknown ether
My skin shifted in the half-light that dripped from the windows
My heart gestured towards the door
The gentle night air took my hand,
and led me down the steps, into the swaying grass
As my eyes adjusted, the world revealed itself to me
Veiled in night, the Earth slept under a midnight lullaby
That song blew through my hair and lifted my gaze by my chin
And there she was...
Asphyxiation
Photo Taken By Amy Melgoza
Return to the Earth
Amy Melgoza
May your fur line the bird nests
May your flesh feed the insects
May your memory live on
As your bones fuel the earth
Return to the Earth
Photo Taken By Amy Melgoza
Blue Dress
Bridget Tully
I sit by myself
Watching women dance the floor
Until one joins me.
She wore a blue dress
To make me reach out my hand
And stand up to her.
I look at Blue Dress
As we waltz around the room
To classical hymns.
I sit with the girl
After twenty songs to tell her,
“I love your blue dress.”
A bell bangs quickly,
Sending Blue Dress out the room
And tears down my cheeks.
I ride the bus home
Missing my dances with Blue Dress
But thankful we met.
Opened Horizons
Bridget Tully
I started college
Planning to keep traditions
But open for more.
I joined many clubs
And got my first poem published.
My faith also grew.
I picked my passions
And wore them like a necklace,
Trying to keep faith.
I loved my maker,
Seeing evidence through work
And the songs I sang.
​
I met my people
Who gave me golden sunsets,
Opened horizons.
Blue and Yellow Jackets
Photos Taken By Ximena Torres-Ramos
The Doves Flight
Liberation
Brooke Karas
A bucket-
catching the unsteady-
wet drips leaking from hollow holes-
in my visage
Tap-
Tap-
Splish!
Capturing tears before they dry
saving the salty parts-
my body wished to discard
Washed Away
Brooke Karas
*This piece contains subject matter that may be sensitive to some readers.
Soaking limbs, air that smelt of cigarettes and lavender, dizzying spinning until Ella’s head hit the lukewarm fuzzy water. Submerged, she opened her eyes. Mutedly gazing at the yellowing stucco ceiling, bubbles occasionally blocking her line of sight until she couldn’t see, eyes failing to register anything but burning darkness. There in the pit of despair where bodily functions developed a fault, and stimuli were nothing but the sloshing of water spilling over a cracked porcelain cliff, Ella found herself at war. A familiar churn of her stomach induced by the food from the cafeteria, or the slicing of her heart which lay in two at the bottom of the bathtub. The right side, juicy and red, leaking crimson swirls into the slightly murky water. The left side, gray and barren. The piece she’d given to him. Gifted as a child who knew no better than to try and comfort the man who was supposed to be strong. Her rock that had crumbled into pebbles. Smooth and round, jagged and sharp, all of them but a few appealing pellets that glittered in the sun, which Ella pocketed, were glued together by clumsy hands.
Still, she was gluing the memory of him together. An attempt to preserve what was left of the man.
He had broad fibrous shoulders, something Ella had inherited from him. A beer gut that stuck out past his waist, shiny bald head, and thick brown eyebrows that sat like caterpillars atop his black eyes. When he spoke the walls boomed, his laugh a deafening tune that Ella tried to replay.
Her unmanicured hand popped up out of the water like a fish, slippery fingers catching the side of the basin, squeezing the solid coolness. Every inch of her being was battling the muscular molecules of water trying to lift her to the surface. Let me drown. As if Adam's ale could read her mind. Pushing her up with hands made of steel. Let me find peace.
In battle with her lungs Ella fought the urge to inhale, instead emitting the last of her saved breaths with pursed lips and carbon effervescence. Letting herself sink further into the tub, she could almost taste the bitter relief of departure. Or perhaps it was the pungent herbaceous lavender body wash riding on small waves like seafoam.
He was young, only forty-two, a whole life ahead of him. He could have been there for her high school graduation. For college admissions, or move in day. Carrying all of her crap up four flights of stairs in sweltering heat that made the skin on the back of everyone’s neck prickle with a red rash. He could have been there for birthdays, five of them to be exact. For boyfriends that didn’t live up to their potential. Or fights with her mom that left them on opposite sides of the house with red cheeks and stuffy noses. But death, the all encompassing son of a bitch who had no mercy, took the side of Eric King, carrying him on a pedestal through the passage between life and limbo, praising him for taking the easy way out. One less poor bastard to fight for his existence. Death’s work was made easy by giving up.
Ella King was young. Sixteen when her father died by his own hands and the end of a shotgun. That same Ella King was trapped inside the body of a twenty-one year old woman who knew too much about life. Too much about oxycontin, the shakes and violent vomit that came with the abrupt withdrawal of use. She knew too much about heroin and the brutal mood swings that left her with bruises and slaps to the head. Too much about divorce and infidelity that made her question the very construct of love. Ella knew how to care too much. Fifteen year old girl babying her father because he promised not to do it again. Because he swore that this was the last time and that he was going to change, and that if she just gave him money, or helped him into bed she’d see what a different person he was going to be. But the comfort of the drug was overwhelming, and once again he’d fail to make his promises come to life.
Her taste of relief came in the form of his passing. For the first time in her life Ella knew he was safe. She didn’t have to wander the neighborhood looking for her doped up dad, apologizing to neighbors when she found him passed out on their lawn, begging them not to call the police. Or receiving calls from the county jail, where weeping Eric would beg her to put her mother on the phone. For once, in the absence of his breath, she could breathe.
Yet the clear breaths of fresh air had come unwanted. What was the point of living if he was gone? He’d taken up most of her days, caring for him as if he were a small child. Her child. Eric occupied most of her mind. The constant curiosity and worry if he would be okay without her. Now Ella worried she wouldn’t be okay without him. The rest of the worry had no place to go, hovering above her head, often misplaced or confused with the feeling of pure sorrow. She was jealous of Eric for leaving his worries and troubles behind. Heaven required no anxiety, and hell was on Earth.
Now Ella too made the choice to join him in whatever heaven or nirvana awaited her on the other side.
Still she was forcing herself to hold her breath. A couple seconds more and she’d be there. She was sure of it. There was no way her lungs could hold out any longer, and inhaling would have filled them with water. She supposed that's what would happen anyways. When she finally succumbed to the darkness her body would resume its normal functions, and lungs in search of air would find soapy water.
Ella wondered if she’d float or sink. If the water would drain out of the tub through the small crack in the drain stopper, or if it would cool along with her slowly rotting pruned body. Another churn of her stomach and she was gripping the porcelain tighter than before. Burning in her chest like a crackling fire, dwarfish stars speckling the blackness of the back of her eyelids and the feeling of her sinking heart would be the last feelings Ella would endure before relief. But perhaps relief wouldn’t come with the death of her body. It was her soul that needed to be scrubbed clean.
The very man Ella loved more than life, and resented all the same was reaching out to her. Thick fingered hand coming to retrieve her. They’d be together again, yet the hollow feeling in her chest didn’t fill. The wound didn’t patch over, and with the faint strength she had left, Ella was pulling herself up out of the water.
Her head breached like the back of a whale. Heaving breaths as waves of soap rolled down from the top of her auburn head to the swell of her breasts, droplets meeting the rest of the sea again as they fell. Ploddingly her eyes opened, stars fading from view. There in the bottom of the bathtub a bar of pink soap leaking spirals of oil and alkali, next to it an old gray sponge expanded and sunk. The pieces of her heart
The Opera Garnier
Behind Every Sign
Photos Taken By
Yaritza Argueta-Morales
The Crown (A Memoir)
Gonzalo Magana
It was September, and it felt like it. Back then I had to walk from the university's wrestling room to the trainer’s room, so I could get my shoulder wrapped up. Just a precaution for all the times the muscle had been violently ripped from place. A short walk that took me outside, I hated when the wind picked up. I did that walk a couple times back then, the wind would always find a way to cut my skin. I remember that day, the sky kept itself honest, holding a sharp blue, an unrelenting blue. The light from the sun would use the green from the football field like a slide to glide into my eyes. There's something about the sun and how it hung over me, especially on days like those. It should be warm, but it’s not. It feels like it's mocking me, like how you can almost reach out and touch it. But you can’t ever truly see it or feel it.
“Man, this is gonna suck!” is what populated my thoughts while I made that walk. I would fear that my body may break in some way like it tends to do. The pain that would be inflicted upon me by men who are just better than me. But I was the one who chose to go all in on Wrestling just one more time, looking for something that I thought I lost. It’s a strange dichotomy, I quit my job to focus on wrestling, but I’m scared to wrestle…Then I see it, a deceiving little bell sat atop a 15 feet pillar that stands hidden in plain sight next to the school’s football field. There is a little plaque at the bottom of the bell that reads, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness.”
That bell exposed an undeniable reality that carved my chest open. It’s been on my mind for a long time now, but it helped me find what I was looking for. It took me through my blood and my past. A realization that only makes sense with context…
1984 was the year my father made it to this country. He was and will always be a dirt poor farmer, who labored from the moment he could. LA MORA JALISO is where he’s from. Too hidden away in the mountains. Eat what you kill, eat what you grow, that's what his life was like. His feet are mangled and damaged from wearing shoes that were too small, dealing with stomach ulcers from not eating for days and drinking alcohol as early as 12 years old. Being diagnosed and then medicated for severe anxiety. Mexico gave him all that, but he still loves that place more than anyone or anything. He wants to die in Mexico. But in his twenties, he understood if he wanted to live a decent life, he would need to find something with more money in it.
Flash forward a couple decades, 8 year old me was mentally prepared for any volatile lecture from my dad (in Spanish). See, my dad ain’t normal, first it’s “you gotta go to church and find discipline'' and then I get out of church and say something positive about the sermon and he says, “Why are you so stupid!? Think critically for a second, the church don’t give a damn about you, it's all just conspiracy to keep you under them!” or “Let me tell you something son, the United States is a racist country that you can’t trust, not a single government worker or teacher, it's their job to tell you what you want to hear, don’t ever think they care about you!” But then he’ll see a Mexican teen put a Mexican flag on the hood of his car and say, “doesn't he understand we ain't in Mexico, that boy don’t have no right to that flag anyway. I bet he wasn't born there, I bet he's never bled there! Let me tell you something, as a Mexican man, your number one enemy is another Mexican Man. I've seen Mexicans kill each other more than any other group, don’t let that flag fool you.”
Every time I got into his truck I knew I would hear something like that no matter what I said. But now that I’m older I give him his grace. He was homeless for the first three years in the United States, and suffered a lot. Even when he got settled on the East Side of Aurora, he was always working. He had a dream of owning a restaurant, so he got a 4pm to 2am job as a cook at a bar, working 7 days a week making 13 bucks an hour. He didn't see the sun too much, and it didn't see him too much. I know he started to feel like an outsider in his own house. It’s tough though. My dad gave up on the whole restaurant thing, and wasn't there for either of his parents when they passed away in the place he calls home.
About a year and a half ago, he and I were in his truck, riding back from a doctor's appointment. I had the aux cord and was playing the song Rafa Caro, detailing the life of legendary Mexican drug lord Rafael “Caro” Quintero from his perspective . As we are driving the song opens up, “Como han pasado los años. Pero se muy bien mi nombre han escuchado.” I look towards my dad and tell him, “You know the DEA still has a 5 million dollar bounty on Quintero’s head.” My dad’s right hand had a death grip on the gear shift of the vehicle as his hand and forearm maintained a consistent and unwilled tremble. We figured it must have been some sort of pre-recession injury from when he worked construction that flared back up, but that day, it was unearthed as parkinson's disease. My dad doesn't take his eyes off the road and says, “What the hell do they want with him anyway? He’s too old to be any use to anyone.” I don’t respond with anything. The climax of the songs comes in as the lead singer shares the line, “Nada es Fácil en la Vida...”
My brother is 8 years older than me. He grew up in the second toughest era to be in East Aurora. Not to go into the elaborate history of the east side, but let's just say, it's not as violent as being an adolescent in the area from 1995-2006 but not being blessed with 2014 onwards, which were the years that saw the area truly trending upwards. As a brown, poor(ish) hispanic, he was pressured into violence. He saw himself bullied, so he got a lot meaner, and took on the traits of a gangster, which saw him shoulder to shoulder with some dangerous people. After all these years the names of those people blend together, which is kind of sad considering those boys thought they were cementing their legacy into something more special. These days some of those cats are doing just fine, but others are dead or in prison.
One such name would be a fellow with the last name Mendez, a character that my brother broke bread with a number of times. Not best buddies or anything but they ran in the same circles. For my brother it was a survival tactic, but for a guy like Mendez, he truly believed it. By my brother's sophomore year of high school, he started working at La Chiquita and started to separate himself from those groups. Years later, my sister found an article to share with my brother, featuring Mendez as well as other former cats from that era. It turns out the good brother participated in a gang beating that resulted in the brutal death of a Mexican boy. The three of them literally stomped the soul out of the 17 year old's body, as they planned to jump the kid, and it ended up going too far. The article highlighted their conviction, after five or so years of awaiting trial…
I have this core memory as an 10 year old. My brother picked me up from our cousin's house, with his new car and stereo system that he paid for and was proud of. Back then I was scared of him, he would always lash out at me randomly, but that day he seemed to be in a decent mood. It must have been 12 am, us weaving through the back street with his reckless driving style, the orange street lights illuminating the vehicle in bursts. He was playing a track from the infamous Huston rapper Carlos Coy with Baby Bash on the hook singing, Why when I’m not high does my life feel like it's missing something? I know that I must be high So that I can function. Why when I’m not high does my life feel like it's missing something? I know that I must be high so that I can function…
When I got around to wrestling in the 7th grade, it didn't really mean that much to me. I wanted another sport to do besides cross country, and I liked WWE, so it seemed like a good fit. What I did not predict is that it would become a vector to vindicate my community. By the 3rd grade, I already knew that East Aurora was not viewed as something worthwhile, and by extension, I wasn't either. The local Media would put a spotlight on community failures and ignore the good coming out of our area. You’d be surprised how aware elementary school students were about their position in life. When I joined the team, it got put into my head that if I went out on the wrestling mat and fought to the end every time, it would prove that we were worth something. So that’s what I did. In my young mind, I became a soldier for my community, and together with my team we were gonna change the game! It wasn't until high school that I realized just how insurmountable that task was really going to be.
I remember going to the varsity regionals as a freshmen, and watching the senior leaders season drop one by one. Soldiers whose bodies were held together by tape and braces, who were battling private school’s and wealthy public schools against cats that had been rolling since they could walk. I remember watching these soldiers break down crying when they realized that they would never really wrestle again…that their dreams would never come true. I remember being angry at said schools, feeling like they had some sort of advantage, that they were selfish, but eventually I realized that on the wrestling mat there are only three people on it, the ref and the two wrestlers. All that money they got doesn't win matches, they do, for every winner there's a loser. I wasn't any less selfish than they were, we all want the same shit. It took me a long time to realize this fact.
I could tell you the in’s and out’s of my wrestling career, but people only pretend to care about that sort of thing. I could tell you about crazy comebacks and funny stories. I could tell you about doubles and singles. I could tell you about the first time I cried over the sport, or I could tell you about my last match, and how I got shredded by a private school kid in 33 seconds flat. But instead, I’ll talk to you about that fucking bell.
When I was coming up, people would tell me similar things as that bell. They would say, “If we could put your heart and mind into someone more talented, they would be a state champion” or “I respect that despite all your losses, you still have the best attendance on the team! That takes a lot of heart and discipline, that's what this sport is all about!” I always felt like that was enough for me, but I remember my senior year something changed. Early on that year, I realized that I probably wasn't gonna wrestle in college, because I just wasn't that good. Before that year I had an iron mind, and I would swang and bang on the wrestling mat as hard as I could for as long as I could. But that year was the first time I would walk on a wrestling mat believing I was going to lose. I just thought things would come together, that all the commitment would pay off. But it never really did, and I felt bitter at the game, for making me think hard work was the only factor. Once regionals rolled around, I saw myself absolutely worked and I watched all my senior compatriots fall one by one, the exact same way the seniors from my freshmen year did.
I moved on to college and started working a night time job, from 4 pm to 2 am. I remember a certain Wednesday, where from the moment I woke up at 6 am to go to school, all the way until 8 am the next day, I went 26 hours without speaking a word. I just wanted to see if anyone would bother talking to me… I fell into the university's roster after I transferred in from another school, because I owed it to my younger self to give it a shot. After 3 years of not wrestling, I wanted to see if I could dig into my chest and find the one thing that I thought made me special. Instead, I found reality.
I met amazing characters, men and women who far exceed what I thought was possible at this level. I knew they would be better than me, but the gap between us shocked me like a bucket of cold water to the face. It wasn't just the doubles and the singles, I saw them move in ways that I just couldn't. I saw them sacrifice their bodies in ways that I never had. I witnessed a level of commitment that went beyond what I had been taught. I realized that for the past 9 years I was just doing the bare minimum. I had always been praised for my work ethic, consistency ,and heart, but I never really had any of that. I joined the team to dig into my chest, and find my heart, only to see that I was empty.
It comes as quite a shock when a trip leads to a fall…I ain't no Nice guy after all. Lemmy Kilmister said that in a song, and that made me realize that there is nothing unique about my path in life. So many people think that they are the chosen one, but slowly see their shine wear off, as time wears on. I bled to try and vindicate my community, but they never really cared about what I tried to do, my senior night was in front of 8 people. I went back the other day, and saw 200 people packed into the gym for some random duel. In that sense, I guess what I wanted was achieved, they were vindicated, their struggles proved true. This new group has accomplished way more than anything my group ever did. But that is the true silver bullet for me. In all the years you spend between your birth and death, you know there's lots of times where you should have saved your breath. Watching the new cats roll, I realized that I was never really needed in that context. I was reminded that life goes on with or without you…
I’ve been thinking about my blood a lot, and how it fails. The people around me and the people before me. The sounds of my truth crack my ears like a fist through ice…You know what, I’ll leave you with another line from Mr. Carlos Coy… All my people fight the evil. Some sniff paint and some shoot needle. Some take shots with salt and lemon, get fucked up and beat they 8 women. All the children need someone to show them they can be someone. Mad at me cuz I came up. I don’t Understand what y'all want…
The funny part, despite all this, I won’t stop grappling until I can’t anymore. I believe that anyone can be anything they want to be. But I’ve seen people with so much more talent than me piss it away for whatever. Well, I’ll never let anyone change me. I’ll never change.
Neon Shoes On Pavement
Artwork By Claudia Mora
A Leap Into The Mystic Locker Realm!
Samuel Brown
The dent on the rear bumper was substantial enough to notice, but not enough to catch a nearby passer's eyes. It wouldn’t have been that much of an issue if they were already late for the first period. Stonie saw it first, the Red Toyota parked along the street before Ryan turned right and nicked the shiny bumper. The two cars colliding made a SCREECH as the metal scraped together.
Ryan stopped along the side of the car and turned to look at Stonie, “Uh- What was that?”
Stonie looked back with his mouth open. “I think you just hit that car.”
“Nah, I think it was my bumper scraping on the ground.”
“I’m pretty sure I saw you hit that car.” Stonie unbuckled and opened the passenger side door.
Ryan parked the car and followed suit. “Stonie, get back in the car. If we did hit the car, then let’s just go.” Ryan began walking around the car until most of the Red Toyota was in view. “See! I didn’t hit it at all! Now let’s go.”
“Wait,” Stonie stepped to the side and revealed that there was very much a dent. If Ryan’s car was red, then maybe there wouldn’t have been a visible streak mark but his car wasn’t red, it was black. On the rear bumper of the car was a small cantaloupe-sized dent and a black streak mark.
“Yeah, you hit the damn car,” Stonie said and threw his hands up.
Ryan walked closer and kneeled at the height of the dent. “Hm,” he said out loud, “I think that was already there before.”
Stonie scoffed, “You can see part of your car on theirs.”
Ryan stood back up and put his hands on his hips. He took a deep breath in through his teeth, “Maybe.”
Stonie rolled his eyes. “Well, now what?”
“We leave.”
“What? We can’t leave.”
“It could be anyone's car, who knows what happened to it,” defended Ryan.
Stonie leaned against Ryan’s car, crossed his arms, and looked to the sky. Then he let out a long groan. The front door slamming shut made Stonie jump away from the car. Ryan was now back in the driver's seat. “What are you doing?” Stonie sneered through the passenger's side window.
“I’m going to school. We’re already late.”
“But you’re my ride.”
“Then you better get in.”
Stonie looked back at the dented car bumper and then back at Ryan who was smiling at him. “I hate you, Ryan.”
Stonie opened the passenger side door and got in. Ryan sped to school down the main road. The two of them parked in the furthest spot from the front doors. As they stepped out of the car, Stonie looked down at the front bumper. There was a dent.
Before they could walk up the stairs, they saw two other students, a boy, and a girl, hustling to the door. Ryan and Stonie knew them, but not close enough to truly know them. All Stonie could wonder was, why is the valedictorian late?
Jenna woke up to the light beaming in from the window of her room. She fluttered her eyes open as she gained consciousness. She heard the sounds of her family downstairs as she got her bearings. She turned over to look at her alarm clock. Her eyes widened and her adrenaline spiked.
“Shit.”
School started in five minutes. She had to miss the time. She threw on her clothes and grabbed her bag running out the door. Her heart sank when she tried to turn on the car and the engine wouldn’t turn.
“FUCK!” she slammed her hands on the steering wheel.
After a brief moment of panic, she took out her phone to make a call.
“Pick up, pick up, pick–”
A voice spoke on the other line, “Jen?”
“ADAM! My car won’t start and I’m late to school!”
“What?”
“I woke up late, I didn’t set my alarm, and my car won’t start, please can you come pick me up for school?”
“Alright, Jen relax I’ll come get you.”
Jenna let out a sigh of relief, “thank you.”
Ten minutes later Adam showed up on the curb and Jenna stepped into his car.
“Lifesaver,” she said.
“Dude, relax, it's no big deal.” Adam put the car in gear and sped to school.
“Yeah, I know I texted Jimmy to tell our teacher I was going to be late. He said since I had car troubles, I was right, I told Jimmy to not say anything about oversleeping.”
“I hardly ever see you this flustered Jen.” Adam turned a corner. “Something else going on?”
“No,” Jenna turned to look out the window. “I just hate missing this class.”
“What's special about this class?” Adam asked. “You starting to like school now?”
“Been hanging around you too much I guess.”
Adam scoffed. Jen turned forward and adjusted her bag, “you know I like school sometimes.”
“Yeah, but you never liked math.”
“Well…”
They both turned into the school parking lot. Adam parked and the two of them shuffled to the door.
Before Adam and Jenna got to the door, they saw two other students walking up the short steps up to the door. They looked so much calmer than Jenna felt.
Stonie and Ryan got to the doors before Adam and Jenna. Ryan opened the door first but stayed outside to hold the door open. Stonie walked in first then stepped aside to wait for Ryan. Adam came next, then Jenna last.
“Thanks,” she said.
Ryan tipped his invisible hat and closed the door behind them. The hallways were bare and devoid of all life. You’d expect there to be someone in the halls. Adam and Jenna moved much faster down the hall than Stonie and Ryan.
“How late are we?” asked Stonie.
Ryan looked down at his wrist. “About 15 minutes.”
“Weird.”
“What?”
“Has it ever been this quiet?”
Ryan didn’t say anything back, instead, he shrugged.
Up ahead Adam and Jenna were approaching the stairs. “I can walk you to your class.” Adam offered.
“It’s okay. We’re already late.”
“I’ve never seen you care this much about school,” Adam chuckled. “What’s another five minutes?”
“Because I can’t fail this class, Adam. My mom and dad are hounding me about college and keeping my grades up. I’m so sick of them being down my neck.”
“You won’t fail Jen.”
“Easy for you to say, Einstein.”
Just as the two reached the bottom of the stairs, a voice called out from the hall.
“Hey… guys?!”
The two turned around to see Ryan looking their way from around the corner. Ryan gestured for them to come over and then walked around the corner. Adam followed.
“Where are you going?” Jenna hissed...
Adam shrugged, “I guess just to see what they're talking about.” He pulled away from Jenna and walked down the hall. He stopped the moment he saw it and then looked back to Jenna with his mouth wide open.
“What is it?” Jenna whispered.
“I- You- Just come look.” Jenna’s heart began to pound as she walked down the stairs and around the corner. She saw them first, the three boys looking into a locker, and then she saw why they were so fixated on one locker.
There, inside the locker, was a swirling vortex of blue and green light. The center was a darker shade until it faded to black in the middle. It looked flat like a wall but warped like a tunnel. Light flickered out of the sides of the locker. There was nothing in the locker but this light.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” asked Stonie.
“I’m seeing a black void. Is that what you’re seeing?” Ryan said.
“I think so."
“Okay good. For a second, I thought my coffee was spiked.”
“You see that too, right?” Stonie asked.
“We see it,” Adam replied.
“Oh my God!” Jenna yelped. “What is THAT?”
“Fascinating…” Adam began, “Is this real?”
“I don’t know, let's see.” Ryan reached out to touch the floating void, but Stonie swatted his hand away, “Don’t touch it!”
“Ouch! I just wanted to see what it felt like.”
“I think we should go to class.” Adam said, “We can just shut the locker door and walk away.”
“You can go to class; I’m going to touch it.” Ryan then reached his hand out. Stonie wasn’t fast enough and before he could scream, “DON’T”, Ryan had put his entire hand in the portal.
Ryan muttered only one word, “Whoa,” before his body was jolted forward into the locker. In an instant, Ryan’s entire body was sucked up by the void with a loud SLURP noise and then only the void remained.
“Jesus!” yelled Adam while taking a couple of steps back.
Jenna squealed and stood behind Adam, “What the hell?”
Stonie hadn’t moved. Instead, he stood there with a look of pure shock on his face. It was like he had just seen his friend get sucked into a random void and had no idea where the locker void led to. Stonie looked back at Adam and Jenna then back at the void and then back to Adam and Jenna.
Adam shook his head, “Please don't.”
Stonie looked back at the void and bolted for it. Jenna was much quicker than Stonie had been and before the void could completely swallow Stonie, Jenna wrapped his arms around Stonie's waist. The top half of Stonie is in the void, the back half hanging out of the locker. It didn’t matter though because the power of the void was too much for Jenna and she began sliding towards the void.
“Help!” She yelled to which Adam grabbed Stonie’s legs. Even with the extra help, Adam and Jenna were still sliding closer and closer. Adam put his feet against the bottom of the locker. His flat-bottomed converse did nothing to help and perhaps even made the situation worse. His feet slipped causing Stonie, Adam, and Jenna to be rocketed into the void.
The black void disappeared, and the locker slammed shut. The hallways were once again quiet. And now Ryan, Stonie, Adam, and Jenna would be very late for school.
The world they were sucked into was not unlike the world in which they came from. Around them, they were lying on the floor of a school hallway, but not like a normal school. It looked abandoned. Ryan was already on his feet when the three blasted through the other side of the locker. The locker shut the moment they were all through the void.
“That’s nice of you guys to join me,” Ryan said while helping Stonie up.
Jenna shot up, “Where’d it go?” She crawled over to the locker and opened it. There was no longer a portal in there. “Where did it go!?” she exploded and looked back at the three boys.
“We’re stuck here forever…” Ryan said in that camp counselor's spooky voice.
“Can you be serious for once?” asked Stonie but Ryan didn't have a chance to answer because just then something walked around the corner. The thing was hairy all over, with arms that were almost longer than its legs and two beady eyes. Its sharp teeth poked through all its hair. The white fluffball creature looked like a dandelion with chicken legs. This creature would’ve been intimidating if it were not three feet tall.
The creature began to yell some sort of concoction of words, “YANDODABO!”
Ryan took a step forward, “Hello Mr. Hairball, can you help us?”
“Don’t talk to it!” spat Jenna.
Ryan looked back at Jenna, “What? He looks harmless!”
Just then, the haired creature pulled a spear out of thin air. The creature raised it and yelled more incomprehensible words. That’s when they heard more yelling behind them. The four turned around to see that there were four other creatures. Ryan looked at Jenna, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”
Then the creatures began to march them down the halls.
“Where are we?” Jenna asked as they passed empty classrooms.
“It looks like our school,” Adam said. He stopped for a moment, “hey, there's my locker!” He didn’t get a chance to investigate because all of the creatures shouted until he continued walking.
Before long they were at the gym doors. The creatures in front opened the door to reveal that a large red carpet filled the basketball court. The stands were out and filled with even more haired creatures. In the middle of the court was a throne made from desks and chairs. Sitting on the throne was a shaved and almost naked creature. It wore the deflated half of a basketball, a crown of sorts. The group was heading straight towards it.
“Do you guys see that pink Mike Wazowski?” Ryan muttered.
“I don’t like this, Adam. What is it?” Jenna whispered.
Adam didn’t answer as Ryan interjected. “I know exactly what this is.”
The group hung on Ryan’s last words, waiting for him to elaborate but he didn’t.
“Well, Ryan?” Stonie asked.
“What?”
“What is it?”
“Oh, I thought you guys knew too.”
Jenna growled. “NO! That’s why I was asking.”
Three creatures stepped in front of the group, motioning them to stop.
“It’s a sacrifice.”
Adam facepalmed, “No, it’s not.”
“How would you know?” Ryan interrogated.
“There’s no altar or priest.” Adam looked around.
Just then, the hairless creature stood on the throne, raised its arms, and yelled something to the crowd. The crowd began to chant. The hairless creature reached back and a spear appeared in its hands. With its other hand, it pointed at them.
“See? Sacrifice.” Ryan slapped Stonie’s chest. “I got this. You guys get out safe.” And then Ryan took a step forward.
“What? No!” Stonie spat and looked back at Adam and Jenna for backup, “We’re not letting you sacrifice yourself.”
“Looks like we don’t have a choice.” Adam pointed to Ryan who was now in front of them and surrounded by three haired creatures.
Ryan looked back at Jenna. “This is for you. I know you’re into me and I’m sorry I have to die.”
Stonie and Adam both looked at Jenna. She didn’t share the same look of confused awkwardness. Instead, she chucked, “My hero.” Ryan must’ve not picked up on Jenna’s sarcasm because the last words he said before the hairless creatures sent the spear rocketing toward him was, “I LOVE YOU JENNA.”
The spear soared through the air with a wizz. Stonie looked away while Jenna and Adam couldn’t. Ryan closed his eyes and puffed his chest out. The spear hit Ryan right in the center of his chest… and bounced off.
Ryan opened one eye to see the spear on the floor. “Well, this is awkward.”
“It’s plastic!” Adam yelled.
Ryan looked at the-haired creatures and kicked one full force. The creature flew twenty feet and didn’t get back up. “RUN!” he yelled.
Stonie opened his eyes to see Ryan, Adam, and Jenna kicking the-haired creatures. Before Stonie could think, one came charging at him. Stonie lifted his foot in the air and planted his shoe right in its face.
“Yappa Zogabda!” their leader shouted. “Ama Notaous!”
Every creature from the stand began chasing them.
Ryan ran first, grabbing Jenna's hand who then grabbed Adams. Stonie followed behind.
“Where are we going!?” Jenna shouted at Ryan.
“Back to where we came from.”
Stonie ran much quicker down the halls than the other three and made it to the locker just a couple of seconds before. Stonie opened the locker to find nothing. No portal. Just an empty metal locker.
“There’s nothing!” Stonie was panting. Ryan, Adam, and Jenna had just joined Stonie’s side.
“Let me try.” Ryan closed the locker door and leaned his head on it. “Please work.”
“Ryan! No more of your bullshit! Open the locker!” Adam ordered.
It was apparent that Ryan wasn’t listening. Just down the hall a large group, too many to fight off, were yelling and charging their way.
Stonie looked down the hall and then back. “Ryan!”
“Okay!” Ryan yelled, “ABRACADABRA!” Ryan swung open the locker door and there inside was the swirling vortex of blue and green light. “YES! It worked!”
There was no time. “GO” the other three yelled and all went through the portal.
They fell hard onto the hallway floor. Jenna was the first to talk. “Is it… Is it home?”
Adam pushed himself up, “I think so.”
The locker that was once a portal was now closed with a combination lock on the handle.
The four stared at the locker for a moment before Ryan spoke, “Did that just happen? That was awesome!
“Shit!” Jenna spat, “What time is it?”
Adam looked at his watch. “8:20…”
“That was only five minutes?”
“I guess so.”
“Now what?” asked Stonie.
There was silence before Adam answered, “I think class.”
Ryan sighed, “I don’t want to go to class.”
Stonie put his arm on Ryan's shoulder, “Adams right, we have nothing else to do. Sure, as hell no one would believe us.”
The four looked back and forth at each other. They had just been in and out of a whole new existence.
Stonie began walking first and after a moment, Ryan followed. Adam hesitated but he did the same, walking in the opposite direction. Jenna didn’t follow.
Adam stopped and looked back, “You ready to go to class?”
“You know?” Jenna said, still staring at the locker, “I miss my parents.”
Adam lightly nodded, “Come on.”
Jenna slowly looked away from the locker and down the hall. Stonie and Ryan were gone. Jenna began walking with Adam and towards the stairs. Pretty soon they were around the counter and the hallway was now quiet.
Dopamine Addict
Emma Fisher
“Dopamine is a chemical
Released by the brain
That makes you feel good.”
Too much dopamine can cause high libido,
Anxiety,
Difficulty sleeping,
Increased energy,
And stress.
A common diagnosis for someone with too much dopamine
Is Tourette’s Syndrome.
But nobody fucking knows that.
Tourette’s Syndrome is characterized by a combination
Of motor tics and vocal tics.
An example of a motor tic is
Thrashing
Punching
Kicking
An example of a vocal tic is
Coughing
Swearing
Screaming
There are also complex tics.
Those are tics where more than one tic can occur at once.
An example is
Fuck you, bitch
Kick, slap, hit your head
Reach up and pull your ear
But nobody fucking knows that.
Tics begin with a sensation in the person’s body.
A sensation that is commonly described as
Itch
Pinch
Glitch
Pain
When someone with Tourette’s experiences this sensation,
They must release it right away by doing the tic action.
If someone with Tourette’s does not release their tics,
A tic attack is likely to occur.
A tic attack is characterized as a series of tics performed at once
Due to an uncontrollable about of energy flowing
Through the body.
A tic attack can look like
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
Hit in the head, hit, hit, hit
Kick your legs, kick kick kick kick
Flap your arms in, out, in, out, in, out
It is often a very painful and physically taxing experience.
But nobody fucking knows that.
Tourette’s Syndrome is often comorbid with other diagnoses.
Someone with Tourette’s may also experience symptoms of
OCD,
Depression,
And Anxiety.
All of these comorbities pertain to the thoughts going on in someone’s head.
An example of these thoughts could be
I want to kill myself
Do it again, do it again, do it again
Don't eat that, you’ll die
You're a fucking loser
If I flunk my test, I’ll fail college
Crash the car. Now.
Comorbid diagnoses can be just as debilitating or even more so than Tourette’s.
It can even lead to suicidal ideation and attempts.
But nobody fucking knows that.
Sand
Emma Fisher
The Man on Randall Road
Emma Fisher
I drove down the busiest road in town
Turned right onto Randall
Pushing my pedal to get up to 60 miles an hour
I was focused on my task
One end goal in mind
Amongst the other cars
Barely noticing when they drive by
Yet something in me
Some unthinkable force
Caused me to look to the right
And that’s when I saw him.
He was an average sized man
About the age of 40
He looked like a Jefferson
Or a Stanley
Or a Stephen
He sat along the side
Of the busiest road in town
He sat along the side In the freshly green grass
Tinted after the summer rain
He had his legs pulled up
And his arms crossed over them
And he was gazing up at the sky.
And he had a flower in his hair.
The day I saw him was odd at best
Full of business and fret
Yet when I saw him sitting there
My mind slowed down for but a second
And hope flickered in my mind
I knew I wanted to be like him
I knew I didn’t want to care.
If everyone stopped for just a moment
And looked up at the sky
With flowers in their hair
And no cares in their world
Life would be so much simpler
And gentler
And maybe we would have the time
To stop and think
About the damage we are causing.
If you asked me
To count every single grain of sand
On every single beach and desert
On Earth
All seven-point-five sextillion of them
I would do it
Just to prove to you
That those grains of sand
Are insignificant
To the amount of love
I have for you.
And
If you put
All 7.5 sextillion grains of sand
Into one gigantic hourglass
And flipped it over
That still wouldn’t be enough time
To spend with you.
I need eternity.
Bus Stop
Nathan Yockey
A little boy waited on the sidewalk for the bus. Rain patted against his nylon hood,
his favorite because of the red dinosaur spines that ran down the back
that would wobble side to side when he walked.
Hands on his backpack straps, he perked up on his toes. He couldn’t wait to tell the other kids About Halo 2, and “Cairo Station” —
his favorite mission, on his Xbox that’s stacked on shoeboxes
full of Lincoln logs next to his Salvation Army bunkbed;
how he cut his hand trying to be like Spider-Man
and swing off his shelf brackets. And how many stitches
it took to give him that scar.
About “Hatchet,” and how Brian had to land a plane and survive in the woods.
How he could survive in the woods and land a plane.
The pencils in his colored pencil set and how he learned how to draw
all the characters from Family Guy; even Stewie, with his weird head.
How Kobe Bryant is so much better than Carmelo Anthony from the Knicks,
and how Kobe is going to win his 6th championship and be better than MJ.
The bus screeched. Red flashing stop signs illuminated his dinosaur raincoat
in the twilight and rain splattered off his backpacked shoulders.
He squished and squashed down the aisle. His house was first on the route.
All the boys his age liked to sit in the middle.
He put his backpack on the floor
to make sure they knew the seat next to him wasn’t taken.
He reminded himself to bring up the medieval SpongeBob special
that came out Tuesday, and how crazy it was that they went back in time.
The flashing red lights strobed through the inside of the empty bus
and the air brakes gasped as they rolled into the next stop:
Bradley’s house. He overheard him arguing with the other boys yesterday
about Harry Potter. Bradley thinks the Goblet of Fire is the best.
He wanted to tell Bradley that he likes Prisoner of Azkaban
Bradley walked past his normal seat
and sat down at the back of the bus. Soon, the group of boys was together.
The girls piled at the front next to the driver
talking about whatever girls talk about,
clearing an area around him like he was quarantined
with a leprosy of avocations.
He rested his forehead against the bus seat in front of him,
the cushion left red lines on his skin
like he’d slept too long over a crease on the couch.
Until you came around. You took his hand
and smiled as he told you all about Cairo Station,
and the way Master Chief rode a bomb
through space to destroy a covenant ship.
He showed you all his colored pencils in the dented aluminum tin
with rainbow scribbles up and down the inside from them rattling in his backpack.
You nodded in agreement when he attested that Kobe’s championship
with Pau in 2010 meant more to his legacy than Lebron’s two in Miami.
You laid beside him; wand light lit up the room
as Harry read the Marauders Map in the dark corridors of Hogwarts.
As Tobey McGuire swung around the flagpole
chasing Uncle Ben’s murderer, he told you that was the scene
he tried to emulate with a bedroom shelf bracket.
An endeavor that ended in no bad guys being brought to Spidey justice. Just 27 stitches.
You ran your fingers along his scalp,
blotted the tears from his rosy cheeks, let the white bleed
out of his clenched fist and ease his brave face.
He looks up at the ceiling
You lean on your hand, elbow pressed into the bed.
His hands spastically animate a story about something learned in class, a lecture on
the area in the brain stem that releases a neurotransmitter for stress.
Halo 2 has been remastered, there have been a bunch of new Spidermen,
Kobe never got his sixth ring, and the Harry Potter series is over.
21
Delaney McDonald
City of Dreams
Michelle Palinsky
The city lights shine like stars in the sky
Inviting me to explore and discover
The stories and secrets that they hide
The hopes and dreams that they offer
I feel a rush of excitement and wonder
As I walk through the streets and alleys
I meet new people and cultures
I see new sights and realities
I want to experience everything
To learn, to grow, to create
To find my passion and purpose
To live, to love, to celebrate
But the city also has its challenges and dangers
Its noise and pollution and stress
Its crime and violence and injustice
Its loneliness and emptiness
Sometimes I feel overwhelmed and lost
As I struggle to survive and cope
Sometimes I feel disillusioned and disappointed
As I lose my faith and hope
But I don't give up on the city
Because the city doesn't give up on me
It always has something new to offer
Something to inspire and motivate me
The city is my home and my adventure
My teacher and my friend
My challenge and my opportunity
My beginning and my end
Rubber Bands
Freddy Munoz-Miranda
goodnight.
I love You.
I’ll see You in the morning.
You call Me.
You can’t breathe.
that’s when the time gets blurry.
I run to the backroom.
You’re barely talking to Me.
They’re asking hard questions.
I don’t know the answers,
I think.
I won’t cry—
can’t let Me.
thirty minutes,
You still can’t breathe.
They come in swinging.
the sinking feeling.
My teardrops.
My heart stops.
pack it up
and it’s time to leave.
lock the dogs up.
stay quiet.
try to keep My Sister sleeping.
not crying—
can’t let Me.
if She wakes up,
She’ll start screaming.
orange bottles—
too many.
I’m not sure.
I’m just a kid.
They’re talking,
around Me.
please just stop whispering.
They go,
alarms ringing.
that sickening feeling.
Your heart stops.
My tears drop.
pack You up
and it’s time to leave.
Running from love, each time brought back to this hole
Plastic smiles hiding the pain
Rubber bands around my poor soul
Stretching to escape, only to be left with marks
Afraid to move forward
Frozen like a mannequin
Am I running out of time?
Step by step, the bands becoming thinner
Unsure of the path ahead, love becomes a mystery once again
Time robbed, but second chances always prevail
Pulling myself forward, fighting against what’s behind me
Until it finally snapped, I’m finally free
Approaching the unknown, finally solo
Under the street lights,
The train slowly approaching
Am I running out of time? Into the train I go
City Escape
